Author's notes: This story was inspired while playing BGII for the umpth time. I could not help but wonder if Keldorn was as righteous as he appears, thinking that everyone has a skeleton in his closet.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Dreams of flying, dreams of falling.
Night after night, it burns you.
How long has it been, veteran of countless battles? How many winters have left something of their chill upon your heart? How many nights has the memory of a face kept you awake, engaged in the one battle you never wanted to win?
You toss and turn in your bed, fighting with the covers and feeling that the mattress has somehow become harder ever since your wife passed away. Ah, you did love her deeply, old knight; none could ever suggest otherwise. She shared a life with you, despite your long absences and long silences, with not one word of complain. Then there were those few precious days that still shine in your mind like warm winter mornings, smelling of warm bread and sage and cedar logs burning in the hearth. For those few memories you fought, old knight, marching against the darkness all of your days. For those, and the smile on her face. Still, your aging mind tricks you, as between dream and waking you still hear her breath beside you like a lullaby, denying the fact that she passed away years ago, holding on to the memory of her presence as a talisman against all the evil things that the night carries upon its wings.
But now that you lie alone in an empty bed, nothing can ward you against the shadows that dance on the walls around you, writhing and twirling and taking the faces of every man you have killed in battle. They whisper to you strange secrets, feeding your guilt and sorrow with their bile.
Had she known?
Had she guessed the fire that burned behind your stern face, the flames that fuelled your blood in the dark hours of the night when old sins rose to haunt you? Was this unbearable knowledge the beast that ate her heart away, little by little, until her body gave in to the blissful release of death?
You will never know. It eats you alive, as you toss in your bed night after night, in a room that stinks of sour sweat and guilt. And in every turn, as you desperately clutch your tear-stained pillow on your chest, the memories you willfully deny once more invade your mind and another battle ensues; a battle against your own darkness.
And your darkness has a face. A demon, you've called her, a creature of the deepest pits of hell, a succubus craving to feast from your body and mind. Ah, old knight, you have called her by many names; but never a woman.
It makes sense, does it not? No mortal woman could have ignited such a sinful passion in your heart, sir knight.
Right?
You were younger then, following your Order's commands to an expedition against the Corsairs that raided the North Coast. Your war party had been successful in destroying one of their hideouts. Many of them lay dead, scorched by the divine power your fellow priests had invoked. Several bandits had been captured alive and were in chains in order to be taken back to the headquarters for interrogation, trial and sentence. Wicked, despicable creatures all of them. It feels like yesterday when you absentmindedly gazed upon their lot, while your thoughts flew far away, beside your expecting wife.
It was then when your heart lost a bit.
A wretched creature she was, her dark hair and skin covered by mud and blood, most of it not her own. With her twin blades she had cut down several of your comrades before her rage was overpowered by a successful spell. And now, chained and captive, she remained unbroken. Like a caged beast, her eyes darted back and forth searching for an exposed neck, for a moment of weakness; searching for a way out.
Who could have foreseen, noble knight, the fire that those eyes would set on your soul?
She was hardly a beauty, the way the fair maidens of your homeland are. But there was a strange quality in her, in the liquid grace of her movement, in the seductive tilt of her chin. In her dark enchantment you were caught, her dark gaze leading you to pits of abysmal darkness, promising an eternity of blissful torment and agonizing pleasures. For a fleeting moment her face relaxed when your eyes met; and still your chest refused to breathe, fearing your sudden weakness at the presence of that wicked creature. You kept your face stern as she tilted her head to the side and the hint of a wanton smile curled the corners of her lips. Like a feral feline she had sensed your desire and saw in it the means of her escape. But the moment came to pass and she was dragged away leaving you yearning; leaving you falling.
A spell, you called it. A curse she cast upon you with her defiant stare and the way she wore her chains, as if nothing could truly hold her down. But a man's lust can have many names and even more excuses. This breath you still held in was released with a noiseless sigh as a newfound kind of pain claimed your body. It burned you, for in this heartbeat you had crossed the threshold of your own, secret hell.
You watched in silence as she was dragged away, still bearing the mask of righteousness on your face. Then your ears caught fragments of a conversation between two of your comrades. With a sting of jealousy you realized that others too had noticed her. Pretending to tend to your armor, you focused on the words exchanged near you.
She was rumored to be half-drow, they said, a rape-child of a human mother. Either this or her father was a demon of the Abyss who had strayed to this dimension and took his pleasure with a mortal woman. In any case, her mother had used all means in her disposal to cause a miscarriage, consuming strange brews and inhaling forbidden incenses. But the creature's wild spirit manifested while still in the womb that carried her, resisting all attempts and claiming her mother's life at birth. Her birthplace remained unknown; but it was said that even as a child she was strange, talking to people that weren't there, staring at empty spaces for hours and nodding to words only she could hear. The day she vanished, no one missed her.
Which capricious Fate brought her to your path, defender of all that is fair?
Was the journey home long, sir knight? You cannot tell, for you were in a state of delirious fever and struggling to maintain your control. In silence you spent your days in purgatory and your nights in hell, in lucid dreams of fierce couplings. Crystal laughter mocked your moans; skilled fingers teased your rough face and hands, evading your embrace. Countless times you pressed your face against the cold soil, fighting back the sinful images that flooded your mind, praying for your lost serenity.
But your prayers were unanswered. Your haunted slumber led you to dreams of flying and dreams of falling. Once more the mocking laughter teased you, inviting you to a chase among starlit clouds after an ebony mane just beyond the reach of your hands. Ah, how sweetly did the night air refresh your heart! Traces of lavender and sage left a trail for you to follow until soft hands gripped your shoulders and drew you closer.
Then all was fire.
In your body and mind the flames rose and demanded to be unleashed, reaching through the tips of your fingers, your lips and every pore of your skin. In a kiss, in a bite, in a final desperate thrust your unspoken desire found release in a dream of flying that turned suddenly into a dream of falling; falling, falling into the abyss there is no salvation from.
The humiliation still burns your face by the memory of those restless awakenings with bloodshot eyes and the shameful wetness on your loins. If any of your comrades suspected anything, this you will never know. And so you carried your burden in silence, until the long road home finally came to an end.
But your torment did not.
Returning to your family should dispel the sinful web you had been caught in; should it not, old knight? For this you prayed with the parts of your mind and soul that were left untouched by her taint. It did not. The first night you awoke gasping in your wife's arms burning by a fever that no healer could cure, a new guilt was added to your burden. No more could you look her in the eye, for fear that she would somehow see the lustful images that played beneath your stern face. Little by little you drifted apart, your wife tending to her mundane tasks while you sought the solemn solitude of your Order's Guildhouse.
Despite your penitent seclusion, words of information regarding the wild woman's fate somehow came to your knowledge. She had been taken to the prison's dungeons where the rest of her life would be spent, a plaything to the prison guards and prey to the endless night beneath the earth, until all her dark beauty vanished and she withered away to a graying, empty husk, with her spirit finally broken. She was no concern of yours, you kept repeating to yourself like a chant. But it burned you.
Do you remember the night when your steps brought you before her cell door? Somehow you convinced yourself that you were delirious, under the influence of dark enchantments. No one questioned your presence there. It was common practice for members of the Order to attempt extracting information from prisoners. If, for a few, this was merely an excuse for indulging in dark pleasures, it was a secret well confined inside the prison walls.
What did you tell yourself, noble knight? That your sole purpose was the salvation of her soul? It was your soul that was in agony as the door to her cell was opened. Somehow you managed to maintain the mask of righteousness while your knees were weak and the fire roared in your veins, making your heat and loins burn. She was lying on the bare floor, clutching her knees on her chest. She barely raised her head at the screeching sound of the door, tired of fighting back those who sought to use her. Then she saw your face and something stirred behind the shadows in her eyes; hope.
You were the prisoner then and she was your master as you stood still before her. Did you finally stepped inside her cell? You can not tell. But you still remember her liquid motion as she sat up, as if her body had not been whipped, as if the chains had not cut her skin. The fingers that brushed against your face were not stained with filth and dried blood but felt soft and fragrant, leaving a trail of fire on your skin. Every fiber of your being urged you to seize her and demand release from her dark magic, ignoring the last remnants of your sanity that told you to run away from her as fast as your feet could carry you. Unable to struggle anymore, your mind retreated to oblivion and all went black.
Did you run? Did you stay and surrender your flesh and blood at her feet? Still to this day you do not know. The first clear memory after that night was a sky heavy with rain and your face resting upon ground wet by your tears. Your muscles were sore as if you had carried a great burden on your shoulder far outside the city gates where you lay. Somehow you found the strength to gather up the remnants of your dignity and begin your way home, to the woman who would tenderly mend your wounds without any questions. In every step, the falling rain washed the mud from your hair and face and eased the stinging of the cuts on your arms. Somehow this rain washed away a part of your pain, numbing your senses and granting your mind sweet denial.
It was days before the news of her escape reached your ears.
And so were the news of her death.
If a connection was made between your visit to the prison and the cell door that was left unlocked, no accusations were ever made. You were a Knight of the Order and she was an evil creature that had denied salvation over and over again. She had not gone far, anyway. Her broken body had been found in a dark alley behind the prison walls bearing strange markings of teeth and bruises and signs of a savage rape. A madman did this, they said. A demon, invoked by dark magic to assist her escape and a summoning that took a wrong turn. But it was no demon's claws that had claimed her life. Her neck was broken and in death her features bore little resemblance to the woman that had aroused your desire. Still, her lips were curled to a sad smile that would haunt your dreams for the rest of your days.
You willed her memory out of your mind and soul, filling your heart with the warm moments with your family. In time her memory ceased to haunt your days and your sleep became easier. You had a good, full life. You had respect and honor and people who loved you. But those days have passed now, your daughters having families of their own, your beloved wife resting in her grave. In your twilight years you spend your days with tales of bravery and valor and your nights in torment, recalling old sins that refuse to be absolved. Of all the faces that haunt your sleep, of all the blood that cries on your hands, the one that hurts deeper is the yearning for the kiss you did not taste.
In dreams of flying and dreams of falling you will see her, until the night that you will fall too deep to rise again, too far in the Abyss, too far in her cursed embrace, in the pits of blissful torment.
And perhaps then, in the deeper circles of Hell, you will know peace.