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It was beautiful.
She was holding a piece of godflesh in her hands, cradling it delicately—like one might hold a bird with broken wings. A holy fragment of her Father. A sacrilege of flesh, tainted by the corruption of the unholy.
Sullied by her own doing.
Was it her punishment? Or had she only sinned now, by defying Father’s will? But how could she not? She had to end it. It was neither the time nor place. It wasn’t her purpose.
Yet Father held it above her—a warning of what failure could bring.
Despite the divinity in her blood and flesh, she was reminded—she could be just a womb, after all. The thick red blood coating her body—hands, stomach, thighs—said as much. It ran down her legs, over the edge of the altar, into a dark red puddle on the stone floor below.
The iron scent in the air aggravated her senses, mingling with cold stone and old blood soaked deep into the altar’s pores.
Could it be enough to end her? Did she lose enough?
It had happened. Even though she was certain it could not. Her bleeding stopped; her stomach swelled, filling her with a dread she’d never felt before.
She was not a mere mortal. She was born of divine rot and holy murder. She was a daughter of Bhaal. So why did He treat her body—His body—like any other mortal vessel?
How could it happen? How?
Father was silent. If what she had done was against His will, why didn’t He warn her? Why didn’t He give her a sign to correct her ways? Nothing could happen against His wishes.
And yet.
All the times she let herself be touched. When she took and was taken. It must have been wrong then. She must have erred.
Father was silent. And the silence stretched inside her like an endless void devoid of His grace.
She filled it only with her cries—a primal scream that shattered her whole being.
She fell to her knees, elbows to the floor, the godflesh still secured in her hands. It called to her. It repulsed her.
But still called.
Called, called, called—
She had to taste it—to feel the blood on her tongue, the rich tang of sacred iron.
She brought it to her lips, slow and careful. Her tongue darted out, tasting the drops on her flesh.
It felt divine.
It felt blasphemous.
It was an echo of the ecstasy His blessing once brought.
Then she bit in.
She heard the faint echo of steps, coming closer, the door creaking on its hinges. She rose to her knees, turning slowly.
A man. That man. The apparent cause of her fall from grace. Or the unknowing vessel of her Father’s will—she could not tell yet.
Dark eyes meeting her own, wide in swiftly suppressed shock. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
Gortash took one look at the carnage, reaching her side in a few quick strides.
“What is this?” His voice was rough, sounding brusque against the emptiness surrounding her. She tilted her head, humming softly as if in thought.
“I did it,” she said, absent and flat.
“Did what? Why here?” There was urgency in his words.
The lakes of blood at her feet, spreading slowly on the cold dark stones, staining the altar of another god. The blood leaving her body—His body—a punishment or a sign.
Her head snapped, eyes suddenly sharp, as if a predator awakening. “Ended it. Before it could begin.”
He fell silent, just for a moment, lips pressed into a thin line and calculating eyes.
“Why here?” he repeated.
“Anywhere else Father would be watching,” her words came with growing haste. She pressed her fingers to the black stone of the altar. Cold. Like everything here. Like her body now.
“You think just because your god fathered you, you can defile mine’s altar? It’s heresy.” The words were harsh, steel underneath. Gortash looked at her as if he was something foul. She felt a strange relief in it. It was high time for him to see.
“My Father’s blood in exchange for your god’s fleeting protection.” She turned back towards the dark empty throne looming at the far end of the room. The heavy stickiness of blood lingered on her skin as she let it slowly drop from her raised hand.
“And your blood.” She added like an afterthought, opening her closed fist to let him see.
A piece of godflesh. Partially devoured. Not yet-human, but even to him it was clear what it was.
He covered his mouth, as if to stop himself from gagging. All the blood she spilled, the slaughter he witnessed, and this was excessive?
She laughed.
Laughed, laughed, laughed.
A smile too wide, too many teeth shown. She felt the shiver it caused him. She laughed again, the sound like a song of madness in the emptiness of the temple. She slowly came down, breath calming, knees shifting to come closer to him.
“It’s ours. Don’t you want to partake?” Her words were quiet, like a whisper of morning winter air.
“You are disgusting,” he snarled.
She smiled once more. “You realize it only now. How fitting.”
He took a deep breath, a calm collected mask coming up once more. When he spoke again, his words were harsh. Judgemental.
“Why did you let it happen?”
“You mean why did I allow you to touch me?” She held his gaze, steady in her resolve.
“No. Why didn’t you take precautions?” He was firm, looking down at her, kneeling in the still-growing puddle of blood.
“Precautions?” She blinked, not understanding. “What precautions? It is only Father’s will that decides that.”
“Are you insane?” A breath huffed. A hand came up to rub his face. “You surely know what I mean. Herbs. Ointments. Potions. To not let this…” He gestured to the blood on and around her, “happen.”
She blinked, lips parting. He gradually came to understand, eyes softening, wide, a bewildered expression on his face. “You truly didn’t know.”
“It never happened before. It cannot if He does not wish…” she trailed off, her body trembling. Maybe from blood loss, maybe from something else. A hand hovered above her shoulder, then reluctantly came down.
“That’s why you disappeared for so long.” Not a question, a statement. His hand rubbed slow circles into her weakened flesh.
It was grounding. It was nice.
She wanted to bite it off.
He kneeled beside her, blood staining the fine fabric of his clothes, and despite how his god might disapprove of their presence here. He cupped her face as she tried to look away. He was searching—for what, she did not know.
“Don’t tell me you don’t know how children are made.” She felt as if he was mocking her, his voice on the verge of it, despite how gentle his touch felt. She snarled, baring her teeth.
“You mean mortals. I know everything of mortals. Of their foul squelching bodies.” An ugly grimace twisted her features. “How dare you apply the same to me. I am His blood. His flesh and will.”
Suddenly, he grabbed her wrist, dragging her hand still holding the godflesh between their faces. It hurt. She didn’t flinch.
“Then what is this, then?” the words were ruthless, plucking a cord in her she didn’t know there was. “His will reduced to a shred of meat?”
She drew her brows together, face set in deep discontent, but remained silent.
“So proud a godling stands but cannot face the consequences of her own recklessness. Any low-born woman knows more than you. Knows how to prevent it. Before it comes to this.” His fingers tightened on her wrist, surely leaving bruises. “How many times have you lain with me? Didn’t even cross your mind that you might conceive?”
“My body is His body and will do only as He wishes.” She said it like a prayer. Like a credo carved deep, to never be forgotten.
He laughed, a harsh ugly sound echoing from the empty walls. Echoing in the void inside her.
“You know how to boost a man’s ego. Impregnating a god. That’s rich,” he said, sardonically. Then he paused. “Do you think Bhaal would wish to have his next bloodkin come from the seed of Bane’s follower? Belong, in part, to his sworn enemy?”
She didn’t want to think of an answer. She knew it already.
She snapped, her free hand curling around his throat like a snake ready to kill. “How dare you-”
Her breath was coming out ragged, eyes flashing with fury that was not there a second ago. How she wished to tighten her fingers, to see him grow red, purple and finally, the colour wash down from his face. But he didn’t flinch. Didn’t try to push her away. Just lifted his chin, letting her get a better grasp.
“Do what you want,” he whispered. Unyielding despite their position. “But you know I speak the truth.”
She dropped her hand, as if scalded by fire. His eyes didn’t leave hers, another layer of fire burning her. She hissed, like a feral cat, when he took her hand, once again gentle.
“Tell me what you did.”
She slowly raised her hand, fingers uncurling. The godflesh—or maybe just mangled not-yet-human flesh. Clots of blood. Veins. Still-soft cartilage.
She pressed it gently against his lips.
“Body of god. You wanted to taste the divine.”
He swallowed.
A horror of their own making disguised as sacrament. Taken willingly from her hands.