Chapter Text
Baldur’s Gate, Heapside District – 1464: Ten years
He was here again. Crouched in the shadows, knees tucked up against his chest, hands resting atop. Wide, purple eyes glowing in the darkness, staring unblinkingly. The others didn’t see him. Or maybe they did, but treated him like the distorted faces hidden in stonework, or the grasping claws of leafless branches – without attention, they didn’t exist. But Enver saw him. Enver always saw him, and always met his eyes for but a moment, just enough to keep him in existence. Even more so than Enver, he was an outsider, a stranger among those walking in the light.
“Are you coming?” One of the others called out. The eyes in the shadow didn’t blink. For another heartbeat, Enver held their gaze. Then he let an easy grin slip over his features and turned towards the sunlit streets. “Sure!” As he followed the group towards the more populated areas, he felt a tingling sensation against his back.
-
He didn’t actually belong to them, but that was fine. Because they belonged to him now. Before, they had been like bees scrambling around without a queen, desperate for someone to tell them what to do, where to go, how to act. Now they had a king.
“You have to go for the old ones,” Silverhorn said, perched on a low wall. “Their hearts have turned to mush!”
“But what about that old crone that hit me with her cane once?” Feather was chewing on a branch – the tiefling was always chewing on something, and it was never edible.
“That’s because you don’t act pitiful enough!” Silverhorn announced. They’d given themselves their own names, as orphans were wont to. Every single one was ridiculous. Silverhorn didn’t even have horns; she was human.
“I can act better than you, last time-”
“No.”
A single word from Enver shut them up. They turned towards him, eager for his opinion. He leaned against the tree, feeling the rough bark scrape against his skin through the thin cloth of his shirt. He let them dangle a while longer, then turned to Silverhorn with a smile.
“It’s not the old ones you should focus on. It’s the ones who have children themselves. Especially mothers. When they see a poor little orphan in rags, carrying an empty bowl, they think, Oh no, what if that were my own child? If someone has a mushy heart, it’s them.”
The others exchanged glances, wide-eyed, nodding. “I’ve never even thought about that!” Fafa said, wonder clouding her voice. “How do you know?”
From experience, Enver didn’t say. None of them knew that he had parents, and they must never learn. They hated those who had what they longed for, unknowing that sometimes, not having was better. Enver’s parents had often said What if that were my child, only in their case, they pointed at well-mannered, dainty little girls, and they didn’t look at Enver with pity but accusation. Why are you so rotten?
“Because I observe,” Enver told Fafa mysteriously. In the pathetic ten years of his life, he had learned early on that lies were better than the truth more often than not.
She made a knowing Ooh, as if she understood.
“Let’s go.”
Everyone turned to Gardenia. That someone other than Enver had given an order was unheard of. Their eyes flicked to their leader, uncertain of how to handle the situation. Enver kept his own on Gardenia. She looked nervous.
“Why?” Enver asked, friendly.
The halfling murmured something, then cleared her throat and pointed at a building. “The- that dark thing is back again.”
Enver felt a prickle against his side. Almost automatically, he turned in the direction. In the small space between two buildings, barely wide enough to call it one, two purple eyes gleamed.
“It again,” Feather whispered and tugged at Enver’s sleeve. “It’s a bad omen, I heard Old Micol say.”
“An omen?” Silverhorn whispered.
“It means it brings bad luck.”
“You think it’s here for one of us?”
“Yes,” Enver murmured without having intended to. He met those bright eyes, couldn’t tear his gaze away.
Gardenia shuddered and Feather’s tugging became more insistent. “Then let’s go!”
Reluctantly, Enver let them pull him away. He knew fear, more than any of them. The fear of entering a silent room. The fear of judging eyes on him. The fear of uncertainty - would there be pain or not? Had he given them any reason to hit him? This was not fear he felt. This was curiosity. He wanted to get closer to those eyes. Somehow he knew that the danger they radiated didn’t extend to him.
-
It was dark when he returned. Not home, but to the house he was forced to live in. The orphans never slept all in the same place, each one had carved out their own little space in the world that belonged only to them. Feather had a nook in a wall, hidden behind crates and barrels. Silverhorn clambered down a dry well. Fafa even had a haystack up in an unused attic. Only Enver had nothing. The bed he slept in wasn’t his, the room it stood in didn’t spell safety. He hoped his parents were asleep already, considered staying out a while longer just to make sure…but this district was dodgy and despite Enver’s reckless bravery, he was still smart. A child alone on these streets was generally ill advised, at night even more so. Between risking a beating at home and death out here, it was a relatively easy decision.
Out of the corner of his eyes, he spotted movement. He tensed up. An omen means it brings bad luck. Laughable. One’s luck depended on one's actions, not- he flinched when there was the sound of footsteps. There was no reason to be scared. Probably just some drunk beggar. Enver turned and hurried down the street. Two more corners until he’d reach the house. He could already hear the steady hum of magic coming out of Sorcerous Sundries. He also heard the small noises behind him. The rustle of cloth. Light feet on the stone. He turned the corner and pressed his back against the wall. Let the person pass, then walk on. Easy. But suddenly, there was silence. Enver held his breath. Then, slowly, he peeked his head out to glance around the corner. The street lay there empty. He breathed out and turned back.
And yelled.
Right before him were a pair of glowing, purple eyes, so wide that they were round like the full moon. Heart hammering against his chest, hands clammy with cold sweat, Enver forced himself to appear calm. He drew on years of reigning in his emotions so they wouldn’t bother his parents.
“It’s you. You startled me.”
The eyes kept staring. They belonged to a boy. Small, scrawny, pointy ears comically large against his thin face. Grey skin, black hair. In his hands, he held something. It was oozing, a steady drip-drip-drip against the stone below. The boy reached out and Enver glanced down. Bile collected in his throat and he swallowed heavily as he stared at the bloody mess clutched in the boy’s spindly fingers.
A mushy heart.
Enver looked up. The boy jerked his hands. Asking. Enver didn’t know why he did it. It was revolting, and every single one of his instincts yelled at him not to do it. But still he reached out, cupping his hands underneath the boy’s. He dropped the destroyed heart into them. It was warm.
“Thanks. Did you listen in on us?” Enver asked. The boy nodded and turned around, vanishing in the shadows.
Immediately, Enver retched. He felt the squishy flesh soft against his palm and wanted nothing more than to drop it. But something stopped him. He had never received a gift before. A shadow had given him his first. Enver didn’t know why, or what he wanted to achieve with it, or why that dark-elf boy, amidst a city of thousands, had picked him to gift it to. He looked down at the heart, then into the shadows that had swallowed the boy. He knew instinctively that he wouldn’t have to wait long to feel the telltale shiver of glowing eyes on him again.
-
“It’s your own fault!” His mother’s voice was shrill, painful to his ears. “You deserved to get hurt! Go and wash that blood from your leg, don’t you dare come inside with those vile clothes of yours! Disgusting!”
Enver flinched, the last word slamming into him like a fist. He staggered when his mother pushed him away, his torn leg screaming pain at the sudden movement.
It was a long way to the next well, and longer still down to the beach. Enver kept his head low as he hobbled through the streets, hoping none of the orphans would see him like this. It was sure to lose him their respect. Damned dog. He hadn’t even done anything, had just wanted to pet the soft-looking fur. But it belonged to some rich woman, so when the thing had dug its teeth into Enver’s leg, it had been his fault. Instead of the dog, the Fist had driven him away, Dirty brat, don’t you dare bother upstanding citizens!
Enver gasped when his foot slipped and his leg twisted painfully. A part of him wondered if he would lose it. He’d seen people without limbs on the streets; dirty beggars crawling in the dirt, and pictured himself like that. His parents would easily abandon him. They’d probably be glad to finally have a good reason to leave him behind. And without legs, he couldn’t walk back to them. Enver felt hot tears sting in his eyes as he stumbled towards a tavern, hoping someone would give him water to clean the wounds. Maybe he’d get lucky and someone would take pity on him, though he despised having to rely on others.
Suddenly, a hand closed around his arm. Enver startled badly and whirled around.
Purple eyes, their glow dimmed. Enver realised he had never seen the boy in light. He was squinting, the corners of his mouth turned down as if the sun was insulting him. He tugged at Enver, tried to pull him over to a shaded alley. Enver followed easily. Fear, pain, and confusion drowned out all rational thought. When darkness closed around them, the grip around his arm loosened slightly and the boy’s steps slowed. He nudged Enver towards a crate and gestured for him to sit. Enver didn’t like following other’s orders, voiced or not, but he was grateful to ease the weight off his leg. The boy knelt before him and grabbed the bleeding limb, eyeing it critically. With a deep frown, he started separating the torn cloth of Enver’s pants from the bleeding wound. Enver hissed when it pulled at the open flesh, but the boy wasn’t deterred in the slightest.
“It was a dog,” Enver said to distract himself from the pain. “Some stupid mutt. I should have kicked him instead of tried to pet him.”
The boy’s hands stilled for a moment, a question posed with a single motion. Or maybe he was telling Enver to shut up, but tough luck. If he didn’t use words, Enver would force his own on him. “White, long fur, ugly blue collar. Belonged to some noble lady, so of course it has more rights than me,” he spat. The boy nodded absently as his deft fingers worked the last pieces of cloth from the wound.
“I’ll show them. I’ll show them all, and then I’ll make them regret.”
The boy slowly raised his head. He was smiling. And then, without warning or hesitation or any sign of what he was about to do, he leaned down and dragged his tongue over the wound. Enver gasped and shoved at the boy’s shoulders, but he didn’t budge. Instead, he dug his fingers into Enver’s calf to hold the leg still and started to suck the crusted blood from his leg. He’s cleaning it, Enver realised with shock. Disgusting, his mother’s voice echoed in his ears, but the boy didn’t seem to find it disgusting at all. Then again, he had gifted Enver a bloody heart once. With a final stroke of his tongue, he pulled back and regarded his work. The wound still looked angry, but it wasn’t bleeding anymore and there was no dirt left around it.
“Thanks,” Enver said hoarsely. The boy nodded.
“What’s your name?”
He didn’t expect an answer and was all the more surprised when the boy opened his mouth. A croak scraped from his throat, and Enver wondered if maybe he couldn’t talk.
“Cas-imyr.” The boy’s voice was rough, like unused machinery that had turned rusty.
“I’m Enver.”
Casimyr nodded: he knew.
“You don’t like talking?”
No.
“I do. I like it enough for two.”
Okay.
“You’re not like the other orphans. I don’t think you’re like anyone. You’re special.”
Large eyes, boring into his.
“I am, too. But you knew that, didn’t you? It’s why you came to me in the first place.”
A slow nod.
“We should stick together, don’t you think?”
The smallest of smiles. Enver returned it with a grin.
-
Two days later, he awoke to a loud scream. He scrambled out of bed and stumbled down the stairs. Whatever had happened, it was surely his fault and it was best to get everything over with quickly. If he was to receive a beating, he could at least control when. But when he arrived downstairs and saw what his mother was staring at with horror on her face, there was no trace of the dread he usually felt upon facing his parents’ wrath. Instead, a smile spread over his features. It remained there even when his cheeks were cut open by the rings on his mother’s hand. There on their doorstep lay the headless body of a white dog, blue collar resting on the bloody fur.
Baldur’s Gate, Heapside District – 1466: 12 years
Sudden noises in his bedroom had long since stopped startling Enver awake. He rubbed his eyes and slowly raised his head from the pillow when he heard a thud. Casimyr was perched on the chest at the end of his bed, elbows resting on his bent knees, eyes wide open and gleaming in the dark. Enver smiled up at him and bit down a yawn.
“Evening, Cas.”
The drow boy glanced at the window. A sliver of light at the horizon.
“Oh. Morning, I guess.” As his eyes got used to the darkness, he noticed the stains on Casimyr’s shirt.
“Did you kill someone?”
Casimyr shrugged and glanced at his hands. Enver sighed and forced himself out of bed, Underneath, he kept a small bucket with water and an old cloth. Casimyr didn’t need to be told anymore; when he saw Enver pulling it out, he jumped off the chest and sat on the bed next to him. Without hesitation, he placed his hands in Enver’s lap. The kill must have happened a while ago; the blood was dry and flakey. Enver rubbed at it with the cloth.
“Who was it?”
Casimyr took a deep breath, then held it for a while, and Enver smiled to himself. He always braced himself for talking, as if it was some grand task.
“Fishmonger. At the heapsite. For practice.”
Enver hummed. For practice. When he’d learned that Casimyr was being groomed into an assassin, a Bhaalist assassin, he’d not been as shocked as he would have expected. It merely showed just how special his friend was. He splayed Casimyr’s fingers on his leg and cleaned the blood away from in between them. Casimyr scooted closer and dropped his head on Enver’s shoulder. Somewhen last year, he’d experienced a sudden growth spurt - a drow thing, maybe? - and was now half a head taller than Enver. That didn’t stop him from behaving like he was a whole one smaller. At times like this, it was difficult to imagine him as a fearsome killer. At other times, his gleaming eyes stared at Enver with such hunger that he expected to look down and find a dagger buried in his stomach. But Casimyr had never hurt him. Twice, he had killed for him; a vendor who had refused to give him a few scraps of food and a Flaming Fist who had kicked him when he’d stumbled in front of her. Enver had thought Casimyr would demand something for it, had already thought about what he could offer, but the drow had been perfectly content with taking one of Enver’s cleaner shirts as payment. He’d raised his arm to his nose, smelled the sleeve, and smiled, nodding at Enver as if a debt had been reasonably settled. Casimyr was by far the strangest being Enver had ever encountered. His favourite, too, he thought when he heard the boy’s soft snores. What a world, in which a Bhaalist killer was the good one while humble cobblers were the blight of the city. Enver allowed himself to tip his head to the side and rest it atop his friend’s.
-
He rarely saw Casimyr during the day. Drow and the sun didn’t mix all that well. Like that, Enver’s days were something to endure while his nights were something to enjoy. He spent that dull daytime with the orphans. The same old gang minus Fafa, who had died last year. The difference was that now they knew Enver was technically not one of them. They had been angry at first, but of course Enver had cleverly timed the reveal of his not-parentless status. When they’d seen the bruises on his skin and the scars on his arms, they’d realised he was still as rejected as they were. Their respect for him had only grown.
“It’s abandoned. And underground. I doubt anyone will ever find it,” Silverhorn said. They’d been on the search for a hideout to finally become a proper gang, and Enver had made Silverhorn their scout. She knew the best hidden spots in the Gate and had promptly found them another gang’s hideout that was apparently no longer in use. “We can set up shop and finally start recruiting others!”
“I’ve already found two new members in the pits,” Feather announced proudly. He sat next to Silverhorn on the dry fountain’s edge, while Enver was perched on the neck of the dragon ornamenting it. “One of them is a half-Orc. She can be our muscle and then-” He sucked in a sharp breath and his eyes widened. Enver turned in the direction he was staring and almost slipped from the stone. Staggering towards them was a familiar figure - not for the purple-grey skin or the long, lanky limbs that moved with unexpected grace, but for the blood coating his body. People glanced at him as he passed them, but no one wanted the trouble he clearly spelled.
“En-ver,” he gasped, then slumped against the fountain. Enver was next to him in a heartbeat.
“Cas? Casimyr!” He knelt next to him and pulled the boy’s head into his lap. His breath came out in shallow bursts and he was clutching his side. Enver pried his fingers away. A stab wound. Deep.
“Fuck,” Enver cursed. He looked up. The orphans were staring at him.
“It’s the omen,” Gardenia whispered.
“We need to get him to a healer.” Enver was surprised by how firm and commanding his voice was despite the panic clawing at his chest. No one spoke for a moment. Then Feather cleared his throat.
“I know one in the pits. She’s trustworthy.”
Enver wasn’t sure how they made it to the pits. He only knew that they’d somehow gotten Casimyr on his back, that Gardenia and Silverhorn had gone to distract the Fists, and that Feather had talked to the person guarding the pit’s entrance.
Now, Casimyr was laying on a table while a tiefling woman finished dressing the wound. She’d put what looked like half a herb garden on it and now glanced at Enver, who was hovering next to his friend’s head to keep eye-contact with him. The purple iris amidst black sclera was flickering restlessly.
“It’s a good thing you came here. Your friend almost died. What happened, young one?” she asked sternly. Casimyr didn’t reply.
“He doesn’t like talking,” Enver said. “But I saw what happened. There were two men. Called him a shadowcrawler and kicked him. He tried to fight back, but- they were grown men!” He let fear drip into his voice. “They just stabbed him! Many don’t like him because, well…But he would never hurt anyone!”
Casimyr squeezed his eyes shut and coughed, but Enver recognised it for what it was - a breathy, pained laugh. He squeezed his friend’s shoulder a little harder than necessary.
The tiefling sighed. “The Gate isn’t exactly known for its love of diversity. Still, no need to test your luck. Choose your battles, young one. Young ones,” she added with a meaningful look at Enver. Oh, he would choose his battles.
She left them alone a while later to attend to another patient. When the door closed, Enver slapped Casimyr’s chest, then placed his hand on it, feeling the heartbeat underneath.
“What the fuck did you do, Casimyr?”
Casimyr exposed his teeth in what looked like a grin from someone who had only in passing heard what a grin was. “Never hurt anyone.”
Enver rolled his eyes, but relief doused his anger.
“Noble lady,” Casimyr said and prodded idly at the bandages. Enver clicked his tongue and grabbed his friend’s hand. “Dog owner.”
Enver turned still.
“Well-protected. But I got her.” He blinked up at Enver, still grinning. “Not for you. For training.”
Enver exhaled a laugh. “Good! Then I’m not in your debt. But you are in mine. I carried you through half the city, beanstalk. Basically saved your life. How will you repay me?”
Casimyr cocked his head, What do you want?
“Hm, I have to think on it.”
Okay.
“Don’t even think about skipping town. I’ll find you anywhere to collect your debt!”
“Won’t leave,” Casimyr said and in the silence Enver heard you.
“I won’t leave,” he said and left a little silence for a word as well, “either.”