Heya! I'm back with another strange musing. It's fairly obvious who the
characters are, so no spoilers here!
All belongs to Black Isle and all their associated friends and people, lawyers included. None of it belongs to me! Got it?
Oooh, I need a hand choosing the quests for my SoA:A Bard's Tale, so any suggestions would be greatly appreciated! Please read and review!
Are you sitting comfortably? Then I'll begin . . .
*~*~*
The Heart's Cry
*~*~*
The wind whistled through the trees, whipping at his cloak as he stood watch over those who, once, twice now, had killed him. Coal black eyes stared into the equally gloomy darkness, expressionless, cold. His hand tightened reflexively on the hilt of his great sword.
Why had he done it? Why had he chosen to go with her? Not for the reasons he had given, surely. He knew himself well enough to recognise a truly terrible lie when he heard one, even one from his own mouth. Glory and treasure did not touch him anymore. He had died, he knew in a way no other mortal could ever know, that you cannot take glory and riches with you beyond the grave. There was no point to gathering wealth when all that you could hold close to you was your heart and mind.
He shuddered as the memory of his father's realm washed over him once again. The cries in the darkness of the unjustly murdered, the blood that covered his hands and made his blade all but impossible to hold. The faces in the dim light, faces of those he knew had died, faces of those he had killed. He was truly a Child of Murder.
There was a soft sigh beside him, and he turned, his gaze falling his companions. The eccentric ranger, the garrulous gnome, the superior druid, the downright irritating thief . . . . the pious paladin lying in peaceful repose, his arms wrapped about the slumbering form of his sister.
The silent watcher's fists clenched. What right had she to such peace? Did she not hear them each night, the voices of those who had died on her blade, the screams of the thousands who had fallen because of her tainted blood? How did she resist it?
A bitter chuckle escaped his thin lips. Of course. Gorion was the reason she had escaped it. That interfering old man who had taken the wailing babe, instead of the boy who had saved her life. He remembered so clearly, running to meet the man who had lifted the child into his arms. Seeing them disappear before his eyes, leaving him to escape on his own.
Without quite knowing why, he slipped a dagger from his belt, turning the delicately wrought blade in his hands. She had given it to him, a sign of her trust in him. Gorion's own dagger, the one he had died holding, the only memory she had of her father.
His fingers tightened on the hilt. It should have been him. He should have been the one to know the joy of a loving home, safety and security as he grew . . . that blissful ignorance of his heritage that had marked her out from so many and made her the woman she was.
He had always known, had grown up secure in the knowledge that he would bring death and destruction to the Sword Coast, that all his tainted kin would die at his hand, knowing the face of their killer as brother. There had been no ignorance, no innocence for him, but oh, how he had longed for it.
He was on his knees now, beside the sleeping form of the bard. A soft smile curved her lips, and briefly he wondered what it was she dreamed of. He knew she had the nightmares, he had been there to see her shock and terror when she woke from them, but since that wretched angel had told her of her mother, they came less often, as if knowing the truth had put her mind at rest. The dagger hovered over her throat.
One flick of the wrist, that was all it would take to end the Sword Coast's chance of redemption and rescue, to reinstate the Lord of Murder. He shook his head. Bhaal would not thank him. The God of Murder would likely take his life as payment for the years he had lived without returning his essence to the source.
But then again, it would be a fitting revenge, would it not? To destroy all hope of survival for the Bhaalspawn, even if Bhaal himself did not return? To kill she who had killed him? . . . she who had unquestioningly brought him back, prepared to take him under her wing in trust and faith?
She who had shown such courage in tracking him down after he had killed the only family she have ever known, she who had suffered so greatly at his hands, she who had wept tears for him even as her sword took his life . . . She had lived without a soul for months, suffering in silence, unwilling to share her pain, and it was all because of him. If he had not tried to take her life that fateful night, she would have died with her friends in Candlekeep or Saradush, her innocence left intact, her hands unstained with the blood of innocents. It had all been him.
He was the cause of her woes, her pain, and yet she did not blame him. She had mourned for him as a true sister would for a lost brother, regardless of the circumstances of his death. She had accepted him back willingly, almost happily, though he doubted her companions were of the same mind. She did not blame him for his actions, when she had every right to.
But then . . . what of all he had suffered? What of his upbringing as a child of the iron throne, of the innocence he had never had, the love he had never experienced? What of that? Did he not have the right to take revenge for all that she had been given that he had not?
The dagger moved closer to the soft skin, the hand trembling in anticipation of the act . . . and was plunged into the ground beside her hand. His fingers, still shaking, left the hilt with no regret. The dagger was hers; he had no right to even hold it.
He could not do it. He could not kill the one person who had shown love and compassion, and above all, understanding for his plight. She knew, as no other ever could, of the horrors he saw behind his eyes, the pain he felt each time he rejoiced in the kill. And he realised that he needed someone to understand.
His hand stroked back an errant curl from her face, fingers lingering to feel the softness of her skin. How had she remained so perfect amidst the imperfections of this world?
A smile, not altogether repulsive, appeared on his face as he stood to resume his watch. Gazing out at the darkness, he felt his heart lift for the first time in months, his gloom replaced with a sense of purpose. He would protect her with his dying breath to see this through to the bitter end. It was her place to fulfil the prophecy, and he intended to be there to see it.
He was her brother, and she, his sister, the call of the blood that raged within them dampened only by the surge of love that bound them together through all they had suffered, together and apart. They were the Children of Bhaal, and not even a dead god would force them apart this time.
All belongs to Black Isle and all their associated friends and people, lawyers included. None of it belongs to me! Got it?
Oooh, I need a hand choosing the quests for my SoA:A Bard's Tale, so any suggestions would be greatly appreciated! Please read and review!
Are you sitting comfortably? Then I'll begin . . .
*~*~*
The Heart's Cry
*~*~*
The wind whistled through the trees, whipping at his cloak as he stood watch over those who, once, twice now, had killed him. Coal black eyes stared into the equally gloomy darkness, expressionless, cold. His hand tightened reflexively on the hilt of his great sword.
Why had he done it? Why had he chosen to go with her? Not for the reasons he had given, surely. He knew himself well enough to recognise a truly terrible lie when he heard one, even one from his own mouth. Glory and treasure did not touch him anymore. He had died, he knew in a way no other mortal could ever know, that you cannot take glory and riches with you beyond the grave. There was no point to gathering wealth when all that you could hold close to you was your heart and mind.
He shuddered as the memory of his father's realm washed over him once again. The cries in the darkness of the unjustly murdered, the blood that covered his hands and made his blade all but impossible to hold. The faces in the dim light, faces of those he knew had died, faces of those he had killed. He was truly a Child of Murder.
There was a soft sigh beside him, and he turned, his gaze falling his companions. The eccentric ranger, the garrulous gnome, the superior druid, the downright irritating thief . . . . the pious paladin lying in peaceful repose, his arms wrapped about the slumbering form of his sister.
The silent watcher's fists clenched. What right had she to such peace? Did she not hear them each night, the voices of those who had died on her blade, the screams of the thousands who had fallen because of her tainted blood? How did she resist it?
A bitter chuckle escaped his thin lips. Of course. Gorion was the reason she had escaped it. That interfering old man who had taken the wailing babe, instead of the boy who had saved her life. He remembered so clearly, running to meet the man who had lifted the child into his arms. Seeing them disappear before his eyes, leaving him to escape on his own.
Without quite knowing why, he slipped a dagger from his belt, turning the delicately wrought blade in his hands. She had given it to him, a sign of her trust in him. Gorion's own dagger, the one he had died holding, the only memory she had of her father.
His fingers tightened on the hilt. It should have been him. He should have been the one to know the joy of a loving home, safety and security as he grew . . . that blissful ignorance of his heritage that had marked her out from so many and made her the woman she was.
He had always known, had grown up secure in the knowledge that he would bring death and destruction to the Sword Coast, that all his tainted kin would die at his hand, knowing the face of their killer as brother. There had been no ignorance, no innocence for him, but oh, how he had longed for it.
He was on his knees now, beside the sleeping form of the bard. A soft smile curved her lips, and briefly he wondered what it was she dreamed of. He knew she had the nightmares, he had been there to see her shock and terror when she woke from them, but since that wretched angel had told her of her mother, they came less often, as if knowing the truth had put her mind at rest. The dagger hovered over her throat.
One flick of the wrist, that was all it would take to end the Sword Coast's chance of redemption and rescue, to reinstate the Lord of Murder. He shook his head. Bhaal would not thank him. The God of Murder would likely take his life as payment for the years he had lived without returning his essence to the source.
But then again, it would be a fitting revenge, would it not? To destroy all hope of survival for the Bhaalspawn, even if Bhaal himself did not return? To kill she who had killed him? . . . she who had unquestioningly brought him back, prepared to take him under her wing in trust and faith?
She who had shown such courage in tracking him down after he had killed the only family she have ever known, she who had suffered so greatly at his hands, she who had wept tears for him even as her sword took his life . . . She had lived without a soul for months, suffering in silence, unwilling to share her pain, and it was all because of him. If he had not tried to take her life that fateful night, she would have died with her friends in Candlekeep or Saradush, her innocence left intact, her hands unstained with the blood of innocents. It had all been him.
He was the cause of her woes, her pain, and yet she did not blame him. She had mourned for him as a true sister would for a lost brother, regardless of the circumstances of his death. She had accepted him back willingly, almost happily, though he doubted her companions were of the same mind. She did not blame him for his actions, when she had every right to.
But then . . . what of all he had suffered? What of his upbringing as a child of the iron throne, of the innocence he had never had, the love he had never experienced? What of that? Did he not have the right to take revenge for all that she had been given that he had not?
The dagger moved closer to the soft skin, the hand trembling in anticipation of the act . . . and was plunged into the ground beside her hand. His fingers, still shaking, left the hilt with no regret. The dagger was hers; he had no right to even hold it.
He could not do it. He could not kill the one person who had shown love and compassion, and above all, understanding for his plight. She knew, as no other ever could, of the horrors he saw behind his eyes, the pain he felt each time he rejoiced in the kill. And he realised that he needed someone to understand.
His hand stroked back an errant curl from her face, fingers lingering to feel the softness of her skin. How had she remained so perfect amidst the imperfections of this world?
A smile, not altogether repulsive, appeared on his face as he stood to resume his watch. Gazing out at the darkness, he felt his heart lift for the first time in months, his gloom replaced with a sense of purpose. He would protect her with his dying breath to see this through to the bitter end. It was her place to fulfil the prophecy, and he intended to be there to see it.
He was her brother, and she, his sister, the call of the blood that raged within them dampened only by the surge of love that bound them together through all they had suffered, together and apart. They were the Children of Bhaal, and not even a dead god would force them apart this time.