Obviously I don't own anything - all characters, setting, etc belongs to Bioware, Interplay, Black Isle, etc.
A/N: First fic I've put online - reviews welcome.
Edit: somehow the formatting and disclaimer got scraped. My apologies. Try as I might, I cannot put in a double paragraph, or other form of asterisk or the like. At 4:16am, I've had enough of trying. Instead, I have emboldened where a double paragraph should begin in the hopes of breaking up the text somewhere. It's tacky, but at the moment, it's the best I can do. I won't use line breaks as I feel it interrupts the flow of a story and this is meant to be a one piece.
He was a bully and a thief, and a thug if she was honest. He was a murderer. A knife not for hire. He was the father of her child …and her brother. Half brother. Why hadn't anyone ever told them?
And now he was dead.
Imoen glared. Things hadn't gone right since the night they left Candlekeep. From her earliest memories, she had worked in the inn. Small things at first, but later larger things. He had studied in the library, enduring tomes and droning monks for hours and hours. She didn't know how he could stand it. Neither did he. Every chance he'd get, he'd sneak out. Her 'father' – the man she believed to be her father, foster father… – was sympathetic. He seemed to think young hands should be kept from idleness, but his idea was to put them to work in the stable or changing beds, washing dishes or cleaning.
She remembered the first time she saw him. She'd been fascinated from the second she'd laid eyes on his curly brown hair, his constant glances to make sure none of the monks or the guards were near, his eyes… gods, she loved his eyes. 'Plain', like his hair was 'plain', they were alive. They had a light that drove her to know more, an alertness that embodied everything she wanted to be.
She loved to watch him move. To listen to his voice. He had a gorgeous voice. Most people wouldn't agree, but she didn't care about them. She admired how quick his hands were; he wasn't the smartest, the most learned, though he knew an awful lot, but he was quick. Sharp. His sense of humour wasn't great, but she couldn't have everything; teasing him was fun, and he only hit her if she hit him first, and never broke her nose or bloodied her lip like that stupid noblewoman's daughter once did to her… she had paid her back good for that one.
When she had told him, he shrugged, which had made her very cross. Sometimes, she didn't think he cared at all. But then, she remembered how the older stable boy once tried to touch her and… he had fallen out of the hayloft and broken his arm in three places. And later, when one of the younger guards wanted to teach her a game he knew, even though he let her go after she said 'no' a few times, they found he had fallen from the wall with all his fingers broken. He spent a tenday in the infirmary. No one had ever tried to touch her again.
She sighed. There was nothing remarkable about him physically. No mischievous smiles, no elf-like features, just… plain. But to her, he was the most handsome boy she'd ever seen. Perhaps because he was one of the only boys she'd ever seen. They had decided that he was a year or two older than her, but that didn't matter. Candlekeep wasn't known for having children. In fact, Candlekeep was known only for its library and stuffy collection of old bores.
There were years between her and everyone else. The younger guards were ten years in difference. The younger stablehand replaced the old one who retired, and he arrived when she was twelve, and he was seventeen. She was fifteen when he wanted to kiss her, but while he was nice, he wasn't very smart. Good with horses, but slow. Winthrop said he'd been dropped as a child. She didn't think it was very fair how he had fallen out of the loft, but at the same time, she was relieved he didn't want to kiss her after that. It was sad that he hobbled away from her though.
She remembered how angry she was when one of the visiting noblewoman's girls tried to sweet-talk her man. No one knew they were sweethearts, but that wasn't the point! They were just using him. When he laughed in their faces, she felt a fierce surge of pride. She hadn't been there, but she heard them gossiping about it in their room. They wanted to have him flogged out the keep. The names they called him made her ears burn. That night, she had snuck into his cell and shown him how much she appreciated him.
For years, they had found quiet out-of-the-way corners to spend time together in. Behind bookshelves, in the nooks and crannies of the walls, in the storerooms, in the stable-stalls… at first, they talked, played games. Ball-in-the-cup, stones, words, guess the animal, dares. Later, dice, cards, dares. They gambled with dares; the cards and dice she'd flinched. The monks would have had an apoplexy if they'd discovered the tavern-room games. If they discovered the books he'd stolen, works of explicit poetry or the 'manual of constitution' kept locked away in another part of the library, it would have been better to be slung out of the grounds. The monks wouldn't have been able to fault her reasoning: they were studying the tome. They explored every page in detail. He had proven her wrong: some of the books were very interesting.
But that had been before they left. Before Gorion, his mentor, had been slain. Murdered in front of him. Sarevok. It was all his fault. She had been happy in Candlekeep. Happy with her lover. They had grown up together, like something out of a story, and then their world had been shattered by something so stupid it should have been a story. Gorion had never known about their tryst. They had taken such care to hide it. But then he had gone and died.
Somehow, her lover had escaped. The night he and Gorion left, she had followed. She had hidden in the trees, hidden him as he obeyed his mentor's last command. Magic should have found them, but Gorion was a powerful mage and before he fell, spitted on Sarevok's blade, he made sure he had neutralised Sarevok's followers. It had given them a chance.
In Candlekeep, she had played with cats. She had even tried to cast a spell on one, but the tabby seemed more interested in the cream than anything else. Outside, in the forest, cats were the least of their worries. Wolves, made bold by hunger and easy pickings preyed on lone travellers. Forest spiders of the deep ventured from their lairs. People made desperate by the failing harvest turned to banditry, and Sarevok was at the heart of it all. She couldn't blame him for the failing harvest, but it was his fault all the tools failed.
In the peaceful fortress library, they were sheltered from all that. The so-called 'iron crisis' had been going for months before they left. Only when they were outside of the walls did they learn its extent.
Heading to the Friendly Arm Inn was Gorion's last wish. In hindsight, it seemed stupid, even obvious, that assassins would be waiting for them there. Of course, no one knew her destiny; perhaps if she'd been told, perhaps if her lover had been told… too late for regrets now. They had been thrown out of the Friendly Arm Inn without ever meeting Gorion's friends; they were probably dead anyway. 'For brawling' and breaking the Inn's rules. No one believed that such a nice young man could have started such a thing. It had to be the newcomers. It wasn't fair. When she had seen him slip something into their drinks, he tried to knife them. Only, her brown-haired sweetheart got there first. He had turned the assassin's knife into the assassin… and as they slowly left, the barmaid had screamed, and the guards had chased them.
They went to Beregost after that. A mad dwarf had tried to axe them. She had stuck a knife in his eye.
They were alone and lost in the world. They had no one except each other. They hadn't known they shared the same father, the dead god Bhaal. Why was it so wrong? He wasn't perfect, but neither was she. They had nothing. Even the clothes on their back were dirtied, torn. What should she have done? Whored herself? She wasn't lying on her back for some old sleaze and getting the pox. So they stole. For the first few nights, they slept where they could, breaking into outhouses, sheds, under hedges, around the town. They looked for work but no one was hiring. The only jobs around were escorting caravans, but the caravans had stopped running. Bread was expensive. More expensive than in the tavern at Candlekeep.
Why didn't they go back?
If only it was that simple.
Candlekeep was an order of snobs. Without an influence greater than Winthrop's, her sweetheart wasn't getting in, and she certainly wasn't leaving him on his own. Even if she could get Winthrop to pull strings to let her back in… she had wondered about scaling the walls. But then they had found the bounty notice. 'Of Candlekeep', it said beside his name. There was no going back after that.
Why was there a bounty notice on his head? There was nothing special about him. Nothing at all. They were both ordinary young people trying to make their way in life.
Except. Gorion had been murdered trying to protect his charge. And now there were assassins after him.
She should have abandoned him. But she loved him.
For two months, they tried to survive in Beregost. The roads were so dangerous they didn't dare travel. It was incredibly they even got to Beregost to begin with. If they had known how bad it was, they never would have gone. Three times, they'd seen bands of outlaws, and each time, they'd hidden. Travelling at night had helped. He hadn't wanted to stay but she insisted. There was a manor house and near the outskirts, an abandoned storehouse. It bordered the forest, and was little better than a lean-to, but it was a start.
The first thing they did was change his appearance as best they could. He hadn't shaved for several days and the beginnings of a beard shadowed his jaw. She rubbed charcoal in his hair until they could steal hair-dye, or find the plants and mash them with a stone. It was harder than it sounded. Neither of them ever paid attention to that sort of thing. So she kept him hidden. At night, to stop him sneaking out, she distracted him. It kept him from thinking too much, gave him something to look forward to. She didn't like leaving him alone, but made him promise not to enter town. Instead, she had him gather firewood.
She hated that they lived like fugitives, but it was better than swinging from a rope. Since the incident in the Friendly Arm Inn, she expected the Flaming Fist would look for them. He told her the Law had too much else to do. She hoped he was right. He said they wouldn't have to resort to banditry as long as she could find work. Each day, she searched.
It took her a tenday, but eventually her persistence paid off. She had offered her services at the manor, begging a job. Like so many others, she was afraid she would be turned away, but her hopeful smile caught the eye of the steward. He was an old man, but he liked his girls young and somehow she wheedled him into letting her work for food and board. It was never going to be enough, but at least it was work she was used to.
She tried to get him a job as assistant-gardener. No one was hiring. After a haircut, and a change of clothes, she fobbed him off as a penniless scholar and set him to helping the steward with record keeping. The old man's eyes were failing and he accepted gladly. It was better than stealing, even though what they earned was only enough to keep their bellies full.
Then the caravans began to run again. The Nashkel Mines, source of the region's iron, had been cleared. According to rumour, they had been infested by kobold-demons, but their witchery had been stopped. Bandits still roamed freely, but everyone expected the Flaming Fist to do something about it.
It wasn't enough. Though he had figures to occupy him, her lover grew increasingly restless. So did she. This wasn't the sort of life she envisioned, but they were lucky to both have jobs. No matter how much she tried to soothe him, nothing detracted from the feeling he was meant to be out there doing something. She knew he had nightmares; she heard him murmuring in his sleep. Angry murmurs. He would still at her touch, as she snuggled beside him. She was scared for him, scared of losing him, but happy they could finally be together. This wasn't the life she wanted, but she was with him. In spite of everything, they had each other.
Neither of them ever forgot about Gorion or the bounty notice. He never talked about it, but she knew he practiced throwing his knife, over and over, into the post. While she waited for him to get home, she chose a post of her own. She knew they couldn't hide forever.
The planting season was over; it had begun before they left Candlekeep. She had never cared about it until she realised how little they had to eat. Everyone was hoping this year would be better.
It was a shock then, when they were both fired from their jobs. She knew he hadn't fiddled the numbers, and she hadn't shirked her chores, but she knew the cook didn't like her. The old steward, upon hearing the news that the Flaming Fist had cleared the bandits from the forests, had decided he needed to act. The master was returning from Baldur's Gate, and to his horror, certain items had gone missing. Without anyone to blame, Cook had implied that perhaps it was the newcomers, who hadn't proven themselves, as it couldn't possibly be any of the other loyal staff. Regretfully, the old man had to let them go.
Imoen understood, though she didn't like it. She was getting bored of cleaning, and both of them felt they had stayed put long enough. She had tried to make friends with the others, but most of them weren't interested, and everyone was concerned for their own job. When Cook suggested it was her any friends she thought she had showed they were never really friends at all. Her sweetheart's answer had been short. That night, he had broken into Cook's cubbyhole and looted everything. Those things that could implicate Imoen if caught, he scattered throughout the rest of the staff's dorm, and the rest he took. He also pilfered the cellar, and what they could carry on a journey went into a knapsack and the rare wine went into Cook's cubbyhole.
Try as she might, she could not help but be disappointed. He hadn't invited her. Later, he pointed out that could have pillaged the entire town, but they might as well have lit a signal fire. Instead, they joined a caravan headed towards Baldur's Gate, offering their services as extra hands. Usually, they would have been refused, but the caravan master, a dwarf named Kagain, was desperate. There was no shortage of people needing jobs, but only a few believed the roads were safe.
Once they were on the road, they were met by patrols who assured them the roads were safe. At the Friendly Arm Inn, they laid low, staying with the caravan. Kagain paid them extra, and he assumed greed was their motivate. It meant another night in each others' arms, and out of the way of the guards. She would have liked to have seen inside, but she had other things on her mind that night...
Baldur's Gate. A sprawling, stinking hub of human activity. Beregost smelt bad but it was nothing like the streets. Open drains ran into sewers, and she didn't like to think what she was walking on. Kagain took them to an inn, and he offered them to stay on. She was tempted to agree, but her sweetheart refused. It was time to get some answers.
She had to smile apologetically at the dwarf, and leaned in close saying she would try to get him to change his mind; maybe after not finding work, and if Kagain was ever in the area again… with a grunt, the dwarf agreed. He might not like it, but he wasn't surprised. Young couples often tried to make their lot in life.
They began to search the taverns. They staggered it, so no one would notice, altering their appearance with dyes and dress. They avoided the bar fights and brawls, and watched for nobles. There was always money to be made in cities, by fair means or foul, her man said, but it was easier to say than to do. At the Blushing Mermaid, they found an ogre with one eye. He inspected everyone who came in, and accused Imoen of being his mark. She laughed nervously and told him she was a girl. He set her down after that, but she wondered why the barkeep allowed him to stay there. The ogre answered that he kept out the wrong sort from the inn. Bounties and bounty hunters weren't allowed inside.
She asked about bounties.
The ogre told her.
All the while, her lover was silent. Then she wondered about how to claim a bounty's reward, and he smiled. Nudging her sweetheart with her toe, she promised the ogre a share if he'd take her, and the monster agreed.
The Undercellar was a place frequented by courtesans, nobles, thieves and those looking to lose themselves. The fragrance of Black Lotus and stale alcohol reeked from the damp walls, their silk throws and cushions. He was impassive; the ogre didn't notice. She wrinkled her nose. It was dangerous coming here, but they were almost out of money.
She said she knew where to find him. She said she witnessed a tavern brawl months ago, and seen a dwarf knifed in the eye. She had found the contract and followed him. She wasn't willing to risk a knife in the eye, but she wanted gold. She'd sell his location. She'd even lead them there. Half now, half when they had him. She was even willing to settle for less.
The old mage didn't trust her; he'd come at the ogre's call. The ogre knew the runes on the board, and her sweetheart watched. She implored the mage with her sweet smile, then her careless, "If you don't want him, I'll find someone who does–"
He agreed. "Wait," he said. She knew he was a mage; it was the smell, the rune-embroidered robe. The purse he carried. Lots of little things. So she waited. The ogre waited with her, eager for his share.
Her lover readied his dagger.
Sarevok. Sarevok wasn't one to be disturbed but he was angry. Angry and restless. At her claim, he had come in person, appearing with the mage. "Where?" he demanded, golden eyes boring into her. The same eyes her man had seen that night. That she had not seen, but heard him talk about in dreams. Glowing in the darkness, like lanterns, he muttered.
This time, Sarevok was not armoured, but he was armed. "There he is!" she told the ogre, "tall, mean, evil!"
The ogre swung his spiked club. Her lover knifed the mage from behind, yanking as he covered his mouth. Sarevok bellowed with rage. From seemingly out of nowhere, his giant sword swung, catching the ogre's club. Her knife thudded into his chest; it didn't even slow him. The blade flashed and knocked the ogre back; even as the beast staggered, Sarevok roared in triumph and lunged. Her love had waited for this since that night. He plunged his knife into Sarevok's exposed back, between the ribs. Again and again he stabbed; furious, blinded with pain and rage, Sarevok spun, backhanding him aside.
She could only watch.
Blood gushed from a dozen wounds; two-handed Sarevok held the sword aloft. The Sword of Chaos, she later learned, as the gold-eyed monster brought it down in a massive arc. Its target threw himself aside, and leapt towards his mentor's murderer; ripping Imoen's dagger free, he stabbed Sarevok's belly twice before the bigger man swung his sword up. This time, the blade sheared into her man's side. This time… it was fatal.
But her dagger was done its work. It was Sarevok's final act. Like the ogre he had just slain, he crumpled. His laughter chilled her as it gurgled to nothingness.
She ran to her lover's side, cradling him as he broke into golden dust.
Somehow, she had escaped unscathed. Somehow, she escaped from the Undercellar. She had fled the city, riding with Kagain, and three months later given birth. A beautiful baby boy with golden eyes. Sarevok's eyes. She had gone as far from Baldur's Gate as she possibly could, but it wasn't far enough. None of it was enough. In her dreams she saw it over and over, the never-ending torment. One day had ruined her life.
"Ah, the child of Bhaal has awoken. It is time for more experiments."
She hated him. She hated all of them. Pain coursed through her and she screamed.