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“For he who fights with monsters should see to it that he, himself, becomes a monster.”
The words still rang in Zilvra’s head long after he had woken, clammy skin sticking to his bedroll and skull pounding uncomfortably.
He had suspected, of course. One could only read so many scattered or abandoned notes on Bhaal’s “blessings”, ones that just so happened to echo his experience perfectly, before a picture started to paint itself, after all. That did not mean he hadn't wanted to hope differently. A coincidence, or an overlapping of symptoms, perhaps. He had known, even then, that it was unlikely.
But the nearly painful flood of newly resurfaced memories left no room for doubt. A bhaalspawn, the scion of the god of murder — a title he might have just re-embraced a few months ago when they had first crashed. Now, it left a feeling of resentment sitting deep in his gut. His face drew together in frustration, and he shook his head in an attempt to clear it. He didn't want to have any part in Bhaal’s games. Not anymore. And he wouldn't.
It would be necessary to face his past, he knew that. The thought of stepping foot into the temple again made his insides tighten, but if it meant being free of this affliction and keeping his companions safe, he would gladly bear it. In truth, even death would be preferable to a life lived in service to Bhaal again.
He would keep his companions safe. He would keep Astarion safe. He would face his sister, and defy his father. Whatever came after that — he’d be willing to accept it. Anything to no longer pose a threat to their group.
Pushing himself up, he tried to gather his bearings. The others were starting to stir as well, drowsily moving about their tents to get ready for the day ahead of them. He blinked hard in an attempt to get rid of the exhaustion behind his eyes — he hadn’t been trancing well, with the threat of another surge of the Urges constantly hanging over him. He gave himself another second to process, before finally fully getting up, and making his way to the washbasin near the little stream running by camp. Perhaps once his face felt clean, he would feel awake enough to share the truth with the rest of them.
He hadn’t even made it halfway there when his eye caught on the small mirror Shadowheart kept by her tent. Normally, he would have paid no attention to it at all, but the glint of something red and silver stopped him dead in his tracks. Like always, the earring he had already been wearing back on the nautiloid dangled in full view. Before today, it had been just another bauble from a life he didn't remember, something to check on occasionally after combat so he didn't lose it. But today, after last night’s revelation, it felt like a taunt. Like a branding, proclaiming his subservience to Bhaal. And even now, as he resisted it with all his might, keeping it on himself… Somehow, it felt like bending the knee. Bowing the head to his dear father.
Zilvra wasn’t one to lose his temper easily, let alone get upset at the drop of a hat. But the sight of the tiny skull dangling by his ear made red, hot anger rise up in him, stronger than he’d ever let himself feel it before. This wasn't the Urge’s doing — these were entirely his own emotions, borne from his own ideals. Rage of his own, for only himself to feel.
Shadowheart, who had been braiding her hair sleepily next to him, had stopped to watch him curiously. It must have looked strange to her, the way he stared intently at the mirror, considering he’d never been really too concerned with his appearance at all. He couldn't explain, couldn't turn his eyes away from it, the emotion gripping him so intensely. Maybe there was nothing to explain at all — merely a choice to be made.
Slowly he reached up, feeling the metal of the tiny skull and the poke of the knife against his fingers. A bitter taste settled at the back of his tongue at the touch of it against his skin. Bhaal’s chosen. His scion. His darling son. He didn't want to be any of it. He wouldn't be. With his brow furrowed slightly, he gripped the pendant tight—
And yanked.
He almost didn't register the shocked yells and gasps coming from his companions, with how caught up he was in the freeing feeling of sharp pain where his earring had dangled not even a second ago. Distantly, he felt Boaz rushing up to him, felt Shadowheart trying to meet his eyes and grabbing his wrist, but all of his attention was taken up by the now bloody silver trinket in the palm of his hand. Of course he knew that this wouldn’t get rid of his Urges, and neither would it magically cleanse the rot in his veins — but it felt significant nonetheless. He had made his choice. Bhaal would have no more power over him. No longer would his awful symbols adorn him, no longer would he be branded by him. Even the feeling of his own blood, for once, dripping down his neck felt somehow liberating.
“...isn't the Urges, is it?” Boaz’ voice snapped him back to reality, and his focus finally shifted from his palm back to his friend’s face.
“We don’t… have to tie you up again, do we?” Concern was evident in Boaz’ eyes, but his body language was tense, ready to jump in in case of another episode. Still a little caught up in the moment, Zilvra met Shadowheart’s eyes, who hadn’t let go of his wrist and was examining his earlobe with worry, and a look over both of their shoulders also revealed Astarion making his way over. His actions had apparently put the entire camp on alert. Thankfully, something about his expression must have put them at ease, because only a second later Boaz sighed in relief, and Shadowheart’s grip loosened.
“There you go. Back with us again, are you?” his friend asked gently. “Was that another… you know, another one of your episodes? Your Urges?” Zilvra spared another contemplative look at the trinket in his hand, deliberating his answer. When he finally settled on one, it was with an assurance he hadn’t truly felt in weeks.
“No," he started, looking up to meet their eyes, "It was the opposite, I think." The metal in his palm began to warm with the heat of his skin. "This was the first real choice I’ve made,” he continued, throwing a look around the camp, “And I think I have something to tell all of you.”