#the more triumphant gortash’s victory will be

[loderlied]

will forever be obsessed with the concept of characters being each other’s archnemesis…. opposite in the sense that they are each other’s antithesis and there is no other path for them than absolute war simply because of who they are, destined to clash not in the mystical sense but destined in the way that a chemical reaction is destined to happen…. and then there is also that element of both sides having to be equally strong because otherwise they would not be each other’s antithesis….

yes this post is about the wild, the instinct of the apex predator (zeke) vs the all-conquering god-machine (gortash)

[sorrelchestnut]

working title: jailbird cont'd

Previously on: “Hello, old friend,” said Enver Gortash hoarsely, after a moment. “Come to gloat?”

Flynn took a long time to answer him - long enough that Astarion, lurking some feet away in an awkward dance between his desire to give them privacy and his own bright-burning curiosity, went from awkwardness, to intense discomfort, and looped back around to amusement.  He certainly wouldn't want to be on the other end of that eerie white-flame gaze, but if the former archduke found the experience discomfiting, he was hiding it well.  He only studied Flynn in return with surprising equanimity, as if he were still standing triumphant in his coronation hall instead of chained to a rock in a pestilent prison cell.

"I'm not much of one for gloating, actually," Flynn said eventually, as if nearly three full minutes hadn't passed between question and answer.  "Was I before?"

"Not particularly," Gortash assured him, with no trace of smugness for his victorious staring contest.  "But you are, after all, a changed man.  I'd hate to make assumptions."

Flynn's lips drew back slightly, baring the tips of his fangs.  To an unobservant eye, it might have passed for a smile.  "Quick enough to make assumptions the first time."

"And look how well that turned out for me."  The twist of Gortash's manacled hand indicating his surroundings was lightly sardonic; his voice, even more so.  "I do try not to make the same mistake twice."

"It could have been worse," Flynn offered, leaning against the wall.  Astarion despaired of the streaks of filth that immediately transferred themselves to once-shining plate.  "You could be dead."

"Near enough, my friend," Gortash said, and his gaze didn't stray beyond Flynn to where Astarion was doing his best to pretend he wasn't listening, but Astarion could feel the brief shift of his attention, anyway.  "So what does bring you to my humble abode, if I might venture to ask?  I am, as you can see, quite at your leisure."

It would be a bad idea to laugh at that, not least because he was so clearly angling for one.  Astarion almost did it anyway.

Flynn didn't seem likewise inclined; his momentary good humor had fled at Gortash's question, leaving only the edging tension that had been riding him all day.  "The Lost City of Or'dol," he said flatly.  "You know it?"

"Ye-es?"  Clearly this particular conversational feint came as a surprise: Gortash drew the syllable out expectantly, brow creased in puzzlement.  "I've had that dubious pleasure.  Or more accurately I should say we, as we went there together."

"I don't remember."

"Believe me, I am exquisitely aware."  Gortash frowned up at him; for a moment it was as if he forgot his chains, his bars, his situation entirely, so lost was he in whatever curious clockwork workings passed for his mind.  "What interest could you possibly have in that moldering ruin?  We already retrieved the only treasure of note, I can assure you.  And if you fancy a stroll down memory lane, I have much more stimulating ventures to recount."

"Do you know how to get there or not."

"I do, though I confess you were ever the more skilled navigator between us.  But no, this isn't your interest, is it?  My poor human eyes aren't so frail as to miss your new decoration."

Flynn's gauntleted hand came up to cover the sigil emblazoned on his chest, reflexively protective. "That's none of your business."

"Of course not, dear boy, but that's never stopped me before," Gortash said, almost absently.  His dark eyes seemed nearly alight with something like avarice.  "How does your lord father feel about your new allegiance, I wonder?  Thrown over for the god he deposed, now that's got to sting."

"No less than a tyrant's fall."  Flynn's hoarse voice, never particularly mellifluous, went flat as a still lake.  "Perhaps if either of our former masters ever reckoned with the fact that their apotheosis was nothing more than an accident of a god's boredom, they might stop making quite so many arrogant mistakes."

"An interesting heresy," Gortash said lightly, but Astarion could hear a hint of strain in his beautiful voice.  "I shall have to ponder it further, as with all your trenchant wisdom.  But we were speaking of a favor, were we not?  Information you no longer have, in exchange for…"

A muscle flexed in Flynn's jaw, a brief ripple of spines.  "I didn't come here to negotiate."

"No?  Then more fool you, because I don't make a habit of giving anything for free."

"You seemed eager enough to share in your power before."

"I spoke of an alliance, dear fellow, which is another matter entirely.  And one you somewhat unambiguously rejected, I feel obliged to note, so we are left with lesser bargains.  In which vein I must therefore ask: what, precisely, are you prepared to offer?"

And Flynn… hesitated, for the first time since he'd walked into this building, and in his hesitation he looked to Astarion.  For what, Astarion wasn't entirely sure: he'd thought he'd gotten so good at reading the thoughts that crossed that scaled and sinuous face, until they'd lost their tadpoles and he'd had to start all over again.  But there was something he needed now, Astarion could tell that much.  Support, maybe.  Validation.

Permission.

"Well don't look at me, darling," Astarion said, in the most limpid, nasally drawl he could muster.  "My function here is purely decorative.  But please do try and wrap this up before I get bored."

Dragonborn didn't smile as most mammalian sentients did; some crucial facial muscle lacking in the reptilian array, perhaps.  Flynn's quiet joy showed itself instead at the flex of his jaw, the angle of his head, the crinkle of scales at the corners of his eyes.  He nodded, and turned back to the chained tyrant, and said, "What do you want?"

[avernusfuries]

Just like that, everything she had dared hope and dream for had shattered before her eyes. She should have felt triumphant, standing over the still-cooling corpse of Gortash as she had with her other victories — but she had waited for that elation to come. It never did. It was funny how quickly that one fucking thing she had to look forward to hadn't made her life instantaneously better. Karlach had hoped that defeating him would open up so many doors. She would be able to return home, start up the life she'd dare to tell Minthara about when she had taken her out to see the city, showed her her favourite food spot, strived and clawed for that normalcy that had all gone swirling down the cistern. Karlach remembered how she'd unwound herself from the tangle the two had made of themselves the night before, when they had made love with the knowledge that tomorrow she might be free. Gloated, almost.

What a fucking idiot she was.

All defeating him had done was force her to realise that her grave still yawned before her, and the hopelessness of it all had her considering jumping on in. That was what awaited her, was it not? The choice of death or hell? Karlach had seen the intimacies of hell, and she would sooner die than return. She would be too hot to touch again. She would have to fight even fucking harder because she'd dared to break free of the chains that had bound her to Zariel. Her favourite fucking champion. The anger at it all had gotten the better of her, and she'd believed that Dammon — that golden hearted genius — would find a way to fix her before she was presented with the choice of leave or die. It was not his fault, either.

She was tired. That emptiness felt like an ever-growing cavern in the center of her that threatened to swallow everything that wasn't the grief. If she had believed in the Gods before, she had lost whatever faith she might've had over these past few hours. Karlach felt her engine groan and creak in a way that it hadn't since the Shadowcursed lands as it struggled through it all. Stupid fucking thing.

In these past few hours, she had gone through two of the five stages of grief. Denial. When she had focused on what was immediately in front of her. Anger. As she had shown in the aftermath of Enver's death. Skipped bargaining. That would fall on deaf ears. Karlach had stagnated on the depression and there she would remain until she burned to soot and cinder, or she was back and alone in the hells.

Gods, she felt like such a child.

But she had barely left girlhood when the option of her future had been viciously snatched from her. Her tale of woe, while more complicated than others, was hardly something entirely unique. Minthara was good at saying all of the right things. They would not fix her so she could stay with her and discover what freedoms life could truly give her. The life she had dared to dream with her, once they had pushed past the notion that their offspring would consist of nothing but a really mean goat, and right into the possibility of a family, how they would raise them, how they would teach them how to defend themselves so they didn't fall into the same old shit Karlach had.

Fuck, how she sank into that comfort. Minthara touched her face and Karlach turned her head into the warmth of her palm. She felt sick. The hand that tangled fingers into her own was gripped, and she tugged her into her as she dragged her into an another bone-crushing hug. Minthara was not some soft, delicate maiden by any means, but she was important to her in a way that made her careful. Even when she drowned in the depths of her own self-pity.

Company in the hells. What a nice thought. There was a part of her that wanted to urge her to chase those dreams they had shared only last night as they basked in the afterglow. That was the selfless part. The selfish part craved the absence of loneliness and she knew that Minthara knew that well enough. This was no time for selflessness.

"Yeah?" Karlach's voice sounded thick in a way that she loathed. "If push comes to shove, you'd walk right on into hell with me? For me?"

❛   even now, after all you’ve done, you can still go home.  lucky you . ❜  

First she had arrived to her tent, seeking Karlach out but had found nothing but the empty canvas. Her being absent from her lodgings were in itself not the usual aspect, but the presence of Clive who had remained propped against the tent pole was. Minthara, and the entirety of the camp really, was aware of how upset she was leaving the bridge. And rightly so, Minthara had many thoughts on Gortash - the Champion of Bane. On one end, there had been opportunity in the offer that he had in ruling as the Absolute. On the other hand there is concern for Karlach and the atrocity he had committed against her.

And for the first time in her life, Minthara finds herself standing at a sort of paradox that she has never faced before. Vengeance, for all intents and purposes, had been a constant in her existence. It was the very oath that she had taken up in the face of the injustices performed against her own person, completed with each strike down of the Chosen Three. She swore once that she would find Orin, and that she would murder her, and that she would smile as she died - for that in itself was vengeance. A sweet sentiment as she knew it, even in Menzobarranzan when she performed the same in Lolth's name.

Yet upon witnessing Karlach cut down her own Orin, she did not revel, she did not show satisfaction, and most of all she did not smile. Instead she had raged, and raged, and once the flame had died away, there was only sadness, heartbreak. This pained Minthara to see, even now as she settles next to her - as she looks upon that usually spirited gaze - extinguished as was her extinguishing heart.

"No. Karlach." She starts, tone soft to reflect the tender sentiment she felt toward her - and it was now she rests a hand over hers. Turning to face her in all of her in all of her rightful melancholy, in all of her possible fury, and most heartbreakingly of all, her broken spirit. Perhaps with a single touch - she could try to mend that shattered heart together. Even if it scorched the skin and sinew from Minthara's bones, Karlach will know that she is loved and loved dearly. "My home is here, with you." And she looks between them as tender extremities course through red scarred knuckles. In truth, whatever home she had left in Menzobarranzan was gone - long gone. "Do not give up now. Not when we have faced so much together."

"And this? This is no different, Karlach." And now she touches her face, a palm the rest along her cheek as a thumb caresses along her skin, drawing her eye to her before she rests her forehead against hers. "And whatever comes out way, you are not alone. We will face this too, together."

@infernaliscor / I can't remember the meme.