Hold Monster - Anonymous - Baldur's Gate (Video Games) [Archive of Our Own] (2024)

As he regains consciousness, Gortash's first thought is that everything hurts.

"...And you're sure that's him?"

His head throbs, his joints ache, and his mouth is uncomfortably dry. When he tries to stretch, he finds that his arms won't move; they're tied behind his back, around the wooden pole he's propped up against.

"Who else could it be? There ain't a whole lotta of Enver Gortashes in town."

Even with a splitting headache, it doesn't take Gortash long to understand what's going on.

It isn't his first time being kidnapped, somehow. The path he walks is filled with more than a few enemies, after all. Granted, the last time had been intentional; why search for your rivals' base of operations when you can simply let them escort you there? Gortash had pretended not to know about an ambush of theirs, and let himself be captured. Certain of their victory, his rivals had let their guards down — and, really, who would expect a Bhaalspawn with an invisibility spell hiding in their midst?

If only the same could be said for his current predicament.

At least the ropework is rather sloppy; given a bit of time away from prying eyes, he could surely free his hands. For now, though...

"Ah, our honoured guest is awake. Have a nice nap?"

He'll have to postpone his escape.

Putting on a calm expression, Gortash looks up at the person addressing him. A muscular woman, with fair skin and startlingly red hair, looks back. She appears to be a half-elf; drow parentage, judging by the amethyst hue of her eyes. She towers above him where he sits — probably would even if they were standing side by side. No matter; Gortash isn't one to be intimidated so easily.

"The accommodations leave something to be desired, but I've had worse," he says; the dryness of his mouth makes it an uncomfortable experience.

"Not enjoying your one-poster bed?" the half-elf laughs. "Can't imagine a dandy like you sleeping anywhere worse. What, was the thread count of your sheets too low once?"

Thoughts of rat-chewed mattresses and hard cell floors run through his mind.

"Something like that." He laughs along with her. If she notices the underlying bitterness in his tone, she doesn't show it. "May I ask just why I find myself in your esteemed company?"

"Someone wants you, they're willing to pay for you, I want to get paid." She shrugs. "I'm sure you know how it goes."

Common mercenaries, then. People with little knowledge of him and his skillset. That makes them all the easier to deal with; not to mention this chatty guard, willing to give up information without a second thought.

"I doubt your employer has kept you completely in the dark about my trade." Gold, power, weapons, drugs — everyone wants something, especially mercs like these. Loyalty can be bought, and Gortash is a wealthy man.

"I have more connections than you know; whatever you've been promised, I'm certain I can provide it — and more."

The half-elf just laughs.

"Nice try, but unless you've got power to rival a devil's, I'm not interested."

Whatever argument Gortash had planned dies on his tongue. He's had more run-ins with the diabolical than the average person, so it's not completely outside the realm of possibility, but...

"A devil? That's new," he lies, feigning nonchalance. "Mind if I ask just which fiend is so eager to meet me?"

He finds himself hoping he's managed to piss off some other devil, somehow. Doesn't matter if it's an orthon or a succubus or a f*cking archdevil, as long as it's not-

"Raphael," she says, as if it's no big deal. As if Gortash didn't go through years of literal hell at the hands of that fiend. "Posh fella, ugly outfit. Pisses me off, but business is business."

And suddenly, he's that young boy again, sold to a devil by his wretched parents. Crying and pleading as he was hit, bruises marring every inch of his face. Over and over and over again, until he learned to stifle his sobs and just take it.

"And... and what does this Raphael want with me?" His voice wavers, and Gortash hates himself for it. But he wants to know. He needs to know. And he really, really doesn't want to know.

The half-elf shrugs again. "No idea. You'll have to ask the devil yourself."

Neither of them try to continue the conversation, but she seems more... careful with him, after that. For once, Gortash is genuinely afraid — and it's so obvious that even a complete stranger can tell.

Pathetic. Such weakness is unbecoming of Bane's Chosen; he should be thinking, talking, calculating the best way to escape — yet he sits there, frozen in fear from just the thought of his past.

Here, there's no Bane and no Gortash. There's only young Enver Flymm, with the taste of blood and sulphur on his tongue. Alone. Abandoned, again.

But, before he sinks too deep into his panic-

-someone screams.

Everyone's heads snap to the source of the sound; one of the mercenaries, staring in shock at the bolt sticking out of his ally's neck. Before he can act, a white blur descends upon him, shoving a shortsword through his chest. The attacker looks up, glowing red eyes taking in their surroundings.

Relief floods Gortash at the sight of Durge — his dear assassin, his ally, his partner.

Even in these circ*mstances, it's a joy to watch Durge fight — at least for Gortash, who isn't on the receiving end of his blade. Despite Durge's utilitarian approach to killing, there's an undeniable beauty to his movements — like a dance of death, a performance only Gortash will live to remember.

An arrow narrowly misses Durge; he catches sight of the shooter, perched on the second floor — loading up their crossbow again, believing they're safe, untouchable. With one word, a bolt of crackling blue energy bursts from Durge's fingertips, engulfing the unwitting merc. Their corpse continues twitching even after the spell fades.

Gortash snaps out of his captivation; a much as he'd like to continue watching, escape is still his main priority. While the mercenaries are distracted, he begins to fiddle with the rope around his wrists. It's laughably easy — they probably believed constant surveillance would be enough to discourage him.

With his efforts, the rope loosens. It's almost enough to free his wrists — just a bit more and-

A kick to Gortash's side interrupts his escape attempt. He can't breathe, momentarily — air knocked from his lungs with the heavy impact.

"Don't try anything!" The half-elf guard, now in a considerably worse mood, yells; beneath the anger in her voice, she's understandably panicked.

Gortash coughs painfully as he tries to catch his breath, eyes drifting to the ongoing fight once more. Despite being significantly outnumbered, Durge is holding out. There's a lull in the fight, and their eyes meet; Durge's frenzied gaze taking in his wheezing form.

Something changes in his eyes, then, and- he starts to glow.

No, that's not quite right — the floor beneath him glows, a ring of arcane sigils bathing his white scales in crimson light. An unnatural fog surrounds him, but Gortash can still see the blood — flowing from seemingly nowhere and coating Durge's body completely.

Then, his form — dark and slick and red — begins to change. It twists and bends and grows, and Gortash swears he can hear bones cracking, flesh tearing, blood squelching. A flash of scarlet illuminates the room, blinding in its intensity; as it fades, those who remain take in the sight before them.

Durge has told him about the Slayer, of course. Violence incarnate, sculpted by the bloody hand of Bhaal himself, gifted to his most 'beloved' children. Designed to kill and maim and massacre, all in the name of the Dread Lord. A monstrous gift that Durge himself possesses.

But Gortash has never seen it. According to Durge, the Slayer relies on instinct more than anything else; while he normally has excellent control over his urges, his Slayer form makes them very difficult to contain.

He's no animal, of course, still keeping some sense of self, but his impulses overpower his logic more often than not. And if that impulse is suddenly to kill the Chosen of Bane? Well... For the sake of their alliance, they'd both agreed that Durge should keep the Slayer far away from Gortash.

It isn't far away now.

The vague descriptions Gortash has heard are nothing compared to the real thing. It towers over everyone in the room; almost twice as tall as any one of them, even hunched over. Spikes cover its leathery copper skin, sharp and lethal. Even sharper are the long claws on each of its hands — and there are four of them now.

It opens its mouth — are those multiple jaws? — and lets out an ear-piercing howl. The sound spurs one of the braver mercenaries into action, charging at the Slayer with a battleaxe. Durge barely looks at them; the moment the unfortunate human is within range, a clawed hand swipes at them.

They barely have time to scream. From where he's sitting, Gortash can't see much of the actual damage — but he can see the splatter of blood, and the torn flesh stuck to the Slayer's claws. The battleaxe falls to the floor with a clang, followed by a wet thud as its owner lands next to it. Blood pools beneath the corpse.

From there on, the fight is a blur — if it can even be called a fight, as one-sided as the massacre is.

Gortash watches in awe as Durge tears his way through the group. Every part of his form is built to kill — the sharp claws to part flesh with ease, spilling blood and guts across the floor; the glistening fangs lining multiple sets of jaws, to consume whatever body part gets between them; even the tail trailing behind him, whacking some poor soul's skull with enough force to emit an audible crack.

It's terrifying. It's monstrous.

It's beautiful.

Gortash's admiration is interrupted by a dagger against his throat. The half-elf guard has collected her bearings, at least somewhat; her hand still trembles, ever so slightly, as it holds the weapon — even more so as Durge begins to approach. It's only the three of them left, Gortash realises belatedly.

"Stay back, or I'll slit his f*cking throat, I swear!" she yells, loud and aggressive, but Gortash has a keen eye — or ear — for weakness; the waver in her voice doesn't escape his notice. To the surprise of both him and the guard, Durge actually stops, letting out a deep, threatening growl as he stares at them.

In spite of the blade at his throat, Gortash is more relaxed than he has otherwise been throughout this entire kidnapping ordeal. He's not in any real danger; his life is the only thing keeping this mercenary from a particularly brutal death.

Well, too bad for her.

Before the mercenary can react, he grabs and twists her wrist with an unrestrained hand — courtesy of the earlier distractions, which let him slip free from his bindings. Her already weak grip on the dagger loosens, allowing him to grab it without issue and turn it towards her as he jump to his feet. She doesn't even try to attack him, frozen in fear.

For a moment, he considers going on in for the kill — but the choice is taken from him, as Durge positions his monstrous form between them. The mercenary can only stare in abject terror as Durge slowly approaches her, letting out a low growl.

"No, wait!" the she cries out in panic. "I'm sorry, you can have him, p-please don't-"

She screams as Durge lunges forward, a horrifying sound — cut off by a wet, choked noise as a curved horn pierces her abdomen. Her expression is one of shock, or perhaps disbelief; unable to comprehend her own death, even as it happens.

Durge raises his head — and the mercenary along with it, suspended only by the horn goring her. Blood gushes out of her mouth with a disgusting gurgle, and her body spasms, once, twice — before finally going limp.

She slides off the horn as Durge lowers his head again, her intestines snagging on keratinous barbs; they remain hooked even as the rest of her falls to the ground. A clawed hand plucks away the pink entrails, carelessly discarding them. They land beside the half-elf's body with a soft splat.

Durge's form heaves and twitches in the aftermath of the slaughter, blood still dripping from his claws. After the chaos of the past few minutes, the silence is almost jarring.

Slowly, the Slayer turns its head towards Gortash. Despite the shadowy ambiguousness of its eyes, he can tell that its attention focused solely on him.

Then, it begins to approach.

Any relief Gortash may have felt dissolves in an instant. Durge just slaughtered a dozen people; can he even tell friend from foe, this deep in his savage compulsions? Gortash might as well be just another target to take out.

He takes a step back, keeping his eyes on the monstrosity — like he's trying to placate a wild beast, knowing it'll pounce if he turns his back on it. Another step, and another, and–

His back collides with the wall.

A voice in Gortash's mind screams at him to run, fight, do something — but he stays still, frozen in place as the Slayer nears him. Deep down, he knows there's nothing he can do anyway; even if he tried to flee, it would catch him within seconds.

The creature is even more terrifying up close. Gortash has to tilt his head back to look at its face; reddish drool drips from its grotesque maw as it pants, emitting low growls with each breath. The stench of blood permeates the air around them.

"Durge, you don't want to do this." He keeps his voice steady, calm, reasonable — but the words sound pathetic, even to himself. "We- our gods have an alliance, remember? Breaking it will be detrimental to your goals."

He's no better than the half-elf, begging for her life. The dull eyes of her corpse mock him with their unblinking stare.

Gortash's plea goes ignored; two large hands reach for him, wrapping around his abdomen. He yelps as claws dig into his back — shallower than expected, but painful nonetheless. Before he has time to struggle, the Slayer pulls him forward and up; the toes of his boots are still on the ground, but barely.

Leathery skin nearly smothers Gortash as his face is pressed against the Slayer's chest. With some effort, he manages to turn his head to the side — allowing him to breathe, despite the constriction of his lungs. At least his imminent death won't be via asphyxiation.

In a last-ditch effort to free himself, Gortash places his hands on the Slayer's chest and pushes as hard as he can. It accomplishes absolutely nothing. The creature barely even reacts — its grip tightens ever so slightly, keeping him firmly in place. Gortash is well and truly stuck, left to his inevitable demise.

And then, the Slayer does... nothing.

Seconds — or perhaps minutes — pass, while they just... stand there, motionless except for their breathing. The grasp has loosened some, but it's just as inescapable as before.

Gortash can't help but notice that there is a distinct lack of murder happening.

Fight-or-flight response no longer clouding his thoughts, Gortash takes a moment to reassess the situation. He was kidnapped, Durge showed up, a mercenary kicked Gortash, Durge took on his Slayer form to slaughter everyone, and...

Is Durge... hugging him?

A hysterical laugh bubbles up his throat at the idea; but the more he thinks about it, the less ridiculous it seems. The Bhaalspawn has always had a possessive streak, and his transformation happened right after someone harmed Gortash; not to mention the unnecessarily gruesome death reserved just for the one responsible.

He takes a deep breath and tries to relax against the hold. It's surprisingly comfortable, when he doesn't think he's about to die.

Unlike the rest of his body, Durge's underbelly is smooth and spike-free; despite the hard muscle that lies beneath, the surface is surprisingly soft against Gortash's cheek. It's warm, too — much warmer than the dragonborn's usual body temperature, though some of that may be caused by the exertion of the fight. With his ear pressed against Durge's chest, he can hear the deep, heavy thumping of his heart; how large it must be, to pump blood through such a massive body.

Gortash's hands, still resting against Durge's body, take to rubbing soothing circles into the smooth skin. It feels a bit foolish; like petting a dragon, able to kill you in a single strike, unsure if he can even feel it.

"It's all right, I'm unharmed," Gortash tries, keeping his voice low and careful; there's no guarantee Durge can understand him, but maybe his tone can convey the meaning of his words. "Thank you. For... rescuing me."

A low rumbling sound rises from Durge's chest. For a moment, Gortash thinks he might have screwed up, somehow; but the sound only continues, deep and monotone, vibrating Durge's body and Gortash's along with it.

Gortash stifles a laugh as he realises that Durge is purring. It sounds more like an engine than a cat, but it's soothing nonetheless. Despite... well, everything, Gortash finds himself leaning into the unconventional hug.

Really, the affection shouldn't come as a surprise. Durge is certainly a physical person, though their intimacy is usually less wholesome than this — not that Gortash minds. Still, he isn't oblivious to the dragonborn's other behaviours; the way he'll stand just a bit too close to Gortash, like an overprotective hound; the possessive grip on his shoulder or waist in the presence of others; the gentle caresses and kisses against his skin, when Durge thinks he's asleep.

It's sweet, knowing that even in this form — as this monstrosity, driven by its hunger for blood — his first instinct is to protect and even comfort Gortash.

He should be terrified, held in the blood-drenched arms of this monstrous creature — but he's not. Each mangled body littering the ground is proof of Durge's devotion to him, his admiration, his love — or as close to it as a Bhaalspawn can get, anyway.

Gortash knows he has important things to do; meetings he missed while he was out, time-sensitive correspondence, deals to make...

...but maybe it's fine to stay like this, just for a little while.