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The carriage ride to the Foundry is wordless. Once they enter the building together, he turns to her and puts a hand out. “Your false icon - give it to me. I won’t have you promoting your heresies among my faithful.”
Zefira thinks of speaking reason to him. She could point out how helpless it would make her, and stop her from protecting either of them. But the look in his eyes stills her tongue, and in the bottom of her belly she feels a truth both frightening and arousing: of course he knows, and that's the point. Power is not for her, but for him. She can be his equal in wit, in works, but the Tyrant will consume her choice and take her power.
And, if she's being very honest with herself, she wants him to.
With a tremble in her hand she can't quite still, she once again draws her pendant over her head and lays the footprint of Brandobaris in Gortash's taloned hand.
“There. Much easier being an obedient pet, isn't it?” he notes, pocketing the token with a smirk. She bows her head, and he accepts her defeat, turning on his heel and leading them into the elevator.
Zefira keeps her eyes low as they walk through the depths of the Foundry, full of Banite guards and suffering Gondians. Gortash doesn't delay, leading the two of them all the way to his own workshop. Once they reach the lowest level, he dismisses her with the wave of his hand, flicked twice away from him and out at the empty warehouse of a room. He has work to do, and with her focus safe in his pocket and the exit firmly locked, there's no harm in letting her wander. Some good enrichment for a quick mind as hers.
She first turns on her heel and returns to inspect the antechamber, leaving the door open so she stays ‘in’ the same room as him. Her attention turns to the processing units, and with her hands laid against glass tubes she communes with the brains within them that direct his Steel Watch. He hears an audible gasp from her at the first, but she stills her tongue as she continues. When she comes back into the room, her eyes are wet, her cheeks rubbed dry, and she refuses to look at him.
Her feet trace paths around the wide, spacious room. Beginning from the right, she inspects everything she can see, staring with that silly head Ketheric found and sent to him, with a note some senile, doting grandfather might write, fondly passing on a toy he thought a child would like. Gortash considers, not for the first time, what role the General had in Dirge’s disappearance under Moonrise. The bhaalspawn went through Zefira's collection of notes - the priest had snatched up any written word she thought she could glean meaning from as she traveled. Kressa Bonedaughter’s journal clearly described Dirge as her undying first True Soul, but she clearly had no idea why Bhaal’s flesh refused to die beneath her autopsy tools.
It irks him, a twisted blade of irony digging into his ribcage: only the Chosen of the Eternal Tyrant understood and dedicated himself to the alliance between the Dead Three. Ketheric and Orin, like petulant children, covered their ears to his constant reminders that only together could the plot succeed. The Watch stood proof that the alliance of their masters bore rich, ripe fruit: bodies harvested by Bhaalist assassins, enriched with Myrkulite magic and illithid technology, ruled with Banite discipline and skill. They were the perfect tool of subjugation, and only possible with unity between the Three.
Fools, the lot of them, he dismisses the thoughts with, to focus on the welding of a particularly essential joining.
The enjoyment of work, of skilled creation, lets his time pass quickly. His captive steps around in silence, observing the engines and neurociter, keeping a wide berth from where he works.
He only notices the hiss of the pneumatic tube because it startles the priestling: she quick-steps back, hands up, and he stifles a chuckle.
Gortash writes instructions in his steady hand, schooling his face blank against Zefira's watchful eyes. When he sends the capsule back, she forces herself to stay still.
An hour later, a Black Gauntlet delivers a well-wrapped box and a brief update on progress. After they leave, Enver cuts the twine and unpacks the bowls and plates within. He would be perfectly fine with the dry rations he keeps down here, but, he considers, why not enjoy the company of his guest with a few indulgences? He sets a burner up with a double boiler to warm a particular item, and when he moves it out of the way, he catches a glimpse of a small shadow re-entering his orbit.
He considers his next steps as she comes closer, her movements cautious and hesitant. A guilty conscience, perhaps? She must have seen some dreadful yet necessary actions in her probing of the brains. She hadn’t broken fast, either, with his soaking wet wake-up call and short timer to leave that morning. The pangs of hunger, a universal ache, but how shameful it would be for her to have to ask him for food.
Well, he allows generously, he can help her - in his way.
Gortash speaks instructions in a casual voice that belies his confidence in her compliance. “Take your shoes off, get on the table, and kneel facing me, right here,” he tells the air around him, and taps the bare table to his left. As he adjusts the flame of the burner, he watches out of the corner of his eye as she unbuckles the smart little shoes (his gift, a rush order, the only thing the Flymms were good for) and aligns them perpendicular to the edge of the table. Then with a small jump she hefts herself up, wiggles her way onto the surface, and settles on her knees facing him where he indicated.
I still listen to you, mother dearest, a younger voice in his head hisses. No shoes on the dinner table, isn't that right?
Enver Gortash is a benevolent ruler, a truly just man. He will reward proper respect. “Open your mouth,” he commands with a softer, almost kind note that sparks silent fury in her eyes. Despite that, or because of it, she obeys, showing pretty ivory teeth and that eager tongue.
The sight almost makes him want to pass over the meal altogether - maybe he’ll grab her by the hair and force her head to the edge of the table. His bare finger traces the inside of her lips. She shivers when he touches a spot on her upper lip, a bloom of unexpected sensitivity. He could seat himself, and seat her on him, bouncing her impaled on his lap, facing him so he can claim her mouth and feel her grind and rock as she sucks on his tongue.
How very hungry he is. But, how very disciplined he must be as well.
He draws back and opens the first box. A cluster of blackberries surrounds a set of black-skinned figs. With a clean scalpel, he trims the stem off one fig and splits the fruit in half, exposing the glistening insides. He lays it in his palm cut side up, surrounded by razor-sharp talons, and holds his hand out towards her.
The sweet aroma climbs into her nose and roils her belly into an angry gurgle, but she doesn’t move forward.
“How long do you think you could wait?” he asks her.
She swallows before she speaks, her mouth full from watering. “Longer than you could hold your hand out,” she offers as a response, and belatedly adds, “Lord Chosen.”
Ever a challenge on her lips.
“The wasps that pollinate figs die within them,” Enver muses. “The plant breaks them down and they become part of the fruit.”
She ponders this, and nods in wry understanding. “Fitting, that you would feed me death within life.”
He leans in, the seeded sweet flesh within her lip's reach. “Eat,” he commands in a whisper, and she bows her head to his will. She bites into the center, sucks tiny crisp seeds and honeyed sticky flesh into her mouth, licking the fruit from the skin while he watches every movement. When she raises her head, her lips glisten, and she curves her tongue in a circle to lick it clean, meeting his gaze as she does.
Enver eats the other half of the fig as she waits. The blackberries are next. He spears five of them on his right hand talons, and holds his open hand to her again. She delicately pulls each one off, starting at his pinky, cautious to avoid cutting her mouth. Her tongue darkens with each one. When she goes for the berry on his thumb, he presses into her mouth. Her eyes open wide, and she freezes. He slides the berry off behind her teeth, and catches the inside of her cheek with the sharp edge, to give the last swallow a blood-tinged taste.
It surprises her that he holds a healing potion to her lips next, but clearly he wants control over what she tastes, so she sips it, and opens her mouth at his gesture to show the healed flesh.
Ever fastidious, he cleans his talons with a towel before moving on to the next course.
Zefira isn't sure what he holds up to her mouth. It smells lemony, with a touch of clean fishiness, and resembles a short white mushroom stem. Gortash picks up on her curiosity. “Northern blue-edge scallops,” he explains, turning the fork to show her other angles. “They use a mild acid, in this case lemon juice, to denature the protein instead of with heat.” He pulls it back and pops it in his mouth with a sly grin, then offers her the next. “I hope you're not refusing me-” He cuts himself off as she snatches the morsel off the fork, fast as a blink. “Ah. Much better.”
She chews quickly, and swallows, and tries to calm down the flush of warmth in her cheeks and the base of her neck. “How did you learn that?” she asks.
“The hosts of posh dinner parties do love to go on and on about how their dishes are prepared,” he explains casually. "I went to my fair share of those parties, climbing up the ranks here in the city.”
And trampling on those below him, she reminds herself. Her eyes flicker to the machinery he's been working on, the reason she was his ‘guest’ in the first place: Karlach's new Infernal Engine, refined and perfected to work correctly in this plane. Did he learn the little tidbit about cuisine before or after he made that deal? She looks back to Gortash, spearing bits of cubed vegetables on the fork, appearing almost domestic until he looks back up at her, and she sees the abyss leering back in those oil-dark eyes.
The void within her likes those eyes. Just another reason she shouldn't be doing this. Just keep going, she bids herself.
The rest of the meal follows a slow pattern, back and forth. She opens her mouth when he turns to her, and he curates each mouthful at his discretion.
Enver watches Zefira swallow a mouthful of rare carved rib-eye with her eyes closed and expression blissful. He sees Hope pinching her mouth shut at a butter bun, her favorite, after being starved for weeks, and the curve of his smirk deepens.
The best is left for last. Gortash picks up the glazed jar out of the double boiler with gloves. The unmistakable scent of chocolate drifts when he unclasps the lid, and she leans forward, unable to hold back. Warm spices follow to her nose, cinnamon and vanilla, and she can't stop her mouth watering, breathing in so deeply. The expense of cacao - her commoner taste buds reel at the thought.
This was going to cost her, wasn't it.
She makes the conscious effort to pull back, shakes herself a touch, swallows down the lust building in the back of her throat, and pays attention.
He pours the hot, creamy liquor into a shallow cup, and brings it close to her. “What is a taste worth to you?” he considers. “You dropped your guard for pleasure before - what is it worth now?”
“What have I to offer but simple words and platitudes?” she asks rhetorically.
Enver leans the edge close to her lips. “Tell me you love me,” he taunts her.
Her back stings in memory. Still, this is a cost she will pay. “I love you,” she says again, and feels her stomach fall out again at her weakness.
He sips first, drinking half of the small cup, and tilts the rest to her lips. The drink is perfection: sweet and rich, deep bitter notes soothed by cream, with a touch of honey and brown sugar to fill the taste out. Her eyes close briefly, then return to him, and she swallows.
He refills the cup. “Tell me you honor me,” is his next command, the steam from the beverage rising between them.
Brilliant, calculating, evil bastard of a man. She respects him despite it all, in her way. “I honor you.” Again, he shares the cup half and half with her, her taste buds trilling with delight.
Again, he fills it to the top, and holds the cup out once more, and she sees all his teeth in this smile. “Say you obey me,” he tells her, and she sees what a clever little trap he’s spun.
She glances down at the table. The hot cocoa warms her, brings a glow to her cheeks that her treacherous desire brightens. Gods, it’s so easy just to lean in and say whatever words he wanted -- like wedding vows -- and think that sometimes, words don’t have a meaning before the world and the gods.
Zefira looks up into Enver’s eyes, and slowly leans down, the prey making their way to the trap. He stills his hand and lets her approach, hunger in his oil-dark eyes. She sets her lips to the edge, then dips her tongue into the cocoa and sensuously draws a taste back into her mouth.
She closes her eyes, savoring this moment.
Then she spits the taste onto the table in front of her, and snarls “Fuck off, Banite!”
His hand moves so quickly that the first thing she perceives is the ringing in her ear. Then the acceleration catches her by the stomach, and she realizes as she’s falling off the table that he’s backhanded her. Her body reacts, rolling the impact on her hips and ass and shoulders before collapsing into a heap on the ground.
“Just couldn’t keep a civil tongue, could you?” Gortash’s voice drips condescending disappointment. He stands and takes measured steps to where she’s fallen and picks her up by the back of her shirt. “Get up. You can learn proper respect before my Lord upstairs.”
Dazed but satisfied, Zefira rises to her feet and follows the path he drags her on, back upstairs.