- Inspired by the Sarevok Romance mod by Aeryn Phoenix-
Ilyrana, or just Rana, of Candlekeep is an Elven Ranger who started out as one of the "good guys" and goes through a gradual fall from grace. This is due, in large part, to Irenicus, and what he did to her in SoA, as well as the taint, and the emotional trauma of becoming the Slayer.
This story starts somewhere after the defeat of Yaga-Shura and before the fall of Sendai and Abazigal. It also assumes that BG1 lasted around 2 years and SoA about 3 years.
Now, I felt that Throne of Bhaal was too short, and easy, thanks to being able to teleport back to your Pocketplane to rest without worrying about being ambushed. So, I've completely taken out the Pocketplane and Solar. Sarevok's ghost appears at Suldanessellar, at the stones where Illasera shows up, and events unfold as normal. Ilyrana won't have the Solar to guide her, or a Pocketplane to escape to, and any knowledge obtained there will, or won't, show up somewhere else, depending on how long I draw this story out.
Please be kind when reviewing, as I haven't written anything in years, and this is purely for fun, plus, there just aren't enough Charname/Sarevok stories out there.
My story is also on Ao3.
*Content Warnings: Language, Violence, Gore, Rape (In chapter 1 only)*
Chapter 1: The Dream
In the dream, her body was as wasted and weak as her heart had been at the time; a reflection of the ravages of guilt, the madness of what if. Gaunt and pale. Her long, dark brown hair lusterless and falling out in clumps. That was the only deviation from the memory of those days. The rest of the dream unfolded exactly as the events had actually happened. This made it harder to bear. Knowing exactly what was coming, and being unable to do anything other than watch it replay.
They had stopped at dusk, Ilyrana and her remaining companions, and made camp for the evening. It had been almost a fortnight since they had fled Baldur's Gate and begun making their way south, to Calimshan.
Almost a month since his death.
Almost a month of dying, not from the grievous wounds she had sustained during that final confrontation, exactly, but from the grief.
Almost.
Almost, maybe, and what if. These words had haunted her since she watched the life behind those proud, rage-filled, suddenly familiar, golden eyes die out. Since his body dissolved into ash, or dust, or whatever it was that the Bhaalspawn were reduced to once their hearts had beat their last.
In the dream, as in waking, Ilyrana felt the sharp, briefly all-encompassing pain of loss, the cessation of her desire to live, to take another step, another breath. This was more than just mourning. The grief was a disease to her kind. A cancer that, almost literally, breaks the heart of an elf who has lost someone they cherished.
For any other elven female, who wasn't a Bhaalspawn, dying from sorrow meant becoming a banshee, one of the living dead whose screams were weapons against anyone within hearing range. Death for her, though, meant the abyss.
No undeath.
No chance at resurrection.
No more pain.
Ilyrana had chased that end, had almost achieved it.
Almost.
It's amazing, the instinct for self-preservation, and the lengths the mind will go to in order to keep the body alive. The illusions and assumptions it will weave together to direct your thoughts away from what was lost, what could have been...what if... and force you to focus on inconvenient questions like "How" and "Why".
It was, ultimately, rage that had stopped the dying, burning away the sorrow like a cleansing flame. And it was rage that Ilyrana began to worship from those days going forward, almost as fervently as she worshipped her God of Shadows. Rage was so much sweeter than sadness. Fury did not hurt. Anger brought clarity.
In the dream, the hooded men materialized from the shadows outside of the glow of the campfire. They appeared without warning. No battle cries. No menacing swagger into the firelight to gloat and make demands. Ilyrana was lying down when they came for her; sweating from the light fever that had plagued her since her swift, and forced, departure from Baldur's Gate. The fever was a lingering symptom of the intense healing required to close the deep laceration that started from just above her right haunch and curved up to a couple of inches below her right breast. A long, repeated healing, because her grief seemed to consume the magics, forcing the clerics to exhaust themselves just to keep the wound closed long enough to stop the bleeding. It shouldn't have scarred, that was part of the beauty of healing, but it had. She had gotten that almost-fatal wound from him. She had almost dodged the upward slash of his greatsword, but exhaustion had slowed her.
Almost, almost, almost, almost. The words echoed in her mind, in the dream, in her memories, circling like sharks around chum, diving in to rip and tear at what was left of her.
Ilyrana didn't know how many of her kidnappers there had been. She'd liked to think it took a small army of them to subdue her and her friends. Realistically, though, it was probably only a dozen at most. They shackled, gagged, and hooded her and the others. That was the last solid memory, before the torture, anyway; the taste of cotton dampened with the perspiration of her attackers, the screams, roars, and attempted spellcasting of her companions, the cut of the iron clamped around her wrists, the fear and confusion, and, of course, the rage.
At this part of the dream, Ilyrana began to realize that it was, in fact, a dream. She could stop, right here, and not see what came next. She tried. It was a futile effort, and she knew it, because she'd never been able to wake herself from the nightmares before, but her mind wouldn't let go of the chance to preserve its shaky hold on sanity, so it fought for consciousness.
In the dream, pain radiated from the top of her spine to the bottom. White hot agony that drowned out everything else. The coppery taste of blood in her mouth from biting her bottom lip and the inside of her cheeks. The burning in her throat from screaming so long and hard that she could only produce a gasping sound now, so destroyed were her vocal cords. There were other pains, she was sure, but she couldn't feel them. She didn't know if she was hot, or cold, or hungry, or thirsty. Her world had been reduced to the pain of the cutting, the horror of the vivisections, the fury and helplessness of being spread beneath her torturer.
"It is time for more…experiments."
His drawling voice was the only thing that could cut through the loud static of agony. His cold fingers skimmed over the inch-long incisions cut diagonally into her spine, each one roughly two inches apart. His hand trailed down, touching each scab on the barely healed wounds. He tsked and turned to the counter beside the table Ilyrana was stretched out on.
She was shivering, from the pain surely, perhaps from cold, too, though his hands were the only cold her body registered anymore. She kept her head turned away from him and his accoutrements, knowing too well by now how much worse it was to watch him work. Instead, she watched the endless stream of bubbles rising lazily from the bottom to the top of the tank across the room. It was empty, the tank was. Well, it was full of water, or some other similar-looking liquid, but it was empty of an occupant, a victim, an experiment. It wasn't always empty. Yesterday, it had housed a man. Yesterday? No, longer than that. Last week, perhaps.
Time was not measured anymore like it once had been. No longer did Ilyrana think in terms of minutes, hours, and days. Nor in the dawning and setting of the sun, or the waxing and waning of the moon. Down here, wherever here was, she didn't know whether it was day or night, because there were no windows or skylights. Time was measured by how often he came for her. How often she was cut open, healed, battered by magic, healed, raped, healed. If her companions still lived, she had no idea. She could try and ask him, but she was afraid he would answer her.
Fire erupted at the top of her spine. Ilyrana stiffened, every muscle tightening against the shock of the sudden influx of pain. She ground her teeth together to avoid biting through her lip or cheeks again.
"I believe I have taken enough samples, for now, but…" his voice trailed off thoughtfully. Fire was replaced with ice as his fingers traced the new cut that intersected the old one, forming an X.
"I find this more visually appealing. The symmetry. You'll have to excuse me, I have no real reason for doing this, but I have much to think about, and this does help me focus."
Ilyrana didn't know how many X shaped scars had been cut down her back, to this day she did not look at them in the mirror or reach back to touch them. She tried to completely forget they were even there, and rarely wore any shirts or tunics that would showcase more than a few of them. They were his brand, even if no one would know where they had come from, she pretended they didn't exist. It gave her some small measure of power over the memories.
She would, in time, heal from all of the damage the elven mage, Joneleth Irenicus, inflicted upon her. There were plenty more scars now, inside and out, of course, but she was healed and whole. No permanent, physical damage. She knew this, knew how this chapter of her life ended; with her triumphant, and him in the bowels of the deepest pits of Hell. The dream, however, would not stop until it reached its conclusion.
Perhaps it was this way because she had become so adept at suppressing the memories. She did not think of it. Any of it. From the time of her capture to the moment Irenicus was murdered, for good, a time span of roughly three years, blanked out of her mind.
Or perhaps it was her punishment for all the blood she had spilled over the years.
Or some sort of self-flagellation for the guilt that grew with each life taken, each murder that she pretended she didn't enjoy committing.
When Ilyrana walked out of the gates of the library fortress, Candlekeep, her home, some five years ago, she had considered herself a good person. She cared about others. She loved. Oh, how she had loved back then. Her godfather, Gorion, the man who had raised her as his own. Her best friend, Imoen, who she would later find out was her half-sister. Forgetful Phlydia, farmer Dreppin, Jondalar, who had introduced her to the bow, grouchy old Reevor, Hull, whose bark wasn't much better than his bite. She had loved them all and more. She had gone forth and protected the innocent, aided the helpless, tore down tyrants, rebuilt cities, and stopped a war.
None of that meant shit to her now. She had learned over the years that for every child she saved, ten more starved to death. For every family she reunited, dozens more were slaughtered by roving bands of gnolls and hobgoblins. The moment she walked out of a village she had put to rights, there was already someone within its walls scheming to tear it all down again. She had become jaded. She had learned the harshest lesson that anyone who has ever looked outside themselves has learned: For every good deed performed, two acts of evil are committed. You can't save them all; it was madness to think you could, that anyone could. This truth had hurt at first. Now, it was just another fact of life.
The dream had one last act before the curtain closed and she was allowed to wake. This knowledge did nothing to comfort Ilyrana. The end was the worst part. Her mind knew this, was bracing for it, had been bracing for it since the first act was played out. This was the moment, every time she dreamed this dream, when her muscles contracted, her fists clenching tight enough that her nails cut into her palms or tore open the sheets of the bed she was in, the cold sweat. She began to hyperventilate. Her body already beginning to ache from the strain of tightening in preparation for a violation that was not about to occur outside of her head.
"You look so much like her, you know," Irenicus murmured as his long fingers stroked down Ilyrana's cheek and brushed against the tangled, matted mess of her hair.
"Her hair was golden, though. And her eyes, those beautiful eyes, were a shade of green I have not been able to find since I last looked into them."
She was now stretched out on her back, on the same table as before.
His hands slowly roamed down her neck, thumbs brushing into the hollow of her throat. He kept talking softly, not caring what she thought about his words, like one who whispers soothing nonsense to a horse to keep it from bolting. As if she could do much more than flinch when her wrists were strapped down on either side of her head. She kept her eyes closed. She didn't have to look to see the hideous blue veins raised across his visage. His hollow green eyes. The leathery texture of his face that she wasn't entirely sure was real and not a mask. The slightly sweet smell of rot that permeated around him, mingled with the constant, heavy scent of blood, and the spicy, stringent smell of magics that clung to his clothes. All of these details, and much more, were tattooed inside of her mind, forcing her to see, hear, smell, and feel every aspect of him regardless if he was close by or if she was even conscious.
"But the shape of the eyes is the same. As is the rest. You are quite a bit smaller in stature, but that's not important."
It was here that she opened her eyes, pinning his gaze with one of loathing. Amber staring down green. She felt hot tears of rage and frustration roll down the sides of her face and into her hair. She should have kept her eyes closed. If she did, if she gave him no resistance or acknowledgement of what he was about to do to her, he would begin to speak to her as if she were his former lover. He would call her by her name, he would do those sick, painful, violating things to her, instead. Her. Elliseme, the elven queen who he had loved, and who had loved him. The one who had exiled him. Ilyrana couldn't this time, though. Couldn't be passive, that is.
In the dream, she knew in some way that this would be the last time, or one of the last times, that he raped her. How many times he had done so, she had no idea. They all tended to blur together, certain times only standing out because of something especially sadistic that he did. She felt the last of her strength of will build up just enough to defy him, in whatever small way that she could. She knew he liked to pretend that she was Elliseme, so she would take that away from him this time, even though, by doing so, she couldn't try and pretend that the rape was happening to someone else, someone other than herself.
The disdain on his face didn't change as he stared at her. There was no smirk to show any sort of smugness or feeling of superiority over her. Just a never-changing look of contempt that he bore for all things.
"Get on with it," Ilyrana rasped, her voice broken from prolonged screaming.
"Godchild, I thought you had learned this lesson by now," Irenicus replied, one hand squeezing her breast harder than he would have if she had remained silent.
Ilyrana bared her teeth in a quiet snarl of fury. Her bloodshot eyes bleeding into a soft, golden glow as her divinity responded to her rage. She felt the taint of her father's blood burn through her, calling for Irenicus's death, his screams of pain, his choking last breaths. She felt this in the dream, and outside of it. Felt the seductive, destructive might of her divine heritage attempt to fuel her wrath and steel her for the slaughter. She could do nothing now, as then, but lay there and let the surge of strength and bloodlust crash through her, and around her, then begin to fade, like a wave she had stood against on the shore.
Irenicus didn't even acknowledge her fury. Why would he? She may be half-god, but here, in the underground labyrinth of his laboratory where she was imprisoned, he was her god. He stood up from the stool he had been sitting on beside her and began unbuckling his belt, his dead eyes never leaving hers. Ilyrana's heart rate sped up even faster, adrenaline pumping through her weakened body, mingling with the power of the taint, trying to give her a potent enough dose of strength to fight and escape. Her arms strained against their bonds, her thighs began to shake from the effort of closing against the straps that held them open.
Irenicus watched her futile struggle dispassionately. He couldn't feel much anymore, not after living so long without a soul. He tried to recreate the love he had shared with Elliseme through Ilyrana, and the dryads he kept captive, as well. They despised him, were disgusted by him, and he couldn't blame them even if he could care enough to be bothered to try. His body was slowly beginning to die, like a mortal's, except that it wasn't ageing so much as just decaying. He would eventually die, though, if he didn't possess a soul soon, but that wasn't as big a problem anymore, now that he had a demi-god's soul almost ripe for the taking. A few more tests and she would be ready. Until then, he would take out the lingering resentment he held for his former love on the one who looked so much like her. He could no longer feel love, affection, or pity, but hate, bitterness, and power, he could still remember vividly.
Irenicus studied the straps that held Ilyrana's legs open. They were beginning to fray. He began murmuring a spell as he untied the straps. Ilyrana stopped struggling for the briefest of moments, disbelieving that he was allowing her any kind of freedom. This was her chance. With a desperate surge of strength, she tried to close her legs, bend them back to herself, and launch a double-footed kick into his face or any other part of him she could reach. She might have succeeded, if not for the spell.
Some form of vampiric, or frost, magic surrounded Irenicus's hands like gloves. The cold was so intense that they began to smoke in the damp and humid confines of the dungeon. With a serpent's speed, he clamped those hands down on her inner thighs, digging in his fingers, and pulled her to the edge of the table.
Ilyrana's scream cracked the glass of the tank across the room. Irenicus noticed neither, as he forced himself inside her, so intent was he on feeling something, anything, even if it was only the dominion over another living thing for a brief time. Her screams would eventually die out as her throat began to tear and bleed. This would happen long before Irenicus finished with her, long before the spell faded on his hands. Before the skin on her thighs had frozen to his fingers so that every time he moved or flexed them, the skin would slough off, leaving the table coated in blood, and the muscle of her thighs exposed.
