OK, I was cut off from finishing some posts on Tuesday because of my power outage, so let's take another crack at Rakha's first private conversation with the Emperor.
It has been, to put it mildly, a difficult few days. It's been just under twenty-four hours since Rakha finally remembered exactly who and what she is, and her dreams have immediately gotten markedly worse; rather than indeterminate images of blood and gore, they're specific and brutal, memories of rituals performed in her Father's name and her own hand holding the knife.
She's no longer tied up, but Jaheira and Wyll and Lae'zel have set up a strict guard rotation on her instead - for her own benefit as well as theirs, they say, and she believes them, but it still hurts. And mixed with the bloody dreams of the Urge is other dark thoughts - Vlaakith and Orpheus, the damned clown with his wide leering grin, the beautiful and terrible murder in the temple of Ilmater, the never-ceasing squirm of the worm in her head as they draw closer and closer to the city, the Chosen, the Brain.
And Orin, of course - Orin who stalks them in any of a thousand faces, Orin who (it seems) was the one to first cut apart her brain and her memories and leave her to be tortured and destroyed.
So her night is restless and fractured, tormented by dark images... until suddenly, between one breath and the next... it stops.
Sudden calm, and a warm wave of utter silence through her head as the beast sleeps, the worm stills. She draws a shuddering breath in, keeping her eyes closed, savoring the emptiness.
It's a little different from her previous wakings in the pocket of the Astral Sea contained inside the Prism. She's standing, for one thing, and for another, the Emperor seems to have given up completely on its disguise of the Guardian.
It sits in a strange little tableau overlooking the giant skull at the center of the Prism. Wood planks, shelves, benches sit haphazardly about, as if it tried to manifest a tavern and gave up halfway through. Behind the strange plume of its armor, its shoulders are slumped, its head bowed, though it gives a sharp jerk at the sound of Rakha's footsteps behind it.
"How did you--" A pause. Then it relaxes. "Oh. It's you. I must have let my mind wander, enough for you to wander in."
She shrugs. Does it know, she wonders, the peace that it has brought her in these moments when it draws her to its little chunk of reality? Does it know how she needs that now more than ever? Perhaps not - it seems genuinely surprised to see her, but then again, trying to read an illithid is a losing proposition from the start.
Another silence. She breathes in slowly, out slowly, relishing the calm as deeply as she can in case the Emperor simply ejects her from the dream at once. But it doesn't.
"Forgive me," it rumbles after a while. "I am drained. Ever since you killed Ketheric and took his netherstone, the Chosen's control of the brain has been... brittle. It's rebelling against Orin and Gortash, fiercely." It turns its head slightly, so she can see just the corner of its piercing purple eyes. "I suspected that when we took Ketheric's stone, the brain would begin to break free. Those brainquakes confirm that my suspicion was correct."
The shaking of the earth beneath their feet as they walked through Rivington - that was the work of the brain struggling against its chains. Rakha nods. One small question answered, at least.
But that knowledge clearly brings the Emperor no peace. "I do not know what happens now when it receives its orders. And I do not dare guess," it mutters.
Narrator: You feel the Emperor's fear as if it were your own. An elder brain enslaved is one thing. An elder brain unleashed will be the end of everything.
Perhaps it's the strength of the Astral Tadpole that gives her this window into its mind, or perhaps even the initial worm would have done the same. Either way, the connection is clear - as is the intensity of the illithid's emotion. Surprising, given Rakha's understanding of the beings from Withers, from Wyll, from Lae'zel - that they have no soul, that they have no heart.
It exhales slowly, then lifts its head, looking down into the abyss ahead of them and the giant skull that floats within it, the dim glint of the magic holding Orpehus in place. "Beautiful, isn't it?" it murmurs. "The mighty Prince Orpheus, contained in submissive slumber." A pause, another jerk of the head, another change of subject - the illithid's thoughts, it seems, are everywhere at once.
"Come," it says abruptly. "You may as well sit a while, now that you're here. Your company--" It hesitates; its eyes flick rapidly around it in all directions. "...isn't unwelcome."
She relaxes. Good. It will not send her away yet. She can enjoy the quiet in her head a little longer. She does not care to talk about Orpheus, nor does she truly care what the Emperor thinks of her company - but she needs this peace. She needs it or she will go mad.
She sits down slowly at the illithid's side. Another long silence stretches between them and for a while she focuses on nothing but her own inward quiet. After a while, though, her observant nature reasserts itself inescapably, and she starts to register oddness in the Emperor's bearing. The slight slump of exhaustion again, a fidgeting of the end of its tentacles and the tips of its fingers, that doesn't match the last time they met.
It takes her a little while to rouse from her reverent stupor and speak. "You seem troubled," she says noncommittally.
"An accurate summary," the Emperor says dryly. A pause. "I have found myself... distracted of late." To her surprise, it squeezes its eyes shut with an expression that seems to carry sincere pain. "I'm haunted by memories," it murmurs. "They are relentless. I can think of nothing - no one - else."
Rakha's eyes narrow, perplexed. For a brief, utterly perplexing moment, she thinks it means her, but no. I am haunted by memories, it said.
As am I. Terrible, terrible, blood-soaked memories...
"...Who do you think of?" she asks cautiously, curiosity getting the better of her in spite of herself.
Its eyes drift open again. "Duke Stelmane," it says calmly. "Or... Belynne, as I knew her." A pause. Its tentacles give a sharp, spasmodic flick. "I wasn't ready for her death."
It takes Rakha a moment to place this name. Stelmane - one of the children in Rivington, a newspaper seller, was shouting it. And one of the monks in the temple mentioned it too. Duke Stelmane, another of the city leaders - like Wyll's father.
They said she was murdered. That it was still a mystery.
Deep in Rakha's head, the beast urge tries to stir eagerly at this recollection - but it is restrained by the soporific effect of the Astral Plane on her darkest impulses.
She must look surprised to make this connection, because the Emperor lets out a strange resonant exhale that seems like it might be a bitter laugh.
"You thought you were my first ally?" it murmurs. "Far from it. I have long sought the allyship of others; it is the only way to succeed. Though my relationship with Belynne was... different from my relationship with you."
Once again, it's a puzzling incongruity. Everything Rakha has heard from Lae'zel, from Wyll, from Withers, even from Jaheira, has suggested that illithids do not form relationships, of any sort - that they are soulless beings of conquest. But those are illithids enslaved to a brain; perhaps that is why the Emperor is different?
"How so?" she asks slowly.
Again that subtle tentacle flick. "In life she was my business partner," it explains. Its violet gaze drifts past her shoulder, going distant. "Back when we ran the Knights of the Shield - a difficult task, for a mind flayer. Duke Stelmane trusted me, and the city trusted her. I conceived the plot, but Belynne took center stage. It was she who met with the merchants, politicians, patriars. It was she who negotiated deals and signed off on agreements. Her rooms played host to the most important conversations in the city."
It leans forward slightly, eyes narrowing. "Together we brought order to chaos. At its height, everything that happened in that city went through the Shield. Through us."
A pause. Its voice lowers, with a resonance that she would have called grief in any other creature. "I could not have done any of it without her, just as I cannot do any of this without you. But now... she is gone."
(A/N: I really do find the Emperor such a fascinating character. I've read interpretations of it that assert that it is specifically written to be interpretable any number of ways without one true reading, and that literally who it is and what its motivations are change depending on how you choose to interact with it.
I'm not entirely sure if I subscribe to the idea completely, but I do think it can certainly be viewed a number of dramatically different ways by the PC, and it's very interesting playing through this with Rakha, whose reaction is so different from Hector's distrust and anger.)
Rakha listens to this tale in silence. She does not fully understand the Emperor or how it sees the world and their fight - but she hears a ring of truth in this story. Stelmane, then, was like Wyll - she saw past the Emperor's monstrous nature and helped it to control itself, to do something worthwhile in spite of all those who would (and perhaps should) be afraid of it.
She pictures the idea of Wyll dying to an unknown murderer and - with the beast's automatic glee muted and hidden away - can face the true obliterating grief and rage that would come with it. Perhaps even a mind flayer is capable of suffering, when someone like that is taken away from them.
"I'm-- sorry for your loss," she says haltingly. Sympathy and pathos don't come easily to her lips - but she has heard others use these words before, others who are better at it than she.
It grunts ruefully. "I appreciate your understanding," it murmurs. Its head cocks to look at her sidelong. "What I feel is deeper than superficial cures can reach. And... not entirely unwelcome." A pause. "Most people think that ind flayers are soulless husks who feel nothing. I am glad you are not most people."
Rakha isn't sure that she would go that far, really. She isn't sure she knows enough about the Emperor or illithids in general to judge the state of its soul. But... as always in moments of strain, she retreats back into the objective comfort of the absolute facts that she knows.
The Emperor protects her. Its connection brings her peace she finds nowhere else.
The Emperor is like her. It should by rights be a monster - but it is trying to save the world.
The Emperor had someone like Wyll, someone it lost.
The Emperor, soul or not, is hurting.
In moments when she has hurt, Wyll has reached out to her to comfort her - even before they loved each other. It is something that people like Wyll do when someone needs it.
Perhaps this is only selfishness. She does not precisely care about the Emperor for itself. There are too many unknowns and too much else occupying her mind. She needs its goodwill, its steady mind, to continue protecting her, to continue providing these scattered moments of silence.
Or, perhaps, there truly is a stroke of kindness Wyll planted in her that is able to bloom here when the beast is silenced.
Whatever the reason, she reaches out.
Give the Emperor's hand a reassuring squeeze.
It's a deeply awkward gesture, but nevertheless it seems to strike home with an intensity she did not expect. The Emperor's head jerks, its eyes darting closed for a moment. Its whole body goes utterly still, even its tentacles.
Rakha tilts her head, perplexed, trying to read this reaction.
But then the moment breaks. A visceral rumbling shockwave rolls around them, rocking the ground up under them.
They start to their feet, the moment of calm forgotten in an instant. Rakha's head begins to ache in rhythm with the thumping vibrations.
"Another quake," the Emperor says curtly. "The brain is rebelling again. I need to focus. And so do you."
-----
Blackness. She wakes with a start in her bunk and stares at the ceiling. Wyll, at her side, straightens up, seeing her eyes open.
"All right?" he asks gently.
The beast is awake again, growling at once, low and inescapable in the back of her mind. She sighs and rubs her fingertips against her temple. "Fine," she mutters.
Because he is Wyll, because he is kind, he reaches out and rests his hand on hers - just as she did to the Emperor. "You're all right," he murmurs. "I'm here. Go back to sleep."
And she does, but there is no more rest to be had. The peace is gone, and all the rest of the night's dreams are of blood.
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