Chapter Text
The child looks like she is dead already. Her skin has the same pale grey as weeks-old corpses, tainted with delicate blue lines.
She regards them with dull, milky eyes. They are round and big, and they could be popped out so easily, with just the swipe of a spoon. Or squished until they explode, like smashed eggs.
She is hideous, really. And she does not belong here.
A child’s place is not here, not in those blood-tainted walls of the temple, away from fresh air and sunlight. She would not even make a worthy sacrifice for Bhaal — babies cannot even fight back, and cannot understand what death is.
And yet, she is here. And she would not stop staring at them.
Mongrel stares in return, without a word. They don’t look at Sarevok, who holds the infant like it’s a possession, a tool, and not a newborn. There is tenderness in his hands, but it is not for the sake of the child, rather he holds her like she is a precious relic, awaiting to be placed on the altar of their god.
Sarevok turns towards Mongrel, eyeing the half-elf (or rather the being that looks like a half-elf) without really seeing them. They address the whole room, the whole temple.
“This is my new child. My offering to our Lord, made of flesh and bones, my blood lamb. Orin.”
This is wrong. Mongrel’s eyes flicker towards Helena, exhausted and lying in bed. Then, back to the infant. Does that make them relatives, then? Bloodkin, like with Sarevok? The thought is laughable.
Mongrel licks their cracked lips — they are tired and hungry, headache pulsing inside their skull. They wonder, briefly, how the child would taste, if they dug their teeth inside her soft and chubby flesh.
Focus. They blink at Sarevok, their fallen and failed brother.
“This is a temple of Bhaal — not a nursery,” Mongrel reminds him, with a hint of sarcasm.
(They were like this before, all smug smiles and clever jibes, never truly mean yet not really nice either, just a teenager — a boy? — thinking they were very smart and they could get away with everything.
But the habitants of the temple do not find them funny. Worshipping the Lord of Murder is a serious matter.)
“His Blood must be sprayed, multiplied,” Sarevok claims with authority and Mongrel grit their teeth but they do not bite, for now is not the time, not yet, and Sarevok holds the reins of the temple. “My seed is Our Lord’s seed and to nurture her until her sacrifice comes will be a blessing in His Name.”
So, is that the infant’s fate? To be born only to be slaughtered, like mere cattle? A mixed bhaalspawn, not even pure in blood, with only one purpose, to offer her neck on His altar and bleed for Him.
It would almost be merciful to kill her now before she can realise before they can all convince her of the great honour that sacrifice would be. Unfortunately for her, Mongrel has forgotten how to be.
Mongrel looks at their ugly little kin, that stupid creature, unaware of the pathetic fate that awaits her. In their mutilated, muzzled brain, a mixed feeling comes to them, born from relief to have grown outside of these walls, and pity for this little ball of meat — for she is not more than that for Bhaal.
With little care left in their dried heart, Mongrel turns heel and leaves.
Surprisingly, Orin does not die right away.
Mongrel rarely crosses paths with the infant, for she remains in Helena’s care, and they despise the woman and her disguise tricks. But they know from Sarevok’s words that she is growing, and as well as a child raised in this environment can be. It sounds absurd.
Mongrel tries to not think about it, letting Sceleritas Fel’s hand guide them away every time they come closer to Helena’s room and can hear the cries of the baby.
“Do not preoccupy yourself with this diluted bloodkin, Young Master. After all, your Father only needs you to kill.”
Bhaal only needs them to kill.
This is the mantra that Mongrel repeats in their head, every morning, every night, every time they are about to hesitate, every moment they think that maybe they can be something else —
Do not think, do not stop, just kill and please Father. This will make things easier, this is how you carry on.
And they try. They really try.
Yet one day, the child cries and Sceleritas is not at Mongrel’s side.
They are just coming back from their hunt of the night. They know that Helena is not here, for they had a glimpse of her in a conversation with Sarevok near the library, while they were crossing the corridors.
The sound of muffled crying stops them in their tracks, despite the fatigue of their body and the hollow feeling taking over while the urges quiet down. Mongrel looks at the slightly open door and hesitates. They know they should just ignore it and go to their room to sleep while they can before the nightmares and insomnia take over.
Yet, when they move, it is toward the door. They push it slowly, taking a look inside, noticing the little figure in her bed, so small that they could crush her with one hand. The crying stops.
Deep in their brain, they think they can remember being like that too — a scared, fragile little one, crying because of some bad dreams. Someone would come then, and soothe their tears away, with kisses and soft embraces that made them feel safe, that made them feel whole. Someone who would call them a name, another one, not the degrading nickname they use now as an identity.
A mother , their sick brain whispers.
Mongrel blinks rapidly, taken aback by the distant memory. Those memories usually haunt them in their sleep only.
Curious, they come close to the bed, looking at the small child trying to hide herself under the sheets. She does a poor job at it, for a future assassin. Except she won’t be one, for she is a future sacrifice only.
“I see you,” Mongrel says and it sounds almost like a threat despite them, but they do not remember how to speak softly.
A little face comes out from her shelter. Still the same greyish skin, the same blank white eyes, just a little bigger now. Her hair is a bit too long, falling on her face, the colour of the straw — not bright wheat under the sun though, more like old, dry hay forgotten in winter.
She must be like three or four years old now. Or is it five? The years go by and wash over Mongrel without meaning anymore. They cannot even remember how old they are themself.
Orin crawls slowly toward them but does not speak. Mongrel is not sure if it is something she should know or not, or if she is just frightened. They have absolutely no idea how children work.
“Why were you crying?” they ask. She blinks at them and Mongrel cannot tell if she understands what they said.
She still does not respond, watching them with her big eyes.
Mongrel sight and sits at the edge of the bed. What are they doing? They should leave before the return of Helena. She does not trust Mongrel even if she still fears them — like everyone here, except for Sceleritas, who adores them, and Sarevok, who quietly waits for their next mistake so he can paint the floor with Mongrel’s viscera and proclaims himself the rightful heir of Bhaal, or whatever.
A little voice comes out, suddenly, whispering her secret. “Had a nightmare.”
Mongrel turns an eye towards the child. She watches them carefully, but they see no fear in her eyes. She probably does not know who they are, or what their existence means.
This is — odd. Everyone here knows them, the prodigal child who found their way to the temple, right after slaughtering his oath-kin, still covered in the blood of many. Welcome home , everyone said.
Mongrel remembers Sceleritas leading them by the hand and praising them, Sarevok taking them by the shoulders for a formal, cold embrace. Mongrel’s past, destroyed by their own hands, and their loved ones killed by their urges.
They died that day — they died, and only Mongrel was left. Mongrel, and the nightmares.
Blinking slowly, Mongrel remembers to nod. They know a great deal about haunting dreams and nocturnal terrors. “I have them too. It’s okay. They go away when you wake up.”
“How?”
“Just — think of something nice? Or ask your mother to chase them away.” Mongrel offers, tentatively. They think that is what a mother is supposed to do. They wonder what Orin’s nightmares are like.
“Mom is mad when I cry,” Orin mutters and that does not surprise Mongrel. Helena never struck them as a caring person, motherhood or not — all her affection and devotion are for Sarevok and Bhaal only.
They don’t know why they say the next thing. Their heart should be dry and in pieces. They are supposed to follow their Father’s will to please Him and only Him.
Yet —
Yet, somewhere inside this wretched thing they become, there is still a little one who once knew the embrace of a loving mother and the warmth of brotherhood. No matter what Sarevok and Bhaal inflict on them, Mongrel still remembers, deep down, what it feels like to not be alone, to not be afraid.
“Next time you cry, seek me instead.”
Something changes in her eyes. She straightened up, pushing the sheets away, not hiding anymore. “You won't tell? Swear?”
“I promise,” Mongrel says.
They mean it, for they understand now that this child, Orin, their blood-kin, must be quite lonely too. And unlike them, she is too young yet to understand the blessing of solitude.
The child smiles, with sharper teeth than it should, but it is cute, in a way. Mongrel does not smile back. They feel tired, and they want to lie down.
“It’s pretty,” Orin whispers and it takes a second for Mongrel to understand she is talking about the blood on their hands they had yet to wash.
Right, their kill of the night — what was it again? A dwarf older man, or was it a young elven girl? A street urchin no one would care to look after, or a citizen from the upper city that everyone pretends to like without meaning it? The faces are all the same and Mongrel rarely focuses on it during the act.
Murder is all the same, everyone is equal under their Lord’s eyes.
“It’s just blood,” Mongrel explains.
It is dry now mostly, leaving brown crusts under their nails and weird, dark-red patterns on their skin. It itches too. Mongrel prefers it when it is still fresh, warm, and fluid.
They hold out their hand to Orin, giving her a nod when she searches their face for permission. She follows the blood trail with the tips of her fingers, an almost reverent look on her face. Like a good little bhaalspawn.
Her touch is light, it tickles a little, but it is not unpleasant. Mongrel has not been touched like this for a long time — the only person who would have kind gestures toward them would be Sceleritas, out of devotion.
It is almost peaceful.
Until Helena walks into the room.
“What are you doing?”
Orin tears her fingers away as if the touch burns her. She bows her head immediately, in a respectful posture. Mongrel frowns at her reaction, not realising immediately that Helena’s words were addressed to the both of them.
She looks at her daughter like she wants to say something, but turns toward them instead. “You are not supposed to be here, Dog .”
Mongrel bares their teeth as a warning. They never liked each other. Helena always saw their arrival as a threat and took pleasure in witnessing their struggles. To kill her would be a joy.
“Careful with the way you address me, Shapeshifter.”
“I speak like it please me. You are not Bhaal’s Chosen yet, just a stray trying to fit among the wolves. A bastard creature, unable to decide where they fit. But Bhaal will soon see you are not the one He needs.”
At their side, Orin says nothing, but Mongrel knows fear well enough to understand that she is afraid of her mother and her tone. But not of them.
Helena asks again, shielding herself with the reassurance that Mongrel is not allowed to kill her, not without risking Sarevok’s punishment, for he is the law here — for now. “Why are you here, what were you doing with my daughter?”
Mongrel eyeside Orin. She doesn't want her mother to know she was crying, that a mere nightmare scared her. They sight before standing up, readying themself to leave the room.
“I thought about eating her, but I fear changeling’s meat would taste poorly.”
“You sick creature,” Helena mutters, her eyes glowing with hate, “stay away from us, or I tell Sarevok that—“
Mongrel moves faster than her, and in a blink, their hand is at her throat. A tense silence floats between them, for merely a second. Mongrel brings their face close to Helena’s, whispering in her ear.
“You may worship your flesh-father but don’t forget that your blood is more mixed than mine. My Father is your Lord and whatever may happen one day between Sarevok and I will be under Bhaal’s eyes and in His name only. You are a footprint in this story, Helena. Do not provoke me.”
Orin does not even yelp, nor does she cry for her mother’s sake — she just watches, fascinated.
Mongrel searches for rebellion in Helena’s eyes, but they only see a burning resignation. She will try to kill them, that is a certitude, but not today. She knows her place and the gap between them.
Mongrel releases her and leaves. They don't look back for Orin.
Best to not care. Best to stay away.
One of the worst nightmares of Mongrel is also the one they seek the most.
Every time they go to sleep, there is a sickening expectation before closing their eyes — will the dream come tonight? Will they awake, crying and screaming, tearing their sheets in their hands and clawing the scars on their forearms like the insane, broken thing they are?
The dream follows a young child, an impetuous little thing with dark hair too long they push away from their face and mud on their hands. Two curious eyes, with a hint of gold inside the pupil, the sclera white, normal. The child searches the ground for treasure, and climbs trees so they can see the horizon.
Then a voice calls for them, calling a name that, no matter how hard they try, Mongrel can never hear. The child does. They run towards the voice, they bend and embrace the little woman that had called them. They embrace each other and the gesture is so full of love that Mongrel can feel their throat burn with acid bill.
They know that child. They know that woman, her flowery dresses, and her braided hair. They know the soft smell of her perfume and the softness of her hands when she puts them on Mongrel’s cheek.
They know her love, for she had so much to give.
Then, the dream shifts.
The same woman lies at Mongrel’s feet, like an abandoned rag doll. There is blood everywhere. On the woman, on Mongrel, on the floor. It forms a pool around them, flowing from the woman’s body. Mongrel can see their reflection inside it, the white of their left eye turning pitch black, like a fiend. In Mongrel’s hand, a kitchen knife, rusty and used. In their mouth, the taste of warm iron.
They are a monster.
Then, inevitably, Mongrel awakens, covered in sweat and disgust. Sometimes they bite their lips or the interior of their cheek and they spit blood as they cough and cry.
The dream is gone, the woman too and there is nothing left but the coldness of their room in the temple, a sanctuary, and a prison at the same time.
They are alone with their thoughts and the knowledge of what they did.
Of what they are.
A monster, an animal, a vile mongrel, a wretched thing.
After that night, Orin starts coming to them every chance she gets.
Sometimes, when they drag their tired body into their room just before dawn, still bearing the marks of their most recent hunt, Mongrel can find their tiny blood-kin waiting in their bed, or perched on the chair at the desk, drawing things on probably very important documents.
The first time it happens, they freeze, thinking of her as an invader, a threat that needs to be terminated — until Orin turns to them and smiles. “You are back!”
“... I am,” Mongrel answers, unsure.
They are used to the formal welcoming of the other followers, but Orin seems pleased to see them, contrary to their fellow cultists. It’s—nice.
Orin then hands them a piece of paper. “I made this for you.”
It suspiciously looks like one of the reports that Mongrel was supposed to finish writing. It is now covered in doodles, mostly in red — with a hint of black and purple there and now.
Mongrel takes the drawing and examines it. This is hard to tell with all the red strokes everywhere, but they think it represents them and Orin. They are holding what looks like knives and Sceleritas is lying dead in the middle — they can tell because there is x instead of their eyes. The drawing is also sticky.
Orin grins, seemingly proud of her. “I made the red with blood, like the other day on your arm!”
“That’s—nice. Whose blood did you use?”
“It’s a secret,” Orin giggles in an unsettling way. Mongrel does not press harder — nobody would dare hurt Sarevok’s daughter without his consent, so she can probably do as she pleases. “Do you like it?”
“I do,” Mongrel answers and surprisingly, it is true. “It’s for me then?”
She nods and what a weird feeling, to have their heart warms at the sight of this ugly child handing them a bloodied piece of paper. Weird, but nice.
Sarevok will probably scold them later, tell them to take their commitment to the cult more seriously or Mongrel will never be High Primate like they are supposed to, like Father intended.
All this time already lost to discipline you and teach you the way of the cult, yet you are still just an unholy assassin where you should be a leader, dear half-breed child , Sarevok used to say.
It does not matter. Nobody gave them a drawing before.
“Thank you, Orin,” Mongrel says, softly, like they are trying to tame the words. “Why were you in my room, however?”
“Hiding! I wanted to be with you, but the weird person with the ugly hat said I could not enter. So I pushed him down the stairs and run! His head made a big crack and he screamed very loudly!”
That explained why Sceleritas was so grumpy and limping today — Mongrel listened for merely four or five minutes before snapping the neck of the goblin, tired already and not in the mood for his complaints.
The butler would be back tomorrow anyway, as always, probably singing Mongrel’s praises on how their hands felt on his neck. It is a strange comfort that no matter every time they kill it, Sceleritas always return. Like he is somehow immune to their urges — the only one to be, it seems.
Mongrel pushes past Orin and goes to sit on the edge of the bed, rubbing their face to chase the migraine lingering behind their eyes. “I’ll tell him to let you through for the next time. I don’t mind.”
A big smile rewards them.
After that, Orin stays for another hour, sitting near Mongrel while playing with a skull that misses a couple of teeth, until she hears the voice of Sarevok coming from outside and she rushes to greet him, like a well-trained puppy celebrating the return of her master.
Mongrel wonders how it would feel to crush Sarevok's head between their hands. It would be nice, they think. They push the thought deep inside them and try to go to sleep. They do not think Orin will return, yet she does not even two days later.
(The drawing stays on the desk, and Sceleritas is strictly forbidden to take it away or Mongrel promises him that he will beg for death.)
“What is it like, upstairs?” Orin asks.
Mongrel turns their head towards the door, where she is standing, watching them silently until now. They did not notice her before. Orin is capable of being very quiet, moving unnoticed by most, crawling in every corner of the temple she knows like the back of her hand.
It is impressive, Mongrel must give her that. And now, they are accustomed enough to not try to decapitate her every time she sneaks on them because they were caught off guard by their blood-kin.
“What do you mean?” they ask in return while finishing strapping the light leather armour around their torso, getting ready — not for a kill this night, just a recce in the low city and around the inns, in preparation for the forthcoming weeks.
Orin huffs, gesticulating at the ceiling. “Outside! In the city.”
“You never went?”
“Grandfather says I must not leave the temple. It is a rule.”
Mongrel pauses. Of course, they should have known that Sarevok would not allow it. Still, they never stopped to think about it. Maybe this is why Orin tries to catch them every time they return from the surface, examining them from all angles, like she is trying to catch a glimpse of the city that would be stuck on them.
They take a second to consider their answer. Baldur’s Gate is a blessing and a misery at the same time. Every moment spent there is like remembering how to breathe again, but it also means indulging the urge.
“It’s — loud. And agitated. There are so many noises and people everywhere, it is overwhelming, sometimes.”
But it is still better than the quietness of the temple. Baldur’s Gate is alive and it is terrifying yet wonderful to remember that despite who they are and what they do, the city still thrives.
“Are there many colours? And the sky?”
“So many. And yes. There is the sun during the day, and the stars at night. I like the stars better.”
Orin looks mesmerised by their words, she looks at them like what they said is the most incredible thing she ever heard. Mongre is not used to be looked at like this. They wish they could take her out, once, so she could see it. But Helena and Sarevok would never permit it.
“Please, tell me more,” Orin begs, and Mongrel decides that maybe their patrol can wait a little more.
When Sarevok discovers the bond forming between Mongrel and Orin, he is not pleased.
“Helena reported to me that you and Orin talked,” he says one day, blocking Mongrel’s path as they were about to go out. “I rather you do not.”
Mongrel knows they should just shut up and nod and move on. Sarevok does not like when the dogs bark and he is the only real authority figure above Mongrel. He is after all the one who reformed the cult in Baldur’s Gate, the fallen yet favoured child that died and returned.
He is a relic from another time who refuses to let go and only Bhaal could make him bow. His devotion to their Father is something that even Mongrel cannot grasp, no matter how many hours they spend on their knees in front of the altar, bleeding themself for their Lord, begging for His love and forgiveness.
(Bhaal never answered.
Sceleritas says it is because Mongrel is not ready yet. Mongrel believes it is because deep down, they still resent their Father and they will always do, and He knows it.)
Mongrel knows what is the easiest, quickest way to deal with their blood-kin, how to avoid the scolding and the punishment for not listening, for resisting. They never remember to choose it, though.
“Why?”
Sarevok frowns. “Because I said so. Because you have your duties and Orin has her own. Because you are not here to form bonds , but to serve Bhaal.”
“I can do both. Orin may become an unholy assassin too, one day. She could be by my side, murdering in the name of our Lord.”
Sarevok smiles faintly like Mongrel just says something funny and very stupid. He always looks at them like they are a dumb dog, not even good enough to follow simple orders. Mongrel hates it, but they grit their teeth and wait, saying nothing.
“Dear child, that will never happen. Have you forgotten my prophecy already? Orin is a sacrifice. But worry not, her death will not be meaningless. She will be Helena’s tribunal, she will die so that Bhaal may judge her mother worthy. This is what our Lord wants.”
Something sinks deep inside Mongrel. For Orin to die, they knew, but by the hands of her mother? As a tribunal?
“You want to make Helena the new Chosen?” they snarl as they start to understand the meaning of their blood-kin’s words. “I am supposed to be Bhaal’s Chosen! You know it, you declared it yourself!”
“I did, yet you never proved yourself,” Sarevok responds, calm and in no way startled by the rush of hostility in Mongrel’s stand.
He never feared them — it was the opposite, and they both knew it.
“You may be His child in a purest way than most, but that does not make you worthy. You did nothing to prove that you were, in any case, you even showed that you were flawed in more than one way. Keep failing Him, and He will choose someone with a deeper faith and understanding of His being, someone like Helena.”
Pushing the humiliation further, Sarevok put an almost paternalistic hand on Mongrel’s shoulder, like he was petting a dog. Mongrel barely managed to contain a shiver, anger running deep in their blood.
If they were stronger, they would have torn him open, ripping his throat apart, drinking his blood and sucking the marrow of his bones until there was nothing left of Sarevok.
If they were stronger, they would run away, they would destroy this damn temple and everyone inside it, they would spit in the face of Bhaal and renounce Him.
Mongrel know they are not.
So they say nothing and move on.
One day, Orin asks a question.
“Why sometimes, they call you Harold and sometimes, they call you Mogrel?’
“Mongrel,” they correct without missing a bit, eyes still closed since they are trying to nap. Then there's a pause, and finally: “And Herald, not Harold.”
“Why?” Orin insists, putting down the dagger she was playing with.
Despite Sarevok's warning, she spends every moment away from her mother or Sarevok with them now, every chance she gets. Sometimes Mongrel finds her asleep in their bedsheets, stacking the skulls in the corners into a pile or even doodling at their desk while waiting for their return.
The last time Mongrel went out, they killed a child, a little boy with freckles all over his face. They slit his throat, gently, while he was still sleeping, after killing his mother too. Mongrel watched him choking on her blood, awakening just in time to contemplate his own death.
The murder was beautifully executed, not a sound escaped the house and nobody would find their bodies before days since they were newly arrived in town and had yet to make strong acquaintances in the neighbourhood — welcome to Baldur’s Gate, where everything is possible.
The boy had coloured pencils in her room. Mongrel noticed it while cleaning their blades, letting Sceleritas take care of replacing the bodies on top of each other — the scandal, baldurians would say once it reaches the newspapers, a mother driven mad to kill her son and herself!
The thought of Orin brushed their mind at that moment, and Mongrel absent-mindedly pocketed the pencils for her. She was delighted when they handed it to her, and then asked many questions about the boy until she could replicate his appearance almost perfectly — she maintained this shape for a week before Helena made her stop.
Orin’s presence, Mongrel released lately, is something they are seeking actively now every time they return to their room. It soothes them. She is the only one who never upset them.
Even when she asks questions they despise, just like now.
Knowing his six-something-years old kin will not drop the subject, Mongrel sight and open an eye. “Herald is — what they all expect me to be. For Father and the temple. As for Mongrel, it’s what I am.”
“What does that mean?”
“Mongrel means — dog, but also half-breed. I’m not worthy, I’m not a Herald. I’m just a bastard hound.”
Orin frowns. She probably does not understand everything, but that is alright, Mongrel does not understand everything either. They just vaguely remember walking in the temple for the first time, barefoot and bloodied, Sceleritas’ hand guiding them.
They remember how Sarevok and Bhaal made them leave their former name at the door, for here this identity meant nothing anymore. Then, Sarevok baptised them in the pool of sacred blood and once they rose, covered in it, he told them to choose a new name for their first day as Bhaal’s child. Mongrel was the first thing to come to their mind, and nobody commented on it, despite the oddity of it. They do not remember exactly why they chose that, maybe it was because they are half-elf, or half-mortal, or just because they hate themself.
The name, old or new, did not matter anyway. Here, they are the Herald, the Young Master, the Dark Urge — they would answer to any call, stripped of any sense of themself.
Then Mongrel fought the urges — again. Only this time, they could not run away. Only this time, Sarevok was here and the shadow of their Father was everywhere. So, Mongrel was treated like the stubborn, undisciplined dog they were. They learned, slowly.
They learned but they never forgot.
“But — it’s not a name then!” Orin suddenly exclaims, and Mongrel blinks, their memories fading away as they refocus on reality.
They shrug. “It’s a nickname? Sort of.”
“I don’t want to call you Dog, it’s ugly. Mother does when you can’t hear her, but I don’t like it.”
Not surprising coming from Helena. Still — what a bitch. Mongrel grits their teeth, trying to calm their boiling blood.
“Just call me whatever you want then,” they answer, a bit harshly.
Like everyone else, strip me off myself, take away what’s made me, me, until there is nothing left. I exist for Bhaal and Bhaal only, nothing else matters, I don’t matter —
Orin asks: “Can I call you Brother?”
Mongrel freezes.
Brother.
Calling themselves blood-kin is a thing, a string linking the bhaalspawn together, whether they like it or not. Brother, thought — Brother sits heavily on Mongrel, it speaks of a different kind of family. It speaks of an identity and yes, they look like a brother, don’t they? They remember, vaguely, carving a body for themself before Bhaal, reshaping it even without being a changeling, so it satisfies them, so it feels like them . Another thing lost in the walls of the temple.
Brother — they like it.
It is not a name. But it is the start of something terrifying and beautiful.