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Enver Gortash stirs. The light bearing down on him seems to burn with the heat of a thousand suns. A little more, and his body will reach its boiling point, he is certain.
Its rays are so bright that he squints, lest they crack his already throbbing skull.
He can barely see beyond the blurry shapes looming by his bedside, but he’s fairly certain one or several of the clerics are in attendance, casting light over his sickbed.
He knows the light shouldn't assault him this way, but it does.
Only fragments of spoken words reach him over the ceaseless ringing in his ears, and none seem to be addressed to him.
… we’ve done what we can …
A fat bead of sweat trails from his brow, down his temple, sinking into the thick hair on the back of his neck. Another finds its way into his eye. It stings. His tongue feels like sandpaper.
“Water,” he croaks, his body allowing him only a weak and broken sound.
The figures barely acknowledge the noise he’d spent so much energy to make.
… let the sickness run its course …
The light goes out, the door slams, and silence follows.
The figures do not return.
He knows that if he does not drink soon, it will mean his death.
A carafe of water lies close to the bed, three steps away at most.
He musters his last vestiges of energy, muscles straining under the effort, but he doesn’t make it. He can’t even sit up.
He can only manage a slight turn of his head, which flares up a terrible pain in his neck—sharp enough to black out his vision. He does not try to move again.
A droplet of sweat trickles to his lips to mock him. It’s salty and bitter.
He’s seen better days. He’s seen worse, too. He will figure out how to save himself from this misery.
He just needs to rest a little first.
So, he surrenders to his weariness.
When sleep comes, its wave is monstrous. It drags him under, and it drags him too deep.
When he finally awakens, he is barely more than a creature of instinct, the sickness lodged firmly between the cogs of his mind.
He’s too hot. He’s too cold. He’s thirsty. He’s lost his appetite. He’s hungry. He wants to throw up. He’s thirsty again. His back is starting to cramp up. He can’t move.
When his consciousness finally fades again, it feels like a mercy.
Images start to surface from the black depths of his dreams.
He’s back in the sweltering heat of Avernus, but he’s also back at his childhood house, crying and cowering in the corner. His mother is towering above him, big and monstrous. He is weak, he is useless, he is nothing, a cobbler's son, unable to even stitch the floorboards together, although he tries, but the boards are unyielding, the needle too blunt, the thread too brittle, his hands too shaky, yet he tries, and he fails, over and over and over and over.
When he looks up at her, she is wearing the face of Bane.
He gasps as he resurfaces back into consciousness, lungs burning from the heavy breath, but the relief of escape is only momentary. He is not alone in his room either.
Shadows crowd the corners, moving and shifting. A figure steps forward. It’s Dribbles the Clown, staring and grinning at him. Whatever the clown is planning, it can’t be good.
But all Enver can do is stare back.
The waxing and waning of his consciousness takes him back to Avernus, back to his impossible task, then back to his room again, where the shadows continue staring.
The sweltering heat is relentless in both.
This time, as he wakes in his bed, a new set of eyes stares at him from the shadows. Two eyes, big and black like a devil’s eyes, watching intently.
Enver blinks.
The eyes have shifted closer, wide and curious. He blinks again. The eyes are only a breath away now.
Two fingers press down on his jugular.
An assassin?
Enver gives it his all to trash and fight, but he barely moves. He’s too weak.
His pulse drums under the pressure on his neck. Even in his muddled state he can tell its rhythm is too fast, too uneven.
The fingers are on his face now, prying open his eyelids, his mouth, the dark eyes always following, peering, curious.
He would need so little to hit this thing with his head, so little to lift his hand to strangle. But his head lies heavy on the pillow, his hands stay limp by his sides.
He can only growl, and so he growls, even though it burns his throat and empties his lungs of precious oxygen.
The creature is unmoved.
Fingers press down at the joints in his shoulders and he learns he can give a good cry, too. All his senses burn with the pain, and he almost hopes the creature has come to kill him.
Before he can slip into darkness again, his mind is jerked back, a carafe of water pressed against his lips. His mouth clings to it, and he drinks so greedily he almost drowns himself.
The hands take hold of his shoulders, their pressure gentle, but firm. The creature mutters softly in words he does not understand.
The sleep that follows is dark and dreamless.
He can’t tell how much time has passed when he opens his eyes again.
It’s easier to breathe, and his skull doesn’t threaten to burst open any more.
A single candle has been lit somewhere beside him. He can sense no intrusion on his person, but there is someone, perhaps the clown again, sifting through the papers on his desk.
It is then that he smells it: a medley of herbs so sharp it almost makes his eyes water. He thinks he recognizes hoof-leaf.
There’s a sudden movement by the desk—his wakefulness has been noticed. The figure’s glare has snapped to him, its eyes reflecting the light, almost glowing.
A spoon, carrying the herbal concoction, touches his mouth, coaxing his lips to part. He has enough strength to turn his head away.
But the spoon follows.
He turns again. This time a force, a hand with long clawed fingers, holds his head in place, the dark eyes staring at him sternly. There’s a familiarity to them his feverish mind can’t quite place.
“Dribbles?” he utters, the word breathless and weak.
The creature only grins in response, a flash of sharp teeth in the candlelight.
The spoon returns, unyielding. He obliges and opens his mouth. There’s no more strength left in him for a fight. The concoction is so bitter he tries to spit it out, but a hand has forced his mouth shut.
If it is poison, let it be quick.
He grunts softly as the creature takes his hands in its own, applying methodical pressure on the joints in his fingers. Enver groans at the pain.
“Oh, shush.”
It’s only the second time he’s heard the creature speak.
When his hands are massaged and freed, he finds he can ball them into fists again.
Muffled voices reach him. They're so weak, they must be coming from behind closed doors, beyond thick walls.
…One of the Dreadmasters…murdered…
…Bhaalist work…
The next time he opens his eyes, he can think again. How many days have passed since his last coherent thought, he wonders. Or has it been weeks? Months?
He manages to push himself to sit up on the bed, and it feels like he's achieved the impossible.
He looks around, hoping to see the creature, but he’s alone.
Once he is used to having control over his body, he tries to stand. His legs wobble under him, all joints and tendons screaming from having to carry his weight again, but it doesn't matter. They do carry his weight. He reaches for his cane to steady himself.
His actions have drawn attention.
The door opens, a Banite guard, new and young, looks inside. His eyes are wide as if he were staring at a ghost. “Sir?”
Enver asks about recent visitors.
The boy insists there have been no visitors, besides the clerics who came and left a while ago.
Enver sends him to fetch water, soup, and the names of the clerics.
When the door shuts behind him, Enver wonders if the boy realizes he will not survive witnessing him at his weakest.
His legs are already tired and shaky, but he keeps standing, resisting the temptation to sink into his armchair. He needs this, to shove his standing self in the face of the dwindling sickness.
No recent visitors... Was any of what happened even real?
He thinks back to Avernus, back to Dribbles the Clown, back to the eyes glowing in the candlelight.
Perhaps not then.
He takes a long deep breath. Some fresh air would do good for him, he thinks.
He pulls away the curtains and lifts his hand to open the window. His hand halts in mid-air.
The latches on the inside are broken.