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It was, quite literally, a cold day in hell when the dreaded word fell from the tyrant’s lips.
They had been trudging through the deep snow for nearly two days with no sleep, and they still had all of the ice caves to get through before they would reach the building housing Mephistopheles’ vault, so Gortash had declared some rest was in order. Fin growled and called him a pathetic little human, then found a sheltered spot just within the entrance to the caves and cast Tiny Hut. Once they were both safely inside, Gortash sighed as he pulled off the outer layers of his twice-enchanted cold-resistant clothing and cast a critical eye around the space.
“I don’t suppose you’ve ever considered making this thing more hospitable,” Gortash drawled, his usual arrogant tone dampened somewhat by his clattering teeth. The interior of the portable hut was mostly utilitarian and plain, an undecorated room with a little fire pit in the middle of the floor and a couple of bedrolls beside it. The only thing that distinguished it from any other version of the spell was the heavy black fabric draped all across the walls, velvety to touch, blocking out most of the light from outside.
Fin yanked away the fabric protecting his face. “I suppose if you had it your way, this place would be filled with plush furniture and fat noblemen with fatter purses,” he spat. He pulled a scroll from his pack and shook the frost from it, then hissed the words written across it, and a fire sprang to life in the little hearth. Both men more or less collapsed beside it with a sigh.
“You cast wards?” Gortash said.
Fin rolled his eyes. “Please. What kind of amateur do you take me for? Of course I cast wards.”
“Just making sure.” The Banite smirked. His cheeks and nose were red from the cold, and the bags under his eyes were darker than usual, Fin noted with annoyance.
“Here,” Fin said, digging through his pack until he found rations. “Eat something. You’d better be at your best tomorrow, or we’re both dead.”
“And here I thought you wanted me dead,” Gortash murmured with a sly smile. Fin stopped moving to stare at his companion for a moment.
“More than anything,” Fin said lowly, his eyes going distant. “You have no idea… what a beautiful corpse you’ll make.” He raised a hand to trace Gortash’s face almost tenderly. “I can smell your blood already, feel the heat of it gushing over my hands. Your eyes, plucked like gems from your lovely skull. The way the threads of your muscle will part for me. Oh, Enver, I will tear you apart so utterly, you would not recognize yourself. Our blood will mingle on the final day-”
The fire let out a quiet pop, and Fin yanked away, suddenly aware that his face was very close to Gortash’s, and he realized abruptly that he could not remember the last few sentences that he had uttered. Gortash was staring at him, his lips twitching like he was trying not to smile, his eyes wide, his cheeks still flushed. Fin scowled and turned his body aside.
“Oh, do go on,” Gortash said, and Fin could hear the smile break through, that smug, triumphant look. “I didn’t realize you had put so much thought into this.”
Fin glared at the walls. “Still your tongue, Banite, before I rip it from your mouth.”
Gortash let out a huff of amusement. “Fine, my little murderer. If you wish it.”
And, for a while, the hut fell blissfully silent.
It was a little while later that the quiet was broken. Gortash and Fin had slid into the same bedroll, both by force of habit and for the sake of sharing heat, and so even had Fin not been as light a sleeper as he was, he would have still been startled from his trance when Gortash jolted awake after only a couple of hours of sleep. Fin watched the human’s eyes dart around sightlessly in the dark (the fire having gone out), allowed him to grasp Fin’s hand where it had been splayed across the larger man’s chest, said nothing as Gortash’s harsh, panicked breathing gradually slowed.
“Lie back down,” Fin murmured eventually, his voice gravelly from sleep.
Gortash’s eyes snapped in Fin’s direction, and he was silent for a long moment. Fin let out a sigh and conjured a dull haze of faerie fire to light the interior of the hut. Gortash winced at the sudden light, took in his surroundings, then slowly lay back down.
“Apologies,” Gortash said quietly. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“Mm.” Fin snaked an arm around Gortash and scratched at the back of his neck, running his fingers through the base of his hair. “Being back in the Hells disagreeing with you?”
Gortash scoffed. “Please. This is nothing like the House of Hope.” He settled in closer to Fin, leaning into his hand. He must have been rattled, Fin thought; he was usually a far better liar. Fin courteously pretended to believe him anyway.
“Good,” Fin muttered. “We can’t afford any hesitation.”
“Indeed.”
Still, Gortash was breathing too sharply, too on-edge. Fin dug into his skin with his nails, and Gortash winced faintly, but gave no other reaction. Fin let out a put-upon sigh, and slid on top of Gortash.
“You need a distraction,” he declared.
Gortash raised his eyebrows. “I do?”
“You do.” Fin leaned in and pressed his lips to the Banite’s, pressed close, pressed harder, bit sharply at Gortash’s tongue. “Be distracted.”
Gortash was still for a moment, then reached around to cradle the back of Fin’s head with one hand, and slid his other up Fin’s thigh. “Since you asked so nicely,” he said with a faint glimmer of amusement, and kissed him back.
This was, it turned out, a far more effective way to share heat than just sleeping side-by-side, and it wasn’t long before the two of them were sweaty and writhing, reduced to soft pants and moans muffled by each other’s lips as they rocked together.
“Enver,” Fin breathed, and bit down on Gortash’s shoulder hard enough to draw blood. Gortash whined, and scored lines down Fin’s back as he neared release.
“Does it entice you, Bhaalspawn,” Gortash panted, “having me like this? Having my life in your hands, and not taking it?”
“I have your life already,” Fin said sharply, “because I have your death. Your death is mine. You will die when I decree it, not a moment before- your heart will beat its last for me- you are mine.”
“Beautiful,” Gortash breathed, “you precious madman. My favorite monster.”
Fin growled, and kissed him.
It was after, when they were lying tangled up in one another, spent and on the cusp of sleep, as relaxed as either of them were ever allowed to be, that Gortash used that awful, poisonous word.
“What do you think,” Gortash murmured into Fin’s hair, “of love?”
Fin twitched in his arms, immediately jolted from his afterglow. “Love? What kind of nonsense are you talking now?”
Gortash’s arms around him suddenly felt less like assurance and more like bonds. “I’m only curious,” the tyrant said, his voice carefully light. “What does a creature like you think of such a soft notion? Are you capable of such a feeling?”
Fin snorted. “There is nothing soft about love. Need you really ask if I am capable? I love my father.”
“Of course,” Gortash demurred. “Yes, I didn’t doubt that. But your father is a god. What of mortal love?”
Fin scoffed. “Mortality is a death sentence, one I will carry out with my own hand. Mortal love is a fool’s errand. And I am no fool.”
“Indeed, you are not.” Gortash’s broad hand stroked Fin’s upper arm, unbearably gentle. “Then you have never loved a mortal?”
“I did not say that.” Fin grimaced as the denial sprang from his mouth. He should not speak of it. Father would not approve. (But, a horrible little voice whispered at the back of his mind, Father was not here. His voice had been distant ever since he had come to the Infernal Plane. For the first time in decades, Father was not listening. Probably. Probably. Was it worth the risk, to speak of things Father did not like? No, it was not, it was never worth the risk, Gortash had no idea what it was like-) Fin gripped Gortash’s wrist, pulling the tyrant’s embrace tighter. “I loved my sister,” he whispered. Sweet little Orin, so small, so fragile, the way she had screamed when she was taken from his care as a little girl, her seething terror that had soured to hatred on her return. “And I loved my parents. And friends, once.”
Gortash stilled. If Fin didn’t know better, he would think the tyrant was surprised.
“I thought that Bhaal was your only parent,” Gortash said at last.
“He is,” Fin said immediately. Then, after a pause: “But he was not always.”
“Hm.” Gortash’s voice was low, and Fin could almost hear the cogs turning in his head. “You were not raised in the temple?”
Fin’s lips twitched in a wry smile. “Father wished me to have a variety of talents. To be able to… mingle.”
“…Indeed. Unlike… others in your family.”
Fin hummed an affirmative. Gortash tapped his hand thoughtfully.
“So, what made you stop loving them? Is that a side effect of Bhaal’s embrace?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Fin snorted. “No. I killed them.”
“Hm. I suppose that was a predictable outcome.”
Fin sneered. “If I had known-” He cut himself off sharply and shook his head.
Gortash’s grip was not tight, but it was unyielding. “If you had known?” he prompted.
I could have protected them, he had almost said. A stupid thing to say. They would have all died at his hand anyway, eventually, one way or another.
“Nothing,” he said harshly. “Go to sleep, Enver, and leave me be.”
“…Quite.” Gortash pulled away just enough that Fin was no longer constrained. “Good night, little assassin.”
“Pray I let you live to see morning,” Fin muttered, more from habit than anything else.
What a ridiculous conversation. Tomorrow, they would steal the Crown of Karsus, and the world would be in their hands, and the streets of every city would run sweet with blood. Tomorrow, the pieces of their plot would finally begin to fall into place. The world would finally begin to die. (And then, finally, finally, Fin could, too.)
Nothing was going to get in their way, least of all love. Love was a fool’s game. And Fin was no fool.