Disclaimer: I don't own any of the names, characters, setting contained within. Bioware/Black Isle/Interplay does.
A/N: Please be aware there are some dark themes in this piece, though nothing in graphic detail.
If one feels in need of spoilers/tags for such themes: choose not to warn / violence / sadism / rape / murder
Broken Wings, Leashed Spirit
"Yes m-mistress."
Aerie's head drooped. Her 'mistress' didn't even nod; obedience was expected; loyalty, demanded. The former avariel's eyes flickered up. She was ready to begin chanting at a moment's notice. Nearby her companions stood ready, each in their own way, each fanned out around the abyssal chamber.
Slowly, Aerie took stock. There were so few of them left.
Amelyssan the Blackhearted's lifeless corpse danced as a puppet. Xzar's machinations, after Melyssa – Lysa – had snapped her arms at the elbows, and then stamped on her knees, and each of her ribs. Then the true torment began, as Amelyssan found herself inflicted with the remnants of her dead god's power, carried and focused by the former babe her knife once swore to slay. Aerie hadn't even shuddered.
With each of her screams, Lysa had torn the truth from her. Amelyssan had approached them in Trademeet, inviting them to Saradush, but Lysa recognised something in Bhaal's former priestess. Whether it was the dead god's taint, or something else, Aerie wasn't sure, but as Amelyssan whimpered and shrieked, any sympathy Aerie might have once felt died. Not even the hells was punishment enough for the 'Blackhearted'.
Xzar, giggling to himself, mimicked the popping noise every so often. He hadn't been able to voice his thoughts very well since Monty had sewn his mouth shut. Xzar even seemed to prefer it; it made eating more of a hassle. One of Xzar's new favourite games was to slurp as loudly as he could through the straw, until Monty hit him.
The sword of Chaos, Sarevok's sword, pierced Bhaal's throne. The tears surrounding it lit, flaring with the silent screams of the murdered. Sarevok's sword stood three heads taller than her, even buried. Lysa released the grip, turned and waited.
Aerie took a deep breath, the crossed strips of her blackened breastplate breathing with her. They awaited the last. There was nothing to do but wait. Aerie's gaze drifted towards the glowing green portal, and to the pocket plane beyond. She wondered if this really was the end, the final battle, or if this was simply a dream. Had any of them ever truly awoken from the battle of Suldanessellar? Or was this really the fate her soul was condemned to? Over the rim of her helm's cheek guard, she glanced to her right; in front of Bhaal's throne, beneath the dais, a huge column descended, seemingly endless, its arched alcoves once filled with stone avatars. Now, there were but two.
She risked another glance. Could it really happen? Could Lysa really ascend? Could she really become the Lady of Murder?
Could she, Aerie, really aid her in that? Lysa's eyes flickered towards her. The flaming sword in the former avariel's hand dipped, as did her raven-feathered wings.
Safana caught her eye and winked over her dagger's pommel, its point spinning on her fingertip. Her ever present coyness, that half smile, danced through her eyes, her lips half pursed. Unlike Aerie, she wore long robes, hooded, black, split to reveal slender, bare thighs, her knees and calves held by tightly laced boots. She seemed to have no doubts, stood unfazed by Lysa's cool, and patted the imp, Lysa's imp, on the head, before blowing a kiss towards Xzar, who recoiled as Monty scowled.
Inhaling slightly, Aerie wondered where she drew her strength from, where it had all gone wrong. She felt the slave collar around her throat, and allowed her eyes to close. A gift. A reminder. Lysa's humourless, matter-of-fact dismissal to the sick and twisted jape; Aerie couldn't even remember how it had started, only that Safana had retrieved the collars, for each of them, and Edwin had changed their nature, augmenting them with his magic, linking them to Lysa.
Aerie could remember his reluctance, his sullen and bitter anger, and the sickening stench from the illithid. The Red Wizard has suggested bracelets, armlets, rings, even earrings; Lysa hadn't cared, and demanded he make the attempt, using what was there. Maybe that had been the day she had truly surrendered herself, but the truth was she had already been lost long before Lysa found her.
There could be no redemption; she had only been fooling herself believing in some vain, forlorn hope that maybe, somehow the world worked differently, that it could work differently. Aerie looked at Lysa, sadness touching her eyes. She understood now what she failed to accept for so very long. Through the collar, Aerie felt Lysa's power fill her, strengthening her. She could feel the taint, pulsing, gnawing, raging, held back by Lysa's will alone. They were linked now, all of them, had been since they first donned the collars; then it was weak, diminished. Now, now they could draw on the essence of Bhaal's slain spawn, the essence locked within each of his bastards, held within his throne.
Aerie shivered; the final rites were complete, and each of them stood, servants of the demi-god, brimming with immortal power. Yet, if Lysa could wield the binding, could not the last also access the essence inside the throne?
Lysa's lack of smile was grim. Aerie understood that look. Her eyes refocused on the portal.