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Chapter Text

The night closes itself around him. The ceiling is low, the air acrid with a potent mix of sour ale and tallow smoke. Bodies press on him, hot and heavy, even as he slips between them. He wends his way to a seat at the bar, neatly cutting off a scowling woman, diffusing her glare with a dazzling smile. 

“Do excuse me, darling,” says Astarion. There’s a trick to it, to making the edges of one’s eyes crinkle just so, to ensuring the smile doesn’t stop at the mouth. He likely doesn’t need to put in this much effort for her – her eyes are dull, her expression flat – she’s not buying what he’s selling. At least, not enough to buy him a drink. 

But she doesn’t throw a punch, so he’ll take it. In a place like this, refraining from violence is far from a guarantee. Besides, he is told his bruises have only just healed from the latest round of blows. No need to go courting yet another black eye. 

As she stomps off into the swarm of patrons, Astarion turns his attentions to the human sitting beside him at the bar. He’s a scrawny sort with a curiously mouse-like face. Astarion rather wonders if he ran afoul of a wizard. But it isn’t about looks. It’s about the fact that this man has been staring at him from the moment Astarion entered the bar.

And no wonder. Even in patched and mended clothes, Astarion glimmers like witchlight in a place like this. He smells of fragrances that these people couldn’t even name and moves languidly, as though he has all the time in the world. He isn’t merely coming here to get drunk and forget his squalid little life. He has another purpose altogether.

Astarion tilts his chin upward, pushes his shoulders back. His posture is wide open. An invitation.

“Well, hello,” he says. He lingers on the second word. 

From this angle, he spots that the mouse-faced man is holding a worn leather satchel. He’s got it in one arm, pushed against his chest. Valuables, maybe – but why bring them here? Regardless, if Astarion were after coin, it’d be laughably easy to lift them, with this man’s entire focus riveted onto his face. His expression is as good as a mirror.

“H-hey.”

Astarion turns his smile up. 

“It’s good to see a friendly face,” he says. Friendly is the crux of it. He drops his voice, slow and low, so that the word becomes not a boundary, but an invitation to cross one. 

He sees it happen in the mouse-faced man’s eyes: a fish, nibbling at a hook.

“Is that so?” The accent is foreign; Astarion can’t place it. Athkatla? Amn? Something beginning with A. Not that it matters. “What brings a pretty thing like you to a place like this?”

Astarion chuckles. “Oh, you flatter me.” He leans in. “What can I call you?”

“Marus.”

He speaks his name like a salacious secret. “A pleasure to meet you, Marus. My name’s Astarion.”

“Astarion,” says Marus, tasting it. “You one of them moon elves?”

“A man of the world!” Astarion lifts a nonchalant hand. The curve of the wrist is just so. “Allow me to buy you a drink.” His purse bulges. He catches the greedy glint in Marus’ eyes as he fishes out a gold piece and places it on the bar. “What will you have?”

This place hardly serves Esmeltar Red, but their moonshine is cheap and plentiful. Astarion orders a cup for himself, brings it to his lips, sets it down, turns it about on the bar. Marus downs his like he’s searching for courage at the bottom. 

Astarion tilts his head up again. He bares his throat. 

“My dear, what do you say we get to know one another a bit better?”

Not half an hour later, Astarion is walking Marus out into the darkness. The tavern sits at the end of a narrow alley; at the opening, the carriage waits, with a coachman who makes eye contact with neither of them. Marus’ eyes, already wide-pupilled, go round as he sees the glint of golden gilt on the door. Astarion opens it for him, bows, and steps to one side. His eyes follow Marus as he climbs inside. 

“Never been in one of these before,” says Marus, breathless. 

Astarion gives him a wicked look. “First time, eh? Let’s make it a memorable one.”

Marus nods as the carriage starts to move. He lets his satchel drop to one side, left forgotten on the cushion. He reaches for Astarion’s knee, though his fingers clearly want to keep moving higher. 

Astarion smiles, and smiles, and smiles. 

The imposing front entrance. Astarion, gesturing grandly at all of it, the silk curtains and jade vases. The opulence and luxury all around him. 

“This is all yours?” breathes Marus in awe.

“No, darling,” Astarion says, “you’re all mine.” 

It takes some skill to make it as far as the downstairs bedroom.

Astarion counts the threads in the sheets. He studies the folds of the pillowcases. A clock chimes out in the hallway. The footfalls on the stair are more real to him than Marus’ hands, or his skin, or his breath. The door opens silently, and Marus doesn’t notice. There are no lights in the hallway and Marus is only human, so Astarion doubts he could have seen the figure in the doorway, even if he had turned to look, even if he wasn’t preoccupied with the sound of Astarion’s name.

The shadow at the door takes his time. He, alone of all of them, is in no hurry at all.

After, Astarion waits, as always, at the foot of the bed. He bows his head. He sits, unmoving, and feels as dead as ever he has.

Cazador returns in the fullness of time, reeking of blood. He never bothers to clean himself up on these nights, preferring to watch Astarion squirm. Which he does, every time. 

“Adequate,” says Cazador at last. Internally, Astarion slumps with relief, despite the aching in his teeth. “What is that?”

Cazador is gesturing to Marus’ grubby bag, which was thrown to one side of the bed. It stands out in this spotless, polished room. 

“I don’t know, Master.”

“Get dressed and find out, boy. Leave any valuables with Dufay and dispose of the rest. You may return to the dormitory when you have finished.”

“Yes, Master.”

And Cazador is gone.

Astarion dumps the contents of the bag on the kitchen floor. The solid thump of leather-bound books hitting tile settles something in him. He’s no longer drifting a thousand leagues deep – he finds himself back in the moment, in this mundane world of stone walls and disused cooking implements. 

It helps that he’s alone. The kitchen is almost never in use, though the servants keep the silverware polished – none of the castle’s permanent residents eat anything that could be prepared here. Every so often, Cazador throws a banquet or a ball, and then this dusty room overflows with activity, but for now, no one is here to watch him. 

Why lug a satchel full of books to such seedy establishment? Marus didn’t strike Astarion as the literary type. Certainly not the sort to enjoy such titillating fare as Life of Octavia Sildara, Archivist of Candlekeep, Vol. IV: Years 1056-1127. Or A Brief History of Deep Gnomish Thaumaturgical Engineering. The latter title is very nearly insulting – the damned book is well over a thousand pages. Clearly, someone needs an editor, or better yet, to find something actually worthwhile to do with their life. 

It’s all dreadfully dull, but Astarion does his due diligence, flipping through pages to check for hidden treasure. It wouldn’t be the first time someone hollowed out a book to hide something valuable, and if Astarion misses it and someone else finds it later, he’ll end up paying for it. But he finds nothing in Advances in Abjuration, nothing in Extraplanar Entities, nor in The Fall of Netheril. The books clearly belonged to some musty, pedantic, sour-faced little scholar holed up in a tower somewhere. No gold, no jewels, no enchanted items. Nothing here is worth his time. 

Astarion sighs aloud, though no one’s there to hear him. The last book in the pile at least has the decency to try for an air of mystery: its cover is plain and black, with no indication of its contents. The pages look brittle and worn. It might just crumble to dust at his touch.

Astarion reaches for it, gives another sigh, and opens the front cover.

A thunderclap sounds in his head. 

His vision goes purple-white. 

He blinks, and finds himself sprawled on the tiles. His head pounds. “Shit,” he hisses as he sits up and massages his temple. 

What in the hells was that? He casts about for the offending tome, determined to glare it into behaving, or perhaps to threaten it with a nice open flame. Gods, one could never trust a wizard’s books. Nasty, unpredictable things. 

The book isn’t there. Instead, on the floor beside him is a neat, book-shaped pile of ash. He pokes at it, then wipes his finger on the cover of one of the other volumes in disgust. Who knows what that damned thing did to him? And besides, he realizes, his mood shifting towards foul, that little display meant that the book had very likely been valuable, if someone had gone to the trouble of placing protection magic on it, and now Astarion has destroyed it quite by accident. He’ll just have to hope Dufay doesn’t ask him too many questions. 

No sense in dragging it out. He shuffles the rest of the books back into the bag and makes his way to Dufay’s office.

The curtains are nearly always closed in the Szarr Palace, and they are heavy and thick. Even so, Astarion can see a faint hint of morning sunlight filtering in. It isn’t enough to worry him, of course, but he hadn’t realized the hour was so late. On the one hand, he’s exhausted and the thought of slipping into his trance is sorely tempting. On the other, it’s been days since his last meal, so hunger is clawing at his throat. He shoves it to the back of his mind as best he can. 

Cazador’s chamberlain is sitting behind his imposing desk, working on a report. He scarcely glances up at Astarion as he enters. “Our lord informed me that you had some findings to sort through.”

Astarion lifts the grimy thing. He doesn’t set it on Dufay’s desk – that would be asking to get yelled at for dirtying the pristine surface – but holds it open for inspection. “All books, I’m afraid.”

Dufay, still not fully paying attention, asks, “Nothing of value at all?”

Shit. Long ago, Cazador had commanded Astarion not to lie to his chamberlain. “Well, probably not.”

That gets him a look. “Spit it out,” Dufay demands. 

“There was one other book…”

Now Dufay looks properly annoyed. “What did you do with it?”

“Me? Nothing at all! Aside from opening it, which, can you blame me? I had no way of knowing what would happen –”

“And?”

“And it… disintegrated.”

“It. Disintegrated.”

“...Yes.”

“Idiot. Clearly even this simple task is beyond your capabilities.” Dufay has always tried to ape Cazador’s mannerisms. The dismissiveness is close on the mark, but he can never quite pull off the underlying menace. Not, however, for a lack of trying. “Report to Godey. Ten lashes and count yourself lucky. Leave the rest of the books, but take that filthy rag with you.”

The command, secondhand though it is, sinks its teeth into him. “Of course, sir,” says Astarion. He stacks the books neatly on the edge of Dufay’s desk and leaves.

It’s a short walk along the hall, left turn at the staircase, down past the boudoir, and through the illusory wall near the dormitory. His feet could – and often do – carry him there all on their own. It’s easier not to fight it. Astarion learned that lesson a long time ago. 

Ten lashes? What is this?

Astarion flinches mid-stride. The voice comes from everywhere and nowhere. It’s crisp, confused, and sounds oddly appalled.

Pardon the intrusion, and I must admit I have very little context as to what exactly I’ve stumbled into, but this seems distinctly concerning. Is this a… is this the, er, consensual variety of punishment?

“Who are you?” Astarion snaps. He begins descending the stairs.

The voice doesn’t answer at first. Oh. Oh, I see. By Azuth’s staff, you’re a vampire spawn. 

“Who are you?” Astarion puts some force into it this time. There’s no one else here. His siblings are gone to their daytime rest, the servants have made themselves scarce, and Cazador, doubtless, is holed up in his study. Nobody could possibly be speaking to him.

Would you prefer not to go down there?

“What kind of question is that? Tell me who you are!” 

My name is Gale of Waterdeep. 

Perhaps Astarion has finally lost his mind for good. Why it should happen now, after an ordinary night of being used, he cannot say, but perhaps this was the proverbial straw that broke the rothé’s back. And why shouldn’t a hallucination have a name like Gale of Waterdeep?

“Very well, Gale of Waterdeep,” says Astarion. “If you must know, what I prefer doesn’t enter into it. What business is it of yours?”

I can remedy that.

“You can what –”

And something intangible snaps. Astarion’s feet stop halfway between one step and another, and it takes all two hundred years of his reflexes not to fall directly forward onto his face. He snatches at the banister and holds on. His ears start to roar, and all he can feel is the steadiness of his feet not moving and the hardwood under his hands. Astarion clings to it like an anchor, like the stairs might sweep him away if he lets go. I can remedy that. His chest rises and falls. He doesn’t need it, but it’s a habit and it grounds him. 

Are you all right?

For a moment, he can’t remember how to form words. “What did you do to me?”

You were acting under a compulsion – your vampiric sire, I take it? I hope you won’t think me presumptuous, but I took it upon myself to remove it. If you still wish to continue downstairs, you may do so of your own free will.

The roaring in Astarion’s head builds, only now it’s those last four words, over and over again. “You just – you removed…?”

Yes, says the voice with a note of satisfaction. It won’t trouble you anymore.

Astarion stands up slowly. He eyes his own legs, ready at any moment for them to betray him, but they don’t, and he’s left trembling on the staircase as his universe reassembles itself from the bottom up. Free will. He stopped dreaming of it so long ago.

After a long moment, the voice continues, If you’ll allow me, I feel I must explain…

“No,” Astarion counters fiercely, “that can wait. I am getting the fuck out of here.” His brain has finally caught up with him sufficiently to realize that he has no time to waste. If Dufay leaves his office and sees Astarion outside the kennel, if Cazador decides to come looking for him, he can’t be found. He has to seize this chance now; he may never get another. Whatever or whoever this Gale is, anything is better than staying here. Anything at all.

The only difficulty is how. The sun is out. He knows of no way to leave by daylight without summoning the carriage and hiding behind its thick black drapes, and though Cazador may have his secret passages, Astarion has never been allowed to learn of them. There’s nowhere to hide that Dufay, and eventually Godey and his siblings and even Cazador, won’t be able to find him. 

Or he could just walk out into the sun. He’d end his existence free, at least. 

Very well, says Gale. What’s your plan?

“Plan?” A wild laugh escapes him. “Who needs one? Certainly not me.”

At that, he hears an all-too-familiar clatter from the lower level, and dread punctures his mood. Godey must have heard him. And if Godey catches him, he won’t need compulsion to keep Astarion contained. The old-fashioned way, with ropes and chains and cages, will more than suffice. 

Astarion turns and walks back up the stairs. It’s risky, but if he stays in this spot, he’ll be discovered at once.

I’m sensing some urgency.

“Astarion! Was that you? What are you doing?” yells Godey from around the corner. 

“How perceptive,” Astarion snarks back at Gale under his breath. 

Are you worried about being overheard? Have you ever cast Sending? Message? No? Think at me. I’m fairly confident I’ll hear it if you want me to. It’s to do with the nature of our predicament, which I really do need to discuss with you –

Mind-reading is not among Cazador’s many talents, which is one of the very few ways in which Astarion’s existence is less horrific than it could be. Thus, the suggestion of sharing thoughts raises his hackles at once. He doesn’t know this Gale, why or how he suddenly appeared, or what his intentions are, and frankly, it always pays to assume the worst. 

Still, wary as Astarion is, he fully intends to throw himself at the devil he doesn’t know over the devil he does. So he tries it out. Once I get the hells out of this place, I will be more than pleased to discuss whatever subject you want.

Excellent! Gale sounds genuinely enthusiastic. What is our escape route?

Godey’s bony footsteps sound from the hall below. I have no idea. 

What about the front door? They’ve reached the top of the stairs, and from here Astarion can see the door through which he led Marus the night before. 

Undoubtedly an option, if I fancied being fried to a crisp.

Ah, that’s right. Vampires. You know, I believe I can – yes. I can handle that for you as well.

“Get down here, you wretch!” That’s a direct order from Godey – another whom Astarion has been instructed to obey. Any moment now, he’ll realize that something has changed and Astarion’s time will be up. But if Gale can protect him from the sunlight as well –

Are you certain? Astarion asks.

Reasonably, Gale tells him. I am a wizard of considerable skill, but this precise set of circumstances is new to me. Still…

Astarion’s already making a beeline for the front door. Reasonably certain? Is that the best you can do?

I… Yes. I can protect you from the effects of sunlight.

Astarion has always been forbidden to open the front doors without permission. They’re not locked from the inside – why would they be? The servants wouldn’t dare and the spawn are incapable. He reaches for the door and, miracle of miracles, nothing stops him.

“Astarion!”

Behind him, Godey has reached the top of the stairs. He points at Astarion with a skeletal hand as his eye sockets flare with angry light. “Stop at once!” From down the side hall, Astarion can hear footsteps. Dufay, or maybe even Cazador, have come to see what the commotion is about. 

Astarion fervently hopes Gale is right about protecting him from the sun. Equally fervently, he hopes the whole rotten lot of his captors step right into the beam of light and burn to cinders while screaming in agony.

He turns the latch and opens the door.

Chapter Text

All Astarion can see is blinding luminance. He lifts a hand to shield his eyes as warmth blasts across his skin. The morning light sits at the right angle to burst through the doors and bathe the entryway in radiance. It’s all over him – his face, his hands. He doesn’t let himself shrink away from it, though his every instinct screams at him to seek shelter. He braces for the pain he knows is coming.

It doesn’t.

As his eyes adjust, he’s greeted by a sight both familiar and utterly alien: the street outside the Upper City entrance to the Szarr Palace in daylight. Without the need for lanterns or darkvision, the mansions that line the block are suddenly blazing with vibrancy and color.

Somebody is shouting from beyond the darkened door, but he doesn’t turn back. He keeps walking, and finds himself staring with genuine wonder. He’d forgotten how beautiful the daylit world was.

A smug Gale remarks, See? No trouble at all. Astarion doesn’t even have it in him to be annoyed at his tone. He leaves the doors open in a pointed fuck-you to the undead within and strides onward into the morning sun.

There’s that hideous gothic facade – really, that Cazador’s managed to keep his vampirism a secret all these years is an indictment of the intelligence of the entire city – but it all looks so much smaller and less impressive in this light. Astarion turns his back on it with the intention of never setting eyes on the place again.

Still, though he might have foiled the initial pursuit, he needs to keep moving. Cazador’s mortal servants can travel by day, and many of them are armed. Even now, no doubt his master is marshaling his forces to hunt Astarion down. Astarion, meanwhile, has little on him besides his ruffled house shirt and trousers. No weapons; not so much as a single gold piece. He has to find a place to disappear. 

He moves as quickly as he dares without drawing undue attention. The streets are quiet at this early hour, but he knows that the closer he gets to the high streets of the Upper City, the shopping and dining and entertainment district, the bigger the crowds. That’s perfectly fine with him. All the better to blend in.

Where are we going?

Isn’t it obvious? Away from here.

I would rather like to make proper introductions. 

It isn’t that Astarion’s not curious about the strangely helpful voice in his head. He is, very much so. It’s just that at this moment, he has a once-in-an-eternity chance at escaping his own personal hell, and he isn’t going to waste a second standing and chatting until he’s put some distance between himself and the palace. 

Even so, he knows he has to appease Gale. It won’t do to anger an entity who could at any moment decide to withdraw his protection and allow Astarion to burst into flames. Gale hasn’t undone Astarion’s vampirism. He can still feel his fangs, his aching hunger, his heart a dead weight in his chest. Maybe Gale could even force him to return to Cazador, if Astarion displeases him. So rather than argue, Astarion politely proposes an alternative. Can we walk and talk?

Much to Astarion’s relief, Gale says, Fair enough. As I said, my name is Gale of Waterdeep. I take it from all the shouting that you are Astarion?

A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Gale.

Likewise. We find ourselves in a very unusual, dare I say unique, situation. 

Astarion turns a corner and nears the high street. Already the area is becoming more populated. He plasters a look of unconcern across his face as Gale continues speaking.

I’ll begin with the abbreviated version. I am a wizard of some renown, hailing from Waterdeep. I studied under the Blackstaff and am noted for my writings on the school of Evocation. Skilled though I may be, I am far from immune to the pitfalls of magical research. For a variety of reasons, I was studying the magic of the ancient civilization of Netheril, and I came to possess a tome that I believed could unlock magical secrets heretofore forbidden to mortal wizardry.

Gods, he’s long-winded. As Gale prattles on, Astarion darts across the high street, dodges around an ox cart, and turns left towards the gate to the Lower City. Cazador has fewer friends there and Astarion is bound to have an easier time vanishing among the unwashed crowds. A pity that inconspicuous, abandoned, yet well-fortified mansions stuffed with treasure aren’t easier to come across.

To make a long and sordid story short, I had the folly to think I could control the book’s power. I opened it and… for lack of a better term, it devoured me. I was ripped from my body and my being was interwoven with the energy contained in that volume.

I lost track of time. I lost track of myself for a while. Eventually, I realized that the book had become my touchpoint, my link as it were, to the Material Plane. Of course, by the time I regained some measure of who I was, the book had been taken somewhere else entirely. Some nefarious individuals had broken into my tower and stolen it. For all that I was now bound to the book’s power, I couldn’t channel any of it. Disembodied and helpless, I could do nothing but watch.

Astarion passes the gate that guards the bridge to the lower city. He surreptitiously scans the faces of the guards, searching for any of Cazador’s flunkies, but finds none. Good. He’d feared that Cazador might have managed to beat him here and cut him off, but he walks across the bridge in broad daylight, undisturbed by pursuers.

After a lengthy and tedious journey, the book, along with several other items from my private collection, was brought here, to Baldur’s Gate. I believe it was meant for a wizard who lives in the city, though none of the gang of smugglers ever spoke their name. The cart was waylaid en route by yet another crew of ne’er-do-wells, my book stuffed into a bag, and the next thing I knew, you were tossing it rather unceremoniously onto the floor. 

Astarion interjects, And now here we are. Suspicion prickles up his spine. Did you intend to devour me as well?

No! Gale protests, with what sounds like honest dismay. Truthfully, I had no idea what would happen – nor indeed, any way of warning you even if I had known. In that instant, you, not the book, became my link to this plane. 

So, unless Gale is lying to lower Astarion’s guard – always a possibility – Astarion is now dealing with a bumbling idiot who got himself trapped in his own magic book. It shouldn’t be too difficult to keep Gale on his side, even though Astarion’s usual means of doing so is out of the question for a man who lacks a physical form of his own.

Astarion asks, I’m your only connection to this plane? What does that mean?

My ability to perceive the Material Plane is limited to your immediate vicinity. I can’t manifest physically. I feel a connection to the Weave, but without the ability to perform the verbal and somatic components of a spell, I can’t make use of it.

But you freed me from Cazador, Astarion reminds him. And my skin is mercifully intact, despite the hour of the day.

Gale replies, Yes, quite right. I don’t fully understand it, but the bond between us seems to allow for such things. As does the connection between our minds, which from my perspective is extremely fortunate. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be able to speak with you.

He sounds mournful. Astarion supposes he can’t blame him – blunderer or not, being changed against one’s will and made helpless is a wretched thing. To cut the tension he says, Denied the privilege of speaking with me? That truly would be a disaster.

Gale chuckles weakly. Inarguably. 

By now, Astarion has put several blocks between himself and the bridge. Two centuries of skulking about the city have taught him every circuitous route, every inconspicuous alley and side street, and he uses that knowledge to its fullest. He doesn’t think anyone is following him, and he trusts his senses, honed as they are by both elven and vampiric blood, but he will not take any chances. 

Perhaps Gale possesses some magical sixth sense. You don’t see anyone following me, do you?

No, for what it’s worth. 

Astarion pauses. He’s ducked into an alley with a single main entrance. If he needs to leave in a hurry, there’s a low wall at the far end he could scramble over, or the pile of crates stacked to give him a perfect route to the first floor balcony of a armorer’s shop, from which it would be child’s play to climb onto the roof and make a clean getaway. He leans against the wall in the shadows of a line of washing that’s been hung out to dry, in position to watch the alley’s entrance without being observed himself. 

It seems we will be getting to know one another well, at least until I can find a physical form of my own, Gale says. Based on what I’ve seen so far, I can only imagine your situation was truly horrific. 

My… situation, Astarion says ruefully. He’s not sure how to explain it, but he’ll have to come up with something. Gale knows what he is, even knows he was ordered to submit to torture. Astarion would rather not reveal anything else, but he does need to impress upon Gale the seriousness of the matter. Gale must realize how far Astarion will go to get away from Cazador.

It was. Cazador Szarr is a vampire lord. He turned me a very long time ago and I became his slave. I’m telling you this so that you’ll understand: I am never going back there, no matter what. But I don’t expect Cazador to let me go quietly. He’ll try to come after me. 

Whatever help I can offer is yours, Gale says stoutly. 

So easy. Maybe not being able to seduce Gale after the normal fashion won’t be so much of an obstacle after all. Still, best not to let his guard down. He knows what Gale wants – to get a body. He’s a wizard too, and clearly one who thinks well of himself, which speaks of ambition. Astarion can work with that angle. 

You’re too sweet, Astarion tells him.

Yes, well. Is Gale ever so slightly flustered? May I ask how you came by my book? You didn’t steal it from the cart. 

He’d hoped Gale had overlooked that little detail. Pity. Cazador would send me out into the city in search of victims. I’d bring them back to him alive and he’d take them away and kill them. Your thief happened to be in the wrong tavern at the wrong time.

There is a long silence. For a moment, Astarion worries this is a bridge too far for Gale. He is, after all, clearly the naive academic type: the sort of wizard who sleeps in a feather bed each night, whose hands are stained with ink, not blood. He’s never seen the real world before. He’s never met real monsters. 

At last, Gale says, I suppose you had no choice.

Not until you were so good as to free me. If Gale has a savior complex, Astarion’s not above playing into it. ‘Damsel in distress’ is hardly the most humiliating role he’s been assigned. Now that all that unpleasantness is over…

He trails off, realizing he has no answer. Beyond ‘escape from Cazador,’ he has no idea what he’s doing. He’ll need money of course, and a place to hide, and some weapons and new clothes. And to find something to eat. 

Can he break Cazador’s commandment and feast on the blood of a sentient being? 

The idea is all-consuming. Cazador used to starve him, make him go weeks without so much as a putrid rat, then make Astarion watch as he downed goblets of humanoid blood. If he was feeling particularly vicious, he’d splash it in Astarion’s face just to watch him writhe in dizzy, ravenous agony. With his jaw forced shut by Cazador’s decree, he couldn’t even scream. But now he’s unleashed. He’s already defied Cazador’s orders. There’s nothing to stop him – he can drain the whole city dry if he wants to.

But if he does, will Gale turn on him? Astarion knows he’s lucky that Gale agreed to help him at all. Most people would see him, correctly, as a monster. Can he afford to shatter Gale’s illusions?

Astarion? Planning to add any follow-up to that statement?

He shakes his head. Just thinking.

We can’t stay in this alleyway forever.

Right. We. Because Gale can’t go anywhere without him, or vice versa. Annoying, but necessary for now. And if Gale wants to see them as a team, so much the better; that’s the kind of thinking that keeps Astarion unburnt in the sun. We certainly can’t.

What do you suggest we do?

It’s been too long since Astarion made any of his own choices. He’s lost the knack of it. He wracks his brains: what’s his most immediate need? Coin? Shelter? Blood?

Weapons, he decides. As I’ve said, we’ll undoubtedly be pursued. If we’re cornered, I’ll need to be able to fight back.

Very sensible. And fortunate, as we happen to be next door to an armorer’s. How much coin do you have?

None.

That may pose some difficulty.

Not as much as you might think. Now Astarion’s on firmer ground. He may not have his dagger, but he does have the pins he keeps tucked into his sleeves. I have my ways.

I’m not sure I approve of this, Gale mutters for what feels like the twelfth time. 

Desperate times, desperate measures, Astarion replies. But he’s not concerned about any consequences of Gale’s disapproval in this instance. The wizard made one or two weak protests when he realized what Astarion had in mind, but caved quickly enough when reminded of the gravity of their situation. Which is why Astarion finds himself creeping through the back room of the Red Dragon Armory and feeling much like he imagines children feel on their morn days.

He’s already availed himself of a pair of daggers. Now, he caresses the basket guard of an especially fine rapier. He draws it to test the balance and practices a few parries and ripostes against an imaginary foe. It feels like a perfect, deadly extension of his arm. 

Oh, I’ll certainly be having you, says Astarion as he fixes the scabbard to his belt. 

Gale accuses, You’re enjoying this.

Why shouldn’t I? 

You’re committing a crime! You could be arrested! And don’t forget, I’d be dragged off to prison with you.

How fortunate for both of us that I won’t get caught. And besides, we’ve agreed this is necessary. What good would it do to pretend to be miserable about it? I’ve had quite enough of punishing myself, thank you.

Gale grumbles something that isn’t quite agreement, but stops complaining while Astarion turns his attention to armor. He passes by the plate, chain, and scale mail. Too heavy and cumbersome. In a fight, he’s always relied on speed, reflexes, and the element of surprise. He settles on a well-fitted leather cuirass, a set of bracers, a decent pair of boots, and a gorget. To complete the ensemble, he adds a hooded cloak to cover his hair and make him harder to spot in a crowd. He wishes he could go for something flashier, perhaps with inlaid gems or nice embroidery, but the practical part of him knows he needs to blend in. Once he’s clear of Cazador, he can indulge in finery.

Are you quite finished?

Nearly. We wouldn’t want to be without a ranged option, would we? He studies the range of bows in stock – shortbows, longbows, great clunky arbalests – before settling on a pair of small hand crossbows he can hide under his cloak. They don’t pack the punch of larger bows, but if his aim is good, and it is, that won’t matter.

Astarion locks the back door behind him when he leaves. He feels far more comfortable now that he’s armed literally to the teeth. Cazador would never have allowed him this many weapons at once, and as for armor, the bastard couldn’t have cared less. He raises the hood of his brand new cloak with a flourish.

You should pay the Red Dragon back when you have the coin.

The idea hasn’t occurred to Astarion, and for good reason. Ridiculous. 

You said this was a desperate measure. When the time comes that you’re less desperate, you should make it right. 

Absolutely not. 

The proprietor of that establishment is trying to make an honest living. 

And I am honestly trying to stay alive, and will be keeping any and all resources towards that goal. Besides, that overgrown lizard at the front shamelessly marks up all his merchandise. Did you see those prices? Really, I’m just balancing the scales.

Your excuses won’t convince me, no matter how many puns you throw in.

Astarion’s mouth twitches. Darling, I’ve no idea what you mean. I hate puns. He climbs back into the alley they’d found shelter in previously and leaves via the low wall in back, which leads to another series of side-streets he knows well. 

Regardless, I think I know where we should go next, Gale says. 

And where is that?

I must ask your help in learning more about my condition. You had your shopping trip, he says with a flash of amusement. Now let me have mine.

Chapter Text

Sorcerous Sundries stands out like a kalashtar among kobolds. Surrounded by low sandstone buildings, it towers over its neighbors with its stained glass domes and marble pillars. Despite having walked past any number of times, Astarion’s never been inside, nor in truth felt much of a desire to. Just from a glance, it looks inexpressibly wizardlike.

The place’s interior confirms all his assumptions. Enchanted lights bathe the place in off-kilter radiance as gleaming magical automata direct customers to and fro. Several casters have set up demonstration areas in the grand central room and are busily showing off by summoning elementals and conjuring illusions. Around the edges of the room are the bookshelves themselves, all densely packed with books that closely resemble the ones Astarion dumped out of Marus’ bag only hours ago. Typical wizards: self-important, pompous, and gods-damned horny for magic.

Naturally, Gale is almost beside himself. I’ve always wanted to visit this place. Their collection of rare tomes is unparalleled this side of Candlekeep! 

It reeks of old books.

Yes, Gale sighs, ignoring Astarion’s tone. There’s no aroma more soothing. It almost reminds me of home.

Does your home also have a resident lava elemental?

No, just a tressym. 

That’s probably for the best, Astarion remarks, eyeing the numerous scorch marks on the floor. At least tressyms are clean. He scans the area for anything indicating assistance for disembodied wizards and their undead associates. The closest he can find is a dwarf demonstrating what looks like a Raise Dead spell. The resulting crude, shambling zombie moans pathetically as Astarion looks on with distaste. 

Where should we begin? Astarion asks. High elves are said to be drawn to magic, but his abilities in the area are limited to a single cantrip, Firebolt, that he no longer even remembers learning how to cast – not that he minds being able to set things on fire with a word and a gesture. Though he hates to admit it, he’s out of his depth in a place like this. 

Much as I enjoy aimless perusal in bookshops, the sort of volumes we’re after are more than likely hidden from general view, says Gale. 

I suppose you’ll need me to speak to someone for you, Astarion sighs. 

The sooner I obtain my own physical manifestation, the sooner I no longer have to prevail upon you in this manner. Please.

Astarion fights back the impulse to be contrary, to dig in his heels. Gale can’t compel him, but he can kill him, which is nearly as bad. And at least he said please. So rather  than refuse, Astarion merely rolls his eyes. Fine. There’s a clerk of some sort over at that desk. What am I asking about?

Anything regarding Netherese magic. The serious, practical sort of books, not primers written for apprentices. Or information regarding resurrection since, to be brutally honest, necromancy is not my deepest area of study. 

That catches Astarion’s ear. Resurrection? Did you die when your book ate you?

He’s ready for the wizard to come back at him with a lecture on how he was not eaten by a book, but merely lightly digested by an arcane artifact from a lost age of the world. But Gale doesn’t take Astarion’s bait, instead saying, I don’t know. Perhaps. 

Astarion raises an eyebrow. You and I might have more in common than I thought. 

Just ask at the desk, will you?

Behind said desk is a tiefling dressed in a neat red and blue robe, hovering anxiously over a leger. When he notices Astarion approach, he straightens up and pastes a professional mask across his face. And that’s not his only disguise: he can slather on as many cosmetics as he likes, but Astarion knows a black eye when he sees one. 

“Good afternoon and welcome to Master Lorroakan’s Sorcerous Sundries, the finest purveyor of wizarding lore in Faerûn,” announces the tiefling. 

Humble, isn’t he? 

Please just focus.

“How may I be of assistance?”

Astarion leans casually on the desk. “Oh, nothing too taxing, I’m sure. I’m quite curious if you have anything about Netheril. The empire, I mean. The one that blew itself up.”

“Our history section is just over there. We have some excellent theoretical treatises on –”

“No, no, not theory. I’m after something a bit more practical.” He grins conspiratorially. In response, the tiefling clerk draws back.

“You’ll have to speak with Tolna for anything of that nature, though I’m not certain how much we can assist with that line of inquiry.”

The clerk’s tone is more than guarded; he looks outright uncomfortable. Astarion’s struck a nerve. 

“I’ll be sure to do that.” He, too steps away slightly, taking the pressure off. “Of course, I understand how difficult it can be to acquire some of these rarer books.”

“Naturally,” the clerk says, still wary. He’s wound up tight as a spring. 

“One other question, my friend – and by the way, what is your name?”

“Rolan, Apprentice to Master Lorroakan. And yours?”

He almost gives his own name, but thinks better of it at the last moment. What if Cazador sends his minions asking after him? Instead, he offers “Gale.” 

Really now?

“Well met, Gale,” Rolan replies. “What was your other question?” Clearly, he’s eager for this interaction to be over.

“What do you have on resurrection?”

This turns out to be a much less fraught query as Rolan directs Astarion towards the necromancy section without hesitation. “We don’t sell anything more advanced than a Scroll of Revivify,” he warns. “Of course, we have information regarding more powerful spells of resurrection, but nothing that could be cast by any careless layperson.”

“Of course. Wouldn’t do to have just anyone going around raising the dead.” 

Perhaps it’s the strain of the day wearing on him, but something happens then that hasn’t happened in many years: for a split second, Astarion can taste dirt and bile and rotten blood on his tongue, can feel the weight of earth pressing in on him and splintered wood beneath his nails. He shakes his head and it’s gone. Odd that it would come back to him so strongly now.  

Something must have shown on his face because Rolan’s looking at him strangely. Gale asks, Are you all right?

Astarion breezes right past it all with a quick “Thank you for your help.” He makes for the back area of the ground floor, where Tolna Tome-Monger holds court. He doesn’t answer Gale’s question and mercifully, Gale doesn’t ask again.

As Astarion waits patiently, boringly, in the queue, Gale muses, seemingly to himself. Lorroakan, eh? I hadn’t realized he owned this place; he must have bought it recently. He’s got a reputation as a bit of a cad. I’ve never met the man, but nobody seems to have anything pleasant to say about him. 

Astarion thinks of Rolan’s black eye. That tracks. 

Tolna finishes up with a gnome in jewel-encrusted robes and beckons Astarion forward. 

Astarion begins with a friendly “Good afternoon,” and is promptly and rudely shushed.

In a scathing whisper, Tolna says, “Lower your voice! These books are sensitive.”

Gods-damned wizards and their gods-damned books. He wants to shout at her at the top of his lungs just to see the look on her face. But they need this information, so through gritted teeth he plays along. 

“Good afternoon. Might you be able to tell me about any of the rarer books you have on Netheril?”

Tolna looks scandalized. “Such books are not subjects for idle discussion.”

Are these people running a store, or is this more of a literature-themed cult? “Rolan mentioned you might be able to offer some assistance.”

She grimaces at that, saying, “He did, did he?”

“Oh yes.” It occurs to Astarion that Rolan might get in trouble for this. It also occurs to him that he has more pressing concerns than the problems of a tiefling apprentice. “He said you could point me in the right direction.”

“Regardless, I can’t discuss anything of that nature.”

As with Rolan, there’s something else going on here. Astarion knows the scent of fear and this place stinks of it. “Come on, you must have something here. I’d heard that your collection of rare tomes is unparalleled this side of Candlekeep. Isn’t this place run by the Master Lorroakan?” 

Tolna’s eyes flick back and forth. At last, she says, “We do have a copy of The Annals of Karsus.”

Karsus! The Lord of Netheril who challenged the very gods themselves and brought on the shattering of the Weave! That’s exactly what I need!

“But,” Tolna continues, “it’s most certainly not for sale, nor accessible to the public. Master Lorroakan keeps it safely in Ramazith’s Tower. And I’m afraid that’s all I can say on the matter.”

With that, Astarion privately discards the notion of ever laying hands on it. He’s good with a lockpick, but robbing an armory is a far cry from breaking into a wizard’s tower. 

But something nags at him about the anxiety that radiates off the shop’s employees. Before Tolna can wave him away, he can’t resist pushing ever so slightly further.

“Your employer has a truly fascinating collection.” His tone implies something unspoken, something dangerous. Truly, he doesn’t know what he’s driving at, but just as he hoped, Tolna fills the gap all by herself.

“Oh yes, the finest arcane library on the Sword Coast.” Her eyes flicker off to one side, just for an instant, but it’s long enough for Astarion. 

They’re hiding something, he tells Gale.

Something about their collection? What could… oh.

The realization dawns on Astarion at almost the same moment. He pushes toward Tolna and lets a grin twist across his lips. “How does one go about acquiring such rare treasures?”

And there it is. She flinches, subtly but surely. “Master Lorroakan has an eye for such things.”

He stole my books! Gale snaps with more outrage than Astarion’s heard from him yet. 

Astarion nods sagely. “Of course. That much is plain as day. I do so appreciate your help.” With one last too-bright smile, he leaves the Tome-Monger and heads for the Necromancy shelves.

Unbeknownst to the rest of the customers, Gale continues to fume. That utter coward! Taking advantage of my disappearance to help himself to my private library! No self-respecting wizard would ever resort to such unscrupulous tactics. Astarion, who has met a few self-respecting wizards over the years, keeps his mouth shut. He just bundled my books into a cart and dragged them halfway across the coast?

I don’t suppose he knew you were in there.

That actually gets a pause from Gale. …Could he have known?

Don’t ask me. You’re the wizard. 

Again, Gale is silent for a moment. We’ve no way of determining that for now. Once I’m restored to my corporeal form, I can put all this to rights. 

Excellent. Now, how about all of these delightful books on death magic?

What follows is rather tedious. Astarion stands in front of the shelves while Gale pores over the contents, occasionally directing him to open one of the books. Astarion, as usual when following instructions, lets himself drift. It’s not torture by any means, and Gale is asking nicely enough, but it reminds him of those evenings when Cazador throws galas for people too important to be lured downstairs, when Astarion’s job is to stand in a corner, look pretty, and offer wine. He only snaps out of it when his gaze idly wanders across a page and he sees a description of a spell: True Resurrection. 

‘This Spell, the most Potent among the Magics of Mortals for the Raising and Restoration to true Life of any Dead creature, or Un-dead, who shall be willing and…’

The page breaks after that line. Astarion turns it over to a surprised I was reading that! from Gale. What comes next makes his something in his empty chest catch.

‘...who shall have pass’d from this Life within in the span of no greater than Two-hundred Years…”

Astarion stops reading. He’s forgotten his role – he’s meant to be acting as Gale’s hands, not indulging in idle, foolish notions. Most of his so-called siblings would qualify. He doesn’t. Nor does he need it. He already has what he needs, or at least is on the path to getting it: freedom, safety from the sun, eternal life, and a river of sentient blood just waiting for him. Stupid spells and their stupid promises mean nothing to him. 

Astarion?

He very nearly shouts at Gale, but catches himself at the last moment. What?

What’s wrong? Is it… is it that spell? True Resurrection? 

Oh, it’s nothing at all. No need to worry. 

Once I have my powers back, I could cast it for you. 

Astarion sees this at once for what it is: a trap. Gale’s trying to string him along with promises, offers of aid, to keep Astarion cooperative. This is the carrot. The stick is roasting in the sun, or being sent back to Cazador. Fortunately, Astarion can nip this in the bud without even having to lie. You’re twenty-seven years too late, darling.

The silence stretches out longer than ever before. Finally Gale says, I’m sorry.

Astarion’s not looking for his sympathy. In his extensive experience, sympathy is a feeble  thing, all talk and no action. But he merely says, Which book do you need me to stare at next?

…I think that was the last one. 

Astarion wastes no time reshelving it. Please tell me you found something of value. 

There’s always something of value to be found between the covers of a book.

Astarion’s tired and famished and his head is still spinning from the events of the last few hours. This is not the time to test him with condescending platitudes. He grits his teeth against the sharp retort he wants to offer – he has to keep Gale happy. He’s gotten away with a bit of mockery, but knows better than to push his luck too far. Still, he can’t quite keep a snide edge out of his mental voice. Anything relevant of value?

Sadly, no. Spells of resurrection require that the subject be dead, or in some cases undead. On reflection, I don’t know if I quite fit into either category. 

Then is our business here concluded?

For now, yes. 

Then let’s go. 

Chapter Text

The sunlit streets unfold around Astarion. The vivid colors and warmth of the sun bouncing off sandstone are novel, even beautiful. Everything down to the composition of the crowds is different: more vendors hawking everything from shoes to newspapers, more street-corner preachers and proselytizers of one god or another, more children playing games. This is his city, but he feels like a stranger here.

He doesn't have any specific plan. He’d had the idea to try to hop a boat and flee the city, but now Gale’s discovered leads at Sorcerous Sundries, so Astarion very much doubts Gale will let him leave. 

And Gale, of course, has his own input. Astarion? Do you have a destination in mind? 

Not one in particular. It’s difficult to focus on a silent conversation with Gale. Every face he passes in the crowd could be one of Cazador’s lackeys, sent to drag him back to the palace. He constantly fights the urge to turn around and check for anyone following him. Each cross-street, storefront, and passer-by hides the possibility of ambush. 

I’d say we ought to regroup and consider our options, Gale suggests.

A patch of shade in a doorway morphs into the leering face of Cazador as Astarion passes his eyes over it. He looks back, but nothing’s there. Of course Cazador can’t be out in the sunlight – he doesn’t have a chatty wizard camped out in his brain to protect him. Astarion’s jumping at shadows now, seeing threats that aren’t there. On reflection, it might be better to get off the street for a while, and not by hiding out in a garish magic shop. 

Yes, of course, says Astarion. Let’s find somewhere private.

The streets immediately around Sorcerous Sundries are lacking in hideouts. Prosperous businesses and homes for the well-to-do aren’t exactly welcoming for someone looking for disappear, and besides, the open squares and large avenues of this part of town make Astarion feel far too exposed. He heads south towards the dense tangle of flats and alleys that make up the lower-rent districts. As the streets get narrower and more twisting, he returns to his tactic of choosing an erratic, looping path in the hopes of shaking off any pursuers. 

His hand brushes again and again over the hilt of his rapier and he tells himself that he is not helpless. He can fight back now. If they come for him, he’ll make them bleed. And maybe even drink some of that blood while he’s at it.

After he doubles back on his own path for the third time, Gale remarks, Even I’m thoroughly confused, so I doubt anyone chasing us could have tracked you through all that.

One can’t be too careful with Cazador.

But he himself can’t be out here at this time of day, no? It’s just his servants we need be wary of.

Unless they follow me through the day, then carry word of my location back to him once the sun sets. 

Even so, I think you’ve quite comprehensively evaded pursuit by now. I swear I’ve seen that same tattered circus poster four times, and I’ve no idea which direction we came from anymore. 

Astarion is standing in a narrow and dingy walkway between a warehouse and a small block of flats. It’s set well back from any major streets and only accessible through a maze of buildings. From what he can tell, they’re alone on this section of street. Even he has to admit it’s unlikely anyone followed him. 

Very well, he says. One of the nearby two-story buildings across the street is very clearly abandoned, from the boarded-up front doors to the uniformly shuttered windows. The walls have been plastered with fading advertisements, graffiti, and general grime. Not exactly an appealing place to hide out, but a relatively safe one. That should do.

The first-floor shutters are locked, but he ducks into a friendly shadow, glances up and down the street to confirm no one is watching him, and then jiggles the window open with a few deft movements of his dagger. He swings through the window and quickly shuts it behind him to hide any trace of his passage.

He finds himself in a dusty ground floor apartment. Chunks of fallen wall plaster litter the floor. The ceiling crawls with mold and the place smells heavily of rat, but it’s clear no humanoid occupants have been here in some time. All the furniture has been stripped out, save for a mattress so rotten that Astarion would rather sleep on the floor than so much as touch it. 

Charming, Gale remarks.

Through a door and up a narrow, creaking staircase, the second-floor flat is marginally better. This time, there’s an actual wooden chair and the scent of rodent is less heavy. Astarion uses the hem of his cloak to brush the worst of the dirt off the seat of the chair and takes a seat. He hadn’t realized how tired he was until now, with a moment to rest. It’s been well over a full day since he last meditated, but exhausted as his body is, his mind is racing. 

The events of the past hours don’t feel fully real yet; a part of him wonders whether his mind really did crack earlier this morning, whether might truly be back in the Szarr Palace, deluding himself into thinking he’s gotten out. But if his senses aren’t deceiving him, he’s now hiding out in a filthy, vermin-infested condemned flat, he has no gold and no plan, and he’s being hunted. He’s surviving off the good graces of an eccentric wizard whose consciousness he’s stuck toting around for the foreseeable future. But he’s escaped. Real, true freedom might just be on the horizon. Something almost like vertigo rolls through him as he takes another deliberate breath. 

Freedom from Cazador. Never to have to grovel for him again. Never to have to give up his body, whether to the kennel or the boudoir. Never to hear that voice, see that sneer, watch helplessly as his own limbs obey a command every part of him detests. Never again to watch the lid of a tomb close over him and lock him into nothingness. 

He can’t go back. Never, never, never. No matter what he has to do – lie, cheat, steal, kill – he’ll do it gladly, do it with a smile, with a laugh, with a shout of joy, if it means he gets to be free. 

For now, that means working with the wizard. 

Gale says, Let’s talk options.

Yes. Let’s.

The way I see it, the odds are stacked decidedly against us. You have a powerful enemy and I’m beginning to think I might as well. We have three paths open to us, none without their dangers. 

We could flee the city, perhaps returning to Waterdeep. I doubt there’s anything in my tower that could specifically help us – assuming, that is, that Lorroakan didn’t empty the place out entirely – as my only real, practical book of Netherese magic disintegrated in your hands this morning. We could always inquire at the academy in town, however. And if we find nothing there, well, the world is vast, and we might chance on answers if we go looking for them. 

The second path, he continues, is essentially what we are already doing: hiding. This strikes me as a temporary measure, nothing more. While I do believe we are safe for the moment, hiding out on our own for long is sure to end in re-capture, or at the very least, a lack of progress towards our goals.

Finally, Gale finishes, we could stay here, but not hide. We have leads in this city on my own predicament, and there may be answers for yours as well, hidden in Ramazith’s Tower. We’re as likely to find a solution there as anywhere else. 

Astarion raises a hand, feeling for an instant like a schoolboy asking for permission to speak from the teacher. Except that the odds of us successfully breaking into a wizard’s tower are close to zero. You can’t cast spells, and though my roguish talents are impressive, I doubt they’ll be enough to overcome whatever magical traps will have been laid down. And in the meantime, I’ll be a sitting duck for Cazador.

Gale says, True. But what if we needen’t undertake this endeavor alone?

And just who would be willing to help us? 

A vampire lord must have enemies, no?

He is remarkably good at avoiding unwanted attention, Astarion informs him. He’s wealthy and well-connected, with friends among the nobility, the City Watch, and the Flaming Fist. Try to go to any of the authorities, and I’ll end up right back where I started. And I’d rather not throw myself on the mercy of any of the temples, if it’s all the same to you. Any religious orders that Cazador couldn’t pay off would happily destroy me right alongside him. 

Hmm. That does pose a challenge. 

Truth be told, Astarion’s surprised Gale’s even hearing him out. So what Gale says next outright startles him. 

What do you think we should do?

Certainly, Gale has asked Astarion for his opinion before, like in the alleyway before they raided the Red Dragon, when he even let Astarion indulge in a bit of light burglary despite obvious reservations. But this feels much more momentous: this choice will set their path going forward for gods-only-know how long, and Gale, though he clearly has his own preferences, seems to be honestly interested in Astarion’s input. Astarion knows this could be a trap and the safest thing to do would be to go along with Gale’s suggestion of staying in the city.

And yet when he replies, it’s not to fall in line.

I told you before that I won’t let Cazador capture me again. We have the best odds of staying away from him if we leave Baldur’s Gate. Remembering Gale’s arguments, he adds, And as you said, the world is vast, and surely there are any number of experts out there to help you get your body back. None of which will happen should Cazador find me first. 

Gale seems to consider this, leaving Astarion on tenterhooks for a moment or two. Then, A perfectly fair point. We must avoid recapture at all costs. Truly, I couldn’t blame anyone for wanting to run as far away as possible from a situation like that. 

Then… you agree that we should leave? Astarion asks, not quite able to quash a touch of disbelief.

Yes. Simple as that.

And go… where? Waterdeep? Astarion’s never been, but they call it ‘the City of Splendors,’ which sounds interesting enough. Gale will have friends and allies there who could lend assistance. 

Although what will happen if he and Gale separate? Will Astarion still be able to walk in the sun? Will he be able to resist Cazador’s commands? The former he thinks he can give up in exchange for independence and privacy in his own mind, if there’s no better option, but he could never allow the latter. He’d much rather spend eternity with Gale chattering away between his ears than go back to Cazador.

Waterdeep could be a start, Gale replies. It’s a long way, but I’ve contacts there relating to magical theory. And… it would be nice to reunite with a few truly close connections.

That’s an opening if Astarion’s ever heard one. He knows so little about Gale. Does he have friends, family, or lovers? In this realm at least he’s inclined to agree with wizards: knowledge is power. He asks, Close connections? Do tell.

Gale currently lacks a throat, but nevertheless does an excellent impression of awkwardly clearing it. Well, there’s my mother. And Tara, of course. I suppose they likely believe I’m dead.

Astarion files the bit about Gale’s mother away for another time. Tara?

Yes, my companion. Didn’t I mention her already? Perhaps I neglected her name. Tara is a tressym. Ah. His mother and a cat. Gale must have a truly riveting social life. She has been my most steadfast friend through a great many trials. Wonderful creatures, tressyms. 

Astarion has to admit that he does have a soft spot for cats, though he hasn’t been at liberty to indulge it. The last time Cazador caught him showing affection to a stray, he made Astarion eat her. Since then, he’s chased off or ignored any cats who make their way to the palace, whether looking for scraps or a warm place to sleep. 

I’ve never met a tressym. Perhaps you could introduce us.

I’ll have to. It’s not as though I’ll be able to speak with her on my own, says Gale, sounding wistful rather than angry. 

It’s a deal. Astarion stands up and shakes the dust from his cloak. Exhaustion be damned. He can rest once he’s outside the city. If it’s all the same to you, I’d like to be away from here before the sun sets. Preferably beyond Rivington. We don’t have time to waste. 

The sun is dipping down over the hills across the Chionthar as Astarion leaves the shadow of Wyrm’s Rock’s gate and crosses the bridge into the Outer City. The walkway is crowded with merchants and workers headed home, whether returning to the city or leaving it, and it’s easy enough to blend in and keep his head down, but he still can’t resist gazing up at the reddening sky. Scattered clouds, brushed gold in the evening light, glow against a backdrop of orange and pink to the west and deep blue to the east. After two centuries, he’d forgotten what a sunset looks like.

He doesn’t let himself linger on the sight because he knows that when it fades, Cazador’s full forces will be loosed on the city to find him. But he will have time soon. Tomorrow, once he’s put some distance between himself and the city, he can sit and watch the sunset in full.

Astarion knows these streets well. Up ahead are Sharess’ Caress – not his usual hunting ground, their clientele have gold and their bouncers know their business – and Fraygo’s Flophouse – a much easier target. 

It occurs to me, Gale remarks unprompted, that we might need some supplies for the journey. 

Such as? 

A tent? Bedroll? I’d add provisions to the list, but I’m well aware of your dietary peculiarities.

Astarion passes by the diet remark without comment. It’s something he’ll need to discuss with Gale eventually, but now is not the time. It’s promising, though, that Gale brought it up himself. With what gold? Unless you don’t mind me liberating some more items free of charge. 

Well… we’ll be on the road for quite some time, and though the most ethical thing to do would be to earn our gold fair and square, such opportunities might be few and far between, and in the meantime, we are under time pressure. 

My dear wizard, I’m quite scandalized. I do believe you might just have come around to my way of thinking. 

I didn’t say that! I maintain that when you – we – have the funds, we should reimburse for anything we may have taken less-than-lawfully. But in the short term…

Say no more. Astarion passes by Danthelon’s Dancing Axe, though they sell exactly the sort of thing he’s after. The two well-armed half-orcs outside are an effective deterrent. Instead, he makes his way for Fraygo’s Flophouse. He doubts he’ll be recognized there. It’s been over a year since he found his last victim there and it’s the sort of place where destitute travelers come and go all the time. There’s usually a failed adventurer or two who will be too drunk to notice Astarion helping himself to a few pieces of gear. 

It’s the same dark, sour-smelling place he remembers, only slightly less depressing in late sunlight than in full night. He passes under the low doorway, hood up, and enters the common room. 

It’s a thin crowd in here tonight. The patrons and barkeep give him no more than cursory glances, if they look his way at all. But there are too many people here to try to lift anything, so he makes his way to the staircase near the back. 

On the second floor is the bunkroom. There are no private suites in a place like this; all the lodgers share  one large room, and on especially busy nights, they might be forced to share beds. But Astarion’s in luck. He notes with satisfaction that the only person in here at the moment is asleep: a half-elf, snoring away in a bed on the far side of the room. He checks the corridor to be certain that no one will interrupt him, then approaches his quarry. 

The half-elf has carelessly left her backpack by the foot of her bed, where any underhanded thief could happen upon it. A grave miscalculation, that. Astarion quiets his steps, mindful of the creaky floorboards, and slips across the room. 

I don’t like this. 

This was your idea. 

I’m well aware. I still don’t like it. 

Astarion crouches next to the sleeping woman’s pack. Strapped to the bottom is a worn but serviceable bedroll, and when he moves aside the flap and opens the drawstring to the pack itself, he finds a blanket and a folded piece of oilcloth that he surmises must be a tent. He replaces them neatly within. It’ll be cleanest to take the entire pack. He lifts it and starts to swing it onto his back.

“Hey!” 

Astarion springs instantly to his feet. As careful and soundless as he’s been, his unwitting benefactor has chosen this moment to wake up. As she rises, he notices her muscled shoulders and a scar across her eyebrow of the sort one only gets by surviving knife fights. 

This might have been a mistake.

“What are you doing?” she demands.

“Oh, my apologies. I must have gotten lost,” he replies with a smile, putting the pack down. 

She scowls at him and stands, positioning herself between Astarion and the door. “I don’t think you did.”

“Not to worry, I’ll be on my way.” He holds his hands up and begins to back away towards the far wall. 

“I don’t think so,” she growls, and quite suddenly a dagger appears in her hands. From the way she holds it, it’s clear she knows how to use it. 

She’s surprisingly fast, throwing herself at Astarion before he has time to draw his rapier. He dodges backward, but runs up against the wall. She comes at him with another underhanded stab towards his gut, and he just barely manages to unsheathe one of his own daggers and block the blow. 

Great gods! Gale yelps in his head. 

Astarion takes advantage of the moment his parry buys him, baring his other dagger and whipping it towards her throat. She really is gods-cursed fast, pulling back just enough that the blade misses by a hairs-breadth. In that same instant, her opposite hand flicks in a quick gesture, and she snaps out an incantation. There’s a flash of green light and Astarion shudders as icy fingers slice into his chest, draining the facsimile of life out of him. 

She’s got magic too. What’s a magic user doing in a place like this? How very unfair. This is why he prefers to get the drop on people. A fight on his terms wouldn’t have been a fight at all: she’d have found a dagger in her throat before she’d even realized he was there. 

Astarion, feeling cold and weak and sluggish, counterattacks, and this time barely manages to catch her while she’s distracted with her spell. His dagger skids across her forearm. It’s a shallow cut, but the scent of humanoid blood hits the air and, as always, makes his hair stand on end. His triumph is short-lived, as she immediately and rather unsportingly kicks him hard in the knee. He sways to one side as his leg threatens to give out, gasping against the pain, but there’s no time at all to recover before she proceeds to head-butt him in the face. His head snaps back, his vision flashing. 

Yet another necromantic spell hits him – it’s nonsense, truly, that such things can even affect him – and his daggers drop from his numb fingers. 

The half-elf shoves him up against the wall. He tries to punch her in the gut, but she utterly ignores him. 

“This is what I do to thieves,” she spits at him. 

Oh gods, do something! She means to kill us!

Her forearm is pushed up against his chest. Her bloody forearm, seeping into his new cuirass. Her breath, hot on his face. He’s ice-cold and empty, and the emptiness stirs, and his eyes drop to her neck, to her hard muscles and bulging veins. A jumping, dancing pulse there, near the angle of her collarbone. 

Now or never. 

Now. 

His fangs pierce neatly through her skin, no matted fur to get in the way, and then her blood hits his tongue. It’s the rich, salty liquor of the gods, and at once it becomes his entire world. He’s no longer weak or numb or hurting, holding her effortlessly as she thrashes, drinking and drinking and drinking. The quantity alone is like nothing he’s ever experienced, without even considering the taste, which is as far from dead rodent as a banquet fit for a king is to a bucket of rotten slop. He’s been starving ever since he rose from the grave, but no longer, and his every nerve lights up with ecstasy.

This is what he’s been missing. This is what Cazador denied him. The elixir of life itself. 

Her struggling stops. She goes limp long before he stops drinking. And at last, there’s nothing at all left. Dazed with pleasure, he opens his eyes.

Only to see another woman standing in the doorway and staring at him with shock and horror. 

“Vampire!” she screams, and all at once there’s a flurry of sound from downstairs. The other occupants of the Flophouse are coming to investigate.

Astarion drops the half-elf’s corpse. There’s no chance of escaping the way he came. His back’s up against a wall, but fortunately, a shuttered window is just off to his left.

Time to leave, he tells an apparently stunned-into-silence Gale, elbows the shutters apart, and jumps.

He narrowly misses falling directly on top of a cart of cabbages, but he manages to keep his feet, though not without a groan of pain as his joints protest the impact. He only has a few precious moments before the Flophouse patrons figure out which way he went, and already he can hear cries of shock from the passers-by around him. He licks his lips, tastes blood – delicious still, but certain to draw suspicion. 

Beyond the Flophouse, a cadre of City Watch have appeared. They look bored now, but won’t remain that way if Astarion crosses their paths covered in the damning evidence of his meal. He spins on his heel and runs the other way. 

“Vampire! Get him!” From behind him, the the woman who found him in the Flophouse is still raising the alarm. Astarion keeps his head down and runs, weaving through the throng of travelers as quickly as he can. Maybe he can make it back behind one of the nearby buildings, clean himself up, and shake off any pursuers. That in mind, he swerves into one of the narrow passages between the Outer City central street and the boardwalk in back abutting the drop to the Chionthar below. He just needs to break line of sight.

A tall shape steps into view, blocking the path. It’s one of the half-orcs who guard the Dancing Axe, massive blade in hand. 

“Where do you think you’re going?”

Behind you!

Astarion turns, but the other axe-wielding half-orc has moved up to block the way. The passage is too narrow to maneuver around them. He’s trapped.

“Let me explain –”

Something strikes him hard in the back of the head, and the world is gone.

Chapter Text

Someone’s calling his name, which never means anything good. He tries to sink back down into the darkness.

Astarion!

The voice is insistent and he can’t block it out. Astarion!

He stirs, every movement making his head pound, then mumbles something like “nghh” in an attempt to get the voice to leave him alone. It fails. 

Astarion, wake up! We’re trapped!

Trapped? He can’t be trapped. He jolts awake so quickly that his skull slams against something hard and metal, right in the tender spot where that brute of a half-orc bashed it with the butt of his axe. He groans and curls back into a fetal position as stars shoot behind his eyelids. 

Careful! Gale warns him too late. They have us in a cage.

Astarion has to fight the urge to panic, pacing his breath through gritted teeth. Not again. Not like this. Who are they? 

Not vampires. Not Cazador. At least, I don’t believe so, never having met the man. We’re in the basement of the Dancing Axe.

That’s not one of Cazador’s safehouses, nor does Astarion recall him employing a pair of half-orcs with a fondness for axes. He opens his eyes just a hair but doesn’t move from where he’s curled up. He can feel that they’ve taken his armor and weapons away. How long was I unconscious?

About an hour, I think.

And you were awake the entire time? You could see what was happening?

I could. I’m not using your senses, you know, at least not directly. Think of it more as –

Fine. Just tell me everything that’s happened.

Right. Astarion can practically taste Gale’s apprehension. Right. You were struck in the back of the head, as you know. That was after… after what happened at that inn. Fraygo’s. In any case. You fell down and a whole mass of spectators tried to get a look, but one of the ruffians who work here waved them away, saying they’d ‘take care of it,’ or something to that effect. The City Watch even came by, I think, but by that time they were already bundling you through the back entrance and down into the basement. Then they wanted to make sure you were a vampire; I think they’ve been looking for just such a specimen, from what they were saying. They had a look at your teeth and checked your reflection, or lack thereof, and after that, they tossed you into this cage and one of them said he was going to inform their boss. Whoever that is.

The pounding in Astarion’s head eases a little as Gale talks, but his nerves don’t. He checks the hidden pocket in his sleeves, but his captors are damnably thorough – they’ve taken his lockpicks as well. Shit.

Gale agrees. My thoughts exactly. 

Are we alone?

One of the guards just stepped out. I assume he’ll be back shortly. 

Astarion gingerly sits up and takes stock of his surroundings. The basement is dim, lit only by a couple guttering candles, with his darkvision painting the shadowed corners in gray. It’s a large space with an open lower level and a higher walkway around the edge of the room. The cage stands in a corner of the lower level. It’s tall enough for him to stand if he wants to, but not wide enough for him to lie fully stretched out. At least it’s fairly clean. 

This isn’t a long-term prison, but a holding cell. Whenever this ‘boss’ returns, his fate will be decided. 

Where are my things?

In that crate over there – yes, that one.

It’s a good fifteen paces away. There’s nothing close enough to the cage that Astarion can reach through the bars. They’ve taken everything he has and stuck him in a fucking cage again and they’re going to kill him, or worse, before he’s had more than the barest taste of freedom. Just enough so that he knows what he’s missing, then right back into captivity. It’s so fucking unfair that he can only laugh, a few sharp and humorless barks. 

Are you… well, I was going to ask if you were all right, but I believe I already know the answer.

I suppose you must. Astarion leans back against the bars and pulls his knees close to his chest. Whatever happens to him now, he won’t be alone. That’s not exactly a comfort, but it is different. One way or another, his life will never be the same. Nor will Gale’s. 

Thinking of which, You might have the worst luck in the Realms, Gale of Waterdeep. 

How do you mean?

Isn’t it obvious? Trapped in a book, then released only to find yourself bound to… well. Me. 

I’m not sure about worst luck. Magical study, especially the areas I was exploring, has many inherent dangers. Have you ever heard of Uthbert the Unfortunate, who managed to fall foul of every single Archdevil and spent a thousand years being tortured by turns in each of the Hells? And then there was –

Listen to me when I tell you that I would rather accept that fate than return to Cazador, Astarion says flatly. And if I do, you’ll be right there alongside me. Forever. 

Then we simply won’t allow that to happen.

And just how do you plan to stop it? Astarion demands, anger rising. It’s not that simple. Why can’t Gale see that? 

For one thing, don’t forget that he can’t compel you anymore. You can resist. 

He has other ways, snaps Astarion. He doesn’t mean to keep talking – he doesn’t like to think about this, let alone discuss it, but Gale has to understand. Shall I tell you what happened the last time I resisted? The last time I took pity on one of my victims? A bright, beautiful young man I couldn’t bear to bring to him? He sealed me in a tomb for a year. I clawed my fingers to the bone trying to get out. I prayed, I wept, I cursed every god I could think of, I wished for nothing but death. He doesn’t need to compel me to do that. And how long do you think it’ll be this time? Another year? Two? Ten? Fifty? A century? Do you understand now? Do you!?

Gale goes quiet, longer than he ever has before. The silence is punctuated only by the flickering of the candles and Astarion’s careful breaths. He begins to wonder, after what feels like several minutes, that Gale has found a way to simply disappear. And who could blame him, after what Astarion has just revealed? It’s only the sensible thing to do. Astarion would do the same in his place. 

After all, Gale knows what Astarion is now. Really knows. He watched Astarion drain a woman dry, watched him love every second of it. Gale’s been bound, not to a doomed man, but to a doomed monster, and it was only a matter of time until he realized that. Only a matter of time before he turned on Astarion. So Astarion will go back to the shadows. More than likely, back to Cazador. It was inevitable, really. 

May I show you something?

Astarion jumps so hard he nearly smacks his head into the bars again. Gods, don’t scare me like that. 

Apologies. May I? It won’t hurt. You have my word. 

Warily, Astarion says Yes. What does he have to lose?

Close your eyes.

Astarion does. 

Open them. 

He opens his eyes, and sunlight floods them. He’s standing on a balcony overlooking the sea – deep and boundless, the sun striking off each swell with dazzling light. A gull cries in the distance, warmth sinks into his skin, and the ocean breeze gently tousles his hair. To either side rise neat wood and stone houses, all perched on the edges of the waves. Off in the distance, white-sailed ships glide on the wind. 

He hasn’t seen the sea since before he was turned. The sight startles a laugh out of him, a genuine one this time. “What in the hells?” he whispers in wonder.

“Do you like it?”

Astarion turns around. The balcony door is open, and standing in the middle is a human man with gray-streaked dark hair, cut to reach his shoulders and brushed back behind his ears. He’s wearing a purple shirt and diamond-patterned vest, and looking back at Astarion with deep, shining brown eyes. 

A face to put to the voice. “Gale? Is that you?” 

“Not quite in the flesh, but yes.” Gale smiles warmly and gestures at the scene all around them. “This is my home in Waterdeep.”

Astarion runs his fingers along the balcony railing, feeling the polished wood grain. “Are we… we can’t really be here, can we?”

Gale’s smile becomes rueful. “Sadly, no. Physically, you and I are still in the basement of Danthelon’s Dancing Axe. This is an illusion – but quite a detailed and substantial one, I hasten to point out. I’ve constructed it from memory and brought your mind here with me.”

“This is…” Astarion doesn’t quite know how to finish the sentence. The level of detail is remarkable. On the balcony are a pair of plush chairs, a table with a bottle of wine, and, unsurprisingly, several stacks of books. Beyond the door is a room filled with bookshelves from floor to ceiling. Tucked in between them are more tables and chairs, a lanceboard set, and a harpsichord, all lit by warm, inviting lantern-light. It looks real. It feels real, right down to the salt air and the ink-and-parchment aroma that Gale said reminded him of home. 

“This is my favorite place to sit and read in the evenings,” Gale says. “I’d cook dinner, perhaps a nice roast of lamb with vegetables, then come up here with a glass of wine. I’d sit and read, and I’d listen to the waves and watch the ships come in to the harbor as the sun set over the sea. It’s peaceful here: a quiet refuge away from the clamor of the world.” 

His face lights up as he speaks, enraptured by everything around him. “My point is this: should Cazador or anyone else try to lock us away, we needn’t spend the time in a dusty tomb, at least not as far as our consciousnesses are concerned. We could always come here instead.”

Astarion stares at him, unable to think how to respond. An ocean wind, a library, a place to watch the sunset? Even if it’s not real, it’s the farthest thing from a claustrophobic crypt he can imagine. 

Gale seems to interpret his stunned silence for disapproval. He hurries to add, “That is, we could come here. If you’d rather be somewhere else, I could conjure up practically anything, really. It doesn’t have to be –”

“No,” Astarion cuts him off. “No, this is… this is nice.” And it is nice, maybe the nicest thing anyone’s done for him ever, which is confusing. “Why are you doing this for me?”

Gale furrows his brow. “What do you mean?”

“Why are… why are you being so…” Kind. 

Gale steps forward, holding out a hand, and it all clicks into place. 

Disappointing, a little. But now at least Astarion knows what ground he’s on, and he can tread this path easily enough. It’s better than the alternative. “I’m sure I can find some way to thank you,” he says, baring his teeth in a grin. 

Gale flushes. “Um, well. I –”

Loud, clunking footsteps interrupt whatever he was about to say. Gale and Astarion both flinch in tandem, and almost at once the scene dissolves, evening light and sea breeze replaced by the bars of a cage. The footsteps are coming from above him, moving towards a trapdoor in the ceiling that opens to a ladder down. Astarion lies down again, curled up just as he was. Better if his jailers don’t realize he’s awake. 

The trapdoor opens and he listens as someone heavy descends the ladder. He waits, fists clenched and nails biting into his palms, and from the outside, perfectly still.

It’s one of the half-orcs, Gale reports, suddenly and jarringly invisible once more. The one who didn’t go off in search of their leader. Astarion tracks the footfalls as they approach the cage and stop just outside the door. 

“Awake in there, leech?” 

Astarion doesn’t move.

“Better stir yourself soon. Boss’ll be here any minute. We’ve been looking for one of your kind.”

Gale remarks, It doesn’t sound like he’s talking about Cazador.

No, Astarion agrees. Besides, as I think about it, Cazador would never let his underlings call him ‘boss,’ only ‘Master’ or ‘My Lord.’

His captor, oblivious to the silent conversation, gets bored of standing around waiting for Astarion to respond and stomps off to the far side of the room. Astarion releases a fraction of the tension he’s holding. 

He’s going to have to try to talk himself out of this. The evidence stacked against him is fairly damning – they know beyond a shadow of a doubt what he is, and for most people, that’s more than enough to bring out the wooden stakes. But it sounds like they need something from him, and in that lies an opportunity. 

Things might be easier if only he can appear relatively harmless. Is his face still covered with blood? It’s not like a mirror would help –

Gale? Can you see my face?

…Yes?

Putting aside for now the question of how exactly that’s possible, Astarion asks, How much blood is left?  

…A fair bit. There was… it was a lot. Back there.

Astarion needs to address this sooner rather than later, seeing as Gale somehow isn’t ready to abandon him just yet. You understand I had no choice, right? She would have killed me – killed us – otherwise. 

Er, I suppose so. Gale hesitates, then adds, And, well, it was my fault we even went for the bedroll. 

Gale’s making this easy on him, taking the blame without Astarion even having to push him. Magnanimously, he says, Let’s not get caught up in pointing fingers. What’s done is done, and bearing in mind how things ended in Gale’s illusory version of his home, he adds, I knew we could come to an understanding.

Yes, of course. An understanding. 

Astarion tries to discreetly wipe his face with his sleeve. Any better?

A little.

Just then, Astarion hears the wooden creak of the ladder rungs and freezes in place. Someone is coming down, and unlike the half-orc, they’re not clomping around announcing their presence. This is someone who knows how to tread quietly. 

“Boss,” the half-orc says quietly.

“Good evening, Tairn,” says the newcomer. It’s a woman’s voice with an accent from somewhere very distant. “You finally caught one?”

“Checked with a mirror myself. No reflection.”

“Well, then.” She moves with steady paces across the room, letting Astarion know she’s approaching. There’s little point in pretending to be unconscious anymore. Astarion sits up and takes the measure of her. 

She’s a half-elf wearing a green robe, embroidered in gold, but worn around the edges. Her graying blond hair is braided back out of her face, and though her face is weather-worn, her dark eyes are clear and keen. The grips of a pair of crossed scimitars are visible over her shoulders and she moves with a hunter’s deliberate grace.

“Well met, vampire. We’ve been searching for you.”

Chapter Text

So: he’s been disarmed, beaten, locked up, found out for what he is, and now Astation’s about to be interrogated by the leader of some almost certainly secretive organization with aims unknown, but with a clear anti-vampire agenda. This just keeps getting better and better.

He doesn’t try for denial. Lying about what he is won’t help him now; it’ll just make him look either disingenuous or foolish, but neither should he show any fear. Showing fear is always, always a vulnerability. “My reputation precedes me, then?” he says with practiced carelessness. “Listen, dear, if you wanted a chat, there are easier ways.”

Oh for the love of… why did you have to phrase it like that? Do we really want to go out of our way to antagonize her?

She doesn’t rise to Astarion’s needling, merely crooking an eyebrow instead. “My associate dragged me away from a perfectly nice dinner, telling me they caught a vampire in the Outer City. I’d say you look the part.”

“Always happy to oblige.”

“A courteous one, eh? Or maybe not so courteous: the way I hear it, you were caught in the middle of draining a woman after ambushing her in her sleep. Caught red-handed, or perhaps better to say red-toothed. And the evidence is still all over your face. Dear.”

Astarion gives his best debonair smile. “In my defense, she wasn’t sleeping when she attacked me with a knife. I acted purely out of self-preservation.”

“And of course you did nothing to provoke her?”

He waves a hand dismissively. “A simple misunderstanding leading to a gross overreaction on her part. She had me pinned against a wall and was all set to dispatch me. What else was I meant to do?”

“And all the others who’ve gone missing from taverns and inns across the city over the years? Did they all hold you at knifepoint also?”

He feels his smile slip. 

“Rumor has it that pale, red-eyed strangers are more and more often seen with people who then disappear. I’ve come across a few bloodsuckers in my time, enough to know the signs. There are vampires in my city, preying on its people, and their activities are on the rise. So I asked my associates to keep their eyes out for any leads, and unfortunately for you, Somi and Tairn are very good at their jobs.”

As she moves closer, the candlelight flashes off a silver badge pinned to her chest: a harp. Astarion’s not one for closely following current events, but he did live through the Bhaalspawn crisis here in the city a century ago, and he remembers a half-elf Harper, a druid, being a central figure. One of those hero types they all write songs about. He can make an educated guess about her identity.

“Am I speaking with the legendary Jaheira?”

She gives him an appraising look and then, sounding faintly amused, replies, “Flattery will get you nowhere. Just answer the question.”

Jaheira! The Harpers! We talked about finding allies here; play our cards right, and they could be exactly what we’re looking for!

Astarion argues, They tossed us in a cage. Hardly a promising start. Still, perhaps he can point them in a direction more conducive to his continued survival. Aloud, he tells Jaheira, “I couldn’t possibly say. These lodgings you’ve provided me do simply awful things to my memory, you see.”

She narrows her eyes at him but says nothing. He takes it as an opening to keep talking, improvising a plan as he goes.

“You already know I’m not a true vampire. If I were, I’d have transformed into mist, slipped through the bars, and killed everyone in here long before now. I’m a vampire spawn.” She doesn’t contest it. Evidently she does know enough about his kind to be aware of the differences between true vampires and their spawn – a distinction lost on most people. 

Emboldened, he keeps going. “And if you’ve noticed a pattern going on for years, you know this is bigger than one vampire spawn.” He’s picking up momentum now. Time to wrap it up with a bow. “You don’t want me. You want the one who made me. You want the one pulling the strings.” 

She’d make a fine Three-Dragon Ante player with that face, giving nothing away. Maybe he needs to hammer it in harder. He continues, “If you kill me, you’ve killed one vampire spawn, but lost your best chance of stopping all this for good.” Isn’t that what hero types are supposed to want? The defeat of evil, the ultimate triumph of good, the protection of the innocent?

Not that he buys that, of course: nobody outside of bards’ tales actually goes around righting wrongs and defeating villains without any kind of reward. Life isn’t a song, righteousness never won anyone a single battle, and villains come out ahead every time. Even so, it’s always possible that Jaheira actually believes her own legend, or at least that she’s invested in keeping up the appearance of living up to her name. 

Something he said must have gotten through, because Jaheira kneels and gets on his eye level. He’s managed to properly get her attention. “Is that so?”

“It makes sense, doesn’t it?” It’s becoming a real effort to keep up his unconcerned expression. Even from this angle, Jaheira’s eyes are sharp and bright as a hawk’s, making him feel uncomfortably seen. 

Her expression changes from searching to skeptical. “If you’re a spawn as you say, you’ll never be able to turn on your master. Why should I believe anything you say?”

Dammit. “Well, there must be something you want from me. You must have kept me alive for a reason. If you wanted me dead, you could have staked me already.” He can only hope his increasing desperation doesn’t come across in his voice. 

“Maybe I just like watching bloodsuckers squirm,” Jaheira says, still crouched and watching his face intently. “I once buried one in the cobblestones of the Lower City up to his neck and watched him until sunrise came and finished the job. That was a long time ago, mind you, and I’m not as showy now as I was back then. I might settle for something quicker.”

“How… evocative.” If she tried that on Astarion now, she’d be disappointed – which gives him an idea. “But I’m a bit of an exception to the rules these days. Didn’t your lackeys tell you that they found me outside in broad daylight?”

Jaheira turns to the half-orc Tairn, who shrugs. “Just about sunset,” he says. 

Astarion raises a finger. “But the sun was still up! And there I was, unburnt.”

“That’s impossible,” Jaheira replies.

“I’ve been making the impossible look easy recently. That’s why you can trust me to help you against my mast- against the monster who made me what I am. I hate the bastard and want him to suffer and die.”

He’s never been able to say that aloud before – that he wants Cazador to die. But he does. He’s fantasized about it countless times over the years: Cazador burning on a pyre, roasting in the sun, withering away after a blow from a stake, and Astarion himself gleefully carrying out the deed. Making Cazador scream with even a fraction of the pain he put Astarion through. Cazador, terrified, begging for his life in vain. And now that Astarion can say it out loud, it almost feels real. He can defy Cazador. Maybe that means he can kill him. 

Not that it’ll be easy. Quite apart from his small army of undead, werewolves, and human servants, plus Astarion’s so-called siblings, Cazador possesses immense power of his own: strength and dexterity beyond mortal limits, coupled with an impressive magical arsenal. He can become invisible, fly, cast curses and hexes, even summon lightning. Against all that, what can Astarion do?

Still, thoughts of revenge are sorely tempting. 

Jaheira’s still looking at him, unconvinced. “Why should I believe any of that? Even if you were out on the street before sunset, you could have stuck to the shadows. Tairn and Somi caught you in a darkened alley, out of the light.”

Tell her to cast Daylight.

What?

She’s a druid, and a powerful one at that. It’s a spell that summons the sun’s light. Ordinarily, it would kill a vampire. If she casts it and sees that you’re not burnt, maybe that will convince her to hear you out. 

It’s worth a try. “I can prove it. Go ahead, cast Daylight in this room.”

For the first time in this conversation, Jaheira actually looks surprised. “Do you have a death wish?”

“Go on. Do it. If I die, I’m just a filthy lying vampire who’d be of no use to you anyway. If I live, you have a reliable source of information on these attacks.”

She seems to consider for a moment, then, “On your own head be it.” She raises a hand, speaks a brief incantation, and the room is flooded in magical radiance. 

The spell does hurt his eyes a little, but only from the sudden brightness. Astarion makes a show of studying his arms and hands, looking for signs of damage, and finding none. 

Much appreciated, darling, he thinks to Gale. To Jaheira he says, “Looks as though I won’t be bursting into flames just yet.”

She watches him for a long moment. “Tairn, are you seeing what I’m seeing?”

“It’s definitely odd,” he agrees.

“I prefer the term ‘marvelous,’ if you don’t mind,” Astarion cuts in. 

Jaheira circles the cage, leans closer to get a better view, and inspects the glowing orb at the center of the spell as if to make certain it’s working as intended. At last she says, “Wait here.”

“Excuse me? You’ve already kept me waiting in this dreadful cage for long enough!” She ignores him and climbs back up the ladder. 

Astarion asks Tairn, “Where’s she going?”

He shrugs. “Who knows with the boss?” Sounding almost impressed, he adds, “You’re one gutsy leech.”

“Must you use that term? It’s a tad reductive.”

“Would you rather I called you bloodsucker? Nightspawn?”

“I do have a name, you know.”

“Which is?”

“Astarion.”

Tairn chuckles. “You’re one gutsy leech, Astarion. Better?”

“Marginally.”

The trapdoor creaks open again and Jaheira descends one-handed. Tucked under her other arm is a wine bottle. 

“Oh, this again,” says Tairn as Jaheira sets the bottle on a small table and retrieves a pair of glasses from a nearby cupboard. She removes a small pouch from a pocket and sprinkles something into both glasses. 

Is she trying to poison us? Astarion muses.

If so, she’s taking herself along as well. And indeed, Jaheira sits down cross-legged on the floor in front of the cage, keeping one glass for herself and passing the other to Astarion, and taking a deep draft with a smile.

“Klauthgrass,” she says. “It brings out the truth. We will speak honestly, you and I.”

Astarion’s not wildly keen on drinking truth serum, but he’s even less keen on remaining imprisoned. He can manage small sips of wine without bringing it back up, and so he does, with Jaheira watching closely. If there’s a taste to the herbs, he can’t discern it. 

Can you block the effects of this stuff? he asks Gale.

I’m not certain, but do I really need to? Just tell her the truth – that you had no choice but to do what you did, and that the real monster is Cazador Szarr. The fact that she even gave you this drug is a promising sign. It means she’s willing to hear you out. 

It means she doesn’t trust me.

“Still savoring the taste?” Jaheira sets her own glass down. “Let’s start with names. As you’ve guessed, I am Jaheira. And you are?”

“Astarion.”

“Very well, Astarion. Tell me, who is the vampire lord I’m seeking?”

The name jumps to Astarion’s tongue – that damned Klauthgrass is already taking effect – but he manages to force it back. “Ah, not until I have some assurances. If I answer your questions, will you release me?”

“If I am satisfied with the answers, yes.”

“And what, pray tell, does that satisfaction entail?”

“That you are not a threat to myself, my Harpers, or the innocent people of this city. Is that fair enough for you?”

That’s a low bar, no? Gale opines. Astarion’s less sure of that, but he doubts he’ll get a better offer from her. She does still hold all the cards. “Fine. His name is Cazador Szarr.”

“Really? Him? You’d think a vampire lord would keep a lower profile.”

“Do you trust your truth serum or not? Cazador Szarr is a vampire lord. He sends his spawn out into the city to bring back victims for him. Those would be the pale, red-eyed strangers you’ve heard so much about.”

“And you’re one of those spawn?”

“Yes. Until recently – until this morning, in fact – I was compelled to obey his every command.”

She takes another swig from her glass. “But not anymore. I presume this has something to do with how you can withstand sunlight. How did you escape?”

With the Klauthgrass prodding at him, he says, “I opened a book in which, much to my surprise, a wizard had gotten himself accidentally trapped. In doing so, his mind became bound to mine. He broke the compulsion and protected me from the sun, allowing me to escape.”

By now, even Tairn is paying close attention. Jaheira, leaning in, says, “Quite a story. I assume this wizard is still here with you? He can hear me?”

Yes, says Gale, as if he’s momentarily forgotten Jaheira can’t hear him. Astarion relays his response, adding, “His name is Gale.”

“So in actual fact, I am talking to two people right now?”

“Technically, yes.”

“Fascinating. Hello, Gale. A pleasure to meet you. Now tell me, just what were you two doing in the Flophouse, and how is it that someone ended up dead?”

Astarion would have liked to embellish this story, perhaps spin it in a better light, but he can’t manage much. “We were on our way out of town and needed some supplies. We also had no coin, and so our plan was to steal a pack – and eventually pay it back, if you listen to Gale. Our intended target caught us and tried to kill us. She really was holding us at knifepoint when I bit her.”

“Hmm. I am not very fond of thieves,” says Jaheira. 

“We were fleeing the city,” Astarion points out. “If Cazador caught us, his vengeance would be terrible. We didn’t have time to earn an honest living, if that’s what you would have preferred we did.”

“Fleeing the city, were you? And what will you do if I let you go now?”

Astarion’s first thought is that they will be on their way, bound for the road to Waterdeep and putting as many miles between them and Cazador as possible. But then, looking at Jaheira – she went up against a god and won. What if she and her Harpers really could help him turn the tables on Cazador?

They could be powerful allies, Gale says on a similar line of thought. The answers we need are in this city. What if they could help us? What if you never had to fear Cazador again?

Why would they help us? If they’d truly had both the means and desire to take down Cazador, the Szarr Palace would have been a smoking ruin long ago. Things like that don’t happen in the real world. That isn’t how it works.

You say that, and yet just today you defied Cazador’s commands and walked in the sun. What is that if not an impossibility? And if that can come true, why couldn’t there be people who earnestly want to help?

Astarion doesn’t believe it. Two hundred years of experience have taught him not to. But still, he meets Jaheira’s gaze and says, “My answer to that question depends on what you say next. Will you commit your Harpers to destroying Cazador?”

“Yes,” she says, with no hesitation. 

“Then…”

I won’t force you into a decision one way or another. This is your choice.

I… thank you.

“...Then,” he finishes, “we will stay, if you’ll have us as free and equal allies. And I’ll be the one to kill him.”

Chapter Text

In a small attic room in a Lower City house not far from Heapside Strand, Astarion takes a seat on the edge of the bed and unpins his cloak. He lays his rapier and crossbows on the bedside table and his cuirass and bracers neatly on the floor beside them. 

The room is small and plain, but clean. There’s real, if warped and cloudy, glass in the window, through which moonlight illuminates the bed, table, and chair. A narrow, winding staircase leads to the first floor of the house, where Tairn and his brother Somi are ostensibly stationed to protect Astarion, but are more likely actually there to stop him if he tries to make a run for it. So much for free and equal allies, though this is better than a cage in a basement. 

What an absurd and head-spinning change in fortune. Twenty-four hours ago, Astarion was leading Marus into the Szarr Palace. Now he has Gale, and they’re helping the Harpers take down Cazador. In the morning, Jaheira will return, and they’ll work on coming up with a plan. It’s a lot to process, and no easier with Astarion deeply feeling his lack of rest. He kicks off his boots and lies back on the bed. 

Astarion? I don’t mean to keep you awake, but I’ve been meaning to discuss something with you.

Do tell. 

I… I recall what you said, earlier, when I showed you the vision of my tower. That you were looking for a way to thank me. Did you mean –

Oh? It seems meditation will have to wait. Eager to get started, are we? 

No! Gale exclaims. That is… you don’t owe me in that way. Or at all, really. 

It seems Gale wants to feel noble. Not to worry, that’s more of an excuse than anything else, Astarion says. 

Astarion, I’ve no desire to pry, but from the hints I’ve seen about how you – about what Cazador made you do… In any case, the answer is no. 

What in all the hells? 

I didn’t create a simulation of my home in Waterdeep because I wanted that in exchange. 

Dumbfounded, Astarion can only say, Then what do you want?

Gale seems to be weighing his words carefully. I want a great many things, but for you to feel obligated to me in some fashion is not among them. 

Astarion stares at the ceiling, searching for words. In a thousand versions of this conversation, this is not how he would have expected it to go. He knows he ought to say something to Gale, but he has no notion at all of what that could be. 

At length, Gale himself fills the silence. I’ve kept you up longer than I should have. A night’s rest will do us both good.

And then he’s quiet. Astarion could reply – Gale can hear him, it’s not like Gale even can go anywhere else – but what would he say? He thought he’d figured out where he stood with Gale, and now he doesn’t know anymore. 

The day has been so overwhelming, frightening, and – occasionally – exhilarating, that he’s not had time to think properly about Gale. He’d been assuming that Gale held all the cards, could roast him in the sun if he wanted to, and perhaps that’s true, except that Gale let slip a crucial detail during the evening’s little knife fight. He’d been afraid. He’d feared their target was going to kill them. Not Astarion. Them. Which would imply that if Astarion dies, so does Gale. 

Viewed in that light, Gale has far less power over Astarion than it initially appeared. He can’t let Astarion die, and sending him back to Cazador would only doom both of them, illusionary Waterdeep home aside. 

Really, it’s Astarion who holds most of the cards. He can speak aloud, interact with objects. Gale can’t do much more than talk to him. Gods, the man really might have the worst luck in the Realms. It makes sense, then, that Gale would be nice to him. He might not want sex, but nevertheless needs to keep in Astarion’s good graces. 

A curious thing, to hold that kind of power over another person, body and mind. Is this how Cazador feels?

Still, no reason to go antagonizing the wizard just yet. He could force Astarion back to the shadows if he wanted. And he’s listened in a way Astarion’s not accustomed to. ‘This is your choice,’ he said, and it seems he meant it. 

Astarion almost says, Good night, but thinks better of it; the moment’s passed. Instead, he closes his eyes and slips into the familiar patterns of his trance. 

Astarion rises at dawn, just in time to savor the first rays of light spilling through the window. Thick as the glass is, the first light of a new day he’s seen in two centuries is rather a wonderful thing. Maybe later in the day he’ll sit outside – just sit – and enjoy the feeling of it on his skin.

But first things first. He sits up, stretches, and puts on his boots. He doesn’t reach for his armor, but he does clip his rapier to his belt. He lost both of his daggers during the Flophouse incident, but he can get replacements easily enough, and all in all, they were a small price to pay for the finest meal he’s had in his life. He can still feel a gentle buzz of contentment across the surface of his ever-present hunger. 

Gale’s quiet. Do humans sleep even when disembodied? Astarion admittedly hasn’t known the wizard that long, but lengthy silences don’t fit with his character.

Gale?

There is no immediate response. 

I know you’re there. Did you fall asleep or something?

Still nothing. How odd. 

Gale? Come on now. We have a long day ahead of us. 

The wizard is silent. Astarion looks at the morning sunbeams, which fall on the floor and haven’t yet touched his skin. Would they burn him if they did? 

Is Gale gone? Oh gods, did Astarion ruin it last night? “Gale!” he cries aloud. 

Something shifts in his head, and for a moment he reels from sudden, inexplicable vertigo, the conviction that despite being able to feel the edge of the bed beneath him, he’s somehow also dangling over an immense abyss, one wrong move away from an endless fall into darkness. Then the world settles again and Gale says, My apologies. I’m here. 

What in the hells was that?

Nothing to worry about. I must have drifted off. A curious sort of sleep, this. But I haven’t gone anywhere – you can’t get rid of me that easily.

Gale isn’t a good liar: insultingly bad, in fact. Something else is definitely up, though what exactly it could be, Astarion has no notion. Just so long as I don’t fall into whatever black hole that was. 

Gale tries for lighthearted, saying, Oh, that? A mere side effect of Netherese magic. Not to worry, it won’t eat you.

It had better not. Liars, even bad ones, tend to lash out when cornered, so Astarion doesn’t push it any further. If it happens again, he can handle it. Hopefully. Let’s get moving. We have a busy day of plotting revenge ahead of us.

He stands up, gives his shoulders a roll, and makes for the stairs. Strange, he thinks, how quickly he got used to having Gale around, and how disconcerting it was when it seemed he had gone.

Downstairs, Tairn is bent over the hearth, his back to the stairs. If Astarion crept up behind him and gave him a good shove, he’d go tumbling straight into the coals. Alas, they need allies, and he’d doubtless get an earful from Gale, so Astarion restrains himself. No matter how hilarious it would be. 

The scent of aged herbs fills the room, and when Tairn straightens, he’s holding a small ceramic teapot with a clothed mitt. He sets it down on a nearby table and inserts a small metal mesh contraption, presumably containing tea leaves. Nearby are a delicate set of cups painted with flowers. 

“I’d offer you some,” Tairn says, “but I don’t think it’s your drink.”

“Er, no.” Wine Astarion can handle in small quantities, but tea is right out. 

“More for me and Somi then. And the boss, when she gets here.” He sits down to let it steep. “I’ve got a question for the wizard.”

Oh? Let’s hear it.

“...Okay?”

“What’s it like being in someone else’s head?”

You know, Gale, I don’t think I ever asked, but now that our friend mentions it, I’m terribly curious. 

It’s not the easiest question to answer. How shall I put it…? Hmm. It’s a little bit like standing before a window of impenetrable glass, beyond which the world goes about its business whilst I can’t join in. But that doesn’t give the full picture –

“What’s he saying?” Tairn interrupts.

“Give him time, he likes the sound of his own voice.”

Pardon me for attempting to provide a thorough answer. As I was saying, the window metaphor alone doesn’t give the full picture. Imagine that window was the only point of light and clarity in a darkened universe. All else is howling chaos, apart from that vivid patch of brightness and its owner, from whom I am borrowing the view. 

Astarion repeats Gale’s reply, thought not without some editorializing by Gale on the subject of his accuracy, while Tairn pours himself some tea. At the end, Tairn comments, “Interesting, though can’t say I’d like to try it myself.”

But it beats being cooped up in a book, no? Astarion asks.

Yes, and by some distance. There were times on that journey that I nearly despaired of ever communicating with another living being. This is pure luxury by comparison. 

“He says I’m luxurious,” Astarion says for Tairn’s benefit. Tairn makes a thoughtful noise and sips at his tea, but makes no additional comment. 

Jaheira had mentioned she would return not long after sunrise. With that in mind and wanting to feel freshened and prepared, Astarion seeks out the washroom. He cleaned the blood off his face last evening, with Gale’s help to confirm he finished the job. Now he stands over the washbasin and rinses his face and hands again. Perhaps later he can take an actual bath. He’ll have an audience, obviously, but that’s more or less unavoidable given his current circumstances, and if he must have his privacy infringed, at least it’s only Gale now. 

After drying his hands, he looks up at the mirror hanging over the basin. Still useless. Gazing into the emptiness where his face ought to be he says, Gale? 

Yes?

Do you still feel trapped?

Gale dodges the question. I did say this was much better than being in the book.

Astarion considers that: tendays, perhaps even months, on the road from Waterdeep with no way to speak or move, wedged helplessly between moldering leather and crumbling paper. The specifics may be different, but all the same Astarion fancies he knows what it was like.

Did you spend time in your illusory tower?

Eventually, once I figured out how to create it. 

And before that?

Let’s just say it was very dark and very lonely. I could perceive some of my surroundings after a fashion, but not as clearly as I can with you. A moving, thinking, sensate being is a far stronger link to this plane. 

So, when I talked about the tomb…

I spent significantly less than a year in the book, but I think I have some small idea of what that might be like. But we need not fear that happening again. I can conjure a vision of any place you can imagine, and more than likely a few you can’t. And neither of us need be alone. 

Astarion grips the edge of the basin. I’ve said it before but… thank you.

Think nothing of it.

Astarion does not think nothing of it. He thinks a lot of it, in fact, but he doesn’t know how to put any of that into words. Instead, still staring at the mirror, he asks, Could you show me my face?

Not in the mirror. Protecting you from sunlight is an internal process, a continuous warding of sorts, but it doesn’t involve manipulation of external forces, and nor did severing your compulsion. By contrast, lack of appearance in a mirror arises from an interaction between your fundamental nature as a vampire and the property of reflectiveness itself. 

…So, no.

No, but I could create an illusion for you, as in the spell Mirror Image, in my mind palace.

Excuse me, your what? The term is such a wildly Gale thing to say that it briefly distracts Astarion from the rest of the sentence. 

Mind palace. A memory technique involving visual and spatial cues that encode information and trigger recall on command. It’s the foundation upon which I built the version of my tower I showed you.

Interesting, but ultimately irrelevant. Back to the issue at hand. You can show me an image of myself?

Easily. Would you like to see now?

Astarion hasn’t seen his own face in over two centuries. He knows the basics – red eyes, fangs, white hair, beautiful – but beyond that, he has little idea what the world actually sees when it looks at him. 

Are you joking? Yes. Absolutely. 

The dimly-lit washroom falls away and Astarion once again finds himself standing on Gale’s balcony in Waterdeep. He’s doubly not alone this time: there’s Gale, smiling amusedly from one of the chairs, and standing opposite him is a stranger wearing a familiar ruffled shirt.

It’s an elf with an angular face, high cheekbones, and vivid crimson eyes. His skin is pallid with gray shadows under his eyes. On his neck are two puncture scars, and Astarion shivers a little, faced with the marks of his own death all those years ago. They’ve been starkly visible to the whole world all this time and he’s never seen them before. 

He’d thought his face would look younger somehow, but the marks of age are plain to see. It’s not just the lines around his mouth, either – something in the eyes speaks of weariness and long, bitter experience. Even as he watches, the expression changes to a dangerous smile, showing off the fangs he knew were there, but the tiredness doesn’t leave the eyes. 

He turns back to Gale. “Is this really what I look like?” 

Gale moves to stand beside him, not too close, but within arm’s reach. “Yes, as faithfully as I can. It’s a good likeness.”

Of all the dizzying revelations of the past days, this might be one of the biggest. Astarion regards the pale stranger, trying to find something that looks right, that looks like him, in that face. 

He gives up and studies Gale instead: deep-set brown eyes under sharp brows, the scruffy start of a beard, a long-healed linear scar on his forehead, crows-feet lines at the corners of his eyes, and those graceful streaks of gray in his hair. Gale gazes back at him quizzically. 

“What is it?”

Looking between the shadow of himself and the wizard standing in front of him, Astarion says for the third time, “Thank you.” Then, “Jaheira will be here soon. We should probably go.”

“All right,” says Gale, and just like that, Astarion is standing in front of a mirror again, looking at nothing at all.

Chapter Text

Astarion would've expected a secret meaning to take down a vampire lord to involve more obvious cloak and dagger. But instead, it was just Jaheira, Tairn, Somi, and three cups of tea in a sunlit kitchen. Honestly, the Harpers could use a bit more dramatic flair: hoods, cloaks, elaborate passphrases, maybe even a blood-oath or two. But sadly, it seems that they simply lack sufficient imagination.

Jaheira unfolds a map of Baldur’s Gate and circled the Szarr palace in red ink. At least that’s mildly dramatic. Pinning a knife through the place would have been better though.

“Let’s start with you telling me everything you know about Cazador Szarr.”

Astarion does a pantomime of thinking hard. “Where to begin? He’s a sadistic monster who has run a coven of vampire spawn out of his castle for the last couple of centuries.”

“Details,” Jaheria says. “Where are his spawn’s favorite hunting grounds? How often do they bring back victims? Who are his friends and enemies? How many exits and entrances are there to his palace?”

Astarion lays it out for her as thoroughly he can. Cazador still has his secrets, but Astarion knows a great many of them – after all, Cazador could certainly never have imagined any of his spawn getting an opportunity to betray him, so why bother with concealment? Astarion tells Jaheira about the gate in the Lower City wall that’s never heavily guarded; about all the inns, taverns, and dives the spawn frequent; about the high-society nobles and merchants who attend Cazador’s parties, complete with names and ranks. There are more than a few of those bastards he wouldn’t mind seeing get caught in the crossfire between vampires and Harpers. 

It means, though, that for the first time he has to be explicit about just how the spawn bring back victims. Gale’s gathered as much already, but when Astarion briefly describes how he’d lure people back, then turn them over to Cazador, he says, Gods. I’m sorry.

Astarion still doesn’t want his sympathy, not really. He’s more at ease with Jaheira, Somi, and Tairn’s reactions: steely-eyed and businesslike, coming at it with the angle of searching for Cazador’s weaknesses. But he doesn’t argue back at Gale. What would be the point anyway?

Once he’s finished, Jaheira leans back in her chair and crosses her arms. “You understand we’ll have to verify all of this.”

Astarion clasps a hand to his heart. “You don’t trust me? I’m hurt! I thought we were friends.”

“It’s not a matter of friendship. I don’t send my people into danger without double-checking our intelligence.” She takes a sip of the tea Tairn prepared. “And there are ways around Klauthgrass. As the leader of a secret organization, a little healthy paranoia serves us all well.” Sensible. “Now, I seem to remember you saying that you personally wanted to kill him."

“Yes. Slowly and painfully. Did I not make that clear?"

“If I'm going to be taking you into an active combat zone, I'll need to be sure you won’t be a liability. How much fighting experience have you had?"

A liability? Insulting. “I'll have you know I can handle myself more than adequately."

“Like you handled yourself yesterday when you were pinned up against the wall by a sleeping woman?”

“That was different. Normally, my preferred method of killing is not to allow my target any warning. And she was some kind of wizard as well, which is practically cheating. And even then, out of my element and at a disadvantage, I still found a way to survive."

“By biting her throat out, yes."

“I'm simply using all the weapons at my disposal. And, yes, getting a meal out of it as a nice bonus.”

“So you’re the sneaky type. I should have guessed. And Gale, he can’t contribute at all?”

No need to put it quite so harshly, Gale complains. Tell her I have plenty to contribute, not least of which is, if I may be so bold, my considerable intellect. And while you’re at it, remind her I can hear her; she doesn’t need to address me in the third person.

“He says that his contribution is that he's just that clever. And he can hear you. He’s getting tetchy about it, if I’m being –”

Tetchy?!

“– honest.”

Jaheira looks ever so slightly amused as she says, “But you can’t use magic, correct?”

“I can cast Firebolt, but nothing more wizardly than that.”

“Pity,” says Jaheria, not sounding especially distressed. “We’ll have to manage somehow. So Astarion, you know how to use that rapier. Good. We may need you to join us for reconnaissance or other missions before we target the palace. If Cazador has as much political power as you say he does, this will require a good deal of preparation. Bringing down one of the most powerful nobles in Baldur’s Gate will not be an easy task, nor a short one.” 

Astarion is good at patience. It's not a skill that came naturally to him, but in centuries of waiting, of sometimes being left for days at a time in the dormitory or kennel with nothing to do and nowhere to go, it’s a skill he learned and learned well. And with a reward this substantial at the end, he knows it will be worth the wait. Still, a few diversions along the way will help, and if they involve a bit of theft or violence, so much the better. “Whatever you need,” he says graciously.

Can I request that you ask her something from me? Or am I still being too tetchy?

Gale’s not above a bit of pettiness. Good for him. What is it?

We need to break into Ramazith’s Tower to get that book. Can they help us with that?

“Gale wants to know if you can help us steal a priceless magical book from a heavily-guarded vault,” Astarion relays.

Jaheira appears taken back. “Didn’t I say I am not fond of thieves?”

“If it helps, the owner of the vault stole Gale’s books first, including the book containing Gale,” explains Astarion. Remembering Rolan, he adds, “And if you need additional justification that he’s deserving of a good burglary, I’m fairly confident he’s been beating up his apprentice.”

He has? How did you know?

Trust me. There’s only so much cosmetics can cover up.

And you didn’t think to mention this to me? I know we were on the run, but you might at least have said something to me.

It wasn’t relevant.

How is that not relevant? That’s a horrendous breach of the sacrosanct agreement between teacher and apprentice, the very foundation upon which the study of wizardry is built! 

We have our own problems. More important ones.

And that’s how you go about the world, is it? Never mind what other people are going through – it’s so far beside the point that it’s not even worth a mention?

Yes? What about that is confusing?

Jaheira cuts in, “Entertaining as it is to watch your face when you’re obviously having an argument between yourselves, I do want to know what’s so important about this book?”

Astarion drags his attention away from Gale’s indignation. “Gale thinks it contains answers about what happened to him and how he can get his body back.”

“And no other book will do?”

None that I know of within a month’s travel, says a sullen Gale. 

After Astarion relays Gale's answer, Jaheira nods. “I’ll consider it. No promises. Our resources are finite and we’ve just committed to investing most of them in this vampire matter. That must take priority.”

Fine.

“He’s delighted.”

Will you stop putting words in my mouth?

That’s just the problem. You don’t have one.

You’re not making this whole situation any less aggravating. I have literally no other way of communicating with the rest of the world and rather than simply recounting my responses, you’re taking every opportunity to mock me. 

Then stop being such fun to mock, my dear. Gale has a proud streak, not to mention an annoyingly self-righteous one, judging by his reaction to Astarion’s observation of Rolan. It’s all too easy to knock him down a peg or two.

“If we could focus briefly?” Jaheira has been carefully noting on her map the places Astarion mentioned Cazador’s spawn hunting. Now she folds it up. “I have work to do, as do Tairn and Somi. As for you, don’t wander too far and don’t be followed back here.”

Well, that’s a surprise. “You’re leaving us here alone? No babysitters?” Maybe she really does trust them, at least a bit.

“They have more important things to do than watch you. I’d say keep out of trouble but I don’t think you two are capable of that. If you’re half as good a rogue as you say, Astarion, then you should be able to wriggle your way out of any problems.” She drains the last of her tea, swirls the cup, and passes it to Tairn, who fetches a padded box from under the table and begins packing up his tea set.

“Watch your back out there, leech,” Tairn says. “And wizard.”

The front door closes behind the Harpers, leaving Astarion feeling at a loss. Just yesterday he was afraid of going out into the streets, seeing Cazador and his minions in every shadow. Now he’s facing down the prospect of staying in Baldur’s Gate for gods-know-how-long. Is he really going to hide out in this cramped flat?

The answer is no, obviously, though he’ll feel more comfortable going out and about in daylight hours. But he doesn’t have to go anywhere just yet. He hasn’t had a chance to wash up properly since before Marus, so he’s going to take a bath and feel clean again. Gale be damned – he can enjoy the show if he likes, or not if that suits him better, but it’s happening either way.

Of course, there’s no hot running water in the building, so Astarion has to go through the boring chore of hauling water up from the basement cistern and heating it over the kitchen fire. Gale, still in a sour mood, largely leaves him to his own devices as he drags buckets of water up the stairs, putting most of it in the tub and the rest in a pot over the coals. 

As he waits for the water to boil, Gale at last comments, This is terribly inefficient.

I assume you had some sort of magical hot water heater in your tower.

Of course. But even without such a system installed, there are far better ways to do this with magic. 

Like this? Astarion recites the incantation and flicks his wrist with the idea of playfully sending a Firebolt splashing off the side of the pot. But as he completes the gesture, the surge of energy from channeling the Weave is not the minor trickle he expects. It’s a sudden deluge that roars through him, and for an instant he feels Gale’s shock mingling with and amplifying his own, and then there’s a blinding flash of light and a wave of heat. An almighty clang echoes through the kitchen as the pot of water is knocked off its tripod by the force of the spell. It empties onto the coals with a hiss, forming a plume of steam that fills the kitchen. 

Mystra’s mercy! Gale exclaims as Astarion hurries to prop open the windows. You didn’t mean to do that, did you?

Bloody hells, no! Shit, now the coals have gone out. The hearth is completely soaked; it’ll take ages to relight. 

Softly, Gale says, I felt that. I felt the Weave moving through you, through us. That was… He trails off, lost for words. 

What happened? That was you casting that spell?

…No, says Gale. No, it was both of us. You started it, and then I felt the movement of the Weave and I… I added to it. 

And knocked the damned pot over. How does a fire spell do that, anyway?

That was a proper Firebolt, the way a wizard would cast it, with a component of kinetic force. From your reaction, I take it you’ve never cast one before.

As the last of the steam clears, Astarion retrieves the fallen pot from the hearth. My eyebrows aren’t singed, are they?

We make a discovery this momentous and you’re worried about your eyebrows? Yes, they’re fine. Not a hair out of place. Now back to the matter at hand: I strengthened your cantrip far beyond what you could have managed on your own. 

Yes, and exploded the bloody kitchen while doing it. 

But what if I can cast more spells through you? What if I can, to borrow a phrase, really contribute? 

Astarion considers this. It might be fun to be able to shoot fire and lightning from his hands. He never had the dedication to study magic, but if a wizard turns up willing to do most of the heavy lifting, why not give it a try? He pictures tossing a Fireball at Cazador. It’s a very pleasant image. 

Very well, but let’s not practice indoors, hmm? It took me long enough to drag all that water up here, and now I’ll have to start over, and that’s after waiting for the coals to heat back up. Unless you have any other suggestions?

Gale, in his smuggest tone yet, says, Why yes, I believe I do. You only know the one cantrip, yes?

Correct.

Let’s kill two birds with one stone and find out if together we can cast something you’ve never attempted before, beyond merely a heightened version of what you already know. How best to show you…? Here.

And suddenly Astarion knows the words, knows the gestures that go with them. It’s almost like Gale’s hands are over his, gently, showing him how to move; like Gale’s whispering incantations in his ear. He follows the pattern and the Weave rushes through him, but softly this time.

There are no fires or explosions of steam. Just a feeling of crispness and cleanness followed by a rustling of fabric. He looks down to find his shirt and trousers looking like they’ve been carefully laundered and pressed. His boots have been polished by an invisible hand. His skin and hair feel fresh, the last remnants of blood and sweat vanished, as though he’s just had a bath. Even his nails look neatly trimmed.

Prestidigitation, says Gale. Handy little spell for just these occasions. 

Astarion feels cheated. All this time, wizards were going about magicking themselves into presentability, and he’s had to do it the hard way. Where has this spell been all my life? 

And that’s just a taste of the wonders I can show you.

Well then, no time to waste. But when Jaheira and the others ask us about how we figured this out…

…Perhaps we shouldn’t mention the state of the kitchen. 

Agreed. Let’s come up with something suitably heroic instead. Let’s see: we were venturing boldly out into the city when we were accosted by a group of armed evildoers…

Chapter Text

Bloomridge Park is full of life on what promises to be one of the last warm and dry days before the winter rains set in. Children playing as Flaming Fist and goblins, picnickers on the grass, couples strolling hand in hand, all taking advantage of the season. Overhead, scattered clouds ride a gentle breeze across a bright blue sky. 

In a secluded back corner of the park is a clearing, shielded from general view by thick bushes and low trees, and in its center, Astarion lies on his cloak and soaks up the sunlight. Truly, a cold-blooded creature like himself appreciates it in a way the living never can. He lets his eyes drift halfway shut. He could do without the distant shrieks of the children, but he’ll take what he can get. 

His schedule is far from packed, so he’s been coming here when the weather’s been clear for the past tenday. He and Gale stumbled across it while looking for a place to practice spellcasting without attracting too much attention or running the risk of setting Jaheira’s safehouse on fire, and while they quickly found that loud bangs and flashes of light were still very noticeable here, it is a good spot for Astarion to unobtrusively catch the sun. His other favorite place is the safehouse roof, but yesterday Tairn caught him up there and made some highly uncalled-for comments. Astarion knows his pallor can’t be helped; he doesn’t need reminding of it from a great clod of a barbarian with delusions of wit. Thus, he came here today instead.

That, and it’s closer to the entrances to the sewers. Which is where Gale would rather go right now. 

Are you nearly done basking? Gale’s prodding him a bit, but Astarion can tell he hasn’t really lost his patience. There’s a wry edge to his tone, but nothing sharp behind it. 

Nearly. Astarion lets his eyes inch towards closed. If anyone tries to sneak up on them, Gale will let him know. There are many benefits to not directly sharing senses: he’s seen his own face now, for one, and he has an invisible sentry watching over him even when he’s not on high alert. 

This is important, you know. 

Oh yes. Vitally.

May I remind you that Magic Missile literally cannot miss its target, even without a clear line of sight? It’s ideal for attacking from cover at range. It perfectly complements your fighting style. 

It’s quite loud, though.

If all our enemies are blown apart by projectiles of magical force, it doesn’t matter how loud we are. But it will only work if we –

– Practice. Yes, yes, I know. One moment. Astarion squeezes his eyes all the way shut, trying to memorize the feeling of the sun on his skin. No matter how many times he brings Gale out here with him, it never gets old. 

You remind me of Tara when you do this, says Gale.

Tressyms enjoy the sun as much as the next cat, do they?

Intelligent and magical though they may be, they do possess their fair share of feline qualities. As do you, he adds as Astarion gives a toothy yawn. And you both delight in vexing me when the mood strikes you. Again, there’s no heat in the words.

Consider it payback for the fact that you are dragging me away from this idyllic grove and into the actual sewers. But Astarion gets up anyway, re-adjusting his cloak. A little help cleaning up, if you please. 

You’re perfectly clean. Even so, Gale does his part to channel the Weave as they cast Prestidigitation for the fourth time today. Astarion has no notion of how he managed so long without it, so when Gale gets his body back, Astarion has resolved to learn how to cast it by himself. It shouldn’t be too difficult, being only a cantrip. 

He makes his way along the park’s winding cobblestone paths, dodging urchins and dogs at play and taking in the thousand shades of green that sunlight brings out. He was never much for the outdoors, but after two hundred years without seeing all these colors, he savors them. It’s no longer spring, but in Baldur’s Gate autumn comes late, so many of the trees still have leaves. He’s also looking forward to seeing them turn red and fall when the time comes. 

He’ll have time. They both will. Three tendays since making contact with the Harpers – three tendays of freedom – have passed without much progress. Jaheira’s agents are supposedly at work across the city, doing whatever it is spies do, but updates have been few and far between. The spawn haven’t turned up in any of their usual hunting grounds. The palace is under surveillance but there’s been little activity. 

Astarion suspects that Cazador’s gotten cautious. From his perspective, he knows that Astarion abruptly gained the ability to disobey his orders, then walked out the front door in broad daylight. It’s likely that he heard about the debacle at Fraygo’s Flophouse, meaning that he’s aware Astarion can now drink humanoid blood. Cazador’s arrogant, but he didn’t get to where he is by being reckless. Astarion’s become an unknown quantity in his eyes, worthy of wariness. 

On one level, this is enormously satisfying. Cazador being afraid of him is a delicious thought. On another level, it makes for slow going. Astarion can be patient, but that doesn’t mean he wouldn’t prefer to be doing something – preferably something involving a nice cathartic bit of violence – instead of waiting around for the Harpers to make their move.

So, though he doesn’t want to admit it to Gale, there is a silver lining to going into the sewers. It gives him something to do. More than that, it’s a pursuit of power, power to protect himself and make his tormentor suffer. He reserves the right to complain about it, but nevertheless, every day finds him climbing down some manhole or other to toss spells at a wall. 

His time is his own now, or at least, his own and Gale’s. That in itself is a gift. He doesn’t want this peculiar arrangement with Gale to become a permanent fixture, but to himself he will concede that, if he has to have anyone magically bound to him, Gale’s not the worst person it could be. 

Sometimes he wonders if Gale would say the same about him. Gale did say that their situation was preferable to being tortured in the Hells, however. So at least that’s something.

It doesn’t snow here, does it? Gale asks as they pass an oak whose leaves have barely started to turn.

Almost never. And when it does, the whole city shuts down. Everyone loses their minds over it and nothing gets done. It’s pure havoc. 

Perhaps we’ll get lucky and it’ll happen this winter. I do enjoy a change in seasons.

Even if it comes with chaos?

I could be persuaded. Life isn’t all about order and efficiency. 

Indeed it isn’t. 

Astarion passes through the park gates and takes a left. The streets are broad here, but if he ducks behind a nearby inn, there’s a manhole entrance he can get into with a semblance of discretion. He does so with a bent piece of iron he brought specifically for this purpose, descends the ladder, passes through a short tunnel, and enters their practice room.

The chamber is large and dimly-lit. Through the center cuts a channel that drains from the Chionthar and that is, mercifully, not as foul as one might expect. A rickety wooden footbridge crosses it, leading to other passages on the far side. But on this end of the room is an open area whose walls over the past tendays have become increasingly pocked with scorch marks.

Astarion and Gale invoke Light on an old crate that sits next to the canal. It’s not necessary for either of them – Astarion’s darkvision seems to have transferred to Gale’s own senses – but it’s a useful warm-up exercise. Blue-white radiance fills the hall and makes it feel marginally less gloomy. Who would have known an empty box could make such an effective lantern?

But Light is just another cantrip, or in wizards’ terms, a zeroth level spell. Cantrips are not the reason they came down here to practice. If all magic was this easy to cast together, they wouldn’t even need practice.

Astarion asks, Where should we begin?

As I’ve just been extolling the virtues of Magic Missile, that seems as good a place as any. Let’s start at first level. When you’re ready.

Astarion focuses. He genuinely does want to get this right, though it’s been a struggle. The difference in power, control, and coordination required from cantrips to first-level spells is surprising, and it’s taken them this long just to be able to cast at this level reliably. Apparently it’s much harder for Gale to judge the correct amount of energy from the Weave that a spell requires when it’s being channeled through someone else. Though Gale claims he’s used to casually tossing around fifth-level spells, it’s going to be a while before they reach that point. Astarion doesn’t know what level of spell Cazador uses, but he’s certain it’s far higher than first.

Intention matters with magic, and for Astarion and Gale, it has to match up between them. He pictures red darts of force aimed at a particular brick on the far wall. He speaks the incantation, performs the gestures, and calls the Weave. Gale does the latter with him. They get the timing right, crimson light arcs through the air, and dust falls from a newly cracked and battered brick. 

At some point, Gale notes, we’ll need to be careful we don’t bring the ceiling down on us. 

We’ll need to increase our power level long before that will be a concern. 

Correct, but I’d argue these basics are finally conquered. I’m optimistic our progress will accelerate from here on out. 

Let’s find out. Magic Missile, second level? What should I do?

It’s the same spell as far as you’re concerned. I’ll add the extra energy. Just do exactly what you’ve been doing. If it works, it should conjure four projectiles, not three.

Astarion nods, takes a moment to settle himself, and casts the spell. Or, tries to. 

Just as he’s completing the casting, the energy Gale lets loose hits him like a tidal wave. Purple-white light blurs the edges of his vision and he feels himself shaking uncontrollably. He falls to his knees, lightning shooting down his every nerve. The tail end of the somatic component goes wrong: the finger and wrist positioning is off, he knows at once, but the energy still has to go somewhere, and it chooses to pour out between his hands in a concentrated blast. There’s a flash of red light, followed closely by a boom, by which time Astarion is already flying backwards, landing several feet away in an undignified heap.

Next time, give it a little more force and maybe we’ll collapse this whole room. Were you trying to blow me up?

I’m sorry. I misjudged the magnitude of Weave I was channeling. 

Really? I hadn’t noticed. Astarion sits up, hissing with a sudden headache. His vampiric regeneration should take care of any pesky cuts or bruises before long, but he can still feel the aftershocks of the Weave rumbling through him, making him feel unsteady. He stands up gingerly and contemplates the fresh crater in the floor. 

Astarion, I… I owe you an explanation.

This is not a tone of voice he’s heard from Gale before. He sounds uncharacteristically nervous. What about?

I believe I’ve mentioned that the Netherese magic contained in that book is now a part of me, yes? Or perhaps more accurately, I’m a part of it.

I do recall something of the sort, yes.

It’s volatile. It disrupts my connection to the true Weave, to Mystra’s Weave, and that disruption worsens as our magic becomes more powerful. Cantrips are easy enough to manage. First level spells required practice. Now, with second-level spells, the Netherese magic is fighting me much more vigorously. And it’s putting you in harm’s way.

He’s afraid now. Nothing has really seemed to scare him, certainly nothing that he’d admit to, until now. Astarion’s had his suspicions about the nature of that all-devouring void he saw on the day Gale briefly stopped responding, and this conversation all but confirms them. 

You’ll figure it out, Astarion says, trying to sound sure. He doesn’t mention that if Gale can’t conquer this, his own dreams of storming the Szarr palace and raining down raw destruction from the shadows will never come true. It wouldn’t be fair, not when Gale’s obviously putting plenty of pressure on himself already. And, well, Gale doesn’t deserve that. 

Magic is my life, Gale continues. Perhaps I ought to say that it was my life. I’ve been in touch with the Weave for as long as I can remember. They called me a wizarding prodigy, an artist of the arcane. And now I’m like this. I feel like a shadow, a fragment of a ghost, a specter of who I once was. And I’ve no one to blame for it but myself. 

Astarion doesn’t like where this is going. Then we’ll just have to get you that book on Karsus, won’t we?

I appreciate the sentiment, truly. But what if it doesn’t hold the answers we seek? I’m not trying to be a pessimist, merely pragmatic. What if there’s nothing to be done? What if I’m just… like this? 

The thought has crossed Astarion’s mind, and he can come up with no better answer than Gale, but he can’t say that at a moment like this. Indeed, he has no idea how to respond except, It won’t come to that. 

But it might.

Astarion pinches the bridge of his nose against the headache that pounds at his temples. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Lorroakan’s book is still our goal and I think Jaheira might be warming up to the idea of helping us with that. Even if that fails, you said yourself that we have other options. We could go to Waterdeep, for real this time, and check with your old colleagues. Then Candlekeep if that doesn’t work out, and after that, who knows?

That’s a lengthy trek across the Sword Coast. 

I’ve been wanting to see the world, says Astarion with a casual wave of his hand. Once our business here is concluded, if you still don’t have your body back, then all you’ve done is given me a good excuse.

Gale says, You’d do that?

Astarion chuckles. I was ready to pack up and leave for Waterdeep without so much as a bedroll, in case you’ve forgotten. 

That was because we were fleeing Cazador. Once he’s dead, you could do whatever you wanted. You could stay here.

My dear, I’ve been here far too long. Besides, I think I’d make quite a dashing adventurer. With your help, of course. 

And you’d have it. Gale’s voice is full of raw relief and sincerity. It’s a bit much, frankly, but it is nice to hear a promise made that Astarion can actually believe in. 

For all that, Astarion doesn’t think he can take much more of this conversation. Hopefully he’s done enough to calm Gale’s worries. He stands up. There, you see? No need to fret over hypotheticals. Shall we go? 

Not just yet. There’s a flicker of Gale’s usual confidence now. Much better. Let’s try one more time, if you’re willing. Perhaps a spell that aligns more closely with your, er, natural tendencies will be easier to cast. 

Whatever do you mean? Are we going to try necromancy? Can I summon a zombie? Please?

We’re trying nothing of the sort. Gale’s reassuringly back in lecturer mode. Despite that, I rather think you’ll like this one. It’s not an Evocation spell, so there’s less chance of causing any unwanted explosions. Once again Astarion feels Gale guiding him through the spell, showing his hands how to move. 

Astarion follows along. This time, the magic is still strong, but not nearly as wild as the last time, and he’s braced himself for it. He keeps his feet, and though sparks still zigzag down his veins and his head spikes with pain, he pushes through it all and completes the spell. 

There’s no change, no flame or lights, no shimmering shield of energy, and he’s about to ask Gale just what they were meant to be casting when he sees it.

More precisely, he doesn’t see it. His hands have disappeared. He can still feel them, still move them, but they’re nowhere to be seen. He looks down at the rest of his body and finds it similarly vanished from view. 

This one takes concentration, Gale tells him. He sounds like himself again. But I don’t think I need to explain its benefits to you.

No, Astarion replies, positively gleeful. Who cares about little things like a headache at a time like this? He draws his unseen rapier and brandishes it at the air. No, I can imagine them very well. I think we’re going to have a lot of fun.

Chapter Text

Astarion blinks in the late-afternoon sunlight as he heaves the manhole cover aside once more and emerges into the open air. As he replaces the metal lid, he readies himself to cast Prestidigitation once more – by now, Gale knows without having to be asked that Astarion will need to shake off the lingering scent of the sewers post-haste. The incantation is on the tip of his tongue when from behind him, someone says, “What were you doing down there, mister?”

Shit. He spins around to see a human child staring at him from a door leading to the inn. A staff member’s child, perhaps? Why didn’t Gale warn him? He’s supposed to be the eyes in the back of Astarion’s head. 

“Oh, er, just… nothing to worry about. Run along, now.”

The child wrinkles her nose at him. “My ma says only thieves and troublemakers go down there.”

She’s got you there.

Shut up.

“If you must know,” Astarion replies, “I’m the public utilities inspector. Wouldn’t do to have a drainage system that wasn’t up to code, now would it?”

He’s not sure if she’s buying it. “Ma says not to talk to inspectors.”

“And quite right, too. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have reports to file.” He strides off in the opposite direction, internally cursing his timing. No doubt the kid will tell her mother all about the strange elf who climbed out of the manhole, and now he’ll have to find a different way down into the sewers. He doesn’t want his comings and goings noticed.

You do a decent impression of an imperious bureaucrat.

I was a magistrate. Not the same as a city inspector, but some of the mannerisms translate. 

He ought to head back to the safehouse rather than risk getting caught outside after dark. Over the past tendays, he’s gotten more comfortable being out and about in the city, but that’s only during daylight hours. Without the sun’s protection, he’s far more vulnerable. 

As he sets off, Gale says, Thank you.

I’m sure you’re welcome. What for, specifically?

For what you said back there. I was… well, I still am troubled by our predicament. I fear the possibility that there may be no solution. But hearing that you would be willing to undertake a journey to look for one means a great deal to me. 

This again? Astarion had hoped they’d put this issue to bed for the time being. As I said, let’s take things one at a time. We still have some very important vengeance to attend to. 

Not to mention that it’ll be a public service, destroying a creature like that. 

Exactly! We’ll be heroes! Gale likes that word, Astarion has come to find. Astarion doesn’t, of course. The Harpers parade about claiming to be do-gooders, yet for over two centuries of Astarion’s misery, they stood by and did nothing. Harpers, City Watch, Flaming Fist, religious orders, and countless parties of adventurers all passed by, either too blind to realize what Cazador was doing, or already in bed with him. Sometimes literally. Even now, the only reason the Harpers are helping is that Astarion escaped entirely by chance, then practically gift-wrapped an opportunity for them to take down a vampire lord. That’s what heroism amounts to. Pathetic, really. 

Astarion wishes Gale could see it clearly. For all the help they’ve given her, Jaheira has yet to commit to getting Gale that book. Astarion doubts she ever will: better to dangle the possibility in front of them, stringing them along until she has no further use for them. Gale doesn’t want to hear that, so he’s destined to have his hopes crushed. 

It isn’t fair, but neither is the world. It’s just how things are.

By now, Astarion has reached a major thoroughfare, not far from Sorcerous Sundries. The street swarms with people. He’s got his hood up just in case, though he doesn’t expect to be recognized in broad daylight, especially not with how quiet the Szarr palace has been of late.

So it’s a shock when he looks up at a disturbance in the crowd to see a carriage shoving its way through. It’s Cazador’s carriage. Not the fancy gilded one, but the plainer one the spawn used on business that didn’t involve impressing anyone. The driver’s unfamiliar to him and the curtains are drawn so he can’t get a look at the occupant’s face, but he knows that carriage. 

They’ve found him. They’re coming to take him back. Even as he registers the familiar chipped paint and faded curtains, he’s shoving backward through the crowd, to the mouth of an alleyway, and scanning every nearby face for threats. He can almost hear Cazador’s vicious laughter already. Astarion thought he could escape him. He should have known better –

What is it?

It’s his carriage. No need to specify which ‘he.’

Oh. It doesn’t seem to be stopping.

For a few tense moments, all Astarion can do is stare. But Gale’s right. The curtains don’t so much as twitch, the driver doesn’t look his way, and no one passing by gives him a second look. The carriage continues on its way down the street. 

Do you think it’s him? 

N-no. Astarion counts his useless breaths. If his heart could beat, it’d be racing. He only uses his nicer one. That must be… must be someone else. Maybe Dufay or one of the spawn. 

I don’t see anyone watching you, for what it’s worth. 

Astarion double-checks his surroundings and relaxes a fraction. Gale’s right. The carriage rumbles along past him. 

Gale asks, Are you all right?

Of course. Just a touch startled. He counts out another three breaths, then three more, by which time the carriage has nearly disappeared at the end of the street. The horses are moving at a brisk walk, which is about as fast as can be achieved in a street this busy.

Where do you suppose they’re going? Gale wonders.

What an excellent question. They’ve had so little information from the Harper spies recently. Perhaps some of them are following this carriage right now, but if not…

Let’s find out, says Astarion. They can’t afford to pass up this opportunity. And now that Astarion knows he’s not the target, he can seize the initiative. He can be the hunter and Cazador’s minions the prey. 

Are you certain? 

Entirely. Astarion starts off following the carriage. It’s moving slowly enough that he should have no difficulty tailing it. 

What if it’s a trap?

Then we’ll take advantage of that marvelous second-level spell you just performed. They can’t catch us if they can’t see us. 

Very well, Gale says. I should be able to keep it up for about an hour if pressed.

Fabulous.

Astarion follows behind the carriage at a distance. He knows the streets well enough to predict which way it’ll turn, which turnoffs are too narrow to allow its passage, and before he’s fully conscious of it, he finds himself grinning. It’s wonderful to be doing something, rather than just waiting around and practicing magic on inanimate objects. Maybe there’ll even be a fight. Gods, he hopes so; the last action he got was at the Flophouse, and while he could have done better at the combat, he can’t complain about the meal he got out of it. He’s been poaching animals in the meantime. The civil authorities have been putting out bounties on feral pigs in the Heapside Narrows for years, and Astarion ought to have earned himself a tidy sum by now. It’s infinitely better than what he’d been getting under Cazador, but nothing compares to the blood of thinking creatures. If he plays his cards right and gets ever so slightly lucky, he might get to indulge again at the end of this. Surely no one will miss the coach driver. 

He has to backtrack away from the safehouse to track the carriage, but no matter. Gale can make him invisible now, so how are Cazador’s minions going to be able to find him? It’s every rogue’s dream come true. 

Astarion had thought the carriage might be going to one of the spawns’ hunting grounds, or to the house of one of Cazador’s associates, but neither appears to be the case. It keeps going northwest instead, towards the municipal graveyard. Though sensationalized tales might associate vampires with cemeteries, Astarion has long avoided the place. Indeed, he’s fairly certain that the last time he was in a graveyard was when he dug himself out of his own coffin, which is hardly exactly an experience he’s eager to revisit. This wouldn’t be the first time Cazador indulged in necromancy, however, and so he keeps waiting for the carriage to pause, to turn closer to the graveyard entrance, but it doesn’t. It’s puzzling. He can’t think of any other reason to come to this part of town. 

Gale, meanwhile, is getting into the spirit of things. I’ve never tailed anyone before. ‘Tailed,’ is that the correct term for covertly following a target at a distance? I’ve read about this in plays, obviously. 

Astarion’s long since gotten used to his babbling. Which plays?

Have you ever seen ‘Touched by the Shadows?’ A rather steamy piece of work about a pair of spies set to work for opposing kingdoms who gradually fall in love with one another. It’s all rather silly, but there is a very entertaining sequence in which they realize they are each accidentally tailing the other, and so have been chasing one another around the city in circles. At the end… well, perhaps I shouldn’t spoil it.

Do tell.

As you wish. At the end, they fake their own deaths and run off together. 

Ah, a classic. Astarion hasn’t had the opportunity to appreciate literature or theatre in some time, and this sounds like just his sort of thing. Hopefully it’s full of shocking twists, tragic betrayals, and wild plot contrivances. He hadn’t pegged Gale as the sort to enjoy a good bit of pulp fiction, but the world and the wizard alike are full of surprises. 

Astarion adds for Gale’s benefit, And yes, I do believe this is referred to as ‘tailing,’ though you’d have to ask the Guild for the newest terminology. Many of my references tend to be out of date. 

We can concern ourselves with semantics later, Gale responds. It looks as though the carriage is stopping.

Gale’s right. The driver has pulled to a halt at the end of the street by what looks to be the back entrance to the graveyard, shielded from direct sunlight by tall buildings on all sides. Astarion stops in his tracks and, finding himself standing next to the window of a butcher’s shop, pretends to be fascinated by the cuts of meat on display. Out of the corner of his eye he watches from a block away as the carriage door opens.

The figure who steps down is wearing a cloak and hood, but that’s not enough to fool him, not after all this time. He knows how these people move, could identify them simply by watching the way they walk, even shrouded in complete darkness. Moreover, he knows those gods-awful sandals. It’s Dufay. 

Dufay’s bold to be out and about before the sun has truly set, even though he’s drawn the curtains and is sticking to the shadows. He’s a vampire spawn, but unlike the rest of them, he’s not one of Cazador’s. His own sire got staked by a cleric, and so rather than do something worthwhile with himself, he voluntarily joined Cazador’s retinue. In exchange for obsequiousness and having someone to keep the palace accounts, Cazador gives him preferential treatment and lets him pretend to be better than the rest of the spawn. 

He tells Gale as much, silently. Cazador’s chamberlain. He does run errands from time to time, though what he’s doing here I can’t say. His confusion only deepens when Dufay turns aside from the graveyard gate and instead knocks on the door of an unassuming shop called Candlehallow Tombstones. 

The door opens, revealing a dwarf dressed in red. They begin speaking in hushed voices, and from this distance, even Astarion’s hearing can’t make out what they’re saying. We need to get closer, but that driver will spot us at once if we do. Pity we can’t just kill her without raising the alarm. Gale, would you be so kind?

We can’t kill everyone who inconveniences us, you know. 

I just said we weren’t going to kill her. Come on, we’re wasting time.

All right, I’m ready. Go ahead. 

Astarion performs the gestures and incantations as before. Once again, the Weave slams through him with brutal force, leaving stars flashing in his vision and his skull aching, but it’s all worth it when he raises his hands and sees nothing at all. 

Down the street, Dufay and the dwarf have gone inside and closed the door behind them. Astarion still moves cautiously and keeps his steps quiet as he approaches the carriage. It wouldn’t do to raise suspicion by making noise. For all that, strolling past the driver and watching her look straight through him is most satisfying. He gives her a cheeky wave as he does. 

He doesn’t know her. Not one of Cazador’s usuals then, or perhaps a new hire. At any rate, she looks bored. He passes within feet of the driver’s box and leans up against a window near the shop door. 

Inside, Dufay sounds irritated. “And just how much longer will you require?”

A second voice replies, presumably that of the dwarf. “If you want the highest quality –”

“I do.”

“ –then all will be finished by the solstice.”

“It had better be. I thought your organization was meant to be professionals in this sort of thing, but I’ve had nothing but delays. My lord has been most frustrated.” Dufay’s using his most pompous tone. Astarion finds himself grinding his teeth.

“Respectfully, this is a rush job.”

“And you are being compensated accordingly. I will not hear such complaints from a gang of sewer-dwelling fanatics.” 

The odds that this is a normal tombstone shop are dropping precipitously. What need would Cazador have of grave markers anyway? Sewer-dwelling fanatics? Something terribly interesting is happening here. 

Now the dwarf’s getting angry as well. “Your patriar boss may have gold, but it is nothing compared to the power of the Dread Lord. You’d do well to remember that.”

There is a moment of silence, followed by Dufay saying, through what sounds like gritted teeth, “I meant no offense.” 

“That’s better.”

“And you’re certain this potion will work on someone with my… metabolism?”

“You mean a vampire?” So that little secret is out, is it? “That is part of what makes the brewing so difficult. But yes. It will work perfectly.”

The intrigue here is simply delicious. Dufay’s told this person what he is, and he wants a potion for himself. Not for Cazador. For himself. Is he planning on betraying Cazador somehow? If so, perhaps Astarion can use that fact to force Dufay to reveal everything he knows about Cazador and his plans. Astarion hates Dufay and would love to see him dead, but he may have his uses before that day comes. And who is this Dread Lord? A crime boss? A cult leader?

“Very well,” says Dufay, straining for his normal air of imperiousness. “But I expect – er, I hope you will communicate more clearly in future when delivery dates change. And I must insist that the final product be delivered no later than the day before the solstice.”

“That can be arranged.” 

“One additional request,” Dufay adds. “I require some poisons. Straightforward ones, but effective and lethal.”

At that, the dwarf sounds positively thrilled. “That we can handle at once. I have several wonderful options in stock, including ones that would retain their potency against the undead. Here, I’ll show you what we have.”

There follows a shuffling of footsteps. But something’s wrong – the footsteps are coming from more than one direction. 

They’re coming from behind him. 

Astarion turns. A group of three people are approaching the tombstone shop: two humans and a half-elf dressed in nondescript city clothes. They have watchful looks about them, eyeing the carriage as if sizing up why it’s here. Astarion had gotten so distracted by eavesdropping on Dufay that he hadn’t noticed them coming. No matter. He’s invisible anyway, thanks to Gale.

Even as he thinks it, he realizes that something feels wrong.

He looks down at his hands. For an instant, they flicker into view.

Gale? he shouts internally. We need this spell to work!

There is no answer from the wizard. 

Shit, shit, shit. Of all the times for Gale to vanish on him! Gale, please!

His hands phase back to visible once more, briefly. It’s no longer than an instant, but one of the humans’ gaze snaps around to where Astarion is crouched by the shop window. 

“What was that?” Just like that, a dagger is in his hand. This is starting to feel awfully familiar.

Gale!

The invisibility breaks, and with it, an abyss opens beneath Astarion’s mind, like the earth seizing with a quake, and he nearly falls into it right there and then. He grabs onto consciousness with all he has as he scrambles backward and to his feet, unsheathing his rapier and brandishing the blade at the three newcomers. “Stay back,” he warns.

“Intruder!” snarls the other human. She draws a shortsword from her side. A cry of alarm sounds from the driver, and with a snap of the reins, the carriage rattles into motion. Astarion has to dodge out of the way to avoid being trampled. From inside the shop, Dufay’s voice is raised. 

Astarion recovers from his dodge quickly, just in time to parry the blow as the dagger-wielding man lunges at him. He’s much stronger and faster now that he’s well-fed, though the yawning hole in his mind where Gale is supposed to be is making him dizzy. He ripostes with a vengeance, burying his blade in his opponent’s chest.

The man’s face starts to dissolve. Tanned skin fades into unnatural white. A shapeshifter. He gurgles at Astarion as blood seeps down from the rapier wound and grabs for Astarion’s arm. The rapier blade pushes deeper and deeper as the doppelganger pulls himself forward onto it, gagging and choking all the way. 

Astarion drops his rapier. He’ll never be able to get it out in time, and time is of the essence. He has no time to wonder why shapeshifters are guarding this place, no time to consider what will happen when Dufay inevitably comes outside to see what all the commotion is about. “ Gale!” he screams, both in his head and out of it, but the abyss only howls louder in reply.

With his rapier let go, the body of the first shapeshifter falls with a thud. Before it hits the ground, another of the three is already starting to change. She comes at him with a shortsword, thrusting straight at his gut. He dodges left and simultaneously stabs up and right with one of his daggers, carving a slash into her chest. 

Then his shoulder explodes with pain. The third shapeshifter is holding a crossbow. He looks down and sees the bolt protruding beneath his collarbone. 

Astarion’s vision blurs. He forces it back into alignment. He’s had worse pain than this, much worse. This is nothing compared to being flayed, or those other times when Godey would get creative and start experimenting with hot coals. He doesn’t let himself stagger. Instead, when the next shortsword blow comes, he steps back, letting it whistle harmlessly through the air an inch from his throat, before whipping his other dagger around and plunging it into the shapeshifter’s throat. 

A spray of blood hits him across the face. Apparently doppelgangers don’t taste as good as regular humanoids. Who knew? 

“Astarion?”

Dufay, by now, has made it outside as the bleeding shapeshifter collapses. Astarion doesn’t turn to look at Cazador’s chamberlain. He’s not worried about Dufay joining the fray – the man never was a fighter. But that red-dressed dwarf, on the other hand…

Astarion closes the gap between himself and the final shapeshifter, who throws aside his crossbow when he sees him coming. He’s fast, drawing a knife of his own. Astarion makes a stab at his chest, but the movement sends a spasm of agony down his shoulder, and the world shudders as Gale’s black hole tries to pull him under. In the instant Astarion’s distracted, his foe plunges his own knife down.

It misses the heart, and Astarion manages to pull back at the last minute, making the stab shallow, but he still gasps with agony. And it’s more than that – the dagger burns as it goes in with a sickening sizzle. Astarion, above the all-devouring maw of chaos, acts on reflex. He digs his teeth in, holds on, and then pulls away. 

It’s hardly elegant, but it is effective. The shapeshifter crumples, bleeding out from a hole in his throat.

Astarion staggers on his feet. The blood helps, if only slightly, but it can’t do much against the darkness threatening to eat him whole. Dufay has run off after the carriage. And the dwarf dressed in red is advancing.

“Impressive,” he tells a trembling Astarion. “You have a knack for killing.” His disguise falls away, revealing that same paper-white skin stretched tight over a grinning skull of a face. 

Astarion’s almost out of strength. Every movement promises to topple him. His fingers shake too badly even to grip his daggers anymore. 

So he does what weeks of practice have taught him to. If he has to go down, at least he can take this one last bastard out with him. Too bad it wasn’t Dufay, but one doesn’t always get what one wants in life. 

He speaks the words of Magic Missile, and with cataclysmic power moving through him, releases the spell.

It erupts from his hands in another blinding flash, but this time, he’s not aiming it at old flagstones. He aims it straight for the doppelganger charging him. Then he’s tumbling backward as before; he doesn’t even get to see what happened to his opponent as he falls, bleeding, onto the paving stones. Each wave of vertigo tells him he won’t be getting up. 

Any passers-by have sensibly run off. There is silence in the street. Presumably his last-ditch spell put a crater in that shapeshifter, like it had in the sewer stones. Four on one, and Astarion hindered by Gale exploding into nothingness, and he’s won. 

The light is rapidly vanishing. Godsdammnit, Gale. 

Something flashes: lantern-light on the blood, staining the blade of a dagger. Reddish light swirls in the metal itself. It must be enchanted.

A strange impulse takes him. With the scraps of his strength he reaches out and touches the blade. 

His vision goes purple-white. 

Then nothing.

Chapter Text

He’s standing in his bedroom. The walls are lined with bookshelves, but even that’s not enough to contain all the books, which spill out into stacks on the floor, the desk, and under the bed. A chalk circle has been drawn on the floor in a careful scrawl, as though by a child who has not yet mastered their fine motor skills, but is nonetheless determined to be as careful and precise as they can. A motley assortment of lit candles stands in a ring around the circle. 

He speaks the incantation. There’s a flash of light, and he shuts his eyes for a moment. When he opens them, he can’t keep a beaming smile off his face. 

A tortoiseshell cat has appeared in the center of the circle. She daintily licks the back of one paw, then looks up at him with yellow-green eyes as her wings half-open.

“Hello,” he says, barely containing his excitement. “What’s your name?”

“Are you making friends at the academy, dear?”

He can’t quite meet his mother’s eyes. “Yes, of course. But there’s a lot of work, you know.” He takes another bite of fish-and-dumpling stew. This time, she let him put in extra pepper flakes, and he thinks the experiment was rather a success, but the dish still needs more lemon juice. 

“I know you’re working hard.” She circles the table, and gently but firmly, puts a hand under his chin to lift it. “I’m so proud of you. You’ll be an Archmage before I know it. It’s just that… Take some time to be young, okay?”

She lets him go after he finally makes eye contact. “Don’t grow up too fast,” she says, kissing the crown of his head. “I love you.”

He nods and says he loves her back, and all the wile feels at once safe and cherished and nervous, because he fears in this one way at least, he’s letting her down.

He’s meant to be writing lines. ‘I will not indulge in foolish stunts that put myself and others at risk.’ A month of this, every evening after finishing his coursework. But the ancient instructor they tasked with keeping an eye on him is snoring quietly at the head of the room, and so he’s enchanted his quill to write the lines for him. Meanwhile, he’s engaged much more productively. 

‘Gale Dekarios,’ he signs with a flourish, then frowns at the paper. A future Archmage needs a signature both elegant and imposing for when someone asks for his autograph, or when his correspondence is archived for the benefit of future generations. He’s having trouble making the D look suitably impressive, no matter how many variations he tries. 

At last he switches tack: ‘Gale of Waterdeep.’ The W lets him add extra swirls and curlicues, and the whole thing together has a proper air of mystery and power. He proceeds to fill the rest of the page with his brand-new title.

She comes to him in a dream that first time. When he wakes, he could almost convince himself that a dream was all it was, if it weren’t for the ease with which he channels the Weave after she taught him a new focusing technique. 

He conjures image after image of her face, straining to get the details right. It never quite works, but he tries anyway. He applies himself to his studies with even greater fervor: magical theory, runes, history, mathematics, enchantments, alchemy, Draconic, planar physics, ever more advanced invocations. Every spare hour is spent in the library. 

His peers don’t believe him, but it doesn’t matter. Mystra has chosen him. What more could he possibly want?

In Elysium, surrounded by the blossoming of the Weave, she takes him to bed for the first time. In truth, bed isn’t the right word. Bathed in the heart of the very fount of magic, his mind, body, and soul wrapped in the presence of his goddess and the very essence of the art to which he’s dedicated his life. It’s nothing like his trysts with mortal men and women. Every part of him is exalted, made anew. How could anything else possibly compare, after this? 

He will prove himself worthy. No, more than worthy.

One day, he will prove himself her equal . 

There’s a sudden, ripping pain in Astarion’s shoulder, and at once he understands what must have happened. They’ve got him. They found him bleeding and passed out in the street, and now they’re going to make him pay for daring to escape. Any minute now, when he opens his eyes, he’ll see Cazador’s face smirking at him. Astarion will bleed and burn and break, and after they’ve had their fun making an example of him, he’ll be shut away in the darkness for so long, he’ll forget what sunlight looks like. 

“Easy there.” The voice comes to him from far away. “You can put those fangs away.”

It’s all right. It’s only Jaheira. We’re safe. 

 A hand falls on his shoulder. He flinches away, but then relaxes as a soothing warmth spreads outward from the contact. The pain eases. He opens his eyes.

He’s lying on the floor with Jaheira looking down at him. Above him is a familiar ceiling of rough-cut wooden boards. He’s back at the safehouse. More accurately, they’re back at the safehouse. The chasm in his mind is gone, and in its place he can once again sense Gale’s presence. More than that: Gale’s anxiety is so strong it’s bleeding right across their link.

Astarion, I’m so sorry. 

“What happened out there?” Jaheira wants to know.

Astarion would like answers to that as well. “We found Cazador’s coach,” he begins, “and followed it to a tombstone shop. It was Dufay, Cazador’s chamberlain. He was talking to someone about some sort of potion, and then we were attacked by bloody doppelgangers…”

“Doppelgangers?” Jaheira exchanges a worried look with Tairn, who sits in a chair off to one side, mug in hand. 

“They were protecting the shop, I think.” Astarion winces: the healing spell Jaheira used helped, but he still feels sore where he was shot and stabbed. He notices the bloody tip of a crossbow bolt sitting next to him on the floor. That must have been the source of the pain that woke him. 

“It was foolish to do that alone,” admonishes Jaheira. “You were lucky that two Harpers were also following the carriage, recognized you, and hauled you back here. Otherwise, you might have bled out in the street.”

“I was supposed to be invisible,” Astarion says. 

About that… Gale’s nerves spike. We need to talk.

Yes, we do.

I’d like to speak face-to-face as it were, if you’ll allow it, once we’re done here with Jaheira. 

As you wish.

Jaheira raises an eyebrow. “You got that far with your wizardry practice?”

“I thought we did. Then something went wrong. I’m not entirely certain what.” He keeps it vague for now in front of the others, at least until he and Gale have a chance to speak. 

“Still, to take down four doppelgangers single-handed? Perhaps you really can handle yourself.”

Four of them by yourself? 

I am terribly impressive, aren’t I?

Jaheira’s not done. “Skilled in a fight or not, I hope whatever you found out was worth it. Now Cazador is sure to know his movements are being tracked, if he didn’t already. Not to mention he now has confirmation that you haven’t left the Gate.”

Astarion is well aware of those problems. Still, he did learn something of potential value. “Cazador’s chamberlain, Dufay, may be going behind his master’s back and buying mysterious potions,” Astarion relates. “Not to mention an assortment of poisons. He needed them ready before the winter solstice. It’s not what your average tombstone-maker would have in their inventory. Candlehallow must a front for something. I wonder what.”

Jaheira frowns. “Last time I tangled with doppelgangers, Sarevok Anchev was behind it. He died a long time ago, though. The Cult of Bhaal could still be active. Something to look into.”

Now there are cultists involved? This is all starting to get out of hand. Astarion wants two things first and foremost: Cazador dead by his hand, and Gale to have a body. Other objectives include blood, gold, power, and so on and so forth, but none of them involve worshippers of a god of murder. 

“Let’s not overstretch ourselves when it comes to sinister organizations obsessed with death,” he says. “We already have plenty to be getting on with.” As he speaks he tests his shoulder. Jaheira knows her way around a healing spell; there’s barely a twinge of pain.

“And we will. Be more cautious with your spellcasting next time. My Harpers might not be there to save you.”

A part of Astarion wonders if this is a threat, but he’s known Jaheira for three weeks, and threats of that nature aren’t her style. It’s a simple warning. If he and Gale get themselves in too much trouble, the Harpers might not be able to rescue them. It’s a bit humiliating that Astarion even needed a pair of Harpers to drag him to the safehouse, but better them than Cazador. 

Which reminds him. There’s a great deal he still doesn’t understand about what happened with the invisibility spell and its aftermath, up to and including the fact that he experienced what he’s reasonably confident were snippets of Gale’s memories. Meanwhile Gale’s anxiety has not abated as Astarion and Jaheira have been talking. It’s making Astarion feel jumpy. 

He tells Jaheira, “I do appreciate your timely intervention. Now, if you don’t mind, Gale and I need to figure out what went wrong in the first place.”

Jaheira inclines her head. “Figure it out quickly. We don’t need any more incidents like today’s. This is a complication. The information about the chamberlain could be useful, but he may make himself scarce after this and be hard to get to.”

“Trust me, I want this solved even more than you do.” After this, the Harpers might decide he’s more trouble than he’s worth, but so far, they’ve actually held up their end of the alliance. Warnings or threats aside, they could have left him bleeding out, surrounded by doppelganger corpses, but they didn’t. The Harpers put themselves at risk to save him and Gale. That’s more than Astarion expected. 

He’s gotten used to saying it to Gale, so he may as well say it to Jaheira. “Thank you, by the way.” He tries for casual, as though acknowledging a trifling favor, but suspects based on how the corner of Jaheira’s mouth twitches that she sees right through him. 

“You’re welcome,” she says. 

It might be easiest if you have a seat.

Astarion does Gale one better and lies back on the bed, eyes closed. Whenever you’re ready.

The darkness behind his eyelids falls away, replaced by a gentle glow. They’re not out on the balcony this time: Gale’s spun an image of his library instead. The hearth radiates warmth and lanterns of dimmed magelight illuminate the rest of the room, which is wall-to-wall bookshelves. The scents of ink, parchment, and leather bindings fill the air, and the only sound is the soft crackling of the flames. It’s a room meant for Gale’s version of comfort, from the overstuffed shelves to the plush carpet to the many soft chairs and recliners.

Gale is seated in a chair opposite Astarion. He looks exhausted and worn, even as a mental projection of himself, leaning forward with his elbows braced on his knees. He doesn’t meet Astarion’s eyes, but is all but vibrating with tension. 

Astarion takes a seat next to him. A part of him wants to snap at Gale for answers. They were nearly killed twice over by the doppelgangers and by that void, and if this happens again, they might not be so lucky. But Gale just looks so afraid that Astarion bites back his impulse to be sharp with him.

Astarion thinks of what he saw in the moments before Jaheira woke him by extracting the crossbow bolt from his shoulder. Were those Gale’s memories? If so, Gale’s been keeping his cards close. A goddess… Astarion’s going to need details. Beyond that, he feels as though the missing pieces of Gale’s character have slotted into place. Ambition coupled with insecurity and an undoubted talent for magic. 

Astarion begins by asking, “What happened?”

Gale finally lifts his gaze from the carpet. “Something I feared. I… I told you before that I owed you an explanation. I should have revealed everything then, but I thought it wasn’t necessary. Still, events have proven that for your own safety, you need to know the truth. More than that, you deserve to know.”

Astarion raises a finger. “Before that, I do believe some of your memories transferred over during… whatever that was.”

Gale raises an eyebrow. “Oh? What in particular did you see?” He doesn’t seem upset. Perhaps he’s decided it’s Astarion’s due, or simply a convenient way of bypassing the need for verbal explanations. Or perhaps they’ve both come to grips with how limited their privacy is, given their situation.

“Several things, but one in particular I must know. Did you really have sex with a goddess?”

Gale, to Astarion’s surprise, doesn’t blush. “Oh, yes.” There’s even a hint of a swagger buried in there. 

Astarion looks him up and down. “Good for you. What was it like?”

“That’s what you want to ask me?”

“Can’t blame me for being curious,” says Astarion with a shrug. 

“It was… indescribable. Connecting body to body, mind to mind, soul to soul. It’s how the gods make love. You didn’t… see any of it directly, did you?”

“Only bits and pieces. Nothing close to the full picture.” He does feel slightly guilty about invading Gale’s privacy like this, but it was unintentional.

“So you’ve gotten a preview of what I’m about to tell you.” Gale seems to force himself to sit back and look Astarion in the eye. “You know I was accounted a wizarding prodigy. What I didn’t tell you, what you may have inferred, is that my skill attracted the notice of Mystra herself. She was my teacher, my muse, and in time, my lover.

“But for all my mastery of magic, there are boundaries to what mortals can accomplish, to what Mystra permits. I sought to cross those boundaries. I begged, pleaded, and swore that all I meant to do was to honor her, but she simply told me to be content.

“In time, I discovered the location of a book that was said to contain a fragment of the magic that was unleashed during the Fall of Netheril – when the Netherese Empire fell and the Weave splintered, when Emperor Karsus attempted to seize the power of a god for himself. He died in the attempt, and in so doing, unleashed primordial chaos. Magic was lost to the mortal realms until the return of Mystra. As a grand gesture, I thought to return this lost piece of herself to the goddess. Perhaps then, I hoped, she would welcome me into the true vastness of the Weave.”

“...And that’s how you ended up trapped inside a book,” surmises Astarion. “I suppose that terrifying void is the magic from the book?”

Gale nods. “My own folly, my own hubris, allowed the Netherese magic contained within the book to overpower and consume me. My continued existence is tied to that power. As I’ve said, more powerful spells allow it to interfere with my casting. As we were eavesdropping outside the tombstone shop, I abruptly lost control. I didn’t even have time to warn you – one moment I was focused on maintaining your invisibility, and the next I was plummeting endlessly into darkness. I feared I’d never be able to escape and that I’d drag you down with me.”

“But you did escape,” Astarion points out. “How did that happen?”

“I am not completely certain, but I have a strong suspicion. I believe you managed to give the Netherese void something else to feed on besides us, thereby stabilizing it.”

“Blood?” 

“I doubt it. Otherwise, I would have felt something on the occasions of your previous feeding. No, this was a souce of magic. A part of the Weave itself, fed directly into the abyss.”

Astarion plays through the fight in his mind. Could it have been casting Magic Missile? No, that had been an uncontrolled expulsion of power, not an absorption. What then?

That dagger. In his last moment of consciousness, he’d reached out and touched it, and for the second time in recent memory, his vision had flashed purple and white after making contact with a magical object. 

“I did grab onto an enchanted dagger,” he says to Gale.

Gale’s eyes light up. “That must have been it! Through you, the void pulled the Weave right out of it.”

“And how long will that last?”

“For now, it’s holding. It feels calmer than it ever has. I fancy I could cast second-level spells with little difficulty. But I doubt the Weave from a single enchanted weapon will last forever, even without spellcasting. The Netherese void will hunger again. 

“I am well aware this may be a burden. Magical items aren’t easy to come by and we may require a substantial supply. But we have few alternatives, seeing as the destabilization of the void likely means both our deaths. It’s even possible that, should we succumb, the energy generated would be released in a cataclysmic explosion.”

“Fantastic.” Astarion inclines his head backwards and stares at the ceiling. “We really need to get our hands on that Karsus book.”

“Astarion, I –” 

There’s the faintest quaver in Gale’s voice. Astarion looks back at him to see him wide-eyed, at once earnest, solemn, and terrified. 

“Astarion, I’ve said it before – I owe you an apology. You didn’t asked to be bound to me. You didn’t ask to feed an entirely different kind of hunger, on top of what you already struggle with. And you certainly didn’t ask to be made into an arcane time bomb. I’d understand if it doesn’t mean very much coming from me, when there’s nothing I can do immediately to remedy the situation, nor indeed any method of us separating, even for a short while. But for whatever it’s worth, I am sorry.”

Gale is, on the face of it, correct: Astarion didn’t ask for any of this, and truth be told, he’s not thrilled about having to seek out and destroy valuable enchanted items to keep from imploding. But he doesn’t say so. Gale looks nearly defeated here, and with good reason. The unluckiest man in the Realms: lost the favor of a goddess; had his body taken away from him in a different manner but no less thoroughly than Astarion had once upon a time; wizardry warped into a shadow of his former skill; and utterly reliant on the kindness of a creature like him. 

Perhaps it’s time to dredge up that kindness, just this once. Gale’s given Astarion the truth and has earned as much in return.

“My dear, no matter how complicated you’ve made things, this” – with a gesture between them – “is still leagues better than how things were before. You’ve freed me from Cazador. You helped me walk in the sun.” Inwardly he adds, You listened to me. You made me feel almost safe.

The full truth is this: Gale is the best thing that’s happened to him in over two centuries. Magical time bomb and all. But that’s perhaps too much truth to be spoken aloud. 

Instead, Astarion continues, “We are in this together. We both have our own reasons, but we share a common goal. And incidentally, I did mean what I said before. If The Annals of Karsus doesn’t have the answers we need, we’ll go looking for them. I do want to see the world, and, well, seeing it with you… I could do a whole lot worse.”

The expression on Gale’s face as Astarion finishes speaking is far too much to look at, almost like staring at the sun. Astarion pretends to be fascinated with his nails. 

At length, Gale says, “Your generosity is astonishing. I find myself in the rare position of being lost for words. Anyone could have opened that book, and yet it was you.”

Astarion can feel things unsaid on both sides, hovering in the air. The moment is fragile, fleeting – and then it passes. 

“I suppose,” he concedes with a wry half-smile, “you might not be the absolute unluckiest man in the Realms. Maybe only the second or third unluckiest.”

Gale replies, “As a matter of fact, I’m feeling very fortunate indeed today.”

Astarion spots a chance to move the conversation towards safer territory. This talk has been necessary, but very charged, and he wants to be able to look Gale directly in the face without feeling overwhelmed by what he sees. “As you’re feeling so fortunate and grateful, would you mind conjuring the night sky again? It was rather lovely when you did it last time, and there’s simply too much light here in Baldur’s Gate to get a proper look at the stars.”

And now at last, Gale’s back to a simple grin. “Your wish is my command.”

Chapter Text

This may have been a bad idea.

Shush. You’re distracting me, Astarion tells Gale as he fiddles with the lock. There’s a flinch-inducing metallic jiggling sound, then the snick of tumblers dropping, but the door doesn’t open. In the silent hall, to Gale’s frayed nerves, the noise goes off like an explosion.  

Astarion, somehow, is still quite blasé about the whole thing. How’s our friend? 

Not ten feet away, a guard is standing in the hall, facing the far wall. He’s scratching himself somewhere best left unmentioned, and this has apparently preoccupied him enough that he doesn’t notice an invisible Astarion picking the lock. 

Fine for now. Will you hurry up?

The pick snaps in Astarion’s glove and the broken edge falls to the floorboards with a soft clink. The guard must have awful hearing, because he doesn’t so much as flinch. Astarion pauses only momentarily before he retrieves another lockpick from his wrist stash and begins again. 

It is anxiety-inducing to be sure, but there’s something captivating about it all the same. Gale’s old life in Waterdeep had more than its fair share of excitement but it wasn’t this kind. The pitfalls of academia, the wonders of the Weave, Mystra: those are the sort of thing that used to get his blood pumping. Nowadays, though he doesn’t technically have blood, and Astarion’s circulatory system doesn’t function, there are thrills aplenty of a different nature. Chases, fights, espionage, and now heists. 

At last the lock opens. Gale keeps an eye on the guard, but he doesn’t notice the door opening just far enough for Astarion to slip inside, then closing again. Once the door is shut behind them, Gale feels a fraction of the tension leave him and lets the Invisibility drop for the time being. Astarion, for his part, looks about as smug as Gale’s ever seen him, which is saying a great deal. What do we have here? he muses with a smile.

To be fair, it’s quite a sight. Ornately-decorated chests line the walls of the small room, with display cases mounted above in which are stored especially valuable items. Between these are paintings, some of which even an amateur appreciator of art like Gale can identify as highly valuable. Best of all, he can feel the telltale vibrations of the Weave. Magical objects are close at hand. 

Astarion opens the nearest chest, which, though small, proves to be filled to the brim with gold. Should have stored this in the Counting House, he remarks. It’d be much harder for any disreputable characters to get their hands on it. But Lord Blackburn always was the paranoid sort. No surprise that he kept a backup stash in his home.

The follies of the wealthy, Gale muses. 

He doesn’t feel badly for the Blackburn family, and certainly not for its patriar. Astarion had indicated he owed Lord Blackburn an ill turn, and while Gale hadn’t pressed him for additional information, that alone was more than enough to eradicate any sympathy Gale might have had for a man who was about to have his vault thoroughly raided. Or at least, raided to the extent that Astarion will take as much as he can carry single-handedly. 

Funnily enough, that means steering away from hard gold. The weight-to-value ratio of gold is actually quite low, as Gale made sure to explain to Astarion before they came here. They’re better off swiping lightweight but highly valuable items to be sold or, in the case of magical objects, consumed. But he sees the hungry look in Astarion’s eyes and makes no comment while Astarion fills his purse.

It does make sense to carry gold on hand. Jaheira isn’t exactly giving them a stipend, though if Astarion or Gale actually had ordinary living expenses, Gale imagines they’d be provided for. Magical items are their only necessity and even for a large organization like the Harpers, they don’t come cheap. Thus, Astarion suggested liberating some objects from patriars with deficient security and lax morals. Gale suspects the second part of that suggestion is due less to any ethical principles Astarion has, and more to a combination of attempting to mollify Gale, coupled with pure spite. 

Still. Here they are. One Sleep enchantment on a guard who was patrolling the back garden at an inconvenient moment, a helping hand from Gale when Astarion found himself at first unable to enter the back door, and an Invisibility spell that Gale, fresh off consuming an enchanted locket, is feeling quite confident about maintaining. 

That abyss of Netherese magic is a distant presence. It never goes away – he can’t entirely escape it – but it’s not interfering with his casting, and that’s a true relief. As Astarion rifles through display cases, Gale examines the rest of the room, searching for anything of either great use or exceptional value. 

He spots an example of the former on a nearby table. It looks like an ordinary purse of the kind someone might clip to their belt, but the leather is of unusually fine quality, soft and supple, and embroidered with geometric purple designs on the trim. Weave emanates from it, but Gale’s not keen on eating this one. 

Astarion, I do believe that is a Bag of Holding.

What? Where? But he picks up on it at once and immediately begins shoveling more gold in. The Bag of Holding devours the coins without a trace. Now they really can empty out Lord Blackburn’s personal vault.

Unnecessarily, Astarion says, You’re not eating this one.

I wouldn’t dream of it! Truly he wouldn’t — bags of holding are far too useful, and besides, there are plenty of other objects in the room worth draining of the Weave.

By the time  Astarion finishes his initial plundering, Gale has compiled a mental list of everything else in the room worth investigating. He’s well aware they likely could simply bundle all the loot into the Bag and sort it out later, but one trick to making sure one doesn’t lose track of the contents of a Bag of Holding, and thereby make it much harder to retrieve needed items, is to have a solid idea of what one puts into it in the first place.

At Gale’s suggestion; Astarion picks up a ring. Gale quickly deduces based on its magical energy that it’s a ring that empowers the wearer to cast a few minor illusion cantrips. They earmark it for a future sacrifice to the volatile Netherese magic. The same goes for a wand that casts Firebolt. There’s an amulet that grants its wearer protection from poison, which might actually be of use under certain circumstances; and a cracked old shield with a fire resistance enchantment that Astarion, at least, will never use. The latter won’t fit through the opening to the Bag of Holding in any case.

Astarion liberates the rest of the non-magical jewelry in the room, of which there is a decent amount. The remainder of the valuables in the room are far harder to carry away. Removing the paintings from their frames would be simple enough, but they would then have to find an art dealer willing to buy clearly stolen works, and neither of them know where to look for such a person. Large, ornate vases aren’t conducive to being stuffed into a Bag of Holding. 

I think we may have pilfered everything we can, Gale says. We should leave before – 

He stops when Astarion freezes, with that look that tells Gale he’s noticed something. When Gale pauses to listen, he can hear it too: footsteps out in the corridor. Still distant, but coming closer. 

Gale re-casts Invisibility. As I was saying, let’s be off. 

For once, Astarion doesn’t argue. He lets himself back out the door, closes it behind him, then stalks away down the corridor, past the still-oblivious guard. It’s strange, moving with Astarion when he’s invisible. Gale’s point of view moves with no visual indicator of what it’s bound to. He can still sense Astarion’s presence through their connection, so he doesn’t feel completely unmoored, for which Gale is grateful.

Halfway to the stairs, they encounter the source of the footsteps: a man in gaudily expensive clothes, headed straight for the treasury Astarion and Gale just left. Lord Blackburn, Astarion says. I should have smashed one or two of those vases. 

I’m sure we’ve already thoroughly ruined his day.

Let’s stick around to watch, Astarion proposes. I want to see his face when he realizes what’s happened. 

Gale abandons his hopes of a quick getaway. 

But Astarion’s not wrong: it is entertaining, standing unseen in a corner while Lord Blackburn rapidly progresses through confusion to panic to pure rage. Gale does feel for the poor guard, who bears the brunt of it. Astarion, unsurprisingly, has no sympathy for him at all. 

By the time they leave, the entire estate is in uproar, and Astarion can’t stop giggling. 

Tonight, Gale’s decided on the aurora borealis. It rarely appears above Waterdeep, and never in such splendor as this, but this is his illusory world, and he can make his own rules. He brightens the stars, casts curtains of green and purple light across the sky, and watches from his balcony with a glass of spiced wine in his hand. 

He thinks he’s finally gotten the flavor right. Visual workings always come easier to him than those focused on the sense of taste, but at last he’s found a way to reproduce a decent vintage, and to mix in some cinnamon, star anise, and citrus while he’s at it. 

Astarion’s meditating, which means there’s little for Gale to do for the next several hours. He doesn’t sleep these days, and so he’s taken to passing time in his mind palace and waiting for morning. He’ll feel it when Astarion begins to stir. 

The lights of the aurora bend and flicker, mimicking the distant outline of Mystra’s palace in Elysium. Gale frowns; he hadn’t consciously meant to do that, but it seems his mind is headed in that direction again. He doubts he’ll discover any new answers now, on his thousandth time replaying the events that led to his current predicament, but even so he finds it nigh-impossible not to ruminate on them. 

Does Mystra know what happened to him? She’s a goddess, she must know. So why hasn’t she appeared to him? There’s only one conclusion: this must be part of his punishment for his failure. She must be catastrophically angry with him and with good reason. Even if he gets his body back, can he ever earn her forgiveness?

At least he can still use magic, so long as he consumes the Weave. He hasn’t completely lost his command of her art. True, he needs Astarion’s aid to manifest any spells outside his mind palace, but he depends on Astarion for everything else, so why not that?

He really is fortunate to have found Astarion, and for Astarion not to have shut him out once the truth of Gale’s history became clear. Astarion’s had so little kindness or generosity in his life, and he’s learned that tragic lesson well. He doesn’t give the world the benefit of the doubt. Fear drives him – and yet, Gale would swear that Astarion’s not afraid of him. Which is wonderful and strange, and an odd kind of honor. 

An easy question: why does thinking of Mystra now so readily makes him think of Astarion instead? Gale knows the answer. He is not a stranger to his own feelings. If Astarion only knew how closely Gale’s studied his face, watched his expressions from annoyance to boredom all the way to that rare but wonderful flash of genuine delight. Astarion is truly beautiful. He knows it, the cheeky bastard, but that doesn’t change how stunning he is. And it’s not just that: he’s witty, clever, playful, and has a soft side no matter how well he hides it. The way he looks after a fight, even covered in blood, does fascinating things to Gale’s insides.

Gale, of course, feels the weight of responsibility. Astarion cannot think that Gale is proposing any kind of quid pro quo. Already Gale’s had to clarify that Astarion doesn’t owe him, and certainly doesn’t owe him in that way. It’s understandable that after two centuries of abuse, Astarion would come to that conclusion, but Gale refuses to participate in such a dynamic. 

But maybe when he has his own body, if fate is extraordinarily kind to an undeserving wizard, when Cazador is dead and the specters of Astarion’s past begin to fade… 

That would be getting ahead of himself, and assuming that Astarion wants anything at all to do with Gale once they’re no longer bound together, which is a mightily arrogant assumption. Astarion will be free. He deserves to enjoy the full fruits of freedom, not to be tethered to Gale anymore. If Gale’s brutally honest, there’s little enough reason that Astarion would ever want him around once he has a choice in the matter. 

And he deserves choices more than anything else. Gale can’t give him his independence and privacy back, but he does what he can, no matter how feeble. He always turns away when Astarion bathes or undresses, though Astarion’s never asked. He doesn’t pry into Astarion’s thoughts or emotions, though it would be easy enough for a wizard skilled in mental discipline. He doesn’t ask unnecessary questions about Astarion’s past, though some aspects of what he went through are obvious without having to pry. It’s the least Gale can do. 

With a wave of his hand, Gale scrubs the image of Elysium from the Waterdhavian night. Such things are not for him. Not any longer.

Jaheira all but rolls her eyes at them when Astarion tells her of the heist on Lord Blackburn’s mansion. Out-and-out theft isn’t, apparently, a Harper custom. But it seems she’s conceded to some extent that Gale and Astarion are outside of her control.

“At least this time, you didn’t need us to rescue you. Don’t get dragged off to Wyrm’s Rock. I’m not sure you’re worth the trouble to bail out.” Gale’s almost certain she doesn’t entirely mean it, but he senses an opportunity to build a bridge here.

Give them some of the takings from the mansion.

What? That’s our loot! Astarion doesn’t seem to notice he’s just said our, but Gale does. He knows if he draws attention to it, Astarion will backtrack at once and claim it was just a slip of the tongue, so he makes no comment. 

The Harpers have been putting us up for tendays now. And what if some of that gold could help them track down Cazador’s weaknesses? Besides, what all were we going to spend it on?

That doesn’t matter, Astarion sniffs. Then, Some new doublets would be nice. 

New doublets don’t cost that much, even gold-encrusted ones. Come on. We don’t have to give her everything. 

Ugh, Astarion groans. Fine, if it’ll keep you from tormenting me about it. To Jaheira he says, “Gale and I have decided that possibly a small donation of our profits might be in order.”

The look on his face as he speaks is priceless. Even Jaheira and Tairn, who has been watching the entire exchange, seem to be struggling not to laugh. 

“You’re very generous, Saer Thief,” she says. “And Saer Wizard, of course.”

Astarion grumbles, “Thank the wizard, not me.” 

Astarion buys three new doublets, two pairs of fine boots, a pair of soft embroidered slippers, and a pretty dagger with rubies set into the pommel. He can’t exactly wear them in the street as they’re still trying to avoid attention, but back at the safehouse, he has Gale conjure images of himself wearing them. 

He’s gotten more comfortable with his own image since Gale’s been showing it to him on request. He still seems a little overwhelmed by seeing his own face, but in this instance, it’s more about the clothes, and Astarion has no difficulty admiring those. 

He does a spin, the mirror image copies him, and he smiles a true and genuine smile, and Gale, privately, goes weak at the proverbial knees. 

“You look very dashing,” he says.

“Don’t I just?” Astarion spreads his arms wide and turns about again. This outfit, a black ensemble with peacocks embroidered in silver, glints in the conjured sun. 

Whyever did Gale spend so much time on Evocation? From where Gale’s standing, watching his vampire look properly happy, Illusion is where the true magic lies.

Chapter Text

Just like every morning, Astarion rises at dawn. While his memories of his pre-vampiric days are patchy, he doubts he used to be a morning person. But these days, watching the sunrise from the safehouse roof has become a routine. It’s a bit embarrassing, but the only other person who knows about it is Gale, and Astarion already has plenty of blackmail material on him against the day he regains the ability to communicate with the outside world.

Today’s is, in Astarion’s educated opinion, not an especially good one. Nighttime fog has risen over the river, and while the effect of sunlight striking through mist could theoretically be appealing, it’s mixed with the city smoke and only manages to appear a dull orange-brown. The winter wind and rain make things dreary, but they do a fine job of clearing the air, or they will, if they ever deign to arrive.

Still, watching the dawn a ritual that’s his, which means it matters. He made it for himself and no one else. Even Gale seems to sense it’s better to keep quiet in these few minutes, which for him is no mean feat. 

As Astarion contemplates the day, Jaheira appears in the street below. He hasn’t seen the High Harper in several days, not since Gale coerced him into giving away their hard-earned stolen gold. Hopefully she’s put it to something resembling good use. At any rate, she looks even more purposeful than usual, and so Astarion surmises she must be here to talk.

He climbs back through his window, straps his rapier to his back, and puts on his cuirass. He trusts the Harpers to some extent, or at least he trusts them to act to their own advantage and protect him as a valuable asset, but it never hurts to be cautious. Especially not now doppelgangers have gotten involved.

At least Gale can’t be replaced. What do you suppose she wants?

I hope it’s not more of our treasure. He secures the bag of holding to his belt, placing it carefully to discourage cutpurses. Extra knives in his boot and up his sleeve, a spare set of lockpicks, his cloak, and he’s ready. Or, almost ready. One can never go wrong with an extra casting of Prestidigitation. 

Downstairs, Tairn has already made tea and laid out a cup for Jaheira. He nods at Astarion. “Morning, leech. Morning, wizard.”

Good morning, says Gale politely and pointlessly. 

Jaheira, in the entryway, is hanging up her cloak, though her scimitars stay with her. It seems Astarion’s not the only one being cautious today. She takes a seat on an offered stool, sniffs the tea, then takes a slow sip. Astarion sits down between her and Tairn. He asks,“To what do we owe the pleasure?”

As usual, Jaheira is ready to go straight to business. “I hope you’ve been enjoying yourselves, practicing spells and robbing clueless patriars,” she tells them. “Holiday’s over.”

“Excuse me? We are training to be prepared to take down a vampire lord, and I do seem to recall giving you a cut of the proceeds of our enterprises.”

“You’ve been sunbathing and throwing lights about,” says Tairn. “Hardly strenuous.”

Astarion shoots back, “Just the kind of understated tact I’ve come to expect from you.”

Ignoring them, Jaheira says, “Cazador’s forces have gone to ground. This you know, but these past many days, we’ve seen no sign of his spawn in any of their usual hunting grounds. We’ve been tracking their movements, yet now there are no movements to track.”

“He’s getting wary,” Astarion replies. “He must be curtailing his operations.”

“You might think so.” Jaheira lays out her much-annotated map on the table. This time, several more taverns and inns are circled in red, and not ones that the spawn frequent. Some are upscale establishments, some rank drinking dens, but none of them are often used to find Cazador victims. “Yet somehow, the rumors of odd-eyed strangers and disappearances remain. These are the places associated with such vanishings, but we have not yet caught any of them in the act. And we have certainly not traced any of his spawn there.”

“Are you certain you were looking hard enough?”

“Believe me, we’ve turned over the stones. Cazador’s six remaining spawn have not been seen there – indeed, have not been seen anywhere outside the castle in over a tenday, yet the number of missing only grows. ”

“Maybe it’s unrelated,” Astarion reasons aloud. 

“Could be. But whatever else it might be, we have yet to uncover it. If these disappearances have anything to do with Cazador, we need to understand how. Could he have sired other spawn? Perhaps in the time since you left? Ones you would not recognize.”

Seems like a logical explanation, Gale offers.

He got worried and created new spawn to throw us off the scent? Maybe. Astarion wonders if these could be Cazador’s onetime willing human servants. They always did beg to be made into vampires. Perhaps they got what they thought they wanted. Much joy may it bring them, the morons.

“It’s possible,” Astarion says aloud.

Jaheira inclines her head. “Which is why we need your help now. We need you to go out into the city and see whether you can identify the perpetrators. See whether they’re anyone you recognize.”

“Hold on. Didn’t we all agree that I would try to avoid drawing Cazador’s notice any more than I already have?”

She’s unimpressed. “The pair of you are a rogue and a wizard, aren’t you? Sneak around, or turn invisible, or whatever it is you do. So long as you’ve destroyed enough magic items that you won’t implode.”

“Fine!” Truth be told, Astarion doesn’t mind having something new to occupy his and Gale’s time, especially if it works towards their goals. Skulking around taverns isn’t his first choice, but he’ll manage well enough, and at least this time he’s doing it more or less of his own free will. “Where do you need us to start?”

Just like that, they have a new nightly routine. In some ways it’s depressingly familiar: at dusk, Astarion shows up at an ill-lit pub, parlor, or pleasure house, then spends hours sitting around looking for a likely target. 

There are two key differences: it’s not victims for Cazador he’s after, but vampires; and he’s no longer alone. So he camps out in darkened corners, avoiding the center of attention, and passes the time with Gale.

Gale is out of his element in places like this. For him, an evening’s entertainment consists of a book and a glass of wine with his tressym. His reasons are his own, but like Astarion, he would rather be somewhere else. But they did agree to do this for Jaheira and the Harpers and they’re both willing to put up with quite a lot if it means advancing their goals. 

They find ways to pass the time, so much so that Astarion half-wonders if one of these nights he’ll forget how to speak aloud. He exchanges few words with the people he meets in these establishments. The farther apart he can keep himself, the better. 

In a nameless dockside tavern three nights in to their new assignment, Astarion poses a question.

Theoretically, who here would you bite?

Gale seems taken aback. Bite? Do you mean that as a euphemism or literally?

Why not both? In truth, Astarion is hungrier than usual, though he eats very well these days. He almost wishes someone would attack him in a darkened alley, just so he’d have an excuse for a good meal. Neither Gale nor the Harpers would approve of him hunting unprovoked. 

Hmm, says Gale, evidently ready to play along. In the spirit of purely hypothetical questions, I’d say the bartender looks appetizing. 

The bartender is a tall, broad-shouldered tiefling with sharply curving horns who, at this moment, is leaning on the bar chatting with what must be a group of regulars. Intricate tattoos cover half his face. Oh, not bad, Astarion says. I could be convinced. 

What about you?

The difficulty with answer Gale’s question is that it’s actually not just one question: it’s two, and not just because it’s a double entendre. Sitting in crowded rooms and watching the crowds, there’s a well-trained part of his mind always picking through his options, looking for someone vulnerable enough to bring back to Cazador. Someone lonely or drunk or horny enough to see in Astarion whatever they need to see, to get them to step out with him into the night. 

He can’t separate out in his head what he wants from what Cazador taught him. In retrospect, posing this question might not have been his best idea. 

The silence goes just a hair too long before Astarion breaks it with Her, doing the telepathic equivalent of pointing at an elven woman seated at the bar. But no he’s thinking about luring her into the dark, and gods, now he’s really regretting his choice of topic. 

Of course, Gale catches on to his discomfort. Unwelcome memories? 

Something like that. 

Do you want to talk about it?

Astarion gives a huff of not-laughter under his breath. Absolutely not.

Shall we discuss something else then?

Let’s. He takes the barest sip from his glass of wine. Distract me, please.

What with?

Anything.

What shall I… I know. You’ve noticed those black and white seabirds over Gray Harbor? The ones with forked tails?

The ones that shit all over the place? Yes, I’ve noticed. Where is this going?

Bear with me. They are a species of tern native to the Sea of Moving Ice. Once they grow their flight feathers, they disperse across the Trackless Sea. They spend years out there without touching land, flying through every kind of weather, skimming fish from the surface or diving down to snare them in the deep. They fly even in their sleep. Many are killed by storms or by ocean predators, but they never rest. For decades they roam alone, seldom seeing another of their kind, with nothing but the fathomless water below and the open sky above.

Then, once they’ve traveled countless leagues, something shifts in them, some invisible compass. They turn east. They come back to the Sword Coast, and not to the Sea of Moving Ice, nor the stretches of wild coastline where they might rest unbothered by civilization. They seek out cities, Waterdeep and Baldur’s Gate among them. Each tern spends a few tendays here before they return to their roosting grounds in the north. And in those tendays, they do something extraordinary.

Manipulations of the Weave leave behind impressions in places where magic is practiced. Places where major workings are cast, or many smaller ones. A skilled wizard can sense these impressions, but that’s all they are: ghosts, memories of what magic was done. There’s no way to harness that residual power, no way to carry it away from one place to another. At least, that’s the case unless you happen to be a tern from Icewind Dale.

Just how they manage it is the subject of intense study, but somehow, these birds absorb the traces of the Weave and fly away with them. The type of spell appears not to matter. It could be a remnant of anything from a mundane fire-protection spell all the way up to a seriously powerful Evocation. It doesn’t harm them. Simply by being in proximity, they begin to resonate with the Weave.

And then they return home. They fly up the coast, back to the Sea of Moving Ice, following that internal compass. The closer they get, the more strongly the Weave resonates in them, so much so that they literally begin to glow. They say a flock of Icewind Dale terns passing over the floes looks like a meteor shower in miniature. 

In those ancient and unmelting floes are their hatcheries. Tunnels in the ice that have existed for thousands of years, leading to hollows in their center. And in those hollows, they release the Weave they’ve collected. 

Flowers bloom from the ice – flowers! Without soil, without sunlight in the long arctic winters. Trees sprout and flourish. Fungi, ferns, each one unique, each one sustained by pure magic. There are insects, butterflies, beetles, even other species of bird and mammal, that exist nowhere else save for those hollows at the hearts of icebergs where the terns make their nests. It’s said to look like something straight from the Feywild, an explosion of growth and color right in winter’s heart.

The terns release their magic, they mate, lay their eggs, and die. Each generation never sees the one that came before. The chicks, in the paradise their parents built for them, feed from the plants and insects that grow there, until it’s their time to fly out over the sea.

Astarion ponders this. You sound like you want to see it for yourself.

Why not? I’ve not done much traveling, you know. This is the farthest south I’ve ever been, and Neverwinter the farthest north. I love Waterdeep and given the chance I’ll always return home there, but one side effect from this whole experience is that it has instilled in me a desire to see more of the world. There are such wonders out there, Astarion, and I’ve only read about them. I know you can sympathize; you’ve said as much.

Astarion gives the barest hint of a nod in agreement. I suppose I can. 

He almost asks, But I don’t suppose you’d be open to company? before thinking better of it. That’s pushing this much too far. Besides, there’s the small matter of getting rid of Cazador in their way. 

Still: cold aside, endless winter nights sound appealing, should the day come when he can no longer walk in the sun. And magical ice caves full of plants and fungi do sound interesting, in a twee sort of way. 

One of the patrons at the bar turns to look at him. Astarion meets her gaze cooly. She’s no vampire nor any of Cazador’s servants he recognizes. Her eyes linger on him, appraising, then drop away when met with nothing but stony-faced indifference. 

In another life, that could have been an opportunity. He takes another sip of his wine and says nothing. He has a mission. A frustrating, boring mission that brings back too many bad memories. 

Gale says, We don’t have to stay much longer. Or at all, if you’d rather leave.

I’m fine. 

If you say so. But Gale’s a bad liar, and tonight, so too is Astarion. Neither of them are fooling the other. 

Astarion admits, I just wish something would happen. I’m sick and tired of sitting around wallowing in a place like this and waiting for one of these supposed vampires to make an appearance. We’re wasting time. 

So let’s go. Gale’s normally the responsible one between the pair of them, which, as Astarion thinks about it, might be an alarming notion. Tonight, however, it seems that neither of them are in the mood to be responsible. Gale goes on, We’ll come back tomorrow and try again with our little – 

– don’t say it – Astarion warns.

– stake-out, Gale finishes. Astarion grits his teeth. It had taken Gale all of three minutes to come up with the stakeout pun their first night and now he won’t stop repeating it. Probably because he knows it annoys Astarion. What’s even more annoying is that Astarion actually does have a wooden stake hidden in his cloak for emergencies. 

I’ll stake you out, he threatens as he stands up. You think you’re absolutely hilarious, you horrendous idiot. 

He’s halfway stood up when it happens. The creaking door opens and a man steps through, and everything in Astarion freezes.

He doesn’t know this man. He doesn’t. But all the same he sits down at once and flips his hood up over his hair. He’s seated at a table where he has a good view of the door while being out of obvious view himself, and he shrinks backward in his chair, trying to be small and unseen before he even understands what he’s doing. 

The stranger is a human with ash-brown hair, stark scars on his chin, and worried eyes. Red ones. His teeth, when he smiles an awkward and painfully forced smile, are too sharp. Astarion doesn’t know a vampire who looks like that, which means he has no idea who he’s looking at. 

But then he speaks and Astarion’s empty stomach turns over. Astarion doesn’t hear the words, doesn’t catch what they say. His ears ring too much for that: it’s just the sound of the voice. 

The man isn’t addressing him, thank the gods. He hasn’t noticed Astarion yet. 

Astarion almost asks Gale to make him invisible on the spot, but that would, alas, only draw attention. Even if people couldn’t see him afterwards, vanishing on the spot would be enough to make people talk, and that’s exactly what he’s supposed to be avoiding. Hands shaking, he grips his wine glass hard enough that he fears he’ll crack it. 

What’s wrong?

I don’t know him, says Astarion automatically. 

Gale has unfortunately noticed the same thing Astarion has. That’s a vampire who just entered, isn’t he? You don’t know him? He’s not one of Cazador’s?

He’s… One of mine, his mind supplies nonsensically. 

Astarion doesn’t know this man. Because the only man he’s met who looks like that, who sounds like that, whose eyes have that specific nervous shine to them, is dead, and has been for the better part of two centuries. Cazador killed him long ago. 

Gods damn him. It’s Sebastian.

Chapter Text

Sebastian makes his halting way to the bar. Astarion can read screaming terror in his every movement, and he sees a flash of Sebastian’s mortal face, hazel eyes hopeful and shy, all those years ago. A young man who’d never been kissed, who picked the worst possible night to gather his courage and then picked the worst possible person to spend it with. 

This is impossible. Sebastian’s dead, like everyone else who trusted Astarion for two centuries. Except he’s here, and a vampire spawn, and that means Cazador didn’t merely drain him and dispose of him all those years ago. Astarion always thought he was leading people to their deaths, but it’s so, so much worse than that. 

Sebastian, still oblivious to Astarion staring at him, stands up at the bar and pastes an unconvincing smile across his face. It’s sickening, both alien and far too familiar. Astarion knows he is meant to stay and watch this, gather information to take back to the Harpers, but he can’t. He gets to his feet, leaves a coin on the table for the wine, and makes his way to the back door. 

Astarion, what’s wrong? Gale asks again. 

Even in the privacy of their mental link, Astarion can’t speak until the back door closes behind him. He’s standing in the small, muddy yard that houses scrap wood, a spindly tree, and two outhouses, and amidst the foul smell and squalor he’s utterly relieved that he’s no longer in the same room as Sebastian. The sounds of the bar are muffled by thick wood now, the lights dim, the darkness comforting.

I don’t… He nearly says again that he doesn’t know the vampire spawn who just entered the tavern. But what would be the point of lying to Gale? I don’t know how…

Easy now, Gale says, soft and gentle, like he’s speaking to a spooked wild creature. Coming from anyone else, it would be demeaning. But it’s not anyone else. Take it slowly. 

I can’t! He starts pacing back and forth, unable to stand still.

All right. Breathe for a moment. Then start from the beginning.

Astarion doesn’t want to start from the beginning. He doesn’t want to start at all. The words won’t come. So he does something he’s never contemplated before: he throws a jumble of memories at Gale, unfiltered, unconsidered, raw. He’s not even certain that all of them have to do with Sebastian. He simply can’t carry this by himself – he needs someone else to know exactly what he’s going through, and words aren’t enough. 

Gale flinches across their connection when the memories hit. Oh.

Is that all you have to say about it? Astarion demands. Oh? 

I – that’s – well. Gale seems dazed. That’s rather a lot to process.

 Astarion picks up his pacing. It is, isn’t it? It is rather a lot. Now multiply that by two hundred twenty seven, and you might have some small inkling of what’s wrong. 

His name is S-Sebastian? Astarion’s never heard Gale stammer before. Somehow that makes it much worse. 

He’s supposed to be dead! Astarion shrieks soundlessly. He ought to be dead! What in the Hells is he doing here? 

I… I don’t know.

Astarion’s thoughts race. How many others did Cazador make into spawn? And what has he been doing with them all this time? He remembers the grinding sound of the stone lid closing over his face, screaming in the dark until his throat felt lined with broken glass, hammering the bones in his hands to pieces in his desperation to escape. He spent one year entombed. And Sebastian’s been a vampire spawn for a hundred and seventy, trapped all that time, and now here luring in victims just like Astarion did. And in turn those victims will rise as spawn, submit to torture, and be sent out to hunt for their master, over and over and over again in a cycle that never stops. Astarion had the stupidity to think he escaped, but he was deluding himself. He’ll never be free while Cazador lives.

Astarion slumps against the inn wall and counts the movements of his chest, the useless passage of air. This is wrong, everything about it is wrong, he’s wrong. He wants to claw his way out of the corpse he inhabits and all the scars it’s brought him. He wants to wind back time to that night when he lay bleeding in the street so he can spit in Cazador’s face when he offers his devil’s bargain. 

Gods, I can’t even imagine, Gale says, and only then does Astarion realize he thought his earlier questions aloud, as it were. What purpose could that possibly have?

Isn’t it obvious? Power. Why settle for seven obedient puppets when you can have gods-only-know how many? He doesn’t understand why Cazador kept Sebastian secret all these years, but Cazador never does anything without a reason. Even if that reason is simple cruelty. 

After a moment’s pause, Gale says, All those years. All those people he made you ensnare for him… We need to put an end to this.

We will, Astarion replies, digging his nails into his palms. Cazador will die screaming.  

And to bring that about, his best next step is to go back inside. This is what it will take to kill his tormentor. Once he does that, he will never have to feel like this, not ever again. Just a brief period of unpleasantness and then it’s done. 

He reminds himself that he’s not in danger. Gale can conceal him, and that’s not all: their Magic Missiles have been improving, they managed a Shatter spell the other day, and Gale says he thinks they’ll be up to third level within days. And on top of that he has his own skills, refined over two hundred years, to fall back on should he need them. He checks that his rapier is still sheathed at his hip, the knives hidden in his boots, and the crossbow and wooden stake under his cloak. He runs his tongue over his teeth – now that he’s allowed to use them on more than rats, he’s learned how to wield them as weapons. 

He’s not helpless anymore. He’s formidable. They’re formidable, him and Gale together. He needs to remember that, come what may. 

Finally, Astarion scans the yard one last time to ensure they’re alone, then asks, I don’t want to be seen in there. Will you do the honors?

None of the other patrons notice the back door opening and shutting by itself as Astarion returns. Now invisible on top of being heavily armed, he feels slightly more prepared to face what’s waiting in here for him. Only slightly.

Skulking around unseen requires a certain amount of caution. It’s still very possible for someone to walk into him, after all, so he has to move about defensively. He finds another quiet corner out of the way of foot traffic and watches and waits. 

His plan is to follow Sebastian out of the tavern and track him, trying to glean any information he can. Jaheira had indicated that the rate of carriages coming and going from the palace has fallen off sharply, so perhaps Sebastian will be returning to a secondary location, rather than directly back to Cazador. If he can find Cazador’s hideout, it’ll be fantastically useful intelligence. 

Yes, he decides, that’s what this is. Intelligence gathering. The Sebastian he once met died, and whoever this vampire is that wears his face, the decades must have warped him into something unrecognizable, much as they did to Astarion. Astarion owes him nothing. He had no choice but to follow Cazador’s commands. He bears no responsibility for the scene unfolding in front of him.

And it is quite a scene. Charitably, Sebastian has no idea what he’s doing. Stiff and awkward, he sits at one end of the bar as if hoping someone else will take pity on him. No one does, and as the minutes tick by, the silent panic in his eyes only grows. Doubtless Cazador will have made clear the consequences of failing to bring back a target. 

Soon enough, terror spurs him on. He introduces himself to a human-halfling pair with a stilted “Hi,” and gets cold shoulders in return. When he tries again with the elven woman Astarion noticed earlier, he gets an bored expression and an eye roll. Had he not known the context, Astarion would have found it highly amusing. 

This is painful, Gale says, and only then does Astarion notice that the wizard’s been unusually quiet. On consideration, it’s not surprising. Astarion once thought Gale had lived a sheltered life up until that book ate him, but that isn’t quite right. Gale’s life may not have been as dramatic as Astarion’s, but the world has nevertheless broken him in his own way, and he’s found ways to soldier on. For all that, Astarion did shove at him a pile of memories that even he doesn’t like to think about. That’s bound to leave an impression. 

He’s going to have to talk to Gale about all of this. In some ways, this makes them even: they’ve both seen snippets of one another’s memories now. Still, the bits of Gale’s past Astarion saw were relatively tame; even the part where he shacked up with a goddess had only been mildly spicy. Whatever it was Gale saw of Astarion’s memories, it certainly could not have been tame.

Maybe Astarion will even have to apologize to Gale. But that’s a problem for later.

Gale adds, The invisibility spell is nearing its end. I can recast it for another hour, but I can’t maintain it all night.

Has it already been an hour? Time flies when you’re having fun, Astarion deadpans. 

You and I have wildly differing definitions of fun.

Astarion watches as Sebastian retreats back to his corner of the bar. The night is wearing on and if he doesn’t catch someone’s eye soon, he might just find himself out of luck.

Some of the other spawn – Petras comes to mind – would use force to bring in targets if they wouldn’t come willingly. That’s one line Astarion never crossed, even though a part of him wondered why, when in the end it made no difference to their fate. The Sebastian he met long ago didn’t strike Astarion as the coercive type. This version looks scared, but not in an about-to-lash-out way. More of an about-to-crumple-in-on-himself way. 

Yet he doesn’t slink off in defeat. Instead, Sebastian visibly gathers himself for one more attempt. Either he has a significant reserve of steely determination, or he’s just that afraid of Cazador’s wrath. Astarion’s betting on the latter. 

Whatever the truth, Sebastian straightens up and approaches a halfling man. This isn’t the target Astarion would have picked – for one thing, Astarion can pick out at least four hidden knives on his person, which Sebastian is clearly too inexperienced to have noticed. The man’s Guild, or perhaps Zhentarim, if Astarion had to guess. Someone armed and with associates who will notice their absence.

Through the din of the bar, Astarion can just about hear a soft-spoken Sebastian greet the halfling and offer to buy him a drink. 

“What’s your game, mate? I saw you come on to everyone and their cousin,” the halfling snaps. There’s a hint of a slur to his words – he’s drunk.

Sebastian seems to realize his mistake. He backs off immediately. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

His intended victim isn’t through. He raises his voice. “Are you that fucking desperate? Pixie Dust’s right down the street.” He’s referring to a local brothel that caters to those who could never afford a night out at Sharess’ Caress. “Or are you looking to cause trouble? ‘Cause let me tell you, I’m happy to oblige.”

“No trouble,” Sebastian babbles. He raises his hands and keeps backing away.

By now, the drama has attracted the attention of a large selection of the tavern’s patrons, some of whom look positively eager at the prospect of a fight breaking out. Sebastian has managed to personally annoy several of them with his bumbling attempts at flirting. 

Gale asks, Aren’t we going to intervene?

And blow our cover?

This looks to be getting violent. Strong drink and ready access to knives are never a good combination. Indeed, the belligerent halfling has unsheathed a dagger and is now brandishing it while advancing on a horrified Sebastian.

Which is a large part of the reason why I’ll be staying right here, thank you. Astarion rejoices in being invisible and off to one side. Tavern brawls are much nicer when one merely spectates, rather than getting cracked over the head with broken bottles. 

Astarion, you can’t seriously be so callous towards a man who’s in this position as a result of your actions –

Astarion hisses, Excuse me? My actions? Need I remind you I had no choice in the matter? I had literally no control whatsoever over my actions. 

But you do now. 

Yes, and I am choosing to keep both my skin and cover intact. Besides, he’s going back to Cazador. Better they kill him now. Believe me.

Sebastian whimpers as the leering crowd advances on him.

When Gale next speaks, it’s in a tone Astarion’s never heard him use before, sharp and steely. I lack any ability to force you to do anything against your will. Indeed, I lack the ability to do anything at all, save by your allowance and cooperation. I am imprisoned – in a cell of my own making, yes, but that doesn’t mean the bars don’t chafe. Moreover, even if I did have the power to coerce you, I wouldn’t use it. I hope you can believe that.

You may not have had choices then, Astarion, but you have them now, and they are a precious thing. But free will means we have to live with the choices we make. I’m living with the consequences of my decisions. And so must you.

The halfling brandishes his knife in the air. Sebastian scrambles away from him, runs straight into a chair, and falls with a crash of splintered wood. The patrons of the bar, sharklike, sense blood in the water. Five of them at least are rounding on Sebastian, and those who aren’t are watching on with keen interest. One of them, a dwarven woman, has started taking bets on how long Sebastian will last. The barkeep, accustomed to this sort of thing, shrugs. Getting involved would be foolish. 

Astarion, like a fool, breaks his invisibility just in time to step between the blade and the vampire spawn cowering on the floor. With back to Sebastian, he opens his arms wide with a welcoming smile.

“Oh dear, my friend seems to have gotten himself into a mess. Apologies, good people. He took a stupid bet on whether he could find someone to bring home with him, but he’s utterly hopeless, as you can see. I’ll just walk him out of here, shall I?”

The knife-wielding goon was clearly not expecting anyone to put themselves between him and his prey. “He’s being a damned nuisance.”

“Believe you me,” says Astarion smoothly, “I shall instruct him in the error of his ways. He won’t trouble you again.” He reaches into the bag of holding at his waist and flashes a palmful of gold. “I hope another round on me will be enough to make amends?”

The halfling wages a brief internal debate, but in the end, drunkenness wins out. He holds out his hand, into which Astarion drops the promised coins. “And I better not see his face again, or I’ll break it.”

“You’ve made your point most eloquently,” Astarion assures him. 

“Good,” snorts his opponent. “Now get gone, the pair of you.” He turns unsteadily back to the bar. “Drinks are on that posh shite over there!”

With that, the attention of the room turns away. Astarion doesn’t look at Sebastian. His hood is up, his cloak obscuring his silhouette. Maybe if Sebastian doesn’t see his face, he won’t realize the identity of his mysterious savior. 

I think he knows, says the pair of eyes in the back of his head. From behind him Astarion hears a thready, frightened, “I know you. I know your voice.”

Astarion remembers him. He remembers his shyness, his gentleness, the trepidation mixed with delight, trembling at Astarion’s touch, his words, his lips. Sebastian’s first kiss, and until now, his last. He’d been sweet and kind, and he hadn’t deserved any of it, and he’d met the fate the world invariably assigns to the sweet and kind and innocent. 

“Get out of here while you can,” Astarion says. He doesn’t look at Sebastian. He can’t. If he does, he thinks that maybe the whole world will plummet out from under him. 

“You –”

“I said get out of here.”

Gale doesn’t need to narrate this next part for him: Sebastian goes without another word. Out into the night, back to face Cazador’s displeasure at a failed hunt. To be tortured and brutalized, and to be sent out once more. Astarion escapes, and another takes his place. What he’s done to Sebastian tonight is no true kindness.

Thank you, says Gale. 

Let’s go, Astarion replies. Unnoticed by the crowd, he slips back out into the darkness, invisibly following Sebastian step by dreaded step back towards his master’s lair.

Chapter Text

Astarion’s in a now-familiar position: tracking a vampire spawn through the labyrinths of the city, unseen and silent and intent. There are a few salient differences between this job and the time he shadowed Dufay, such as the hour, the transportation used by his quarry, and his own enthusiasm level for the task at hand. 

Sebastian has not been accorded use of the carriage, gilded or otherwise. He walks through the dark, flinching from every passer-by and all but quailing with terror. Astarion knows the feeling. He also knows that Cazador’s command must be drawing him back, now that he has failed to find a victim. There is nothing Sebastian can do to escape what’s coming. 

Astarion follows from half a block away, wrapped in invisibility. Sebastian keeps looking back over his shoulder, as if expecting to see Astarion following him. For someone with Astarion’s expertise in remaining hidden, it wouldn’t be difficult to tail him even without magical aid, but he’ll take what he can get. 

What must Sebastian be thinking? Astarion can’t imagine what could be going through his head, apart from terror. What has their master told the other spawn about Astarion? If one of them knows he escaped, it’s likely all of them do. Even when there were only seven, the rumor mill always was strong: who was in favor, who out of it. It rarely led to feelings of solidarity. More commonly, the members of their supposed family would stab one another in the back, sometimes literally, if it meant a respite from Cazador’s wrath.

In fact, Astarion would rather enjoy some violence just about now. The vapid charm he employed on the drunk tavern-goers has left a foul taste in his mouth. Frustration makes his movements sharper, harsher than normal. He wants to bite someone.

Sebastian’s path takes them uphill, towards the gates separating the Lower City from the Upper. Is he headed for the palace after all? Astarion will not follow him in there, no matter how many invisibility spells Gale casts for him. They aren’t ready for that. Not yet. 

Thinking of the wizard, Gale’s gone quiet again. Astarion can feel his presence, but it’s more distant than usual. Not like those occasions when the void hungers – Gale’s still there, just standing at a metaphorical arm’s length. 

No doubt Gale is disappointed with how he had to push Astarion to save Sebastian’s miserable existence. No doubt Astarion’s general lack of empathy, a quality for which Gale has chided him before, has drawn his sanctimonious ire. 

Or perhaps it’s even more than that, Astarion thinks, as a jolt of fear cuts through his fuming. He didn’t properly consider it earlier, but gods only know what was in those memories he shoved at Gale. What if it was enough to do worse than unsettle him? 

Gale knows something of what Astarion did, and had done to him, at Cazador’s command, but it’s one thing to hear it described clinically, and quite another to see it in all its depravity. To learn exactly how it was that Cazador used him. The beatings, starvation, broken bones and ripped flesh, nails torn from their beds, scars carved over and over into him. The nights in the boudoir fucking, or being fucked by, doomed souls of every description, his body nothing more than bait for the snare. The nights when Cazador’s closest patriar friends would come by and avail themselves of Cazador’s band of whores, each of whom was ever so accommodating. The worst nights of all, when Cazador would summon Astarion to his own chambers. How much of that did Gale see?

Astarion channels his anger into thoughts of bloody revenge. When they storm the Szarr Palace, Cazador will be at his disposal at last. He’ll take his time. First, he’ll tie Cazador up and toss Firebolts at him until his skin is charred away. Then will come the gorier work, where he’ll have the opportunity to indulge his own creativity with his knives. He’ll make it slow. Flay away the seared flesh to reach tenderer meat beneath. Part muscle and tendon with precise, lingering cuts. Pop open a joint or two with the tip of his dagger. A vampire can survive such things, Astarion knows. Once Cazador has been all but picked clean and his pleas for the sweet release of true death have degenerated into broken sobs, and once Astarion’s watched him squirm for a satisfying length of time thereafter, only then will he perform the coup de grace and stab him through the heart. Then he will burn the body and toss the ashes in the sewers. 

Gale won’t like it, but he can go off into his mind palace for a while and leave Astarion to his rightful vengeance. He doesn’t have to come back until there’s nothing left of Cazador at all. No amount of self-righteous nagging will keep Astarion from the retribution he deserves.

Ahead of him, Sebastian continues uphill. His steady pace doesn’t waver, but to Astation’s expert eye, the signs of reluctance are all there. It’s in the way he holds his shoulders, the stiffness of his arms. Any attempts at disobedience are futile, of course. He can’t so much as slow his steps. 

Astarion?

He wants to bare his teeth and hiss at Gale. He doesn’t, but it’s a near thing. What?

Couldn’t we stop him?

That isn’t what we agreed on. He won’t be able to tell us any useful information. Cazador will have commanded him to keep his secrets. We talked about this.

I know, but I can’t help feeling that circumstances have changed.

That’s exactly the problem. Circumstances haven’t changed. They never change. And unless we kill Cazador, they never will. And if we want to kill Cazador, we need to follow the plan.

What do you mean, they haven’t changed? You’re free now. Why shouldn’t Sebastian be as well? Perhaps I couldn’t remove his compulsion as I did yours, but we could bring him back to the safehouse and –

I am only free because of a million-to-one longshot. Pure, random chance, that I just so happened to seduce, fuck, and then condemn to the Hells the one man in the city who carried your book. So what if I’m gone? So what if Sebastian’s gone? He’ll just find another, and another, and another. It never stops.

We can bring an end to it. Maybe not for all of your fellow spawn, not yet, but for this one. For Sebastian.

No. 

I understand your reticence, but just because you can’t bring yourself to look at –

Stop it! Astarion screams at him. Fucking shut up! All that rage and sorrow is knotted in his throat, squeezing his chest, and it has nowhere to go. He can’t pull out a knife and start a fight, he can’t cry out aloud, but he’s so tired of carrying all of this himself, and if Gale still refuses to understand, then Astarion will damn well ensure Gale feels the pain too. That’s the thing about being both a rogue and an expert in psychological torture: he knows where to stick the knife. Stop fucking compensating, you naive, self-righteous prick. You have the audacity to preach at me about what I should do, like you know anything at all about life, about me. I died two centuries before you were born, and even for a human  you are an utter fucking child. You play with forces you can’t possibly understand, because you know that deep down, you’ll never be enough for anyone. Not for your fellow wizards, not for Mystra, not even for your mother. You’ll never be anything more than little Gale Dekarios, inconsequential, unremembered, unremarkable.

Gale gives nothing in reply. Not a word, not a flicker of emotion. Instead, Astarion’s sense of his presence dwindles, so much so that were Astarion not still invisible, he’d almost think Gale’s vanished entirely. Good. That’ll teach him to insert himself into matters he doesn’t understand. 

But as soon as he thinks that, a part of him feels empty. It’s not as though Gale didn’t give him plenty of provocation. And it’s not as though Astarion is at leisure right now to listen to morality lectures. Tonight has been trying, to say the least. And yet, he may have gone just ever so slightly overboard with his response. Overreacted, possibly. Because this withdrawal from Gale is… disquieting. It’s not even an icy, angry silence. It’s just absence, or as close to it as their situation allows . Gods only know what the man is doing. Probably off in his mind palace sulking. 

And Astarion didn’t really want him to retreat this far. He wanted Gale to back off a bit. Not this. Something in him squirms uncomfortably. A distant note of panic starts to sound. 

Astarion doesn’t have time for this, not now. He’s had plenty of practice quashing his own feelings. If he wants anything remotely productive to come from this disaster of a night, he needs to focus. 

Sebastian turns down a darkened side street not far from the Upper City wall. They’re not far from the Szarr Palace as the crow flies, but there’s no quick way to get there without passing through the nearby gate, and Sebastian is clearly not headed there. 

Instead, he takes a few more turns down deserted streets before arriving at a sizable house that takes up the better part of a city block. It’s certainly not a palace, but it qualifies as a mansion, despite its lack of ostentation. The walls are the same smooth sandstone that forms much of the lower city and it boasts no gargoyles, parapets, or decorative arches. Every one of its windows is curtained or shuttered. The only light visible from the outside is a plain lantern hung next to the front door. 

Astarion looks up. The house stands in the shadow of the Upper City wall, and not only that, but he’s certain the servants’ entrance to the Szarr Palace stands no more than a stone’s throw on the other side. It could even be that this house is connected by a tunnel to the palace proper. He’d never known Cazador to use secret tunnels, but it seems quite a few things have changed since his departure. 

Sebastian approaches the front door. He reaches forward as if to knock, but the door opens before he completes the motion. From his hidden position just across the street, Astarion’s darkvision illuminates the sneering face of Dufay. 

Pity. Astarion had halfway hoped another one of those doppelgangers had gotten him, or that Cazador had found out about his secretive poison purchases and gotten rid of him. 

As Sebastian stands trembling at the door, Dufay’s lips narrow in the subtlest of frowns. “Alone?”

Sebastian shrinks away. “I’m sorry, sir. I’m so sorry, I tried to –”

“Get inside, fool.” As he obeys, Dufay shuts the door behind him so quickly he nearly runs over Sebastian’s heel. A lock clicks into place. 

Astarion crosses the street warily. He wouldn’t put it past Cazador to have set up magical protection around this place, especially now that he seems to know he’s being tracked. He’d ask Gale for help, but – well. Not an opportune moment. 

He could try breaking into the house, but that would take time, risk exposure, and perhaps leave evidence behind. So he stops outside the front door and leaves his lockpicks in his sleeve. He holds himself silent and still as only the dead can be and trains his keen hearing on the occupants of the house. 

Cazador’s chamberlain speaks quietly and disdainfully. “Were you followed?”

Astarion was seldom asked this question when he was in Sebastian’s position. As a powerful noble ordering the abductions of penniless commoners, Cazador had no fear of consequences. But now he knows he’s being hunted and he’s had to learn greater caution. Again Astarion feels that flicker of satisfaction: Cazador’s afraid of what Astarion might do to him.

Sebastian says, “N-no, I don’t think so, sir. I kept looking back. I checked, just as you said.”

Now is the moment for Sebastian to rat Astarion out. A snippet of useful information could buy him leniency, especially now that he’s turned up with no victim in tow. He’ll tell Dufay what he knows and Cazador will have confirmation that not only did Astarion not die in the street outside the tombstone shop, but also that he’s tracking the spawn’s movements. Astarion will have even more of a target on his back.

But Sebastian somehow says nothing. The moment passes. Dufay speaks again. 

“Very well. At least you got that much right. But you still disappointed our Lord and so must face discipline for your incompetence. With the ritual approaching, failure will not be tolerated. Report to the kennel and inform Godey of your shortcomings.”

A ritual? Astarion almost asks Gale about it – it’s exactly the sort of thing a wizard would get excited about – but catches himself first. Gale probably doesn’t want to talk to him anymore. 

“Yes, sir,” Sebastian replies in a tiny voice. He sounds utterly defeated.

Dufey commands, “Off with you, useless idiot.”

Two sets of footsteps pick up, then begin to fade into the depths of the house, leaving Astarion’s head spinning in their wake.

Why didn’t Sebastian turn him in? It doesn’t make sense. Astarion destroyed his entire life. He lied to him, brought him to Cazador under false pretenses, and doomed him to a fate worse than death. By letting Sebastian return here tonight, Astarion repeated his sin and condemned him once more. True, he interceded in the tavern, but all that did was prolong Sebastian’s suffering. Sebastian ought to jump at the chance to get back at him. 

It doesn’t make sense. Astarion doesn’t deserve mercy. But Sebastian showed it anyway. He’s kept his mouth shut, at least for now, and is preparing to face his punishment. To go down to the kennels and face Godey’s knives and pliers. And when that’s finally done, the best he can hope for is to be sent back out into the night to search for more victims.

It never, ever ends. 

There’s a hysterical part of Astarion that wants to march through the doors, grab Sebastian by the collar, and tell him what a fool he’s being. Why the fuck are you covering for me? he wants to demand. You’re supposed to hate me. I did this to you. I did this.

Distantly, he realizes he’s shaking. He’s lucky he doesn’t need to breathe. If he did, he fancies he’d be having quite a lot of trouble with it. He leans against the wall of the mansion, afraid that his legs will give out. There are no more sounds from inside. The house has swallowed Sebastian whole. Like he was never there at all.

Finally, Gale’s voice cuts through the noise building in Astarion’s head. Your invisibility is about to break. I can’t cast it again tonight. He sounds dull, none of his usual spark or enthusiasm. 

Astarion can’t think of what he ought to say in reply. He settles on All right, though that feels inadequate. He certainly can’t allow himself to be caught here, so he forces himself to stand upright. In his long-practiced tradition, he makes his mind still. He’s floating a thousand leagues deep once more. 

He turns his back on Cazador’s hideout and starts walking. The night spins on around him and he moves through it like the ghost he is.

Somewhere between the mansion and the safehouse, his invisibility falls away. That’s fine. It doesn’t matter. He couldn’t care less about it. About any of it. 

He scales the back wall of the house and lets himself in through the attic window. Boots go at the foot of the bed, cloak on the wall peg, knife beneath his pillow. He tells himself he’s going to meditate, but the trance doesn’t come. Alone and in silence, he stares at the back of his eyelids and tries his best to think of nothing at all. The night is wearing on. In a few hours, he’ll have to face the dawn. Maybe he’ll climb up on the roof to watch the sun rise. Or maybe he won’t. Maybe that doesn’t matter either.

Dirt and rotten blood fill his mouth. The lid of the tomb is closed. He’s shut in, and somewhere out there, Cazador is laughing at him.

Chapter Text

There is one particularly plush chair in Gale’s library, covered in velvet and with cushions softer than pegasus down. It’s one of Tara’s favorite sleeping spots, second to Gale’s lap. Gale himself never used to use it regularly – he studies better at a desk; having proper posture is good for the mind. But sometimes one needs one’s basic comforts. 

He wishes Tara were here to curl up with him and purr into his chest and tell him, with the utmost affection, how silly he’s being. He could conjure her simulacrum but he hasn’t resorted to such measures since he met Astarion. He hasn’t felt it necessary. Yet now, for the first time in tendays, he contemplates summoning her image, if only to feel her grounding presence.

Still, for all its realism – and it is exceptionally detailed – Tara’s simulacrum is no substitute for the real thing. It’s an automaton that can only ever reflect his own thoughts back at him. In its place, Gale summons a heavy blanket, which at least has the benefit of not even pretending to be able to talk. He sinks into the chair and draws the blanket up around his shoulders. 

The past night comprised the greatest consecutive series of shocks that Gale’s ever had the displeasure of experiencing, which, for a man who has withstood being ripped from his physical form and bound into a book, is no small feat. He knows he ought to parse it out piece by piece, make it rational and linear in his own mind, but he finds he cannot. The whole thing is one enormous jumble. 

He considers standing up and pacing. Perhaps that would help settle him. But he can’t muster the fortitude to rise. It all seems so overwhelming now. Even the effort of maintaining his mind palace, a habit that has become second nature to him, has begun to take its toll. 

He refuses to let the illusion of his tower slip. Darkness and chaos and that ever-ravenous Netherese void are all that await him if he gives this place up. He has no desire to be trapped there again. At least this way, he can deceive himself into believing that he is safe. That he can choose to sit in this chair, or to stand and cross the room, or to cook a meal, or to play Lanceboard against himself. They’re all false choices, obviously. Nothing really changes. But they’re a comfort all the same. 

A memory that isn’t his: poised above Sebastian, who lies beneath him on a bed, eyes wide –

No. He cuts that off as quickly as it begins. He has no desire to see how it ends.

Another one takes its place: a knife rips into the flesh of his back over and over again, in slow and careful strokes, as he kneels on the floor with his limbs locked in place by his master’s command, screaming until his voice gives out –

Not that one either. 

The pages of the book are pure darkness, and that’s the last thing he registers before it pounces, prying him apart piece by piece and devouring him, and feeling himself dissolve into it and knowing he’s lost –

Gale shakes himself. His mind ought to be more disciplined than this. A wizard regulates their thoughts carefully, lest their magic run rampant and bring all to ruin. And he is still a wizard, in spite of it all. Astarion might be going through the literal motions of spellcasting, but it’s Gale who channels the Weave. 

Self-pity is unbecoming of a wizard. He has no one but himself to blame for his current situation. Oh, perhaps he can blame Astarion for his unkind words, but Gale oughtn’t to let them affect him. Truly his circumstances could be far worse. He could still be trapped in that book, sitting on a shelf somewhere. Or Dufay, or even Cazador, could have been the one who opened it. 

Gale has certainly never approved of Cazador Szarr – the histories all describe him as unpleasant at best, and after learning of his treatment of Astarion and the other spawn, Gale had no qualms in deeming him a monster fit to be slain. His deepening camaraderie with Astarion only strengthened that impression. Now, with a few choice pieces of Astarion’s memory burned into his brain, Gale can’t think of the vampire lord without feeling something unpleasantly visceral. Something akin to nausea mixed with revulsion and shot through with paralyzing terror, the fear of a mouse caught in the claws of a hawk. Echoes of Astarion’s feelings, surely, but now they are irrevocably Gale’s as well. 

He could have been bound to a creature capable of the likes of… that. The very thought makes him want to scrub at his skin until it’s raw. And that was Astarion’s life for two centuries. Set next to a horror of that magnitude, Gale’s concerns are petty things. 

No, Gale will soldier on. Harsh words may sting, but let it never be said that Gale of Waterdeep was fragile enough to be undone by something said in the heat of the moment, when the speaker was clearly wavering on the verge of a breakdown. 

Besides, a part of him supplies, Astarion told him nothing he didn’t already know.

Gale forces himself out of that line of thought. He knows it well and it never takes him anywhere useful. He needs a distraction. 

Sleep is out of the question, which is in a way fortunate, as he doubts he’d have anything but nightmares. He runs himself a bath instead and is pleased with how soothing the simulated hot water feels on his simulated skin. As he sits and soaks, he banishes the familiar ceiling and in its place sets an image of the night sky. Constellations are sacred to Mystra and her followers. Her own set of stars, the Lady of Mysteries, crowns the northern half of the sky, shimmering against the deep black of Realmspace.

She must consider all this a fitting punishment for his hubris, and she’s not wrong. 

Esetar, the Eyes of the Watching Woman, the Sword and Dagger. Between them, wandering stars, comets, meteors. When he was young, he dreamed of riding a spelljammer through the Sea of Night. He grew up and, though he never made it to wildspace, he learned to experience the cosmos without physically leaving his tower, which had the convenience of allowing him easy access to all the luxuries of home. 

Now a real, capital-A Adventure is upon him. One fraught with dire peril and replete with villainous antagonists, legendary heroes, magical secrets, and innocent lives at stake. Gale never before considered himself adventurer material. He’s not certain he does now. And in any case, adventurers are meant to be stalwart companions to one another. They’re meant to be brave and true and pure of heart. 

He’s coming to find that those stories, like this version of his tower, like Mystra’s words of love, are lies. Beautiful lies, but lies all the same.

He and Astarion both make poor subjects for bards’ epics. If they sing the story of the downfall of Cazador Szarr someday, Jaheira will certainly be the hero. Astarion might be mentioned in passing as an unnamed turncoat from the vampire lord’s ranks. Gale will not be featured at all.

On that subject: Gale becomes vaguely aware that Astarion is currently talking to the High Harper, no doubt reporting the events of last night. Gale hadn’t noticed Astarion rise. Nor has Astarion made any effort to speak with him directly in the intervening time. Gale would certainly have known if he had. 

Gale could be the bigger person, the first to reach out. One of them will have to eventually, and from what he’s seen, it won’t be Astarion. But Gale isn’t inclined to do so just now. Nor does he pay much attention to whatever Astarion and Jaheira are discussing. Whatever it is, it’s nothing to do with him, and Astarion has made excruciatingly clear his opinion of Gale involving himself in his business. 

Thus, he lets the conversation pass him by. He gets out of his bath and back into his coziest chair and under his thickest blanket. For the hundred-thousandth time, he wishes his books were more than props, but even he can’t conjure up an entire library’s worth of tomes from memory, much less create new ones to surprise himself with. 

Beautiful lies, as before.

How long can this possibly go on? Even when they manage to take down Cazador, what then? Should Ramazith’s Tower fail them, will Astarion keep his promise of shepherding Gale across Faerûn in search of answers? If he goes back on his word, if he decides to simply shut Gale out, there will be nothing Gale can do about it short of being an annoyance, which seems as though it would in time become tiresome even for Gale. 

Even if Astarion does follow through, there’s no guarantee that any answers exist to be found. If his goddess won’t help him – and it’s very clear she has no intention of doing so – this half-existence may well end up being his lot in life. Untethered from a human body and bound to a vampire, that life could be very long indeed. 

Far away, Astarion bids Jaheira farewell. He moves to step outside into the daylight, hesitating at the threshold for a split second before continuing. Jaheira likely gave him another assignment. Gale doesn’t much care what it could be just now. He lets the outside world fade away.

In the end, he decides to call up Tara’s simulacrum after all. He doesn’t command it to speak with her voice. All he does is make it sit between his knees and chest and purr, and he pushes his face into the soft feathers and softer fur. And if his eyes are a touch watery, well, no one else need know.

Gale? I need your help with this.

Astarion’s voice startles Gale so badly that Tara’s simulacrum leaps from his lap in an undignified heap. His unwilling fellow traveler manages to sound both faintly annoyed and deeply apprehensive. 

Gale ponders saying nothing at all in reply. He’s still sequestered in his mind palace, and he figures he could block, or at least seriously muffle, Astarion’s silent speech. In what possible way could Astarion need his help? Another invisibility spell on command? Maybe Gale needs to drive harder bargains for his services. 

A long moment later, Astarion says, Please. It even sounds genuine. 

What is it? asks Gale. 

I can’t write this on my own. At the very least, you need to tell me the address.

Address? What address? Gale, caught by curiosity as ever, re-opens his senses to the outside world.

Astarion is in an alcove, hunched over a standing desk. The building is unfamiliar to him, but practically reeks of magic. The alcove sits to one side of a large, round room, and in the middle is what looks like a clerical desk, manned by one put-upon looking woman in silver robes, and a four-strong flock of intricate brass automata. The constructs ferry slips of paper to and fro from the desk to a series of what appear to be air-powered tubes built into the walls. On a banner above a large central door is an emblem of a soaring falcon clutching a scroll.

The Aether Dispatch Service. A network of magical relay stations scattered up and down the Sword Coast which specialize in transmitting messages nigh-on instantaneously from one place to another. It’s largely used for weighty matters: wizardry, war, matters of state. For the powerful or wealthy, there’s no need to rely on couriers to travel the long and dangerous roads. All of the major cities have a Dispatch branch. This one must belong to Baldur’s Gate. 

Astarion holds a quill in one hand. On the desk in front of him is a dispatch slip, silver-tinged paper ready to be sent through the Weave, transcribed on the other side, and hand-delivered to the intended recipient. 

Under “Recipient Dispatch Station,” Astarion has written “Waterdeep” in an elegant hand. The “Recipient Name” field reads “Morena Dekarios and Tara.”

Gale’s thoughts come to a screeching halt.

I’d send one to Mystra, but I don’t think there’s a Dispatch station in Elysium. Gale can sense the nerves underneath Astarion’s attempt at levity. He still, for the life of him, cannot think of what to say. 

Astarion interprets his silence as disapproval. Of course, you don’t have to – gods, this is stupid. Fine. I won’t mention it again. He begins to turn around, as if to return the slip to the desk. 

No! 

Astarion stops. 

You – how did you even get in here? The Dispatch doesn’t send personal messages from people off the street.

It turns out they do if you offer them enough gold.

You just, what, bribed your way in here?

A flash of the regular Astarion. I’m quite good at getting into places, darling.  

But why? So you could send a message to my mother?

I did it so that you could send a message to your mother. Unless there’s someone else you’d rather –

I… no. I mean yes. One moment. 

Gale takes a breath to gather himself. It’s a lot to take in. He can let his mother and Tara know he’s alive. Tell them he loves them, he misses them, that he hopes he’ll see them again. 

Also: is this Astarion’s version of an apology?

Whatever the case, Gale gives his mother’s address, which Astarion duly copies down, then starts to dictate.

I can only offer my sincerest apologies for whatever you have endured in recent months. I wish I could tell you that the fault was not mine, yet it was, though I had no notion that my research would yield such a dramatic result. What was it you always told me about playing with fire?

Rest assured that I am not dead, no matter how things may look. I wish I could tell you more, but suffice it to say that I am among friends and am formulating a plan to return. 

Among friends. He says it, and finds that despite it all, he believes it.

It may yet be some time before I see you again, although I wish it were not so. Know that you are ever in my heart and in my thoughts. Should you doubt the authenticity of this missive, I will remind you of the following lesson: ‘A wise cook tastes the soup at every stage.’

That was one of his mother’s favorite kitchen lessons, said so often that it became a private joke between them. 

Gods willing, I will see you both soon. With all my love, Gale. 

Astarion sets down his quill. Shall I send it?

Yes.

Mystra’s mercy, his mother and Tara are going to know he’s alive. There’s no concise way to explain the particulars of how he’s alive, nor is he certain he really wants his mother to know, at least not until he can explain in person. At least, if they were mourning him, he’s given them some reason to hope.

Astarion passes off the message to the woman at the desk with a simpering smile. “I do appreciate it ever so much.” Gale catches a flash of gold passing from his palm to hers. 

Her harried expression doesn’t change, but she takes the slip with a quick “Pleasure doing business,” stamps it, then hands it to one of the automata. From there, it goes to a tray labeled “Waterdeep.” 

Gale expects Astarion to move along after that, but he doesn’t. He stares off into the middle distance, and even for Gale, his expression is difficult to read. 

Shall we talk? Gale suggests.

Now Astarion’s face shifts, revealing raw anxiety. I was rather hoping to avoid that. With the gesture and all. 

As an expert in grand gestures, I can assure you they’re no substitute for an honest conversation. 

…Fine. Astarion’s gaze flicks back and forth. But not while I’m standing out in the open like this.

So let’s find somewhere safe and then have a chat.

Okay. Astarion’s throat bobs. Okay. Let’s.

Chapter Text

Obviously, this conversation just has to happen face-to-face. Astarion has to look Gale right in the eyes and drag everything out into the open. Because the gods are mocking, spiteful bastards who take pleasure in Astarion’s suffering.

A part of him wants to prolong things by insisting on walking back to the safehouse, but with his extensive expertise in pain, he knows that there are times when anticipation does nothing but heighten the torment. Better just to get it the Hells over with.

He picks a moment the desk clerk isn’t looking and slips through a side door, leading to a quiet, empty hallway. Most bureaucratic buildings, especially fancy ones like this, have empty offices and conference rooms that see little use. He finds one such just a few doors down, a smallish room with a desk and chair that looks as though nobody has disturbed it in tendays. The desk is clear of the clutter that comes with regular use, the walls bare, the lamps unlit.

Astarion sits against the wall beside the door so that he’s not visible from the corridor. Even though getting interrupted and having to cut this little chat short would be a rare act of mercy on the part of the gods.

Ready? Gale asks.

The answer is, of course, no. But Astarion steadies himself and says, Ready anyway.

He blinks, and he’s back in Gale’s mind palace. It’s not the library, however, but somewhere he’s never seen before: the kitchen. Knowing Gale to be a wizard of means who appreciates the finer things, Astarion would have expected his kitchen to be large, expansive, and stuffed with magical gadgets that automatically toss salads, or boil eggs, or whatever it is cooks do.

And there are one or two such gadgets, including what looks like a large copper contraption for boiling water, just as Gale alluded to before they blew up the safehouse kitchen. Even so, the rest of the kitchen looks surprisingly down to earth. More cozy than imposing. Knives and pans that look both well-used and well-cared-for, a clay oven, bundles of herbs hanging from the ceiling, a handmade wooden spice rack painted with ocean wave designs. The light from the oven coals bathes the walls in a steady glow. It smells of olive oil and rosemary.

Astarion’s standing in front of a kitchen island, and on the far side, seated on a stool, is Gale. He’s wearing a soft purple shirt with silver trim. His expression is searching, his dark eyes trained on Astarion, waiting for him to make the first move.

There’s another stool next to the island, opposite Gale. Astarion takes it.

“This is… different,” he says to fill the silence. “Fewer books than I was expecting.”

“I had this kitchen modeled after my mother’s, from my childhood. Whenever she wanted to have a serious talk, she’d sit me down in the kitchen.”

“Oh.” Astarion does not allow himself to squirm. “I see.” He spots a garlic braid hanging behind Gale’s head. Is that a coincidence or a threat?

He chides himself; he already knows the answer. If Gale wanted to hurt him, there’d be easier ways than brandishing imaginary garlic at him. The time has come to be direct. “You didn’t let me burn.”

Gale gives him a quizzical look. “What do you mean?”

“In the sun. I thought… I thought you’d have. Withdrawn your protection, so to speak.”

Gale’s eyebrows shoot up. “Goodness, why would I do a thing like that?”

He can’t be this naive, can he? “Because of what I said to you? Obviously?”
 The look in Gale’s eyes shifts, softens. 

“Astarion…”

It never even occurred to Gale, did it? He never for one second contemplated cutting Astarion off from sunlight. Gale had both the power and motive to hurt him and he didn’t take it. This man has to insist on breaking every rule Astarion’s ever learned, on defying every lesson unlife has ever taught him.

Gale and Sebastian are both like that. Really, the whole world seems to be out to prove Astarion wrong lately. Two centuries of misery, backstabbing, and degradation, and now… whatever this is. 

Astarion habitually shies away from terms like grace or mercy, because on those rare occasions when someone gets the upper hand, no matter how fleeting, they always take it. Better by far to be the giver of pain than the receiver. 

Right?

So many things he was certain of feel shaky now. He assumed cruelty was the natural state of things, and from that premise made excuses and justifications for what he had to do to survive. The idea of letting all that go frightens him. 

For two centuries he was a slave, a prostitute, a puppet, a piece of flesh to be used as his master saw fit. Who is he now that he’s free? Who does he want to be? 

Astarion’s scattered, thinking of too many things at once. He needs to focus. He doesn’t meet Gale’s eyes. He counts out three breaths, then three more. Into the gentle light of the hearth, he says, “As you may have noticed, last night was not the easiest I’ve had of late. Rather a lot of things happened in short order, and to be frank I’m still sorting through them, but…”

How to explain it? He rose with the dawn to a silent Gale and his own guilt and fear churning uncomfortably under his skin. He hates guilt. One of his least-favorite states of mind. It was easier to forget when he could tell himself that he hadn’t had a choice, but these days, all his mistakes belong to him and him alone. 

He had no answers as to how to deal with Sebastian or with the rest of last night’s revelations, but this problem at least he knew he could attempt to tackle. Try to fix things with Gale.

With all that he’d said to Gale, for all the ruthless precision with which he’d targeted Gale’s weak spots, no flowery speech would suffice as an apology, even if he knew how to apologize at all. It would have to be deeds, not words. So he had no choice but to do his best to be nice and thoughtful and kind. 

Then Gale didn’t respond during his conversation with Jaheira, and Astarion knew he had to take it one step further. When he thought about it for a moment or two, it wasn’t difficult to come up with the idea of sending a message to Gale’s family. Astarion had to dig discomfitingly deep into their Bag of Holding to grease the appropriate palms and make it into the Dispatch Station, but it was a sacrifice he’d resolved to make.

Especially after Gale let him keep the sun.

 Astarion settles on, “What I said to you wasn’t true.”

A flash of surprise. “What do you mean?”

“You are — what you’ve done for — Hells with it.” Shit, it’s coming out now, momentum building behind the words, all the things Astarion has been avoiding saying. “Do you have any idea how few people would have done what you did for me? How few people would have listened, been patient, cared? Do you realize how few people would have trusted me and — and let me feel like I could trust them in return?”

He shouldn’t be saying this. He shouldn’t be admitting to this. It’s like handing Gale a dagger to hold to his throat. 

Except that Gale has held that dagger ever since they met, and he hasn’t once used it. Not even when Astarion crossed the line and actually upset him.

Astarion was so afraid of him at the start. Gale could have used that against him. He could have taken away the sun. He could have demanded Astarion get on his back for him. He probably could have locked Astarion’s consciousness in his mind palace and left him there for a while to ensure his obedience. Of course Astarion has thought about these things. It’s essential to know how his weaknesses might be weaponized, because they always are.

Almost always, that is.

“Opening your book was the best thing to have happened to me in my memory, bar none. Now, that’s not an especially high bar, as you know, but it’s true nonetheless. The gods didn’t answer, the Harpers didn’t come until I was already free, but you marched into my life, liberated me from Cazador, and agreed to help me kill him. Even though we could be out searching for a way to get you a body.”

The surprise on Gale’s face has deepened to outright shock.

“So, no. What I said was not true. Believe me, Gale Dekarios, you are entirely remarkable. There is no one else like you.”

The silence grows between them. Astarion sneaks a look at Gale, and finds that the wizard appears lost for words once more. 

“To be clear, I’m sorry,” Astarion says to drive the point home. Apologies are meant to contain those words, aren’t they? 

That prompts Gale into responding. “Apology accepted, of course. In fact, I owe you thanks. Sending that message was very kind of you – oh, don’t give me that look! It was kind and you needn’t be ashamed of it.”

“You’re welcome,” says Astarion. 

“However,” Gale goes on with a raised index finger, “I would argue that you’re selling the rest of the world short. Plenty of people would have done as I did.”

“I highly doubt that.” 

Gale never gives himself enough credit. Astarion’s words the other night were calculated to take advantage of exactly that trait. For a man who’s been taken to bed by a goddess, and who has such a strong streak of wizardly pride, he certainly seems not to value himself outside of his skill with magic.

Come to think of it, Mystra might have something to do with that.

Gale was her Chosen, wasn’t he? As the literal goddess of magic, Astarion imagines she’d have the power to rescue Gale from his current predicament with little trouble. But it seems she’s content leaving him trapped like this. It fits with Astarion’s notion of what deities are like, but maybe Gale hasn’t yet come around to that way of thinking. Either way, it’s obvious that she doesn’t really care about him. Astation feels a rush of anger on Gale’s behalf and is surprised by the strength of his own protective instinct. 

He can’t recall the last time he had anything worth protecting. 

Astarion has been dancing on the edge of a particular revelation for quite some time now. It’s neither easy nor comfortable to admit, even to himself, and he’s quite adept at putting out of his mind whatever he prefers not to think about, but after the events of the past day, it’s become nigh on inescapable. 

Astarion cares about this man. 

Gale’s not a victim. Not a target. Astarion doesn’t need to appease him to avoid pain. He’s just Gale, and that’s all he is, all he needs to be. Astarion cares about him for his own sake. 

What does Astarion want, now that he’s free?

Firstly he wants Cazador dead, but there’s more than that. He wants Gale happy and safe and free. He wants to see Gale in the flesh, to hear his voice spoken aloud. He wants to sail to Icewind Dale with him and watch the terns fly like comets across the face of the aurora. He wants to tour his library – his real one in Waterdeep – and listen to him ramble about magic with his face lit up in enthusiasm. 

It’s awful. It’s embarrassing. But that doesn’t make it untrue. 

This wasn’t supposed to happen. Astarion wasn’t supposed to let his feelings run away from him. Hells, he hadn’t been sure he had the capacity for feelings of this nature anymore. And yet here’s Gale, lost in thought, absently tucking a strand of hair behind his ear as he contemplates spell formulae or something equally tedious, as the soft light of the coals gives his skin a beautiful, warm glow. Astarion once studied his face when he couldn’t recognize his own. 

He wonders what would happen if he reached across the table and took Gale’s hand. Or what if he stood, crossed the kitchen so there were no barriers between them, ran a hand through Gale’s hair, traced his jawline with a finger, lifted his lips to meet his own? How would the mind-palace version of Gale taste? Would Astarion feel the Weave sparking off his tongue? 

Gale would reciprocate, he thinks. The man’s never pushed Astarion – quite the opposite – but he does have eyes. So to speak. 

But Astarion’s not going to try it. He’s not ready for anyone else’s hands on him, as Gale almost certainly knows. And he doesn’t even want to think about anything more intimate than kissing. Not now. 

Astarion doesn’t know what this means, or where it’s going, but this strange, exasperating wizard has become the one person in the world he truly trusts. He’s singular. If Mystra appeared in the room right now Astarion would stride up to her and let her know exactly what he thinks of her for abandoning this man in his time of need.

Politely, of course. He doesn’t need to piss off any goddesses. He’s got enough powerful beings out for his blood as it is.

The silence has now stretched uncomfortably long once again. Astarion asks, “What did you think of my deal with Jaheira this morning?”

“Oh,” says Gale, a touch bashful, “I, er, wasn’t listening.”

Well, that explains a thing or two. Gale must have been sulking very thoroughly to miss that entire exchange. “She’s agreed to help us with Ramazith’s Tower.”

Gale leans forward, eyes wide. “Truly? The Harpers will help us?”

“She owes us.” How easily that word, us, comes to him now. He suspects he may have used it more than once during his negotiations with Jaheira that morning. She hadn’t taken as much convincing as he’d feared she would. Perhaps she’s growing fond of them in her own way. She’d made no specific promises as to when, and Cazador is still the priority, but initiating a heist on a corrupt and abusive wizard is well within the Harpers’ purview.

To Gale, Astarion adds, “Moreover it turns out she’s been looking into Lorroakan after what I told her about that apprentice. Her moral compass has been thoroughly straightened out; she quite agrees that he has it coming.”

“Splendid!” Gale grins, and Astarion, damn him, ends up smiling back like a fool. 

Before Astarion can do anything even more foolish, a cat leaps onto the table between them. It’s a tortoiseshell, long-haired and giving off a purple glow, and flexing a pair of feathered wings. 

“Is that…?”

Gale looks at the cat, half in fondness and half sadness. “Tara’s simulacrum,” he says. “Not a substitute for the real thing, I’m afraid.”

The illusory tressym pads over to Gale and starts to purr. 

“It’s very lifelike,” says Astarion. Gale likes it when Astarion compliments him on anything magical. “Did you order it to do that?”

“Not directly.” Gale absently scratches the simulacrum under the chin. “But I did create her, and she obeys certain behavioral parameters, similarly to how a simulacrum would function in reality.”

“A pity we can’t make you a simulacrum for the real world.” Astarion holds out his hand for not-Tara to investigate. Catlike, she shoots him a disdainful look before turning back to Gale. “I mean, I assume we can’t. Otherwise you would have tried it.”

“Sadly, you’re correct,” says Gale. “It falls under a more complex, subtle branch of spellcasting that would require more precise coordination than we’ve been able to…”

He trails off, suddenly pensive. 

“That’s your I-have-a-ridiculous-idea face,” Astarion observes. “What is it?”

“Not so ridiculous, or at least, hopefully not,” Gale replies good-naturedly. There’s a keen glimmer in his eyes, and Astarion imagines this very expression must have sent his Blackstaff professors running for cover. “I’ll have to make substantial changes to the formula – the incantation will need reworking – we might even require an enchanted object to use as an anchor – but I think you might just have given me an idea.” He fidgets in his seat, and Astarion knows that part of him wants nothing more than to run to his library and start penning diagrams and equations. 

But Gale wrenches himself back momentarily. “You’ll have to forgive my eagerness. We were in the midst of an important conversation.” 

Astarion takes pity on both of them. Time to leave Gale to his wizardry, and in the process bail himself out of needing to dwell on his own feelings. “I rather think we’ve said all we need to on the subject, at least for the moment. Let’s go before someone finds us.”

Gale nods in acquiescence, his kitchen vanishes, and Astarion stands up in an empty office. 

We have quite a to-do list, my dear. Let’s not waste time.

He can’t see Gale, which is a bit of a shame, but at least he can sense his closeness once again. It’s oddly comforting. 

By all means, Gale says. If my investigations bear fruit, it will be a tremendous leap forward in both the theory and practice of simulacrum fabrication. But as I gather my thoughts, there is another avenue of inquiry we must pursue simultaneously. It could be terribly important and time-sensitive to boot. What was it that Dufay said about a ritual?

Chapter Text

The steady drumming of the first day of winter rains is pleasant on the safehouse roof. Soothing, even. Less soothing is the leak in the ceiling dripping water into Astarion’s attic. There’s a bucket under it now, filling drop by drop.

Earlier that morning, when he’d stormed downstairs to Tairn demanding repairs, the big lout had smirked at him. “Do I look like a carpenter?”

“You look like someone who knows how to swing a hammer, certainly.”

“Only axes. I’m all thumbs when it comes to construction.” He proceeded to thrust the kitchen bucket in Astarion’s direction. “Here’s your fix. Or the hammer’s under the sink, if you’d rather take a crack at it yourself.”

Astarion contemplated making a comment about being good with his hands, but ultimately decided it would be wasted on Tairn. Truly, to be burdened with wit is both a blessing and a curse. Gale, of course, found the exchange highly amusing. 

Astarion doesn’t feel like returning to his trance, although the morning is still young. He doesn’t relish the thought of going outside in the rain either, and Jaheira hasn’t given them any additional tasks for the moment. She’s too busy rearranging her Harpers to keep unobtrusive tabs on Cazador’s secret Lower City manor. 

Astarion sits in the kitchen with a blanket over his shoulders while Tairn nurses a cup of tea. Gale has excused himself to work on his spell formula. From what Astarion’s gleaned, it sounds like some sort of advanced simulacrum that would give Gale the ability to interact with people who aren’t sharing half a brain with him. Astarion wholeheartedly wishes him luck in the endeavor. He won’t be sorry to let Gale do some of the talking, at least with Jaheira and the other Harpers. It’s not a new body, not by some distance, but it will be better than nothing. 

When this whole adventure is over, Gale will be able to publish a paper on the subject. Maybe even an entire tome. Textbooks will have an entry under his name in simulacrum chapters. This is all very exciting, as Gale has explained in considerable detail. Astarion’s main takeaway is that he does not understand academia at all. A long time ago, he jammed just enough of it into his head to pass his law exams, and hated every second of studying.  

He does enjoy Gale’s stories of the internecine and often cutthroat competition amongst wizards, however. It’s nice to know that high-and-mighty mages are just as petty as everyone else. Perhaps even more so.

A shadow moves out of his peripheral vision in one of the kitchen windows. He stands, instantly on guard, and looks out through the rain-spattered glass into the alley next to the building. 

It’s just yesterday’s laundry blowing in a gust of wind. Someone – no reason to point fingers at anyone in particular – left it out last night. Now it’s thoroughly sodden. Astarion scowls at it, then returns to his blanket and chair.

“You’re jumpy,” Tairn observes.

“And why do you think that might be? It couldn’t have anything to do with a great brute of a barbarian sneaking up behind me and knocking me out with the butt of an axe, could it?”

“Hmphf,” is Tairn’s final comment on the matter. Rather than reply in kind by grunting like some kind of hog himself, Astarion responds with dignified silence.

Left to his own devices, Astarion’s mind drifts. He never used to spend time just thinking before. Contemplating his life only made it worse and making plans was a pointless waste of time. It was one reason he took up tailoring and embroidery, to have a delicate task in which to lose himself. 

These days, he actually has to make his own decisions. With Gale, of course. But his choices have weight now. 

Not for the first time, he contemplates the fate of his so-called siblings. With him gone, they’re sure to be bearing the brunt of Cazador’s anger. Astarion had the dubious honor of being their master’s favorite target. Not favored spawn, never that. Merely the one whose screams pleased him best. Astarion can only assume that each of the other spawn are desperately trying to please Cazador, or avoid his attention altogether, in hopes that he doesn’t select them as the new outlet for his whims. 

Leon and Violet are most likely safe, but any of the others could be fair game. Even – and perhaps especially – the newcomer. Sebastian has no idea how to play their games and somehow hasn’t adopted a strict philosophy of cynicism and self-interest the way anyone sensible would in his place. Cazador, Astarion thinks, will enjoy beating the sensitivity and gentleness out of him. 

Sebastian, scarred, scared, red-eyed, dreadful at flirting. What must he have thought, seeing Astarion free? Was it envy or rage? Or could it have been hope? Maybe he saw Astarion and thought there’s a way out. If so, he’s likely to be disappointed. It’s not like magic books containing helpful wizards can just be found lying in the street. 

But when Astarion plunges a blade through Cazador’s heart, Sebastian will be free. They all will. Maybe not to walk in the sun, not like Astarion can, but free from him. Even Petras, though Astarion may have to find a discreet moment to do the world a favor and kill him first.

It’ll be over, really and truly. That inexorable cycle will finally stop. There will be no more Vampire Lord of Baldur’s Gate. 

Unless Astarion himself drinks Cazador’s blood first, of course, which might be nice. He could set himself up with a lovely castle, fountains of blood on command, an army of bats and wolves to protect him, and servants to bow and scrape and call him ‘Lord Astarion.’ It does have a nice ring to it. He’d return from a long and productive night enacting his dark bidding on all those in his sway, to find Gale waiting in the opulent master bedroom, wearing spectacles and very little else…

Right. He might, just perhaps, be losing focus. 

Back to the issue at hand: where could Cazador have possibly been keeping him all this time, and why? Astarion initially chalked it up to plain sadism, but now he’s not so certain. If that were the case, why keep Sebastian separated from the other spawn? Why keep his existence a secret? And why only now send him out hunting?

And how many other Sebastians are there, blood-starved and feral, hidden for centuries without a soul knowing? 

That thought is more than a little dizzying. Astarion tries to put it out of his mind for now. There’s nothing he can do about it anyway, short of storming the Szarr Palace before he’s ready. It’s bad enough that he has to deal with just one of his old victims rising from the grave. 

In employing Sebastian to lure people to the Palace, Cazador could simply mean to replace Astarion with another puppet. But with this ritual on the horizon, things may be more complicated. They say the number seven has intrinsic magical properties, so perhaps there’s something important about the number of active, hunting vampire spawn at any given moment. 

So in addition to needing new victims, the spawn themselves are important for the ritual somehow. That in mind, Astarion recalls those elaborate chin scars of Sebastian’s. He’s quite certain they hadn’t been there before. And Cazador does have a taste for carving into the skin of his spawn.  

What if Cazador’s poem isn’t a poem after all?

He opens his eyes. Gale?

The reply comes half a second late, and with the unmistakable air of a man coming up for air after having been completely absorbed in his work. Yes, what is it?

Those scars on my back – do they look like the ones on Sebastian’s face?

You have scars on your back?

Astarion does not allow himself to gape at the ceiling like a beached fish. That would be undignified. What in the Hells do you mean? You haven’t noticed?

I haven’t looked. 

One of these days, Astarion will stop being shocked by this man. But that day has not yet come. You haven’t… not even once? You’re joking. 

I endeavor to grant you as much privacy as I can, considering the circumstances. 

Not even a peek?

No, not even that. But as you mention it, I think I may have seen something in those memories you gave me. A rather graphic episode involving Cazador, a knife, and a very long night.

Astarion shudders. You saw that?

Pieces of it. 

Gods, Astarion really did throw a bunch of unrelated memories at him. He decides against asking Gale to tell him a full inventory of what he’s learned – that seems like torture for the both of them. Better to be pragmatic about it. What’s done is done, and it means there are fewer things he needs to explain. It must have been quite a shock for poor Gale. 

In that case, do you know what he carved there? I’ve not seen it. 

Neither have I. I only know what you knew. 

Astarion stands up at once. Tairn glances up when he leaves the kitchen, but doesn’t ask any questions. He climbs the stairs, closes his bedroom door behind him, and takes a seat on the edge of the bed before starting to unlace his shirt. 

I need you to help me. And if your honor demands it, it’s your lucky day. I give you full permission to look. 

A-are you certain?

Your concern is adorable, says Astarion lightly. I’ll be fine. It’s… touching, that Gale really never looked until now. Ridiculous man. And this is precisely why Astarion doesn’t mind pulling off his shirt in front of him. 

Good gods, says Gale a moment later. That looks about as agonizing as it felt. 

What is it? What can you see?

It looks like Infernal. Damnation, I knew I should have taken that elective. 

Infernal? What in the literal Hells did Cazador do to him?

Unmistakably. I’ve no idea what it says, but some of these glyphs do resemble the one on Sebastian’s face. 

Ugh. Astarion’s pretty face may have gotten him into more trouble than not over the years, but surely it was only that, and Cazador’s need to use it for his own ends, that saved Astarion from having his own scars on show for anyone to see. Can you show me?

An instant later, he’s in Gale’s library, where a large piece of parchment has been tacked to a wall. In shimmering ink are drawn a set of circles, wheels within wheels, spiked with what must be Infernal script. Gale is staring at it in contemplation.

Astarion walks up to stand beside him. “Shit. I’ve been carrying that for two hundred years and I’ve never seen it.” He’s quietly grateful that Gale’s not showing it to him on a Mirror Image of his back. This is easier to look at. More removed. 

“An Infernal ritual,” Gale says. “You know what this means, don’t you?”

“Cazador’s been consorting with devils? Can’t say I’m surprised, to be honest.”

“It means,” Gale goes on patiently, “that he’s been planning this ritual ever since he drew these. Assuming this is connected to the ritual, which seems very likely.”

“Cazador already has everything he needs,” Astarion remarks. “I don’t know what he could possibly be asking a devil for, let alone what would be worth two centuries of preparation, and gods only know how many vampire spawn like Sebastian.”

“Nor do I, but whatever it is, I suggest we find out sooner rather than later. Dufay said the time was approaching.”

An uncomfortable silence falls as they both stare at the ritual markings. Astarion resists the urge to reach back and touch the raised edges of his scars. 

What if Cazador can use them to take control of him again? What if Gale can’t stop it? From the look on Gale’s face, his thoughts are running along similarly grim lines. 

“So!” Astarion claps his hands, startling Gale and snapping them both out of their thoughts. “Who owns an Infernal dictionary?”

The corner of Gale’s mouth twists pensively. “They’re not exactly easy to come by. Many religious orders consider knowledge of Infernal to be highly suspicious. As such, study of the language tends to be heavily restricted. I once had the opportunity at Blackstaff Academy, but alas, I picked Giant. Fascinating tongue. Shame I never used it.”

“Who knows? Perhaps Cazador will make a deal with a cloud giant next.”

“Knowledge is of value for its own sake, you know. It’s not all about application. There are things of vast importance beyond the practical.”

“No doubt, but in order to appreciate said important things, we must both be alive and free, and that involves finding out how to read this.”

Gale nods his head in acknowledgement. “Fair enough. Now, I imagine some refugees from Elturel might be able to read this, but I dare say many of them won’t want to admit it, superstition and general fear of all things infernal being what it is. No, I suspect Sorcerous Sundries would have a dictionary, though whether they’ve made it available for public use, I couldn’t say.”

“Perhaps we should add it to our shopping list when we finally make it to Ramazith’s Tower.”

“An errand for which our timeline must move up considerably. Before we take on Cazador, we need to understand this ritual, and if any place in the city has a book on vampiric and infernal rites, that would be the one.”

Astarion grins at him. “Our dear High Harper will be ever so pleased that we’ve added another urgent task to her list, don’t you think?”

Jaheira is exactly as pleased to hear this as Astarion thought she would be, which is to say, not at all.

“It’s not as though I have infinite resources and recruits. Nor is Cazador Szarr our only project, even here in Baldur’s Gate.” She must be feeling especially relaxed today: she’s only got one scimitar strapped to her back. 

Astarion says, “I’d think stopping an unquestionably vile and wicked vampiric ritual would rank high on your list of priorities. Besides, Gale and I have been doing most of the work for you recently, I believe, what with finding Cazador’s Lower City base of operations without being caught.” When Astarion explained their findings, he left out the part where Sebastian recognized him. That would only over-complicate matters. Gale’s the only one who needs to know just how deep his sordid past goes. 

He keeps pushing. “Just imagine the sort of villainy Cazador could be planning. What if he means to summon an army of devils to storm the city?” “That’s his current leading theory: that Cazador has bargained for a battalion of cambions to fight for him, with Astarion and the other spawn as blood sacrifices. 

She sighs. “This is all a gamble. Neither of you know for certain that the information we need is in that tower.”

“True,” Astarion agrees, “but short of a pleasant field trip to Candlekeep, do you have any better ideas? And think of the poor suffering apprentices!”

She rolls her eyes at him. “Drop the act, vampire. I know your motivations well enough. I’ll move the plans forward as much as I can. But I have another pressing matter I need your assistance with – one with a deadline approaching. If it works out, we may not need to worry about this ritual at all.”

Astarion frowns. The last assignment she gave them was certainly productive, but was nonetheless a thoroughly unpleasant experience. “What is it now? More taverns?”

“Not quite. It’ll require a little more preparation than just showing up in a drinking house and waiting for something to happen. But never the less, you might even enjoy this one.”

“Oh?”

“We expose Cazador for what he is in front of all high society. And you get to wear a fancy outfit while we do it.”

 Well now. That’s certainly one way to catch Astarion’s attention. He leans forward, all sharp-toothed smile. “Do tell.”

Jaheira matches his expression, and Astarion is suddenly reminded of the fact that the High Harper prefers to fight in the shape of a panther. There’s a feline ruthlessness to her that he rather admires. “The Midwinter Ball is in two tendays. Every noble is expected to appear before the Grand Dukes. You and I will be there also. You will lure Cazador out into the open and I will be there to cast Daylight.”

Very clever, Gale says.

This sounds promising, but Astarion needs to know, “Do I still get to kill the bastard?”

“Bring your daggers,” Jaheira tells him. “With a vampire unmasked in their midst, you’ll be hailed as a hero.”

Astarion could take or leave the “hero” part. But stabbing Cazador in front of all his patriar friends while Daylight roasts him to ashes – why, that will do very nicely indeed.

Chapter Text

This is it. Months of painstaking effort have all led up to this moment. This has to work.

Astarion adjusts his stance ever so slightly. He draws in a single, pointed breath, then empties his lungs and stands motionless as only the unliving can. Everything must be perfect, not a hair out of place.

We can do this, whispers Gale. 

I bloody well hope so. You’re certain you’re fed well enough for this?

Oh ye of little faith, Gale teases. 

If this kills me, I will never speak to you again. 

You’re stalling, says Gale, not unkindly. Come on now. Just like we practiced. 

Astarion shapes his hands just as Gale showed him. As he does, the Weave begins to flow into him, rushing and rising like a flood tide. All of that power needs somewhere to go, and Astarion provides the channel, throwing his hands forward in a grand, sweeping gesture.

“Arde!”

Astarion squints against the sudden brightness as the tunnel blossoms with flame. A long-faded memory comes back to him: playing at Dragons as a child, pretending to breathe fire upon his toys, making them scream in terror. This must be what a true dragon feels as it unleashes a wave of destruction that consumes all before it. 

In this case, “all before it” means a couple of empty wooden crates, now reduced to lumps of charcoal. Even so, progress is progress. 

Excellent! Gale declares. How did that feel?

That was amazing. Astarion knows he’s smiling like a fool, but dammit, they just cast Fireball together without Gale’s black hole swallowing them both, or the spell itself backfiring and incinerating them. That’s worthy of a little celebration. 

We’ll both have to savor that feeling for now. I don’t think we should attempt any more spellcasting today, much as I hate to say it. Magical stamina requires time to build.

Tempting as it seems, Astarion does not make a joke about never having had difficulties with stamina before. We’ll try again tomorrow.

Third level spells! Gale goes on, enraptured. That’s where some of the more interesting magic beings, in my opinion, though it’s still far from true advanced manipulation of the Weave. But at last we’re approaching the raw power levels necessary for the creation of simulacra. 

Gale has several blackboards in his library scrawled with spell formulae. Apparently he was right to assume they’d need a physical enchanted object to anchor the spell and allow Gale to maintain continuous control over the simulacrum without Astarion’s interference. For that purpose, they’ve set aside a plain silver ring from the Blackburn heist and Astarion’s borrowed a diamond-tipped engraving pen from Tairn’s brother Somi, whose hobby is jewelry-crafting of all things.

There will be major limitations: the simulacrum won’t be able to manipulate physical objects or cast spells on its own, nor will it be able to venture far from Astarion, Gale’s senses still being tied to him. Though Gale has plans for that as well to be implemented down the road: something to do with adapting the sensory communication aspect of a Find Familiar spell, to allow him to temporarily see through his simulacrum’s eyes. 

It will be good for both of them to let Gale carry on conversations of his own. And as long as nobody tries to touch it, the simulacrum should do quite a convincing impression of a flesh-and-blood Gale. 

But all that’s in the future. For the present, Astarion gets to revel in the delightful fact that he can now obliterate anyone in his way with a fiery explosion. Cazador and his servants will never expect this from him. They’ll underestimate him one final time, to their ruin. 

Nor is Fireball the limit of what third-level spells can do

There are several other spells with excellent potential for application in a rogue such as yourself, Gale goes on. None of this is new information to Astarion by now, but he doesn’t mind fantasizing along with Gale about the sheer power now available to them. The Fly spell to reach elevated areas for ambush or infiltration purposes. Haste, for an edge in close combat. Even Fear, to thin out a crowd of enemies. 

Astarion responds, If I’d known wizardry could be this much fun, I’d have made a study of it long ago. 

You’ve only just scratched the surface. To compose the Weave, to feel it move in you like a symphony… truly, there is nothing like it. It is life’s most worthwhile pursuit.

Astarion is frankly less interested in those aspects of magic that don’t directly apply to helping him wipe Cazador off the face of Toril, but he knows better than to try to contradict Gale when he’s waxing poetic about his craft. Besides, though wild horses couldn’t drag it out of Astarion, there’s something charming about Gale’s rapturous love of magic. In an absurd, mildly embarrassing way. 

Consider me thoroughly instilled with respect for your artistry, he says, gently mocking. 

You jest, but someday I won’t be here at all hours to cast Prestidigitation on you upon command.

Gale clearly meant to match Astarion’s tone, but it rings hollow as he says it. If – when – they separate, Astarion will lose access to a wizard’s power. And Gale will be gone.

They still haven’t spoken about what happens after Gale gets his body back and Cazador is dead. Both of them will be free. Gale can return to his tower, or travel the world, or whatever it is he wants. And Astarion…

Astarion wants to go with him. On one level, he doesn’t really have anyone else. His fellow spawn are a far cry from true family, no matter what Cazador tries to claim. As for Astarion’s original family, he can barely remember them, and in all likelihood they’re better off not knowing what became of him after his death all those years ago. Jaheira would probably let him join the Harpers if he asked. 

But beyond all that, even if he had other viable options, Astarion would simply rather be with Gale. It’s taken him long enough, but he’s been forced to admit it, if only to himself.

The trouble is he’s not certain that Gale wants the same thing. 

Gale’s attracted to him, he knows, even if Gale’s too noble to act on it. There is, however, a vast difference between wanting to sleep with someone, and wanting to be some sort of partner with them. The kind of partner you travel the world with, or bring home to meet your mother. And Astarion knows all too well that, appealing as he might be for the former, he has precious little to recommend him as the latter. 

In any case, this is a conversation he’s not remotely ready to have. 

He says, Oh, there’s no need to worry on that account, my dear. It’s only a cantrip. I’m sure after all this time, I could cast it on my own without difficulty. 

Of course you could. Gale sounds a touch more awkward than usual. At any rate, we should probably be getting back. We wouldn’t want to keep the boss waiting. It seems both of them are eager for a change of subject. 

By all means, Astarion replies, and makes for the exit. 

Their climb out of the sewer lands them close to the Ducal Palace where the Midwinter Ball will be held. Astarion lets his feet carry him to the broad, immaculate boulevard across which the Palace stands. He doesn’t want to linger long – they are in the Upper City, which makes him wary of being spotted – but Gale’s never seen the place, and they may as well both be familiar with the general layout. 

The Palace takes up the equivalent of four city blocks. An ornate wrought-iron fence separates it from the street, while inside, white marble towers rise around a round central building with a vaulted, arching glass roof. At the heart of this is the Ballroom, a large and ostentatious space that, come the day of the Ball, will be lit by thousands of candles and magically-enhanced starlight. The room will be packed with the noble and wealthy, with servants discreetly positioned at the edges of the room to provide food and drink. 

Astarion has been there several times, always on the arm of someone he’d rather forget. Security is stringent at the Ball; attendees aren’t allowed to bring their own staff, and City Watch in dress uniforms constantly monitor the proceedings. Astarion always performed as the plus-one of a noble or merchant – one of Cazador’s friends, or someone whose favor he wanted to curry. The night was hot, sweaty, tedious, and invariably ended in somebody’s bedchamber. 

But not this time. This time, he’ll be there with Gale and Jaheira, with Harpers amongst the servants, and a knife concealed in the panel of his jacket. It’ll be hidden well; he’s doing the tailoring himself. Jaheira will spring their trap, and then it will all be over.

Staring at the Palace complex, where he’ll face Cazador for the last time, Astarion pushes back a twinge of unease. What if Cazador somehow regains control over him?

He can’t compel me anymore, Astarion says to Gale. 

No. 

But what if… what if somehow, if it’s him giving the command in person –

Astarion, Gale says, soft but firm, the compulsion is broken. Even if I were to vanish on the spot, it wouldn’t come back. It’s gone. I’ve made very certain of that. I can’t permanently shield you from the sun but Cazador’s command is a different matter. You need not worry on that account. 

Astarion steadies himself. He doesn’t like the thought of Gale vanishing on the spot, only in part because, the last time it happened, he nearly died outside a Bhaalist headquarters posing as a tombstone shop. All right. 

He keeps walking, following a winding route back to the safehouse. Cazador knows he’s being watched, so it follows that he would send his own servants to search the city for Astarion and his accomplices. The last thing Astarion needs is for Cazador to discover the Harper safehouse, and so he’s always careful in his movements. He seldom takes straight routes back and always keeps a wary eye out for anyone following him. Sometimes when he’s feeling especially paranoid, he asks Gale to make him invisible for a block or two. 

Today is an especially paranoid day. Something keeps moving in the corner of his eye, but every time he turns to look back at it, it’s gone. He’ll make it another block or two before a prickling feeling rises again on the back of his neck, and he finds himself certain he’s being watched. 

Maybe Cazador’s started using Astarion and Gale’s own Invisibility trick against them. It’s broad daylight, so neither Cazador himself nor his spawn could be out, but Cazador’s living servants could. 

Well, two – or, in this case, technically three – can play at that game. 

He ducks into the shadow of a doorway, out of sight of passers-by. Gale? Would you please do the honors?

Some of his anxiety must be bleeding through. Gale complies immediately, and with a quick incantation and a wave of his arms, Astarion vanishes from sight. 

Once they’re moving again, Gale asks, Have you seen anyone following us? I’ve been looking as well and haven’t noticed anything unusual.

It’s more a feeling, Astarion tells him. A feeling that has lessened considerably, now that he’s no longer visible. We can’t be too careful.

They make it back to the safehouse without further incident. Nothing else flickers in his peripheral vision; nobody attacks them in the street. Astarion lets himself in through the back door and his Invisibility falls away after he locks it behind him. 

Tairn’s voice sounds in the kitchen. “That you, leech? You’re late.” Astarion makes a face. 

In the kitchen, clustered around the dining room table, are the half-orc brothers and Jaheira. Jaheira has both scimitars today, so she obviously means business. A new addition to the group stands by her side: an elf in light armor carrying a warhammer heavy enough to make a Dragonborn sweat. Her Harper badge is pinned neatly at her shoulder.

Astarion stops in the doorway. For all that he’s been working with the Harpers, he hasn’t actually met that many of them. Jaheira’s told him that she’s been keeping his identity as Cazador’s spawn quiet among the ranks, which he appreciates. Plenty of do-gooders would want to kill him merely for being what he is. Others might distrust him as a possible double agent for his former master. How much does this newcomer know?

“Astarion. Gale.” Jaheira inclines her head at them as they enter. So this new person also knows of Gale’s existence?

Some of Astarion’s unease must show on his face, because Jaheira turns to the elf beside her. “This is Rion, a trusted captain of the Harpers. She’s been helping us with planning our upcoming mission to the Ball.”

Rion gives him a businesslike nod, which Astarion returns. 

“What took you so long?” Tairn asks. 

Astarion replies, “Oh, nothing much. Merely mastering the Weave and preparing to incinerate any annoyances who get in our way.”

“Best not use that at the Ball. Too many dead patriars complicate things. Messy.”

“Can we focus, please?” Rion interjects. “We have logistics to go through and we’ve wasted enough time already.”

Ah, yes. The eternal Harper love of logistics. “I’m all ears,” says Astarion graciously. 

She spreads out a map of the Ducal Palace on the table. “The main entrance is here, where the guests will enter. The Ballroom has exits here” – circling the doors in blue ink – “here, and here. The servants’ entrance is over here, leading to the kitchens. Here’s the cloakroom, here are the toilets, and here’s the lounge. 

“We’ve obtained a copy of the guest list, which is already finalized. We know we’ll need to get you, Astarion, and Jaheira in, and they’ll be checking invites at the door.”

Astarion sighs inwardly. “I’m going to have to be someone’s accompaniment for the evening, aren’t I?” It’s not ideal, but he can grin and bear it for the short term. Being temporary arm candy one more time is a small price to pay in the grand scheme of things, especially if the Ball ends as spectacularly and violently as he hopes it will. 

But Rion shakes her head. “Too much hassle. Much easier for the both of you to pose as servants. We can get you in as members of the catering staff.”

“What about my outfit?” Astarion protests. Wanting to dress up is not entirely vanity. His ensemble is also a clever way to smuggle in a weapon. Besides, he’s worked awfully hard on the embroidery and would like to show it off in front of more people than just Gale. 

Jaheira says, “No need to panic. One or two members of the nobility are, shall we say, sympathetic to our cause. Not enough that they would want to publicly support us, or escort a Harper into the Ballroom, of course, but enough that we can have one of them leave your outfit in the cloakroom. You only need to pick it up and change clothes.”

“Stay close to her for the evening and make sure you know the building’s layout backwards and forwards,” Rion adds. “We wouldn’t want Cazador cornering you somewhere without her close by to spring the trap.

“Afterwards, there’s likely to be chaos. The guards will be all over the place and will want to question everyone involved. Gale, can you make sure you and Astarion get away safely? We don’t want you getting caught up in an investigation.”

Of course. But what about Jaheira?

“I will stay, at least for a moment, and answer questions. And if they want to make an arrest, I’m a druid,” says Jaheira after Astarion relays Gale’s response. “Wild Shape has gotten me out of many tough situations over the years.

“The emergency phrase is ‘scramble.’ If either of us says that to the other on the night, we leave immediately, no questions asked, and regroup back here.”

Astarion looks about the room. The Harpers seem sober, but confident. They really think this plan will work. But he needs to be certain of one thing. After being followed on his way back here, and staring down the likelihood of facing his old master once more, his nerves are running high. 

“If Cazador somehow takes me back…”

“Then we will come for you.” It sounds so matter-of-fact when Jaheira says it. Like there was never a question of doing otherwise. 

I won’t let that happen, Gale promises. 

“Very well, then,” Astarion says. “Let’s go kill the bastard.”

Chapter Text

By the time Astarion, soaked right through his supposedly waterproof raincloak, arrives at the rendezvous point, Jaheira’s already there. She leans up against the alley wall under an overhang, unbothered by the miserable weather. “You’re late.”

“Well, I apologize for making sure we weren’t followed,” Astarion grumbles back at her. Gale hadn’t wanted to cast Invisibility on the way over, wanting instead to preserve his magical energy in case of emergency later tonight. Which is fair, and Astarion can see the sense in it, but he nevertheless resents the cold, wet walk over. He stands next to her, getting a moment of reprieve from the rain.

“We do not have much time.” She passes him an envelope – a forged letter, entitling him to pose as one of the serving staff. He tucks it into his jacket. “Let’s get moving.”

Like a true druid, she marches off into the weather without so much as a flinch. Astarion follows behind her with a good deal less stoicism. 

“What will you do once we arrive?” she asks.

He snipes back at her, “Is your memory starting to go? We’ve talked about this.” 

“I’m old, not senile. And if you can’t stick to the plan, I’ll remind you that you’re not strictly necessary here. I can burn a vampire to ashes all by myself. I am doing you a favor, letting you tag along.” 

Gale notes, She makes a decent point.

Whose side are you on? Out loud, he says, “Might I remind you I’m the bait for this trap? To make sure his exposure as a cursed creature of the night is as public as possible?” A role about which Astarion’s far from enthusiastic. 

“Oh, please. I could lure him out by myself if I had to.” 

An image appears in his mind’s eye: Jaheira at one of Cazador’s soirees, putting on the sort of performance that entices a vampire lord thirsty for blood, among other things. It’s so incongruous that he actually snorts, then has to try to cover it with a cough. 

“Something funny?”

“Nothing, nothing.” Gale, meanwhile, gives Astarion the mental version of a knowing look. 

“Hmph.” Jaheira turns right onto the broad street facing the rear entrance of the Palace. “You won’t distract me that easily. Tell me the plan.”

Astarion pats the envelope in his pocket. “We present our credentials, make our way to the kitchens, and blend in with the serving staff. Once the nobility start to arrive, we enter the cloakroom, where our formal outfits will be waiting, having been delivered by an early-arriving guest. I stay close to your side and locate Cazador. I get him out into the center of the ballroom once the evening’s well underway, with plenty of spectators. You cast Daylight, I stab him, and Gale helps us make a clean getaway.” It’s honestly a little insulting that she made him repeat all of this. It’s an extremely simple plan. How stupid does she think he and Gale are?

“Did you memorize all the emergency exits?”

“Naturally.” He lets a bit of his irritation seep into his voice. He’s having a trying day. Jaheira, as he knew she would, pointedly ignores it. 

They cross the street towards the Palace. It’s not yet time to dodge carriages – the guests aren’t due to arrive for several hours. Standing before an inconspicuous gate in the wall is a halfling woman dressed in blue livery with a list in hand. 

Astarion pushes his cloak aside, revealing matching livery. The fabric and cut are awful, but at least he won’t be wearing it for long. He lines up behind Jaheira, who is presenting her own paperwork to the halfling at the gate.

“Name?”

“Elspeth. You’ll find I’m in the kitchens.” Jaheira’s a good liar, Astarion notes. It’s probably a skill one picks up rather quickly as the head of a secret organization.

The halfling makes a note on her list. “Very well. Next!”

Astarion steps up and gives his own fake name, Alden. He’d wanted to use Gale’s name, but was shot down. “Also in the kitchen,” he adds.

He’s an accomplished liar himself and doesn’t get so much as a second glance. At last, he follows Jaheira into the building itself.

The servants’ entrance leads almost directly into the kitchens, if he remembers the blueprints correctly. They hang up their soaked raincloaks on pegs in the entryway, which is already crowded with staff members’ outerwear. Astarion wishes he could dry himself off with Prestidigitation, but he and Gale need to stay inconspicuous for now. Tossing around spells, even cantrips, would draw too much notice. 

At least the kitchen is warm. It’s a much larger room than Cazador’s kitchen, and clearly far more regularly used. A dozen cooks are hard at work, sweating in the heat of industrial-sized ovens. Rolls of canapes, piles of pastries, and platters laden with fruits, nuts, and cheeses are stacked by the door leading to the stairs. Between the shouting servants and clattering dishware, the din is nearly overwhelming. 

Nearly there, says Gale. 

Before Astarion can reply, he and Jaheira are accosted by a dwarf in an apron. She levels a finger at them. “You! Don’t just stand there. Old lady, get busy plating up the good Waterdhavian cheese. And pretty boy, get out hauling trays upstairs.”

For a moment, he stands there, caught in her choice of words: how many times has that exact description been used on him? He’s torn between two knee-jerk reactions: to flirt back as though flattered, an instinct drummed into him by two centuries of slavery; and a newer impulse to bristle and show his fangs. 

That’s a wildly inappropriate comment for the workplace, Gale declares, and his righteous indignation snaps Astarion out of his spiraling thoughts. He gives the offending woman a haughty look, then stalks off to attend to the trays. 

Astarion tells Gale, It’s nothing I haven’t heard a thousand times. Really, he’s accustomed to being called much, much worse, but he doesn’t need to tell Gale that.

You do not deserve to be objectified.

It doesn’t matter. We have more important business to attend to. Specifically, carting a large platter of bite-sized puff pastry up the winding stairs to the main hall. 

Supervisory staff are directing a constant flow of workers back and forth across the ballroom. As is usual for large events, much of the preparation has come down to the last possible minute. Banners and streamers are still being hung, troublesome spots on the floor polished, tables set up. Astarion is promptly directed to an alcove, where gold-trimmed tablecloths are being set out. He drops off the first tray and goes back downstairs for another.

He tries to lose himself in his tasks, just as he’s always done. He focuses on the rhythm of doing what he’s told. It doesn’t entirely work on this occasion. 

He runs into Jaheira often. That aproned dwarf woman has her setting out glassware. Their eyes don’t meet. It’s odd seeing the commander of the Harpers letting herself be bossed around by a petty kitchen tyrant, but a certain self-assurance never leaves her expression. She’s on a mission and the goal is almost in sight. 

Bit by bit, in between his trips up and down the stairs, the ballroom transforms. The rickety ladders disappear, the floor is fully mopped and dried, and every wooden table has its matching cloth. Gale keeps up an occasional commentary on the progression of the illusion magic conjured up above the ballroom floor, the dancing, shimmering stars put there by a put-upon sorcerer. Astarion listens to it like pleasant background noise, the way he would the rushing of a stream. 

He thinks about his hands and the placement of his feet. He thinks about not tripping and dropping a tray of drinks. He thinks about how unflattering the tunic he’s wearing is, and how much better he’ll feel with a proper outfit complete with a concealed weapon. He thinks about how, as the clock spins onward, the moment is drawing closer when Cazador will appear through the ballroom doors. He’ll notice Astarion at once, not least because Astarion will be doing his best to draw his old master’s attention. Astarion hasn’t had to hear that voice in months. He’ll hear it again tonight. 

No matter. It’ll be over quickly enough. 

Near the base of the stairs, a less-graceful staff member has dropped a glass and cut their hand open trying to pick up the pieces. They swear and call for a broom. Astarion stops in his tracks and breathes through his mouth. He ate only yesterday, but nothing quiets the hunger for long. Especially not when sentient-being blood is on offer.

Are you well? Gale asks.

He turns and goes back upstairs, to busy himself with rearranging the buffet table until the other servants have this mess cleaned up. 

I’m quite all right. He’s spoiled, is what he is. He’s gone a year without feeding before. A few months of being properly fed has made him stronger, but also gotten him used to regular meals. And when he knows exactly how good that blood will taste, well, so much the worse. It was easier to deny himself when he didn’t really know what he was missing.

If Astarion is recaptured, that knowledge will be wielded against him, sharper and crueler than any knife. Cazador will make him regret having had the audacity to flee, mind palace refuge be damned. And this time, Gale will be trapped with him, helpless, voiceless, privy to every instant of Astarion’s humiliation and pain. 

For his part, Gale ate just this morning. The last of the enchanted items they stole from the Blackburn estate. They can’t afford for the Netherese void to open up on them at a crucial moment tonight. After this – if there is an after – they’ll have to go scrounging for magical artifacts. But that’ll be after. By then, Cazador will be dead. Anything and everything will be possible then. 

It’s a pity Astarion won’t get to enact his long and inventive plans to make Cazador suffer, but he’s more than happy for a chance to kill him without a small army of spawn, servants, and guards to protect him. It might not be as protracted a death as Astarion had hoped, but it will be glorious nonetheless. He’ll be free. And the last thing Cazador ever sees will be Astarion’s smile. 

Astarion? Are you quite certain you’re well? You seem… distant.

He shakes himself. Apologies, darling. I was miles away. 

A state of mind I know all too well. I was saying that it will soon be time to seek out Jaheira again. The guests are nearly due to arrive. 

Astarion, spotting a gilded monstrosity of a grandfather clock, confirms it. Very soon the ballroom doors will open. The sun has barely set, but even so Cazador will surely arrive fashionably late, as is his custom. In his world, punctuality is a virtue only for lesser beings. 

As if privy to Astarion and Gale’s conversation, Jaheira appears at his side. She’s somehow escaped from the taskmasters in the kitchen. “Ready?” she asks quietly.

“Of course.” He’s not sure whether she buys the lie; Gale certainly doesn’t.

All she says is, “To the hunt, then.”

She’s right, he tells himself. Astarion is the hunter now. The predator. Cazador, at last, is nothing more than his prey.

Twenty minutes later, with the first guests filtering through the doors, Astarion strolls through the back door of the cloakroom, emanating the aura of someone who is exactly where he’s supposed to be. Behind him, Jaheira has found a piece of parchment and clipboard for extra insurance. Nobody ever questions anyone in uniform walking about purposefully with a clipboard. 

At the front of the room, servants are bringing in the various coats and cloaks belonging to the guests and arranging them on numbered hangers. Astarion notes the general dampness of the clothing. The rain, it seems, has not let up.

He spots a flashy purple cape made of fine silk, and, on closer inspection, discovers a neatly wrapped parcel in a hidden pocket. It’s heavy with the comforting weight of a hidden flat-bladed knife. He removes it with a stealthy flourish, his pickpocketing skills serving him well, then leaves Jaheira to her own work and makes for a nearby private restroom. It’s marked for guests only, but nobody is around to stop him. 

The mirror reflects nothing, but thanks to Gale, Astarion knows what he would see. The base of the outfit is the black-and-silver ensemble he bought a few tendays back. He’s redone much of it in the interim, altering it over the course of long evenings while Gale worked on his spell formulae. Now, rather than peacocks, the outfit displays coiled dragons in silver thread on the jacket. Beneath that is a vest in wine-red velvet, with a pair of green stones set into the collar. Tucked into a panel of the jacket is his flat knife. Not the flashiest of blades, but it will get the job done. 

He doesn’t need to explicitly ask Gale to help him cast Prestidigitation. They could practically do it in their sleep by now. With a final adjustment of his collar, it’s done, his servant clothes dropped down a waste chute. 

How do I look? Astarion knows the answer, but he wants to hear Gale say it.

Dressed to kill, in more ways than one, if I do say so myself. You really are an artist with a needle and thread, you know.

Astarion makes a show of waving the compliment off. You’re too sweet. He flashes a fanged grin. He’s dressed up thousands of times at Cazador’s behest, but this time is different. This time he’s doing it for himself. Perhaps if he looks the part – the debonair aristocrat, armed and ready to revel in revenge – he can find a way to believe it. 

Was this how Magistrate Ancunín looked once upon a time? With confidence and poise, if admittedly with fewer thoughts of gory murder? The man died long ago and left a monster to parade his corpse about, but maybe Astarion can summon up an echo of how things used to be, when he had his whole future ahead of him.

Because he does, once more, starting tonight. All he needs to do is reach out and seize it. 

Chapter Text

Jaheira’s waiting at their designated meeting spot by a pillar near the entrance, dressed in green and gold. Druid colors, but a touch more elaborate in design than her usual, more practical clothing. Astarion will never tell her so, but she does know how to clean up for a party. 

“Lord Astarion.” There is more than a hint of sarcasm to her tone. 

He plays at being affronted. “Excuse me, who are you again?” 

The corner of her mouth twitches in reply.

The ballroom is still mostly empty, with staff outnumbering guests. One of the nobility in the room must be Jahiera’s associate, not that she’ll tell Astarion who it is if he asks. He scans their faces, but doesn’t recognize any. 

Fine. He didn’t expect Cazador to arrive yet anyway. But there’s a part of him that wishes his old master would just show up, if only to end this suspense. 

Gods, there are times I wish I could get drunk, he tells Gale. If he said it aloud to Jaheira, he’d get a stern look or lecture.

But Gale understands perfectly. What if you drank the blood of someone intoxicated? It could prove an informative experiment. 

Remind me to try that sometime. Maybe later tonight, after.

If a suitable, erm, donor can be found, then why not? You’ll have richly earned it. How far they’ve come from that first night at Fraygo’s Flophouse. These days, Gale’s practically sanguine about Astarion’s diet. 

“What is the wizard saying?” Jaheira asks.

“We’re just making some plans for a celebration.”

She chuckles. “Far be it from me to pry into whatever you two do for fun. As for me, I think I’ll head home and go to bed. I’ve lost enough sleep on this of late.”

It occurs to Astarion that he has no idea where Jaheira lives, or with whom. She’s always been cagey about the details of her personal life. Meanwhile, she knows exactly where Astarion lives and how he spends the majority of his time. It’s blatantly unfair. 

“You know,” he says, “now that we’re attending a social occasion together, I realize how little I know of you. You’ve been holding out on me.”

She crosses her arms. “Are you trying to distract yourself by prying into my life?”

“Well,” he hedges, “there is some genuine interest there as well. Come, now. Tell me something about the legendary commander of the –”

“Shh! Not so loud. We are in public.”

He holds up his hands in surrender. 

Jahiera takes a breath. “Fine. I live in a house on the north side of the Lower City. All things going well, I’ll show you two someday. Fair?”

“More than fair.” He wonders what sort of house Jaheira lives in. One with the walls covered in maps, battle plans, and lists, probably. She is a druid, so maybe there are some houseplants in there too. 

A cluster of new arrivals enters the ballroom. Astarion stiffens, then relaxes when he doesn’t recognize any of them. Just a group of nobles on a night out. 

As more guests arrive, security tightens. Armed soldiers in Ravengard livery start to appear at the edges of the room. When the time comes, they’ll need to ensure that plenty of guards see Cazador burn in Jaheira’s Daylight, to make the aftermath easier for her to explain. Astarion’s not worried on his own behalf. He and Gale will simply disappear once the deed is done. 

Astarion brushes his hand over his knife again. He imagines the feeling of casting Fireball. If he needs to, he’ll roast Cazador himself, and any other patriars in the way had better hope Gale’s right about being able to sculpt the spell not to harm them. If not, well. Too bad for them. 

Astarion and Gale are passing time by the buffet tables when things start to go wrong. 

Cazador still hasn’t arrived as the night wears on. Astarion’s still trying to project confidence despite his screaming nerves. He’s been nursing the same glass of wine for the past half-hour as the room has slowly filled. 

A voice from behind him cries out, “You’re Lord Cazador’s boy, aren’t you?”

It takes all of his two centuries of enforced self-control not to bolt then and there. He turns instead to see a familiar leering face in a blue coat, cheeks already flushed with wine. 

It’s one of Cazador’s patriar friends. Astarion has done his level best to forget his name, but he recognizes him all too well.

“I’d heard you weren’t available tonight. Who are you here with?” The drunk patriar moves towards him, hands outstretched. It’s all so sickeningly familiar. This scene has played out countless times at balls, parties, and at Cazador’s exclusive gatherings. Called over by people who know what he is, what he was made to be. Who know he has no choice but to oblige them. He feels unclean in a way he hasn’t felt in tendays.

Astarion, frozen, keeps his face blank. He cannot let the fear show.

Something shudders at the back of his mind: a flash of icy rage, hidden again within an instant. Astarion… says Gale, too quietly. He doesn’t need to ask. He already knows.

And somehow, that’s enough. Astarion isn’t alone. He’s not helpless. He is armed with a knife, his own deadly teeth, and the fury of an archmage. The terror gives way and anger boils up to take its place. 

The time when he had to smile and pretend to enjoy this is gone. Nobody gets to do this to him. Not ever again. 

He thinks to Gale, I will kill this man.

A candidate for our experiment. Gale’s tone is cold enough to shatter steel. But I also wouldn’t blame you for preferring not to touch the likes of that.

Before Astarion can do anything rash, like lunge at this man’s throat right in the middle of the ballroom, a much more welcome voice calls out, “There you are!” 

Jaheira, proving she’s paying attention as she promised, emerges from the crowd. She doesn’t touch Astarion, for which he’s grateful. “I’ve been looking all over for you!” she says, beckoning him closer. 

Without a word, he follows her back into a throng of ball-goers. As they pass through, Jaheira does her best to clear a path for them, not-so-gently elbowing her way forward. She’s impressively good at it for her size. Even so, people still press far too close to Astarion. Too many hands, too many voices, heartbeats, hot breath on his skin. He clenches his fists and manages not to snap Don’t touch me aloud. His shoulders are square and do not shake. He does not need to draw his dagger or bare his fangs.

At last they reach a clearer area on the other side. Astarion can’t quite find the words he wants, but he gives her a nod of appreciation. 

In return, she surprises him. “If you want that man dead, I will help.”

Astarion thought the heroic Jaheira would never stoop to this sort of thing, but clearly he’s misjudged her. This night is full of all sorts of revelations about her character. “I didn’t think you approved of wanton murder.”

She shrugs. “Hardly wanton, I think. But it will be your decision.”

It strikes him that, after two centuries of shit, Astarion has found not one, but two people willing to do violence, not to him, but for him. How novel.

“Much appreciated,” he says, and with that, he tries to put it all out of his mind for the moment. He has much, much more important matters to deal with than one of Cazador’s cronies.

Anything? he asks Gale. Part of Gale’s job this evening is ensuring that Cazador doesn’t sneak up on them. 

Nothing, Gale replies after a moment’s pause. He still sounds shaken, which isn’t surprising. He doesn’t have Astarion’s extensive experience of pushing this sort of incident out of his thoughts. 

I’m guessing we’ll both be happier once this is done, Astarion ventures.

Very much so.

I think Jaheira’s finally recognized my considerable charm. It’s a compliment, you know, when someone offers to commit murder on one’s behalf.

Not the sort of compliment I’m accustomed to, but this experience has broadened my perspective substantially.

Educational, is it?

Gale chuckles weakly. Exceptionally so.

A stir runs through the crowded ballroom and the throng begins to part down the center. Astarion and Jaheira step back, Astarion craning his neck to see over several rows of shoulders. 

He’s not left in suspense long. The assembly has parted to allow a tall, stately figure in an understated blue jacket to pass. Astarion has seen Grand Duke Ravengard before on occasion, though never up close. He’s not the sort of man to frequent Cazador’s company. By all accounts, the onetime commander of the Flaming Fist is the austere, self-righteous type. Cazador knew better than to even try to ply him with his usual enticements.

Behind him walks his son Wyll, the dashing heartthrob of the city’s ruling class. By reputation, he’s got much more of a sense of fun than his father, but the old man seems to have drummed a sense of honor into him as well. He looks the part of the storybook prince, dressed in Ravengard blue but with gold flourishes at collar and sleeves. More than a few pairs of interested eyes follow him as he goes.

Astarion, who has seen dozens of Grand Dukes come and go, returns to scanning the crowd. If the Duke himself is here, Cazador surely must arrive soon. The hour of “fashionably late” is quickly nearing a close and the sun has been set for quite some time. 

And right on cue, there he is. 

Cazador Szarr appears for an instant as the crowd shuffles back into place following the Ravengard procession. Not counting his year entombed, this is by far the longest Astarion’s gone without seeing him since being turned. He’s not sure what he expected, looking upon him again after all this time, and now that the moment’s here, Astarion isn’t even certain what he’s feeling. It’s not quite anger or fear. Not exactly.

That’s him, Gale says faintly. 

Astarion glances over at Jaheira. She catches on instantly. “Where?”

Cazador has disappeared back into a cluster of people. “He was just over there.” His gaze darts back and forth as he tries to pick Cazador out again.

“Look at me,” Jaheira orders.

When Astarion makes eye contact, she meets his gaze steadily. “I will follow you. You’ll be even less alone than usual. Yes?”

Through a knot in his throat, Astarion nods.

“One last push and then he’s dead. Come now.” She ushers him forward. “It’s time.”

She’s right. Just this one more moment, one more time seeing his face and hearing his voice, and then Cazador will be gone forever, by Astarion’s own hand.

He fixes the image of a dying vampire lord in his mind and begins to circle the ballroom. Jaheira stays a few steps behind, doing her best not to appear as though she’s following him. Better that Cazador doesn’t realize he has backup. 

The faces of nobility pass by him in a haze. He lets them blur into the background. He could come face-to-face with that awful patriar from before and scarcely notice. Far away, the musicians have struck up the first of the evening’s dances, a lively number meant to coax couples out onto the floor. It’s hot and loud, there are too many people close by, and part of him wants nothing more than to run. 

There’s still time. He doesn’t think Cazador has seen him yet. He could stop, give Jaheira the emergency phrase, turn invisible, and leave. 

Until the crowd parts again, and there he is, not ten paces away. His eyes lock onto Astarion’s.

If there is any comfort to be found in those first instants, it’s that Cazador looks genuinely surprised to see him. He didn’t know Astarion was going to be here. His expression tightens, and as the shock wears off, impossibly, Astarion realizes that he has never seen Cazador quite this angry before.

Astarion is an expert in reading his master’s moods. A part of him was constantly attuned to the slightest changes in Cazador’s face and the subtlest variations in his tone of voice. He knew what heralded punishment, lust, scorn, and even Cazador’s rare, momentary flashes of relative leniency. He thought he’d seen the worst of it on that night he was caught trying to escape with one of his earlier targets.

He was wrong. 

Cazador’s fury is cataclysmic .

Astarion is supposed to draw Cazador out into the center of the room, but his feet are rooted in place. His jaw works, but nothing comes out. 

Cazador does half the work for him. He closes the gap between them, reaches out, and grabs Astarion by the wrist. His grip is hard enough to bruise. 

Astarion! Gale cries out.

But Astarion can barely hear him. 

“You,” Cazador hisses. Too quietly to draw attention from anyone else nearby. 

Cazador is touching him. This wasn’t supposed to happen. His skin crawls. He ought to pull away. He needs to pull away. Why can’t he pull away?

“Insolent, disobedient, ungrateful wretch. How dare you abandon your family?”

Distantly, Astarion is aware that he’s trembling.

“This farce ends tonight. You will reveal to me exactly how it was that you were able to leave the palace, and then I will instruct you thoroughly in the error of your ways.”

The kennels again, for a long, long time. The bedchamber. Then the tomb. 

Cazador draws him closer. Astarion hates that he now knows his own eyes and Cazador’s are exactly the same color. He didn’t inherit the darkened sclera that most vampire spawn develop. For him, and for Cazador, it’s just those blood-red irises.

Cazador reeks of cloying perfume and stale blood. He snaps, “Such a stupid boy,” and his spittle flicks Astarion in the face.

Gray mist starts to creep around the edges of his vision. A voice in his head is shouting something. The music and the babble of the crowd reach a deafening din. 

“Hey! Vampire!”

Cazador flinches. His gaze shifts to something behind Astarion.

It’s Jaheira!

She emerges from the crowd, wrathful. And in the face of the aged druid’s fury, Cazador actually draws back a fraction, though not enough to release Astarion. 

“Who in the Hells are you?” he demands. 

“I know what you are, Lord Szarr.” She’s not keeping her voice down; in fact, quite the opposite. Already they’re starting to attract looks from people nearby.

“I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t you? What’s your diet like, these past few centuries? How long has it been since you’ve seen the sun?”

Cazador’s fingers tighten around Astarion’s wrist well past the point of bruising. He can feel his bones start to ache. 

“Who are you?” Cazador presses.

Jaheira ignores the question. “Release my companion at once.”

Cazador glances back and forth between Astarion and Jaheira. To Astarion, he snarls, “Who is this woman?”

Astarion, tongue still tied, can’t figure out how to reply.

Shocking Grasp! Here’s the incantation; all you need to do is –

“Someone who knows your dirty secret, nightspawn.”

By now, they’ve drawn the notice of a substantial fraction of the ballroom. Violence is unusual, but not unheard of, at these sorts of high society functions. When it does occur, nobody wants to miss out on the action.

Cast Daylight, Astarion pleads, with only Gale to hear him. Now. Please, oh gods, please do it now.

“Whatever you think you know –” Cazador begins.

Jaheira doesn’t let him finish. “Let’s show the good people, shall we?” She spreads her hands. Vivid white light begins to well up between them. 

“Fiat lux –”

“Impero tibi!”

And the white light stutters and dies, smothered in a reddish glow.

Cazador’s face shifts from alarm into a cruel, sharp joy. 

An unfamiliar man with long, orange hair emerges from the spectators. His hands, which had been raised in a warding gesture, begin to lower. 

C-counterspell?

“Good people,” he announces, “this woman has attempted to cast offensive magic on a member of the nobility. Fortunately, I was present to nullify it.”

Jaheira’s face twists in shock. She lifts her arms again for another attempt. The white light flares, then dies a second time under a wave of crimson. 

Guards are shouldering their way through the crowd, but they’re not even needed. Before Jaheira can muster a third attempt, the red-haired man casts another spell with a flick of his wrist and she freezes. Her movements stop mid-gesture, her face is paralyzed in an expression of outrage. 

Who the fuck is this interloper? What has he done to Jaheira? 

Astarion has one chance. Fireball is out, judging by how easily the newcomer – a powerful wizard or sorcerer, surely – countered Jaheira’s spells. But nobody can Counterspell a perfectly mundane dagger.

He wrenches his hand away from Cazador, who, momentarily distracted, isn’t fast enough to hold him. In the blink of an eye he’s drawn his knife, and with a shriek of desperate anger, stabs it into Cazador’s chest. 

Or, almost.

Another hand catches his arm and wrestles it down. 

The guards are upon him, two of them. His knife clatters to the floor. Their hands are all over him, pinning his arms to his back. He writhes and twists, but he can’t escape their grip. 

He has only one weapon left to him. Astarion twists his head, finds one of the guards’ necks, and bites.

The rush of blood on his tongue is not euphoria for once. Not here, not now, not in this moment. But it is a burst of strength, and after his teeth tear a gouge out of the guard’s throat, he elbows the other in the solar plexus and nearly slips free.

But Cazador is there, holding him with a true vampire’s crushing strength, and the bones in Astarion’s shoulders groan under his grip. Beyond him, screams have erupted as the unfortunate guard falls, rapidly bleeding out.

“Behold, a monster in our midst!” Cazador cries. “A vampire! But no need to fear, lords and ladies.”

His nails sharpen and dig into Astarion’s flesh. 

“Master Lorroakan and I shall see to this threat personally.”

Chapter Text

Astarion’s scream of outrage is cut off by a pair of hands seizing his face from behind, shoving a rough piece of fabric into his mouth. His fangs bite down on fabric and his shout changes to a spitting, choking gurgle. The corners of his lips are pulled back as the guard ties the improvised gag around the back of his skull. Almost simultaneously, someone else is binding his wrists behind his back with brutally tight knots. 

They’ve got Jaheira too – just as the paralysis seems to be falling away, another pair of guards have knocked her to the ground. Then, a blow strikes Astarion behind the knees and he falls. Unable to catch himself, he hits the tiled floor face-on, leaving him staring into the empty-eyed face of the guard whose throat he opened. 

Gale’s screaming his name. From above him, he hears Cazador’s laughter. A boot slams into his ribs and he yelps, a muffled, ragged sound through the gag. His ears are ringing. 

Fingers claw into his hair, then yank upward. One of the guards has lifted him up, turning his face to Cazador’s. 

“It’s secured, my lord.”

Cazador smirks. “I shall dispose of it.” Once again his hand digs into Astarion’s shoulder and hauls him fully upright. Astarion writhes and bucks, but it’s useless. Two more guards hold him still from behind. 

With a theatrical sweep of his arms, Cazador announces, “The creature has been restrained and the immediate danger is now passed. We shall remove it at once, before it has time to gather its foul powers for an attempt to escape.”

“It murdered a guard! Why not kill it now?” calls one of the spectators.

Lorroakan has an answer ready. “We must discover how it was able to infiltrate this place. Moreover, it made a personal threat against the life of Lord Cazador. We will first learn its methods and its motives, and then we will eliminate it.”

A general round of nods and murmurs of assent follow. Even the Ravengard-employed guards seem perfectly content to hand Astarion off to Cazador and Lorroakan. 

“As for her,” says Lorroakan with a wave of the hand towards Jaheira, “I trust that the stalwart Flaming Fist will see that justice is done for her attempt on Lord Cazador’s life.”

Cazador’s fingers tighten around Astarion’s upper arm, proprietary. He begins to walk towards the ballroom entrance, pulling Astarion along. Lorroakan falls into step just behind them, leaving a now-reanimated Jaheira bound in the hands of the guards. The gawking patriars hastily clear a path ahead of them.

Astarion sees how they look at him. Fear and revulsion at a monster unmasked. And Cazador smiles, his own disguise firmly in place, hailed as a hero. 

Astarion would Fireball them all if he could. No spell sculpting, no hesitation. He would leave this room a pile of ash and charred corpses. He would put every last one of them to the torch for this. He hopes they can see that in his eyes.

“If you have the necessarily facilities, I would rather we handle this in your tower,” Cazador tells Lorroakan softly.

Lorroakan’s eyes light up in eagerness. “Absolutely,” he says. “I can certainly keep this creature contained.”

So, Ramazith’s Tower rather than the Szarr Palace? Unexpected, but it surely makes no difference in the end. This only has one outcome, after all.

Astarion thought he’d escaped. He thought he was free, or nearly so. He thought he was going to kill Cazador. More fool him. He really is just as stupid as Cazador always says. He’s had a taste of freedom, a glimpse of the light: just enough to make what’s coming all the worse. 

And now Gale will be trapped with him too.

Gale will surely come to hate Astarion, if he hasn’t already. For opening that book. For dooming him to suffer. He’ll see what Astarion really is firsthand, pathetic and helpless, a sniveling thing begging for mercy that will never come. 

Astarion wishes he’d never opened Gale’s book. It would have been better for them both.

He misses a step, stumbles. Cazador’s talons pierce straight through his jacket and into the muscles of his upper arm.

“Keep walking,” Cazador orders. No sting of compulsion follows the words, but that’s almost worse, because Astarion obeys anyway. He has a choice, technically, and despite that he’s following orders. Just as he was taught. Like a good little spawn. A perfectly obedient slave. 

He could have stabbed Cazador before the guards stepped in, but he didn’t. He froze. He was too weak to go through with it. And now he and Gale and Jaheira are caught. Idiotic, contemptible, vile thing that he is, he had the only chance he’ll ever have and he ruined it. Thew it away. He takes another step forward.

And then quite suddenly, the world is gone.

Cazador’s hands disappear. The staring nobility are nowhere to be seen. His bindings have vanished. He’s on his knees on a plush carpet and surrounded by the scents of leather, ink, and parchment. 

“Astarion.”

Gale is kneeling opposite him. Warm candlelight illuminates his face. He’s close enough to touch, but he keeps his hands folded in his lap. They’re in his library.

“Astarion, I – I’m sorry for bringing you here without asking permission, but I couldn’t – those things you were thinking, I could hear them. All of them. I wasn’t trying to pry, truly, but you were sending them to me without meaning to.”

Astarion’s hands are shaking. He forms them into fists and digs his nails into his palms. 

Gale adds, “I tried to tell you, but I don’t think you heard me.” 

“So what now?” Astarion snaps. “You brought me here. What is it you needed to say so badly?”

Gale looks him straight in the eyes. “I need you to listen to me because this is important: It isn’t your fault. None of it. I don’t hate you. I never could. And I will be here, come what may, and you will not be alone.”

Astarion fairly gapes at him for moment, or perhaps two. 

What happens next is nothing he plans. He’s not thinking. He just needs –

And he buries his face in Gale’s shoulder. His arms are wrapped around Gale’s ribs. This close, Gale’s paper-and-ink scent is all the stronger, with hints of beeswax and an herbal medley straight from the kitchen. His shirt – the same diamond-patterned one he’d worn the first time he brought Astarion here – is softer than it looks. He’s warm and solid, or at least offers the illusion of warmth and solidity to cling to, and Astarion needs it more than he needs blood or sunlight. He trembles and clenches his teeth against the sobs that want to break out while he grabs fistfuls of Gale’s shirt and holds on.

After a moment, a gentle weight settles on his back – Gale’s embracing him back. Gale’s other hand cradles his head, fingers weaving into his hair. Not harshly, as Cazador had, but gently, softly, stroking through his curls. 

Astarion hears himself whimper. He pushes himself deeper into Gale’s embrace. Gale’s arms don’t feel like restraint. His closeness doesn’t feel like a violation. It’s the first truly welcomed touch in all Astarion’s long memory. 

“I know,” Gale whispers. “I know. I’m here. I’ve got you.”

“He –” Astarion begins. He can’t finish. He shakes his head, still firmly planted in the crook of Gale’s shoulder.

Gale doesn’t say It’ll all be okay. He doesn’t lie. Instead, he says, “I know,” as his thumb draws circles just below Astarion’s shoulderblade. “I know.”

Astarion starts to count his breaths. After a moment, Gale’s chest rises under his cheek, and a few seconds later, a heartbeat begins its steady rhythm. 

Of course. Gale has no need of the trappings of corporeal mortality either. But he’s summoned them anyway because he thinks they might give Astarion comfort. 

Through a strangling in his throat, Astarion breathes, “I don’t deserve –”

Gale cuts him off. “Nonsense. I’ll not hear a word of it. Don’t you forget, I’ve seen it. Not all of it, but enough. I’m very aware of what you do and don’t deserve.” 

And then Gale’s lips press into his forehead in a soft, chaste kiss. It’s like no kiss Astarion has had in two centuries. It’s gentle and tender. It demands nothing of him. It makes no claim on him. It makes him shiver, but it’s not a bad shiver. Not this time.

An embarrassing whine escapes Astarion. But Gale doesn’t scold him or flinch away, so Astarion merely clutches him tighter. He’s not safe here, but he has the semblance of it, and if the semblance if safety is the best he can get, he’ll take it. 

But it is an illusion. He needs to know what’s happening beyond it. 

Astarion looks up for the first time. Gale doesn’t try to hold him still. He lets Astarion pull back. 

“What happened when you brought me here?” He knows by now that time doesn’t stand still here in the mind palace. 

Gale looks off into the middle distance, no doubt watching the world outside. “Your physical body collapsed as if you’d lost consciousness. I suppose in a manner of speaking, you did. Cazador was rather upset, as you might imagine. There were some words spoken that do not bear repeating. When you didn’t respond, he ordered the guards to carry you. We are now waiting for Lorroakan’s carriage to arrive. Nothing else of consequence has happened.” He turns his gaze back to Astarion. “I can continue to keep watch if you like.”

“Thank you,” Astarion says. He doesn’t fully understand why Gale continues to be so relentlessly kind to him and a part of him is still waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

But it hasn’t yet.

Astarion knows he can’t remain hidden here forever. But for a few moments more, he can stay.

It ends with a jolt of pain. Gale’s touch, his arms, his tower dissolve, and Astarion’s bound again, propped up on a bench inside a moving carriage. His bindings are cutting into his wrists and his mouth aches. Across from him sit Cazador and Lorroakan, watching him intently. Cazador’s drawing his hand back in a dreadfully familiar gesture. He’s just finished giving Astarion a slap across the face. 

“Ah. You’re awake. You made a pathetic scene back at the Ball. I’m sure you thought yourself terribly clever. But you always were an arrogant, foolish boy.”

He’s trying to rile you up . 

Already, Astarion misses being in Gale’s arms, but his sense of Gale’s mental closeness is stronger than ever. He’s not alone. 

I know. 

“I will now allow you to speak. You will keep your voice down and a civil tongue in your head, and you will tell me exactly how it was that you left, and how you were able to drink the blood of a thinking creature tonight.”

Lorroakan flicks his fingers. A Mage Hand appears in Astarion’s peripheral vision and then vanishes behind him. The gag’s knot comes undone and he spits the rag out. 

“Speak.”

Astarion does. “Fuck. You.”

It’s cathartic. Not as cathartic as a well-placed stab through the heart would have been, and Astarion knows he’ll pay for it later. But he can’t bring himself to regret it, especially not after Gale’s approval rushes through him. 

“You insubordinate…” Cazador turns to Lorroakan. “This should not be possible.” The look of confusion and alarm on his face is priceless, and Astarion, a reckless mood taking hold of him, keeps talking.

“Did you know I can walk in the sun now? That I can drink the blood of whoever I want? Enter homes uninvited? Hells, I could go wading in the Chionthar if the mood struck me.” He leans forward, showing his fangs. “Still impossible for you, of course. What a shame.”

He’s poking the bear. He knows that. This is unwise and will not end well. He at least has enough sense still not to reveal his newfound magical abilities, but he’s never had anything to hold over Cazador before. He rather likes it.

“Silence!” 

“No.” What a wonderful word, no. Surely one of Astarion’s favorites.

Cazador slaps him again. Astarion’s ready for it – Cazador telegraphs the blow as usual – but Cazador puts even more force into it than Astarion is accustomed to, and adds his claws for good measure. Astarion is actually well-fed enough to bleed, which is a backwards sort of victory. 

He laughs. There’s no real joy in it, and for all his defiant words he and Gale are still utterly fucked, and Cazador is glaring at him with something like petulance, and he’s going off to Ramazith’s Tower to be imprisoned and tortured, and he can’t be compelled, and Gale is right there with him, and it’s all boiling over into laughter. 

“Shut him up,” Cazador tells Lorroakan.

Lorroakan doesn’t bother replacing the gag. He casts Silence, and with a smirk from Cazador, Astarion’s laughter abruptly becomes completely soundless. 

In the sudden quiet Gale says, Maybe Jaheira got away. It’s difficult to physically restrain someone who can shapeshift.

Maybe. 

She’ll keep her promise, Gale tells Astarion, responding to his unspoken doubts. She’ll come for us. 

She may. Astarion lacks Gale’s confidence, but he’ll concede it’s not an impossibility. Jaheira’s rescued them before, after all, if not from a heavily fortified wizard’s tower. But… 

He’s defied Cazador to his face now. That’s no small miracle. If he and Gale are very, very lucky, Lorroakan and Cazador won’t know about their spellcasting. They’ll be underestimated. 

We won’t wait for them, Astarion decides. He’s not certain that he believes it’s possible, but perhaps even a foolish hope is better than none at all. We’ll break ourselves out. Kill them both, if the opportunity presents itself. Maybe even steal a few books on the way. 

That’s the spirit.

The carriage is drawing to a stop. Beyond is Ramazith’s Tower and whatever Cazador and Lorroakan have planned, with the combined resources and malice of an archmage and a vampire lord. Against all that, a spawn and his discorporated wizard. 

Very well. Let the battle begin.

Chapter Text

The carriage door opens to reveal a pair of automata, animated sets of armor that shimmer with cobalt-blue strands of Weave. They appear to be quite elegantly made; even a cad and a fool like Lorroakan must have a useful idea every so often. Under any other circumstances, Gale might have been tempted to pause and admire their design. 

They bow as Lorroakan steps out, with Cazador following and Astarion, still tied up, silenced, and refusing to move of his own accord on the carriage bench.

“Bring him with us,” Lorrokan orders. The automata whir back into motion. They climb through the carriage door, gauntleted hands raised. 

Astarion kicks one in the knee, with little result besides a loud clang and a stubbed toe. The automata seize his upper arms, one for each side, and ignore his thrashing as they drag him out of the carriage. 

They are standing at the base of Ramazith’s Tower. It’s one of the most ostentatious wizards’ towers that Gale has encountered, which is not an insignificant statement. A sandstone base, matching the surrounding noble houses, is embellished with marble columns, sweeping stained-glass windows, and glimmering mage-lights suspended above gilded sconces. It looks a little like Sorcerous Sundries, only with an even more lavish display of wealth and magical prowess. Gale gazes up, but can’t see the top of the tower. The mage-lights lining the walls appear to climb up into the heavens. 

The carriage has pulled up in front of the main entrance. The double doors open to a wave of Lorroakan’s hand. He and Cazador stride into the palatial entrance hall with Astarion still being dragged by the arms. 

The entryway is lined with busts of famous wizards – Elminster is featured prominently among them – with a heroic statue of Lorroakan himself as the centerpiece. It’s frankly a bit much. Gale has always heard Lorroakan described as a questionable sort, but in truth, questionable doesn’t begin to cover it. Especially not with how pleased he looks as he walks next to Cazador with full knowledge of what he is. 

A distant, detached part of Gale is preoccupied with inspecting their surroundings. After all, any tiny detail could prove crucial to their escape. He examines the enchantments on the automata, or at least, what little he can glean without the ability to sit down with a textbook and a Detect Magic spell. They might, he surmises, have a weakness to lightning. He and Astarion haven’t practiced Lightning Bolt together, but it’s a third-level spell, the equivalent of Fireball, and so in theory they should be capable of casting it at need.

In theory. Of course, ever since Gale opened that book, he’s been living far out beyond the fringes of magical theory. 

There is power here, of that much he can be certain. The Weave quivers with pent-up force in this place. It’s not Lorroakan himself; he doesn’t possess nearly enough magical firepower to create such an effect unaided. He’s no Elminster, no matter how many statues of himself he commissions. Whatever artifacts he has stored here must be incredibly potent. Gale’s insubstantial fingers are all but twitching at the very thought. 

But first things first. Astarion’s no longer actively panicking, seemingly having found a measure of hope to cling onto, but both he and Gale are keenly aware that their situation is dire. Gale tries hard not to look directly at Cazador. He knows that whatever he’s feeling must be a mere shadow of Astarion’s emotions, but his secondhand memories of Astarion’s captivity are threatening to overwhelm him, not to mention his worries about what these two villains might to to Astarion now that he’s been recaptured. 

Gale needs to stay strong for Astarion. It’s the one and only thing he can do right now. 

Gods be damned, these last months have been a thorough and disheartening education in feeling helpless. He’d thought he’d known the worst of it during the endless trek from Waterdeep to Baldur’s Gate, but he’d take that any day over this, over having to watch Astarion being marched towards certain torture and being able to do precisely nothing about it.

All the more reason not to let his own emotions run away with him, then. Whatever happens, the events of the past hour have clearly demonstrated that Astarion needs him, and Gale will be there for him, come Hells or high water. 

The automata bring them through a side door, along a series of nondescript hallways, and finally down a narrow staircase. There’s no more garish wallpaper or ornate light fixtures here, only bare, rough-cut stone and plain lanterns. 

Down to the basement, naturally. Astarion’s mental voice quavers, but Gale doesn’t challenge his pretense of nonchalance. 

Just for your reference, it’s not typical for wizards to have dungeons.

They should. Present circumstances aside, that seems like a missed opportunity. Just think of all the fun one could have.

Gale decides it’s a good sign that Astarion’s making attempts at humor. 

At the bottom of the stairs is a room that has been fitted out as a small prison. There are four cells set around a central area with a table, complete with straps to hold down an unwilling subject. Illumination is provided by overhead magical lamps, bathing the place in a clean, neutral light. Unlike the dark stone of the passage, the floor and walls here are tiled in white. The effect is one of an unsettlingly clinical abattoir. 

Astarion’s summary of their mutual feelings is concise yet eloquent. Shit.

He redoubles his efforts to break free, all his uncanny quickness and agility coming into play. But with his hands still bound, the automata maintain their hold with little difficulty. Cazador and Lorroakan simply watch him struggle. The Silence spell still covers him, so he can’t even shout at them properly. 

When at last Astarion slumps back into stillness, Cazador draws a dagger from under his coat. It seems Astarion wasn’t the only one who managed to sneak knives in to the Ball. Astarion strains backwards, eyes wide, as his horror spikes through across their bond. 

It seems Cazador’s not ready to simply gut him then and there, because he slashes right through Astarion’s beautiful embroidered jacket, cutting it away rather than taking a moment for the automata to remove it. It falls away in tattered patches, leaving only a now-slashed undershirt, and a series of shallow, weeping cuts beneath. Gale’s almost certain he’ll go for the trousers next, but he stops and steps back, satisfied for the moment.

Are you… Gale manages not to ask are you all right, because he already knows the answer to that. Instead he hastily finishes with Are you in much pain?

Not yet. That was tame by his standards. The fact that Astarion doesn’t consider this painful, when he’s already bleeding in several places, is an appalling statement. 

Cazador and Lorroakan, meanwhile, consider their next move. 

Cazador says, “We shall have to restrain him. It appears that he has gained the ability to disobey me. Though I will soon re-educate him on his manners, in the meantime, we will need to keep him here with cruder methods.”

“Tie him down,” Lorroakan orders. 

Astarion is then manhandled towards the table at the center of the room and strapped down. Just when the automata cut his hands free, revealing raw ligature wounds, they’re already locking his wrists into restraints. He lies there, pinned, bound, and silenced.

Gale has never thought of himself as a man quick to anger. Seldom has he wished suffering on another being. But by the gods, he would pull every atom of Cazador and Lorroakan apart with exacting slowness had he the power. 

With Astarion sufficiently immobilized, Lorroakan dispels Silence. Astarion doesn’t take advantage of the opportunity to speak aloud. He measures his breaths and waits. 

Cazador is the first to speak. “Tell me how it is possible that you disobey me.”

“I no longer answer to you.” 

A plain truth, yet it seems to be a challenge for Cazador to internalize it. “How?” he demands, looming over Astarion and all but snarling with rage.

“Fuck off,” says Astarion, and not for the first time that evening, Gale is bowled over by his bravery. He lets that feeling radiate across the overlap between their minds; Astarion deserves to know. 

Gale doesn’t have long to bask in admiration of his partner’s courage. With savage speed, Cazador whips his dagger down, straight into the wooden surface of the table, running the back of Astarion’s right hand clean through. 

Astarion howls, and Gale with him – he’s pressed close enough to Astarion’s consciousness that the physical pain carries across. Somehow, he manages not to withdraw his awareness, even as Cazador yanks the knife back, ripping the wound wider as the blade pulls back. 

When Astarion’s scream trails off, Cazador remarks, “I did miss that sound,” Cazador remarks, as if making an observation on the weather. “Now, child, remember your place and obey.” 

Astarion says nothing aloud, but Gale hears, I won’t. 

I’m here, Gale tells him again once he gathers himself sufficiently to form the words. It feels inadequate, but infuriatingly, it’s all he has to offer. All he can do is remind Astarion that he isn’t alone. Astarion doesn’t reply in words, but Gale feels an answering wash of gratitude, mixed with pain and fear.

“Perhaps you require further remedial lessons.” Cazador circles the table and eyes Astarion’s left hand contemplatively. He presses the point of the blade in, just enough to nick the skin. Astarion’s blood – darker and more viscous than that of the living – slowly wells to the surface.

Lorroakan lifts a hand. “Alternatively, I could wrest the answers we require from him via magical means, if more… direct methods have failed to yield results.”

Cazador takes exception to the use of the word failed. “I have scarcely begun!”

Fool Lorroakan may be, but not fool enough to disregard the dangers of an angered vampire lord. He hastens to add, “I merely meant that we might both work in tandem.” 

Magical means? Astarion asks.

A Detect Thoughts spell, most likely. Very basic stuff. Nothing to worry about.

It doesn’t sound like nothing to worry about. 

Gale is formulating a reply when Lorroakan’s next question catches him off-guard.

“What do you know about a man called Gale of Waterdeep?”

Astarion succeeds, barely, in not flinching. “Who?” 

“A minor wizard of trifling importance but of particular interest to me. I know you came across some of his books. What do you know of him?”

Gale’s thoughts race to stay ahead of what’s happening. If Cazador and Lorroakan are working together, and given the books Marus stole were originally meant for Sorcerous Sundries, then Lorroakan might have learned that some of then ended up at the Szarr Palace. He’d know Astarion handled them and that one of the books disintegrated when opened.

Lorroakan’s patience is running thin. “We know you knew of him. You were foolish enough to use his name. Why?”

Use his name? Has Lorroakan been magically spying on them somehow? Did they overhear Astarion speaking with Jaheira or Tairn? But in that case, Lorroakan would already know the answers to these questions –

At the shop, says Astarion, on the day we met, his apprentice asked for my name. I gave him yours.

Mystra have mercy. It was all because of a spur-of-the-moment joke.

There’s no time to linger on this. Lorroakan’s already beginning to perform the somatic component of Detect Thoughts. Most wizards are trained in methods of evading such things, but Astarion’s no true wizard. 

Luckily, even as the spell reaches for him, Gale feels its touch and, in the same odd, instinctual manner in which he broke Astarion’s compulsion and protected him from sunlight, he turns it away. The Weave that makes up the spell falls apart.

Gale doesn’t quite understand how he accomplishes this, which bothers him. It’s something to do with his bond with Astarion, and something to do with the Netherese void, but he hasn’t sat down to hash out the precise mechanics. But for the time being, what matters is that Astarion’s thoughts are blessedly concealed.

Lorroakan’s eyes narrow. “He resists the spell. It is as I told you. He must have found something in that book.”

“So much for magical means,” Cazador comments, which earns him a disgruntled look from Lorroakan when his back is turned. 

Lorroakan protests, “I have not yet exhausted my options. I’m certain there’s some sort of magical influence at work here.” With that, he launches into a familiar casting: Detect Magic.

Gale can’t parry this spell; one may as well try to evade a bloodhound by covering oneself in perfume. He’s not sure what exactly Lorroakan sees when the spell is complete, as his own presence and the Netherese void defy the traditional classification into different schools of magic that such a spell is designed to detect, but the archmage of Baldur’s Gate clearly sees something. He looks at first stunned, then downright greedy.

Cazador is equally curious. “What do you see?”

Lorroakan gives the impression of a cat spotting an injured sparrow. “Powerful magic clings to him, tethered to the very core of his being. You said he had no skill with the Weave?”

“Of course not.”

Lorroakan hesitates before replying. “Perhaps… perhaps a warlock’s pact, then. An unusual one. He may have come across the name of some entity in one of those books and bound himself to it.”

He’s lying, Astarion says, his mental voice strained but clear. He doesn’t believe that at all. He’s only saying it to stop Cazador from asking more questions. 

Once Astarion points it out, Gale can see it too: that split-second flicker in the eyes. Lorroakan knows more than he’s letting on.

Which could be disastrous, but could also present an opportunity. They may be able to turn their captors against one another. 

Unfortunately, Cazador’s not cooperating, though he hasn’t seen through Lorroakan’s attempted ruse. “Ridiculous. A spawn is incapable of bartering its soul. It cannot sell that which it does not own.”

“There are other things a warlock’s patron could accept in exchange for power,” argues Lorrkoakan. “Service, most commonly.” 

Cazador considers this. “He always did need a master, one way or another.”

Astarion, in a flash of rage, spits out, “You don’t know the first thing about me!” Gale can tell, as he says it, that he doesn’t truly believe it.

Neither does Cazador. “Oh my boy, that’s where you’re wrong.”

The point of his dagger plunges down through Astarion’s other hand.

Gale would have assumed Lorroakan wouldn’t have the stomach to stick around and watch while Cazador performed his interrogation, but the damned disgrace to the name of wizard is all too eager to take in the show.

Not long after Cazador starts in on his nails, Gale finally manages to pull Astarion’s consciousness away from the pain and into his tower. Astarion reaches for Gale, who folds him into his arms and holds on. It gives Gale the incorporeal equivalent of a headache to keep him here when his physical body is actively being tortured, but that is of no consequence. 

Astarion doesn’t speak. He simply pushes himself deeper into Gale’s embrace. Gale keeps most of his attention here, with half an eye out for what Lorroakan and Cazador are doing. It’s unpleasant to watch, to say the least, but Gale can’t justify leaving them both cut off completely from the world outside.  

Cazador quickly notices that Astarion has lost consciousness. After a few more slaps fail to awaken him – Gale’s braced for that trick now – their tormentors exit the room for a brief discussion in the hallway, out of earshot behind a thick wood-and-metal door. 

Gale hears himself starting to hum a lullaby his mother used to sing to him when he was a child, awakening after a nightmare. He almost expects Astarion to tell him to stop, but instead, he just curls in closer to Gale. 

For someone as lean, bony, and unnaturally cold as Astarion is, he’s rather nice to hold. Maybe someday, they can do this again under better circumstances.

A few minutes later, Cazador and Lorroakan return. The former looks disgruntled, the latter, nearly gleeful. 

Lorroakan announces, “You shall be enjoying my hospitality a while longer, spawn.”

“I shall return soon,” Cazador promises. “Do not consider this a reprieve. You will tell me – tell us – what we require.”

Still in Gale’s arms, Astarion looks up. “Is something going on?”

“Cazador’s leaving for now,” Gale relays. “We’re staying here in Ramazith’s Tower.”

“They’ve… finished for the time being?”

“I think so.”

“All right. I… send me back. I ought to be there for this.”

Gale tries to meet his eyes, despite the awkward angle. “Are you certain?”

Astarion shrugs. “Of course not, but you may as well do it.”

“Very well.” Gale lets him go. 

Astarion returns to his body with a jolt of pain. Though Cazador has ceased his ministrations for the moment, the wounds left behind are still very much present. Cazador glares at him venomously. 

“Back with us, I see. Were the sun not about to rise, I would take this opportunity to give you further instruction. As it stands, we shall resume the lesson before long.”

“One more thing,” Lorroakan says. He opens a cabinet to one side of the room. Inside is an array of disheartening-looking gadgets, magical and otherwise. Lorroakan eschews the spiky ones in favor of a circular metal band. He summons an automaton to hold Astarion’s head down, then fastens it around Astarion’s neck.

When the collar locks into place, Gale feels something akin to a sudden chill. There’s an acute sense of claustrophobia, as if something invisible is pressing in all around him. 

“Insurance in case his patron has rewarded him with the power to manipulate the Weave,” Lorroakan explains. 

Gale reaches out to the Weave and finds it muffled. His mind palace has not collapsed and his connection to Astarion is intact, but he suspects that any attempt by the pair of them to wield magic in the Material Plane will be fruitless. Still, no excuse not to try it, once Lorroakan’s back is turned. This device could not have been designed with someone like himself and Astarion in mind. 

At a word from Lorroakan, the automata undo the straps binding Astarion to the table and haul him to one of the cells to the side of the room. They toss him in unceremoniously and lock the door. 

“Don’t get too comfortable,” says Lorroakan, and he laughs as though he has just made a terribly funny joke. Cazador, still all barely-contained fury, leads him back out the door, which the automata shut behind them. The overhead lamps go out, and with them, the only illumination.

 With borrowed darkvision, Gale sees Astarion’s eyes close. Astarion murmurs, That could have gone better.

We’ll make it out of here, Gale insists.

Mmh, Astarion answers, and his deliberate breathing stops. He lies in perfect stillness and drifts into a place to which not even Gale can follow him.

Chapter Text

This is not the first time Astarion has been thrown into a cell, nor the first time he’s been collared like an animal. It’s not the first, or the tenth, or the hundredth time he’s been tortured. But this one really stings, after he’d hoped never to be in this position again.

Still. He’s lucky in one or two ways, he supposes, even setting aside Gale’s presence. If he’d been back at the Szarr Palace, he would have been tortured, certainly, but Cazador would have just left him strapped to the table at the end, most likely with a spike through him, instead of granting him the relative luxury of an actual cell. Cazador also would have divested him of his trousers and underclothes, which Lorroakan has left to him. 

So really, it’s not as bad as all that. Not yet, anyway. Cazador’s certain to be concocting some truly innovative punishments for him, when they are inevitably dragged back to the palace.

When he eventually musters up the will to move again, he hauls his sorry carcass into a seated position up against the wall. His wounds have started to heal over, bolstered by how well-fed he’s been of late, but he’s also lost plenty of blood in the last hours, and at this rate, he’ll be starving again before long. His hunger, never far beneath the surface, is already sharpening its claws as his hands throb. 

Astarion?

He closes his eyes and exhales slowly. Gale. 

Are you…

I’m here. 

You weren’t, for a while. I couldn’t reach you. 

A helpful little trick I learned some time ago. It can be easier to simply… not. 

Oh. If you’d still like to be somewhere other than, well, here, you could come back to my tower. 

Astarion examines his right hand. The nails will take some time to grow back in, but the stab wound through the palm has sealed and the flayed patches have stopped oozing. He can even move the fingers again. Before, when he was still living off vermin, it would have taken days to heal up this far. He lets it rest for now on his chest above his heart. 

No thank you. I’m here now, and one can only spend so much time playing pretend. 

I see. 

Darling, don’t take it like that. Your mind palace is lovely, but it isn't real. We’re not actually in your tower in Waterdeep. 

Would you… never mind. This is hardly the time or place.

Do you have something to say?

I… I’ve said it before, but it bears repeating: we are in this together, Astarion. And yes, that might seem a tad redundant, given we have no choice in the matter, but be that as it may, even if I could leave, I wouldn’t. 

Astarion coughs out a hoarse laugh. No need to lie to spare my feelings. 

I’m not. 

Absurd, foolish man. It’s not worth arguing with him. With strength returning to his hands, Astarion settles them on the collar Lorroakan put on him. There’s an odd warmth to the metal that certainly isn’t coming from proximity to Astarion’s skin. He spider-walks his fingers around its circumference and finds the clasp and the lock. If he had his lockpicks, he fancies he could snap it open, but alas, they are hidden in that lovely jacket Cazador destroyed, which is now lying in pieces on the floor outside his cell, well out of reach. 

This bloody thing suppresses magic, does it?

Or so that repellent pretender to the title of wizard said. But our method of spellcasting is unorthodox, so perhaps it will not function as intended. There’s only one way to find out.

A cantrip would be best, Astarion thinks, and one that, should it work, will leave no evidence of its casting. He flicks his still-sore fingers. “Sol invictus.”

There is no answering surge of power from Gale. The cell remains grayscale, lit only by darkvision.

Damn. I was hoping that would work. 

If we can get to what’s left of my jacket… Which is a good ten paces beyond the bars. There’s nothing close at hand that he could toss through to catch and pull it closer. 

They’re stuck for now. They’ll have to wait and keep their eyes open. 

He leans back against the wall, conserving energy. He’ll need to be sharp when Lorroakan inevitably returns. 

It doesn’t take long after that. Muffled, clanking footsteps sound from beyond the prison door, and a moment later the two automata appear once again. Surprisingly, their master isn’t accompanying them this time. 

One of them blocks the front door while the other positions itself in front of the cell gate. It unlocks itself with a wave of the automaton’s hand. Useful information, potentially. The automaton opens the gate and advances on Astarion.

“By order of Master Lorroakan, you will stand,” it says in a tinny voice. 

“I’m quite comfortable here, actually.”

It takes another step forward, extending a grasping hand. “You will comply.” 

Astarion does, before it can grab him by the collar and yank him upright. Obstinacy for its own sake is all well and good, but it’s clearly not going to win him anything in this moment besides a bruised neck. Discretion being the better part of valor and all that. 

The construct shoves at his shoulders until he’s facing the back wall, then cuffs his hands behind his back. The manacles are tight, but he thinks he might be able to slip free given time and willingness to break his thumbs. The former might prove difficult, but the latter wouldn’t even be the worst thing to happen to his hands in the past few hours. But with one of Lorroakan’s pet machines looming over him and the other guarding the only door out of his place, the opportune moment has not yet arrived. 

“Walk,” the automaton orders. 

Astarion leaves the cell. He counts down his paces. He’ll have to be quick. He’s not sure how perceptive these machines are, how much intelligence and initiative Lorroakan has given them, but better to assume the worst. 

Eight paces out of his cell, he’s headed for the prison door, not the pile of scraps that had recently been a glorious outfit. Nine paces out, he trips over an uneven tile and staggers sideways for several steps, nearly catches himself, falls into the pile of scrap fabric, and hits the floor with a groan of pain. Without the use of his hands, he flails about as he tries to right himself, his legs even briefly entangling with the automaton’s, so that it has to stop momentarily in its tracks or else risk falling itself. It soon loses its patience, and this time Astarion actually is jerked upright by the collar. A metal hand seizes his shoulder and digs in as he is marched to the door.

“Mind your step,” the automaton barks. 

Nicely done, remarks Gale. 

Astarion’s fingers brush over the lockpicks now hidden in the waistband of his trousers. Simple, my dear. 

Obviously, he doesn’t have a chance to use them yet. With one construct walking in front of him and one behind, he ascends the stairs out of the dungeon. Rather than stop on the main floor, the automata shepherd him to a different stairwell and keep climbing. They spiral upwards, passing floor after floor as Astarion’s legs burn. There’s no chance Lorroakan uses the stairs; there must be some sort of lift somewhere, but Astarion isn’t granted such luxuries. 

At the thirty-second floor, the automata finally stop at the landing. They march him down an opulent hallway lined with oil portraits of wizardly individuals in various heroic poses, lit by glimmering magelight. 

‘Gaudy’ doesn’t begin to cover this. My tower is much more tastefully decorated, as you know.

Obviously. 

A set of sturdy double doors at the end of the hallway open at their approach, leading into a large, circular room with walls lined with bookshelves. In the center, an ornate circle lined with runes has been drawn on the polished wooden floor. 

Off to one side stands Lorroakan in silver-stitched purple robes, and behind him, still with makeup covering bruises, is that tiefling apprentice Astarion encountered in the bookshop. The one who ratted him out. What did he call himself? Raymond? No, Rolan. Astarion gives him a dirty look as the doors close behind them. Curiously, the anxious apprentice blanches at the sight of him, then tries, incompetently, to cover up the reaction. 

But as before, Astarion has bigger problems to attend to than Rolan’s worries. 

“Put him in the circle at the center, and be quick about it,” Lorroakan orders. The automata fairly hoist Astarion in. He immediately tries to scuff the carefully-drawn chalk lines, but whatever Lorroakan used to draw them is impervious to his attempts. The automata step away, just outside the boundary. 

“Move from that circle and I shall incinerate you,” warns Lorroakan. Astarion sizes up the distance between himself and the upstart wizard – sadly, Lorroakan could fire off a bolt of magic before Astarion has time to close the gap. 

“What do you want?” he asks with as much dignity as he can muster. 

“M-master Lorroakan, who is this? Why –”

“Silence,” Lorroakan snaps. “You may learn something of value if you can cram it through your thick skull.” Rolan flinches and drops his gaze to the floor. 

What utterly outrageous treatment of an apprentice! A teacher should never speak to a student that way, let alone raise a hand against them.

We’re trapped in some sort of magic circle, and that’s what you’re concerned about?

Lorroakan snaps his fingers. A quill, inkwell, and parchment lift off a nearby shelf and hang in the air next to him. As he starts to speak, the quill scrabbles over the paper. 

“You must think you’re very clever, hiding from me all this time. It’s my hope that you will now see reason. I have a very generous offer for you.”

Astarion begins, “I haven’t the faintest idea –”

“Please. I’m not talking to you, spawn. I am speaking to a colleague. Gale of Waterdeep, I presume you can hear me?”

What in all the Hells? Gale, did you know –

– No. Maybe when he cast Detect Magic, he saw –

Lorroakan’s still speaking. “I could see the Karsite Weave itself entangled with this creature’s soul. My apprentice heard your name from his lips. I know the book I sought to retrieve from… well, the most important book I was expecting in my shipment failed to arrive. And I have a copy of The Annals of Karsus, which, if its theory is expanded upon by a true master of the art such as myself, points to the possibility of a powerful thaumaturge being absorbed by the Karsite Weave, lending it their will and sentience.

“I presume you fled with the spawn to escape Lord Cazador’s reach. Quite understandable, and I don’t envy you that particular aspect of your situation. Likewise, I presume you have remained with said spawn because you believe that you have no other option. 

“So let me give you some very good news: work with me, and I can liberate you. We could give you your body back, or a better one, even. And the tremendous power of the Karsite Weave will be ours.”

The Karsite Weave… that’s what the orb is! A fractured piece of Karsus’ design! Its power is even greater than I’d guessed. 

Very interesting, but I don’t think he’s going to be willing to share, no matter how many promises he makes.

…You’re quite right. Best keep pretending I’m not here. 

Astarion levels a glare at Lorroakan. “Don’t you have anything better to do than stand there and talk nonsense at me?”

Lorroakan rolls his eyes. “Gale, why allow this wretched thing to speak for you? He’s doomed either way; his master will take him back once I have no use for him, and after that, the rest of his existence will be both miserable and short. Believe me, you will be much better off jumping ship. I am at work on an orb to provide you with a vessel – temporarily, you understand – until such time as we can give you a corporeal form, which will take only a brief period to arrange.”

“Have your ears failed you, or are you somehow even more stupid than you look? I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Astarion snaps.

“Your prattling grows tiresome, spawn. I will speak to your better.” 

With that, Lorroakan begins an incantation. His hands dart about in front of him. The runes surrounding the chalk circle begin to glow. 

Gale, what is he doing?

I don’t know, but I don’t like it.

Me neither –

All at once, the Netherese abyss floods into him.

Astarion feels himself slipping away, just as he had outside the tombstone shop. His vision blurs, his limbs go numb, and from a distance he notices he has fallen to the floor. The void doesn’t entirely devour him, but it pulls him tight to itself. He’s left crushed on its outskirts, paralyzed within his own body.

Astarion! Gale’s voice echoes faintly through the darkness. Astarion tries to call out, but under the overwhelming gravity of the void, even his mental voice fails him. He can’t move, can hardly think. 

“Speak to me!” cries Lorroakan. 

Astarion can’t. 

But someone else can.

“What have you done to him?” says Astarion’s mouth. 

It’s his voice, but it’s not his intonation. It’s not him speaking.  

Gale. 

Astarion tries again to say something, anything, even silently. He fails. 

“There you are!” Lorroakan takes a step forward. “A pleasure to meet you at last.”

Gale-as-Astarion retorts, “The feeling is far from mutual. Undo whatever this is at once.” His head moves, eyes turning upward to track Lorroakan’s approach. 

It’s been months since Astarion’s body moved without his will. He hasn’t missed it. 

“I told you, the spawn is doomed. I have it on good authority from Lord Cazador himself. Don’t tell me you’ve become attached to something as pathetic as that. And even if you have, surely you can see that there’s nothing to be gained by staying with him, whereas allying yourself with me –”

“Nothing you could possibly say could induce me to cooperate with you,” Gale snarls through Astarion’s throat. “First you steal my books, presumably out of a desire to abscond with my Netherese tome, then you effectively kidnap me, and then you torture my – my friend, and you expect me to believe you have my best interests at heart? You expect me to betray him? I think not. This is Astarion’s body. Give it back at once.”

Lorroakan’s nearly lost all semblance of composure. “I offered you a favor which you have now rejected. Fortunately, I do not require your cooperation.” He moves back toward the edge of the room, near his apprentice, and lifts a hand.

As he does, the light from the runes starts to fade. Agonizingly slowly, the black hole loosens its grip on Astarion. Feeling seeps back into his limbs. He’s too weak to sit up, but at least nobody else is puppeting his body about. 

Astarion, I’m so sorry. 

Meanwhile, Lorroakan’s not done grandstanding. “You will regret this day, Gale of Waterdeep. I promise you that.”

I had no idea he could do that, truly. I never would have – I don’t want –

“Take them back to the cells,” Lorroakan orders the automata. 

Astarion tries to stand, but his muscles don’t want to cooperate. The automata have to lift him up again and carry him out of the room, slung between them with his feet dragging behind. 

It’s a long, bruising descent back down to the dungeon.

In the cell, in the dark, Astarion tests himself once the constructs are gone. He works his tongue and jaw, inflates his lungs, moves his fingers. They all respond, if a tad shakily. He sits up carefully and, braced against the wall, manages at last to stand. The room spins around him, but he doesn’t topple over. 

He would do this sometimes after Cazador was done with him: testing his control, reminding himself how to move, that his body, however briefly, belongs to him again. The last hurdle is his voice. 

Astarion whispers, “Fuck.”

The words and will are his and the weakness and dizziness will fade in time. For now, he slides back down the wall, inexpressibly relieved. 

I’m sorry. 

Astarion still feels violated, but – I know it wasn’t your fault.

I shouldn’t have said anything, I should have just waited for him to give up, but I couldn’t sense you and I was afraid he’d done something irreversible. 

It’s hard to hold it against Gale, really, when Astarion can actually feel the sincerity in his apology and the genuine concern underlying it. Plus, Astarion knows very well who’s to blame for this whole rotten situation, and it definitely isn’t the wizard in his head. 

Astarion replies, Luckily, he hasn’t. Yet.

Let’s not give him the opportunity.

Agreed. Astarion flexes his fingers, willing the life back into them. He still has the lockpicks, which neither Lorroakan nor his metal enforcers know about. Wizards always assume everything must be done by magic after all, and good old-fashioned thieving skills rarely enter into their calculations. 

He doesn’t have infinite picks, so he waits until his hands feel closer to normal. They’re still only halfway healed from Cazador’s ministrations, but neither he nor Gale can afford to waste time. He doesn’t want to imagine what will happen if Lorroakan devises a way to separate them by force.

Astarion feeds the picks into the lock on his collar. One tumbler clicks, then a second. Astarion’s feeling increasingly confident, until the thin metal pick abruptly becomes scorching hot.

He drops it at once with a curse. It falls to the stones, red-hot, a pinprick of crimson in the wash of darkvision-gray. Even as Astarion watches, the pick continues to warm, shifting through orange to yellow to white, before melting into warped uselessness. 

Who would have guessed? Occasionally wizards did plan for mundane sleight of hand. 

Shit. Astarion glares mutinously at the traitor lockpick. He tugs at the collar, finding it as secure as ever. The last ace up his sleeve has been taken from him.

Maybe turning them against one another would work? Gale offers. Really play into their paranoia. Let it slip to Cazador that Lorroakan’s keeping secrets. Even he sounds like he knows it’s a long shot. Or the Harpers will come as Jaheira promised. 

Even if they do stage a rescue mission, who’s to say it’ll happen in time? Cazador could come and take me away at any time, although I presume Lorroakan won’t want him to do that until you and I are separated. 

Let him try to separate us, Gale contends gamely. I think he won’t find it so easy.

He only just got done magicking me into losing control of my body. I doubt it’ll take him long to figure out how to extract you.

I’m not ready to simply give up. There has to be a way. 

In that case, you had better pray to that goddess of yours that Jaheira gets a move on. 

I’m not certain that she’s listening to my prayers anymore. 

Gale’s never admitted to disappointment with Mystra before; the weight of their predicament must be sinking in properly. 

What happened to not giving up?

I’ll put my trust in mortal methods instead of the divine. 

Astarion tries to trance. He missed last night and Cazador will soon return, and if he’s going to be as sharp as possible for any chance of escape, he needs something resembling rest. But meditating is even harder than usual. The cell, the bars, the collar, the still-raw wounds, and what Lorroakan did to him in the ritual circle, all mean that the memories that come to mind are the worst ones possible. Having Gale keep a watchful eye helps somewhat, but doesn’t soften the visions that haunt him in his trance. 

Cazador commands him to hold his own feet in a brazier glowing with coals, just because he can, and no matter how much he screams, he can’t pull away.

He starves for months on end for failing to bring home a victim.

He starves for months on end for bringing home a victim who doesn’t suit his master’s mercurial tastes.

Cazador sits before him and commands him to kneel, shoves his head down, and laughs with his gathered patriar friends as they await their turn.

After Cazador seals him in the tomb, he bites his own arms to pieces in all-consuming hunger.

Astarion! 

He opens his eyes. The sound of keys turning in a lock fills the room. Someone is at the outer prison door. 

They’re back, he says to Gale, defeated. His last-ditch escape plan failed and now Lorroakan and Cazador have returned together. It’s over.

They had a good run of it. These have been the best few months in Astarion’s memory by far. Cazador will find numerous ways to use that against him, and if what Lorroakan implied is correct, he’ll probably kill Astarion for good not long from now. If he does, it’ll be the only mercy Cazador has ever shown him. 

Astarion, I… 

He can’t take a goodbye from Gale. Don’t.

We may not have much time. I –

Gale, no. I… I can’t. 

I… very well. But I need you to know that you… you mean a great deal to me, and –

The door opens and cuts Gale off. A single figure enters the prison, hooded and cloaked. Whoever it is, they haven’t brought a source of light with them. They must have darkvision, either natural or enchanted. 

Their movements are notably furtive, like an inexperienced rogue afraid of being caught. The hood’s an odd shape also. Too much volume. Cazador or Lorroakan must be wearing some sort of strangely tall hat. Or else –

Horns. 

The tiefling apprentice, Rolan, drops the hood and reveals his face. His eyes are wide, pupils blown out in fear, but they settle on Astarion in his cell. From a pocket under his cloak, he holds up a ring of keys. 

“Master Lorroakan’s gone to get the vampire lord. Come on now. We don’t have much time.”

Chapter Text

For a few seconds, Astarion wonders if this is a trick. It would be just like Cazador to offer a measure of hope, only to snatch it away at the last moment. Those are exactly the kinds of games he always loved to play with his victims, his spawn very much included. Rolan could be here on his master’s behalf. Or this could be Lorroakan himself under a Disguise Self spell. Either way, Cazador always punished Astarion for falling for false hope, enough that a part of him wants to stay right here, announce that he’s not fooled, and refuse all help.

Are you not going to say something? Gale wants to know.

What if it’s a trap?

They already have us in their power. What use would there be in such a ruse?

Clearly, Gale didn’t learn enough about Cazador from Astarion’s memories. Perhaps there’s mercy in that, but it does mean he’s still distressingly naive in many ways. Mind games. Twisting the knife. Sadism, he clarifies. 

But what if it’s not a trap? No matter how small you think the chances are, they aren’t zero. And any nonzero probability of escape is better than the alternative. 

Astarion hesitates. Maybe those months of freedom have gone to his head, made him reckless. Or maybe it’s easier to be brave now that he has someone else to be brave for. 

He adopts a carefree posture and removes all trace of uncertainty from his face. To Rolan, he says, “By all means, let’s be out of here.”

With all the magical protections around the cell and collar, Astarion’s briefly worried that ordinary keys won’t be enough to open them. He needn’t have bothered. Rolan’s hands shake as he opens the cell door and he nearly drops the key ring, but that’s the only difficulty. 

Rolan pauses as he stands in the door to the cell. “You’re Gale of Waterdeep? And Ast - Asto…”

“Astarion,” he says, gathering what’s left of his dignity.

“Is Gale of Waterdeep also here?”

Astarion glares at him. Typical. Rolan isn’t here to save Astarion . Astarion’s value to him, as with Lorroakan, is that of a mere vessel. In his reply, Astarion gives him all the courtesy he deserves. “No, he just stepped out for a stroll around the block.” 

“So, he’s –”

“Yes, both of us are here, and when we’re not trapped in a magic circle, I’m the one who does the talking. Would you be so kind as to use those keys now?”

Rolan takes the hint. His hands tremble even harder as he reaches for Astarion’s neck, no doubt eyeing the bite marks on show and wondering what it would be like if Astarion chose to turn his own fangs on his rescuer once freed. The idea is tempting, slightly. Despite feeding on the hapless guard at the ball, the ensuing ordeal has left him hungrier than he’s been in quite some time. But of course, Gale wouldn’t approve of snacking on their allies, so Astarion holds still while Rolan unfastens the collar.

Finally! I feel almost that I can breathe again, Gale says when the lock opens. 

Rolan’s about to drop the thing on the floor. Astarion holds up a hand. “Keep it,” he says. “It may come in handy.”

Rolan nods. He’s brought a shoulder bag along with him and he slips the open collar inside. 

“Good. Now, cloak please,” Astarion orders with an extended hand. “It’s not much of a disguise for you, honestly. The horns rather give it away.” He twitches his fingers meaningfully.

Rolan looks mildly affronted, but Astarion’s not about to budge on this. This is not the right time to be walking about with a bare torso. Rolan has a whole wizard’s robe on under there. He can afford to share. 

Rolan sighs and hands the cloak over. “Can we get on with it now?” he whispers. “Those two will be back soon”

Astarion follows him out of the cell. On the wall by the door is a rack of weapons. Most are designed more for interrogation than combat, but there are one or two perfectly serviceable daggers. Astarion ties them to his belt. 

Rolan’s standing in the dungeon doorway, beckoning him onward. He turns his back on the cell and starts climbing the stairs. 

“We’ll take one of the service doorways out of the Tower,” says Rolan. “Lorroakan and Lord Cazador will be coming back through the front door and I don’t want to run into them.”

Astarion doesn’t either. He may be armed and have Gale’s magic back, but he’s under no illusions that he and Gale are ready to go toe-to-toe with an archmage, let alone one accompanied by Cazador. 

I hesitate to add an unnecessary complication, but I feel I would be remiss if I didn’t at least point out that we have a golden opportunity here.

How so? But Astarion thinks he already knows where Gale’s going with this. 

We’re already here in Ramazith’s Tower. Why not take advantage of this turn of events?

That, Astarion replies, is incredibly reckless. You heard Rolan – Cazador and Lorroakan could be back at any moment. 

I’m not certain we can afford to let Lorroakan hold onto The Annals of Karsus. The events of this past day have driven home to me just how important it is to have that book in our possession. It could be absolutely crucial, especially now that we know this Netherese void is, in fact, a piece of the Karsite Weave. Just think of the power we could wield if we fully understood it! The sort of power we need – the sort we cannot allow our enemies to seize. 

As much as Astarion wants to flee, Gale is actually making sense. He wavers: short-term self preservation, or a long-term goal?

We have all our powers back, Gale goes on. They won’t catch us by surprise this time. Should worst come to worst, we become invisible and leave, just like we planned on the night of the ball. 

“What is it?” Rolan wants to know. “Why have you stopped?”

Before Astarion agrees to go ahead with Gale’s plan, there’s something else he needs to know from Lorroakan’s erstwhile apprentice. 

“Why help us? What’s in it for you?”

Rolan blinks. After a breath, he says, “When I signed on as an apprentice, I didn’t think I’d be asked to stand idly by and watch people being tortured and enslaved. Gale, you were right: he has no intention of truly helping you. He wants to use the power of the Karsite Weave for himself, never matter if that means trapping or subjugating your consciousness. And you already know he plans to hand you, Astarion, back to that vampire, and from everything I’ve heard, I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.”

A wave of something – confusion, maybe, or anger – rushes over Astarion. Rolan has to have an ulterior motive; why deny it? He’ll probably start making demands at the worst possible moment. It’s less trouble with people who come right out and tell you what they expect from you. 

For the moment, Astarion shoves the feeling down. It won’t help him right now. Besides, he thinks he might be able to a arrange a suitable reward for Rolan even if his rescuer won’t come out and ask for one yet. So rather than push Rolan further on his motivations, Astarion asks, “How long ago did they leave?”

“Ten minutes or so.”

“And you’re certain Lorroakan left to get him?”

“Yes. It seems that your vampire lord had some questions for him that could only be answered in his palace. Apparently they’ve been working together for some time.”

“He is not my vampire lord,” Astarion replies venomously. But even as he says it, he calculates the distance from here to the Szarr Palace. Going by carriage, and with Cazador wanting Lorroakan’s opinion on something over there…

“We should have another thirty minutes at least,” he figures. 

You see? Conventional wisdom argues that turnabout is fair play. Astarion can picture Gale’s eager grin.

Very well. This is reckless, but as the saying goes, in for a copper, in for a gold piece. 

Astarion says, “That’s enough time to take The Annals of Karsus off this bastard’s hands.”

Rolan whirls around to face him. “You want to do what?”

“It’s dangerous to both myself and Gale to leave it here. Who knows when we’ll be able to come back this way? And if you think Lorroakan will take you back as his apprentice after this little stunt, you’re a fool. Why not take the chance to liberate a few volumes and start a library of your own?”

Rolan stands still, conflicting expressions warring on his face. There’s fear, yes, but also a glimmer of excitement.

Wizards. Always horny for knowledge. It never fails.

Rolan says, “We’ll have to be quick. There are traps in the way – he never trusted me with the keys to disarming them.”

Astarion’s missing his disarming tools, but he thinks if they’re careful, it’s worth the risk. “Which way is it?”

Rolan leads him to the ground floor, then through a side hallway. He opens a series of increasingly-ornamental doors with whispered passphrases. At last, the fourth door opens to reveal a swirling purple portal, emanating a thrum that Astarion can feel in his bones.

Rolan points towards the portal’s center. “Through there is the basement, where all the most important texts and artifacts are kept. Lorroakan returned The Annals of Karsus there after he finished this morning.”

Gale’s anxious to proceed. Well? No sense in wasting time. 

You’re looking forward to jumping through that thing, aren’t you?

One must find one’s excitement where one can.

My apologies, I didn’t realize our lives haven’t been exciting enough for you lately. I shall have to try harder to amuse you. 

Rolan interjects, “Are you talking to one another? Keep it short. We’ve no time to waste.”

Astarion rolls his eyes at him, and as casually as he can manage, walks straight into the heart of the portal.

There’s a flash of light and a brief moment of disorientation in which he can’t quite discern which way is up, before his feet hit the floor on the other side. He’s standing in a multi-level circular chamber with its walls lined with books. Most of them look incredibly old. Several doors lead off in various directions, deeper into the vaults. The floor beneath the portal is solid stone, but most of the room appears to be floored in a block of shining magical energy suspended above a very long drop. 

There must be thousands of books in here. How are we meant to find the Annals in all this mess?

Books as powerful as that radiate an intense arcane energy, Gale answers. We’ll know it as soon as we see it. 

Behind Astarion, Rolan steps through the portal as well. He points to one of the doors off to the left. “Lorroakan always keeps his most valuable books through there. He’s never allowed me in. Of course, that’s also where most of the traps are. I already had to disarm all the triggers on the doors that brought us this far.”

Aren’t you clever, Astarion snipes where only Gale can hear him.

Go easy on him. He’s thrown his apprenticeship away to break us out of imprisonment. We owe him. 

And he’ll be most richly rewarded with the contents of his instructor’s vault. Now, help me keep an eye out for magical traps. 

Surprisingly, this door is barred by nothing more complicated than a mundane lock. Rolan Knocks it open with a word and a gesture while Astarion privately seethes. He could have had the damn thing open in half the time without wasting magical energy, if he had a pick. Still, Gale has a point: there’s nothing to be gained from antagonizing their guide and rescuer. 

On the far side is a stone-walled room with three passages leading off. Each is labeled: the Elminster, Karsus, and Silverhand vaults. An awestruck Gale comments, The Weave fairly sings in this place, but in truth, even Astarion can feel it. There’s power here. Real, true power, the kind that would make even a vampire lord cower. 

“I think we know which door hides the Annals of Karsus,” Astarion says. 

Rolan takes a half-step forward. Just as his foot reaches out, Astarion spots the telltale outline of a pressure plate, hidden cunningly amongst the stones. “Stop!” he hisses.

Rolan skips backwards awkwardly before his foot triggers the plate and kills them all. Astarion points to the plate. Now that he knows what he’s looking for, he sees several others ahead of various shapes and sizes. As both an elf and a vampire, his keen senses have saved him more times than he can remember.

“Watch your step and follow me.”

Slowly, closely marking each step, they make their way to the Karsus door. Things speed up somewhat when Astarion figures out the pattern of pressure plates and vents on the floor, and doesn’t have to scrutinize every single paving stone. Fortunately, Lorroakan is idiot enough to make his trap placement thoroughly predictable, once one knows what to look for. They reach the door unscathed by flames, lightning, or poisonous vapors. 

Magical energy radiates from behind the Karsus door, which is very encouraging. Less encouraging is the complete lack of anything resembling a handle or keyhole. There aren’t any obvious levers nearby either. 

“How do you get this open?”

Rolan scowls. “I told you, I’ve never been down here before.”

How very useful. 

If I may? That central door does have a handle. I suspect the way forward is hidden behind it. 

“It’s gods-damned puzzle,” Astarion groans. 

I quite like puzzles.

Do please shut up. 

No doubt there’s a maze back there filled with magical traps intent on slowing them down. They do not have time for this. Astarion’s staring at the Silverhand door, calculating exactly how long he’s willing to spend on this before recklessness crosses over into utter stupidity, when Rolan speaks another incantation, followed by a soft exclamation of triumph. 

He’s Knocked open the magic door. Of course he has. Gale will have to get his puzzle fix elsewhere. 

On the far side is a short corridor lined with traps, these ones requiring them to jump, spanning the width of the hall. For Astarion it’s no difficulty at all. Rolan, a wizard unused to navigating physical hazards, moves with such plain anxiety on his face that, were the situation less dire, would be highly entertaining. 

There’s one last door, this one unlocked, and then a final circular room. Chests line the walls, but Astarion and Gale have eyes only for the book sitting alone on a shelf on the far wall. Purple light emanates from it, but even if his eyes were closed, Astarion would be able to feel its aura from clear across the room.

He picks it up. The Weave vibrates at its presence. Gale makes a wordless noise of awe. 

All their planning and scheming, and they finally have this book in their hands. Their ticket to unraveling Gale from the Netherese magic. To getting him a body once again, if Lorroakan can be believed. 

There’s no time to read it now, of course. Gale will need to pore over the thing for hours, which means Astarion will have to read it along with him, if only so that someone can turn the pages. Still, Astarion’s never read a truly powerful magical tome before, unless he counts the book Gale was trapped in. There’s a chance it could even be interesting. 

Astarion tucks The Annals of Karsus under his arm. He turns back to Rolan, who’s pulled several scrolls out of chests and off racks, and is stuffing them into his bag, which must be a Bag of Holding considering everything he’s put into it thus far. 

“Ready?”

Rolan nods. “I’ve found some texts that will most certainly be of use.” The avaricious gleam in his eyes is unmistakable. 

Astarion supposes that Rolan deserves it. He’s had to put up with Lorroakan’s abuse and went to the trouble of breaking them out. His anxiety about Rolan’s motives ticks down a couple notches, too, now that Rolan’s got his reward. 

He won’t miss this place. “Then let’s get out of here.”

Back in the central chamber with labeled doors, Astarion’s about to head for the portal out of the dungeon. Rolan’s already headed that way. 

Of course, it’s not that simple.

I wonder what’s in the Elminster vault. Gale’s trying to sound offhand, but Astarion can read the curiosity – the hunger – beneath his tone.

We can’t be trying every door down here.

No, but I can feel a presence behind that one. The Silverhand vault is a distraction. There’s something in the Elminster vault that’s at least as powerful as the Annals. 

Let me guess, you think we should steal it.

It could be useful! And it will only take a moment, now that we know how to open these doors. We don’t even need Rolan to help us. Here. Just like that, Astarion feels knowledge of the somatic and verbal components of Knock move between them. 

“What are you two doing now?” Rolan protests. 

Gale’s not going to let this go. If Astarion turns away right now and walks out of here, he’ll never hear the end of it. 

“Gale has an idea about the Elminster vault. We’ll only be a moment.” 

It’s faster without Rolan. Astarion and Gale cast Knock, dodge the very predictable pressure plates, and enter a room much like the one the Annals was kept in. A very old book, bound in suspiciously humanoid leather, waits on the far shelf. 

But there are two major differences. The energy pouring off this book is a sickly blue, and more than that, Astarion himself can feel it this time. It feels cold and dark, slow and steady as the press of years, deep as the waiting earth. It tastes like iron and grave lilies. It dances over his skin, almost… welcoming. 

Well, that one’s just about bursting with death magic. Now he’s thankful to Gale for pulling them this way. A book of Necromancy, of all things. 

It’s a long shot, but if this book deals with vampirism, what sort of secrets might Astarion discover about his condition? Cazador always kept his spawn ignorant of their vampiric abilities, ensuring they remained weak and vulnerable. Could a tome of Necromancy reveal his old master’s secrets?

He picks it up. Unlike the Annals, he can feel the arcane energy in this book rising up toward him. It winds its tendrils around his hand in an icy embrace. It doesn’t hurt: quite the contrary, it feels inviting. It wants him to open it.

And he will, just as soon as they get to safety. 

Rolan, to his mild surprise, has waited for them, though impatience is written plainly in his face. “Have you quite finished?”

Yes.

“Yes.”

“Was there anything else useful in there?”

Astarion says, “Didn’t do enough plundering in the Karsus vault? You’re welcome to go back through the Elminster door. We won’t stop you.”

But time is ticking down. It’s been at least twenty minutes since Astarion and Gale left their cell. Rolan, too, is keenly aware they have precious little time to waste.

“I have what I need,” he says. “Let’s go.”

Nobody accosts them as they return through the portal. There’s neither hide nor hair of Lorroakan’s automata either, which now strikes Astarion as downright suspect. Why isn’t this place under tighter guard?

Rolan’s feeling the tension as well. He says nothing, but Astarion can see his shoulders tighten and his grip harden on the straps of his Bag of Holding. Astarion follows him out into the ground floor of the Tower, senses stretched tight for the slightest hint of danger.

They cross the entry hall, which is likewise devoid of servants, mechanical or otherwise. Rolan leads them through another side hallway. As they move down the passage, Astarion catches a faint crashing sound.

Rolan doesn’t pick it up, not until Astarion hisses at him to stop. They stand stock-still in the dim corridor. For another moment, all Astarion can hear is the hammering of Rolan’s heart.

There’s another sudden bang from the direction they were heading. Astarion presses a finger to his lips and stalks forward. This time, Rolan falls in behind him. Even Gale goes quiet, not that it makes any difference whether he speaks or not. 

A thud, and then a splintering noise, as if someone has broken a plank of wood. 

Could this be Lorroakan or Cazador? What reason would they have to make such a racket? Or to enter by anything other than the front door?

Astarion trains his footfalls to silence. Rolan attempts to do the same, far less successfully. 

And then, a voice Astarion recognizes, speaking in a harsh whisper. 

“Now will you keep it down? We’ve made too much of a racket already.”

The door at the end of the hallway opens. A hulking shape appears in its frame, battle-axe at the ready. Astarion freezes, but the figure has already spotted him.

“There you are, leech!” If Astarion didn’t know better, he’d say Tairn looks pleased to see him. 

“You found them?” A short elf is the next to arrive. She hefts her warhammer with ease. It’s Rion. 

Jaheira kept her promise. The Harpers have come for him. 

Astarion heard her voice, but to his surprise, the third person through the door is not the High Harper. He’s a handsome human with neatly braided hair, padded armor, and a rapier in one hand, carried with the unconscious confidence of long practice. Without the blue-and-gold livery, it takes Astarion a moment to place him. 

Wyll Ravengard sheathes his blade. “Astarion and Gale, I presume? And another in search of aid? We thought we’d have to stage a cell breakout, but it seems you’ve taken your escape into your own hands. Follow us. The Blade of the Gate will see you safely home.”

Chapter Text

The mystery of what happened to the automata is quickly solved: three of them lie in a heap near the servants’ entrance, letting off intermittent showers of sparks. They look burnt in places and their metal chassis is conspicuously dented and warped. 

Jaheira stands just beyond the exit. It’s still raining, and judging by the light, it’s just past sunset. She gives Rolan a sharp look as he follows Astarion into the anteroom that leads outside. 

“Who’s this? The apprentice I’ve heard so many reports about?”

Rolan stiffens. “You know of me?”

Rion says, “Of course. We did some digging into your master.”

To his credit, Rolan doesn’t back down. “And ‘we’ are…?”

“The Harpers,” Jaheira answers. 

Astarion generously throws him a lifeline. “No need to kill him just yet. He did break me and Gale out of that awful dungeon, and somehow I don’t think Lorroakan will welcome him back with open arms.”

“I can’t take in every stray with a sob story,” Jaheira complains. “It’s bad enough dealing with you two.” Astarion guesses she’s just griping for the sake of it; underneath it all she’s a soft target for a tragic backstory. 

But Wyll Ravengard chooses that moment to step in again. One hand rests on the hilt of his rapier as he flashes a confident smile. “I will ensure you’re protected,” he promises. The way he says it, Astarion half expects him to strike a heroic pose. He’s like something out of a storybook, and in the thin and rainy light, looks just as real. More a myth than a man. 

Astarion turns away. “Touching,” he says as he stares out into the dusk. “Now, can we go already?”

“By all means.” Jaheira steps aside to allow them through the door. 

Outside, Astarion immediately discovers that not only is it raining, but it’s windy on top of that. Rolan’s thin cloak offers little to no protection, even after he pulls the hood up. Rolan looks similarly disgruntled at the weather, but Tairn, Jaheira, Rion, and Wyll scarcely seem to notice. 

A short alleyway connects the servants’ entrance to the street and at its mouth stands a carriage. It’s small and plain with no visible livery or crest, but there can be no doubt who arranged for it. Wyll leaps into the driver’s box as Jaheira, Astarion, Rion, and, after a moment’s hesitation, Rolan, climb into the back. Tairn gives them a wave and shuts the door behind them before clambering up to join Wyll. Then Jaheira pulls the curtains closed and they’re off, trotting away down the street.

Astarion sinks into the cushions and wipes the worst of the rain off his face. Rion keeps a wary eye on Rolan, who is clearly intimidated but trying to hide it. Jaheira just looks tired. None of them are in a hurry to speak.

Except Gale, apparently. I told you they would come. 

Astarion stares at his hands and makes no reply. Gale doesn’t push him any further. 

“I owe you an apology, Astarion and Gale,” Jaheira tells him after what must be a few blocks pass by. “I should not have allowed myself to be caught out by a counterspell like a green apprentice.” She tracks Astarion’s gaze down to the raw places on his arms. “You’ve paid for my mistake.”

They both did, but Astarion most of all. She was the spellcaster, the mastermind of the whole stupid plan, and she’d fallen for a Hold Person any half-penny hedge-wizard could cast. Astarion had been dragged away by his tormentor, tortured, and very nearly killed. What good in all the Hells will her apology do him now? He wants to bite. He wants to tear this carriage apart. He doesn’t, because he’s not a complete idiot, but gods is it tempting. 

“I did,” he replies, sharp and brittle. 

With studied calm, she says, “Let me help with your wounds.”

“No need to trouble yourself. You’ve done quite enough.”

A flicker of something — irritation? — passes across her face. She leans back and crosses her arms as Rion scowls at him. 

Astarion —

Stay out of this, Gale! He remembers himself enough to add, Please. 

To Astarion’s right, Rolan appears to be trying to vanish into the seat cushions. Another block passes in heated silence.

Eventually, she tries again. “You have a right to be angry with me.”

“Oh I do, do I? How very considerate of you to inform me.”

“I’m guessing nothing I’m going to say will make it better.”

“Ah, but why stop now? You were making such progress.” 

“At least let me heal your arms. There’s no reason that you should continue to be in pain —”

A high, manic giggle escapes him. “No, because now you’ve come to make it all better. You storm in with the godsdamned son of the Grand Duke, the dashing heroes ready to save the day, and you expect me to bow and scrape and tell you all how I’m ever so grateful, and be overjoyed to put it all behind me now! No reason I should still be in pain? After all that — ”

He gets back control of his tongue before he says something he’ll regret, something to make Jaheira kick him out of this carriage. For all his anger, he still needs her. Without the Harpers, he and Gale are alone and vulnerable. He cannot afford to alienate her. 

The quiet stretches on. Rain patters on the roof, wheels rumble on cobblestones, and iron-shod hooves keep up a steady trotting beat. With the curtains drawn, Astarion can’t tell where they are, but he supposes they must be headed back to the Lower City. 

Astarion can feel Gale’s wordless closeness, which is more comforting than he’d like to admit. Gale was there through the entirety of this most recent ordeal. He can’t abandon Astarion, at least not yet. Still, even in the best case scenario, their time together is limited. That much is now doubly obvious, with the Annals tucked under one arm. 

He’s so far drifting in his thoughts that it rather startles him when Rolan pipes up. “If I may ask, where are we going?”

Jaheira tells him, “You are staying in this carriage until our Blade of the Gate brings it back to his house, unless I am mistaken. We are stopping off elsewhere.”

Something subtle in her voice makes Astarion think that she’s not referring to the safehouse. Fine. It hardly matters to him where he ends up. He doesn’t even bother asking. 

The carriage stops just as the rain begins to let up. Rion opens the door and Astarion, after flipping Rolan’s hood back up to cover his head, follows. 

They’ve halted outside a large house, not quite big enough to be called a mansion, but not far off from it, either. It’s built in the classical Baldur’s Gate style with a red tiled roof and a front porch framed by trellises of climbing vines. Lantern light beckons from the front door. 

Tairn climbs down from the driver’s box. Still perched up there is Wyll Ravengard, completely unbothered by the rain. He gives Jaheira a half-salute as she exits the carriage. 

“I will see you all again soon,” he says. Then his eyes turn to Astarion and his brow furrows briefly, his expression searching. Astarion meets his gaze cooly. This man’s guards helped deliver him to Cazador. Despite knowing Jaheira, he stood by and did nothing to help until much later, by which time Astarion and Gale could have been killed or worse. Perhaps, like all the nobles in the ballroom, Wyll’s looking at Astarion and seeing nothing but a monster even now. 

The moment passes when Jaheira says “Thank you, Wyll. Truly.” She actually inclines her head a fraction as she speaks. Astarion’s never seen that from her before. 

Now Wyll’s confident smile returns. “Think nothing of it.” He cranes his upper body around to see Rolan, who’s poked his head out of the carriage. “Will you come with me, Rolan? I can promise you a safe place to rest.”

Rolan wavers for a moment, looking back and forth between Jaheira, Astarion, and Wyll. Finally, he nods. “My thanks to you, sir.”

The Duke’s son responds with “No need for formality. Call me Wyll.” Rolan blinks in open astonishment, then recovers with a nod. “And if you wouldn’t mind, come and join me in the box. Now that the rain’s let up and we’re a good distance away from the Tower, it would be nice to have some company.” Rolan hastens to comply.

Tairn rolls his shoulders back, producing audible cracks. “Better company than me, I guess.”

“Ah, you know your company is always a delight.” Even Tairn is friends with Ravengard’s heir? Wonders would never cease. 

Tairn waves him off. “I should get going home. Be seeing all of you.” And in true Tairn fashion, he marches away down the street without another word. 

All of this standing around in the street is making Astarion feel awfully exposed. What if they were followed? Thankfully, Rion chooses that moment to show some common sense. 

“Can we all get inside? It’s not safe to be standing about in the street.”

“Of course,” Wyll says. As Rolan settles himself in the box, Wyll clucks to the horses and snaps the reins, and the carriage pulls away, leaving Astarion and Gale standing in a darkened street with Jaheira, Tairn, and Rion. The latter immediately climbs the steps up to the front porch without so much as a backwards glance. 

“What is this place?” Astarion asks Jaheira.

“I told you I’d invite you to my house, didn’t I? Come inside. You’ll be as safe as I can make you there.”

He doesn’t miss her careful choice of words. Has the safehouse been compromised? 

From the front door, Rion stage-whispers, “Keep it down when we go inside. People are sleeping.” Without waiting for Jaheira, she removes a key from her belt and opens the door. 

Why does Rion have a key to Jaheira’s house? A mystery for another time, although Astarion can think of one or two possible reasons. He doesn’t feel much like inquiring further right now. 

“Come inside,” Jaheira says again. Thanks to Gale, Astarion doesn’t need the invitation, which she ought to know considering he told her about the Blackburn heist. Perhaps she’s just attempting to be polite. He crosses the threshold and she locks the door behind him. 

The house is paneled in dark wood and smells, not unpleasantly, of damp earth and growing things. No lights are on. An entry hall gives way to a larger common area. On one side are a set of doors leading to what looks like a room filled with actual trees. On another is a staircase leading up.

“Come. I expect you want some privacy and rest.” Jaheira beckons him upstairs to a room off the landing. Inside is a space roughly the same size as his safehouse room, complete with bed, dresser, desk, and washbasin. Sitting neatly beside bed are his armor, weapons, and Bag of Holding, which someone has gone to the trouble of fetching. 

Why here and not the safehouse? 

When Astarion repeats Gale’s question aloud, she says, “A matter for the morning. We had some concerns regarding security, and thought it best that you not return to the same house. This place is closely watched. After all, my family live here.”

She’s inviting Astarion of all people into her family’s house? At night, when they’re all asleep? She trusts him not to steal anything or go for any unsuspecting throats? 

She answers his silent incredulity with a half-smile. “Rest well. The key is on the desk.” She shuts the door and then she’s gone, her quiet footfalls fading down the hall. 

Astarion sets down the Annals on the desk. The necromancy tome goes beside it, though not before he feels its aura catch and pull at his fingers. It wants to be read. But that, like his questions for Jaheira, is a matter for tomorrow morning. He locks the door from the inside and sets the key on the nightstand. Rolan’s cloak falls over the back of the desk chair. Then at last he lies down on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. 

He truly did not expect to escape. Cazador and Lorroakan had them at their mercy, and then —

A part of him knows he should be happy about this. He ought to be jumping for joy. He’s escaped a fate worse than death at the hands of his own personal Archdevil. Gale’s evaded being captured and used as some sort of arcane battery by a lunatic wizard. And it’s thanks to Rolan, and to a lesser extent, Jaheira, Tairn, Rion, and Wyll Ravengard, of all people. He has allies who are willing and able to bust him and Gale out of a magical prison. 

But it’s not happiness he feels. It’s not even relief. His gut seethes, his jaw tightens, and his fingers clench into fists around the bedsheets. 

They came for him. So simple, so easy. Like something out of a storybook. They came for him, his very own knights in shining armor, and he wants to scream at them: why the fuck did it take you so long? 

Where were they in the early days of his enslavement? Where were they when he cried for days on end in the dormitory, before all the tears were wrung out of him? Where were they when he tried to play the hero just once, and for that sin was locked away in a tomb until his sanity snapped? Where were they when he crawled up from his own grave, nails torn to the quick and retching his lungs out, to find Cazador standing over him? Where were they when he was stabbed in the street and left for dead?

And they have the audacity to come for him now. 

He wants to leave this place. Its walls are too close, its ceilings too low. He’s sick of being helpless: he wants to prowl the streets, teeth bared, and dare anyone and anything to cross his path. Make someone else afraid for a change. 

He’s not that foolhardy, but only barely. If tonight proved nothing else, he now knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that the Harpers value him and Gale as allies. He still figures into their plans somehow and they can’t yet afford to let him die or rot away in the Szarr Palace. He’d be an idiot to squander their protection. 

  Astarion?

He does not allow himself to visibly startle. 

Tell me what’s wrong. 

Even in his own thoughts he can’t articulate it. He shakes his head.

You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t wish to. I could conjure the night sky for you again. If you’re open to coming to my tower, that is.

Yes, Astarion thinks to him with a rush of incoherent wanting. 

Of course. Forgive me. Last time, you said you… that it wasn’t real, so you didn’t want to…

I don’t care. Reality is overrated. I don’t want to be here anymore. 

And just like that, he isn’t. They’re sitting on Gale’s balcony in full night. Waves slap against the breakwater below. Salt air sits on his tongue. From far away, a bell tower rings midnight. In front of them are the heavens, vast and deep, painted by ribbons of blue-green aurora light. 

Gale sits next to him, close enough to reach out to, were Astarion so inclined. The Northern Lights dance in his eyes. He lifts a hand and pinpricks of light appear through the aurora, stars kindling to life against the endless black. The ocean reflects their brilliance back like a distorted, rippling mirror laid out to the horizon. 

They sit in silence. Astarion knows none of this is real, but he needs the illusion, the beautiful lie. 

Tomorrow he will have to face the Harpers and the stolen books. They will come up with a new plan. He’ll be dragged into yet more misadventures. Maybe he’ll kill Cazador after all, and Lorroakan too for good measure. None of this will change what happened to him. 

It’s not fair. None of it is. He thought he’d accepted long ago that there was no justice or fairness or kindness to be had. That made it hurt less, he supposes, or at least it made the world make sense. Astarion knew his place. He hated his place, but he knew it. He understood how things worked, how things would always work. 

He doesn’t understand his universe anymore, and that scares him.

Except. 

He doesn’t understand why Gale is the way he is. But Astarion’s not afraid of him anymore. He’s afraid of everything else in the world, but not of him. 

He inches closer to Gale, who waits with uncharacteristic quiet. Only when Astarion leans fully into him does he drape his arm over Astarion’s shoulders — slowly, gently, plenty of time to pull away. Astarion lets it happen as the aurora’s light changes from blue to green to pink to gold to purple, to all of them at once. 

At last Gale says, “For what it’s worth, I would like to show this to you in person someday, if you are amenable.”

Astarion looks up and Gale meets his eyes. 

“Waterdeep is not called the City of Splendors for nothing. It came by its reputation honestly. As a center of magic, scholarship, art, and trade, it is unparalleled. If you wish to see it for yourself, there is a place in my tower for you. You’re under no obligation, of course: you should take full advantage of your freedom, when at last it is fully yours.

“I’ve been afraid of assuming you’ll want anything to do with me, once we are no longer in forced proximity at all times. Indeed, if you want to go your own way, I would understand completely. Yet I nearly lost you in Ramazith’s Tower, and so I hope you’ll forgive me my forwardness. 

“I care for you, Astarion. Very deeply. I want you to be a part of my life, and I want to be a part of yours, to as much extent as you’ll allow me. 

“These are not the circumstances I ever imagined for myself, and I will not pretend these last months since I opened that book have been easy.  I lost my body, my voice, my family, and my magic. I was captive and utterly powerless. More than once, on the long journey south down the coast, I nearly surrendered to despair. I cursed the day I ever laid eyes on that book.

“I say this because I want you to know that I would do it all again without hesitation, because it means that I get to meet you.”

And a warmth moves between them, through the conjured chill of the Waterdeep night, and unlike the artificial stars, unlike the tower, it cannot be anything but real. It is better than his first time standing in the sun, better than thinking-creature blood because echoing  through their bond, Astarion can feel an all-encompassing embrace. Gale has seen him at his weakest and worst, and despite that, this is what Gale feels for him.

Astarion’s breath stutters. Something flutters in his chest. That, too, makes no sense at all for a vampire, and yet it feels right. 

So he keeps doing what feels right. His hand curves around the back of Gale’s head. Gale’s hair is thick, soft, and warm. It was made to be petted and stroked.

Gale tenses minutely, his eyes narrow, and Astarion’s stomach flips. Did he somehow read this wrong? Is Gale disgusted with him, knowing what he is, what he’s done?

Gale asks, “Are you certain this is what you want?”

“Yes,” says Astarion, and he puts the force of his intentions into it so that his ridiculous, maddening, beautiful wizard will understand. If Gale can open his mind to prove his sincerity, Astarion can do the same. 

Gale never seems to understand how incredible he is. He puts his whole heart into everything he does. Unlike Astarion, he’s good at love. He deserves to have some given back to him.

Gale has no argument to that. Astarion pulls him into a kiss. 

It’s gentle. Tender. Gale’s hand cups his jaw and his thumb brushes the tip of Astarion’s ear. A lovely shiver runs down Astarion’s spine at that, and Gale must notice, because he keeps doing it. Astarion’s other hand, the one that isn’t busy weaving itself into Gale’s hair, grips his shoulder and tucks into the hollow above his collarbone. 

Astarion has kissed thousands of people but he can’t remember the last time he truly wanted it. He must have, once upon a time, centuries and countless victims ago. 

This is good. Revolutionary, actually. This is a tiny piece of himself that he now gets to take back. It’s overwhelming but it feels right. 

Astarion pulls back before it all becomes too much. Gale, of course, lets him. He watches Astarion with blown-out pupils and lets him make the next move. 

“That was…” he begins, before he realizes he doesn’t know how to finish the sentence. He imagines Gale can see it on his face in any case. 

“I quite enjoyed it,” Gale says with a flash of humor. “Should you desire a repeat of the experience, I could easily be persuaded. Now or later.”

Astarion searches for words. This is uncharted territory, all of it. That too is frightening, even if Gale himself isn’t. 

“I don’t know how to do this,” he confesses. 

Gale tells him, “Neither do I, truth be told. Let’s take things one step at a time, shall we?”

The next step, Astarion decides, is to pull Gale closer and rest his head on the wizard’s shoulders. He breathes and Gale matches him breath for breath. Tomorrow will come. Tonight is what matters for now, and tonight, he has this. 

Astarion doesn’t know if Gale’s noticed, but a thousand new stars have caught fire in the Waterdeep night.

Chapter Text

An extremely rude knock at the door rouses Astarion from his trance. For once, his visions were pleasant ones, full of starlight, and he feels entitled to resent being pulled away. On the other side, an unabashed Jaheira calls out, “Come downstairs. Company’s here and we can’t waste the morning.”

Astarion glowers at the door. He spent the better part of the night with Gale in his mind palace and could use another hour or so of meditation, especially after the ordeals of the last few days. Moreover, he’d much rather spend more time alone with Gale than face the outside world. But he knows already that Jaheira won’t take no for an answer.

For all that, she doesn’t spoil his mood entirely. After last night’s revelations, it would take a lot more than an intrusive, bossy Harper to manage that.

“Fine!” he shouts back at her. “Hells, give me a moment to get organized.”

“Organize quickly,” she says, and leaves.

Sunlight streams through the narrow window: Astarion’s missed rising with the dawn. He’ll have to re-establish that routine tomorrow. For now, he retrieves a fresh shirt and trousers from the Bag of Holding. He doesn’t reach for his cuirass, but he does buckle his rapier to his belt. Now re-armed, he feels far less exposed.

Gale has started off wildly speculating about the meeting downstairs. He keeps up a running commentary while Astarion finishes his preparations. I wonder what ‘company’ means in this context. Could Wyll have returned? I must confess I’m quite curious as to how he became involved in this little escapade. 

Gale wants to stay with him after all this nonsense is done, for some unfathomable reason. Astarion can’t help but worry that he’ll change his mind as soon as he has other options, but, well, as they say, make hay while the sun shines. Astarion, as a rule, doesn’t get to have nice things. Far be it from him to waste this opportunity. 

And besides, Gale seems almost giddy this morning, bubbling over with energy and enthusiasm. It is quite adorable. Doubly so when Astarion considers the head-spinning fact that he inspired such feelings. It’s the happiest Gale’s been in the time Astarion’s known him. 

Joy rather suits him, as it happens. Astarion wants to see it in Gale more often. 

I’ll ask, my dear. 

Downstairs, a gaggle of voices are raised. Astarion recognizes most of them: Jaheira, Rion, and Tairn are no surprises. Then Rion confirms Gale’s suspicions, asking “Why don’t you take that chair, Wyll?” There is a shuffling and dragging of wood against wood before the Duke’s son thanks her politely. 

Shall we?

If we must.

Astarion locks the door behind him and pockets the key. He’s not truly worried about anyone stealing his belongings in this house, but it feels good to put up a barrier between his space – his and Gale’s – and the rest of the world. 

Between Gale and the commotion downstairs, Astarion’s so thoroughly distracted that he’s taken quite by surprise when, halfway down the stairs, someone short all but barrels into him. He bites back a watch where you’re going when he notices that this someone is not a fully-grown gnome, dwarf, or halfing; but a human child. 

“Excuse me! Sorry!” the child exclaims, then dodges around him and continues racing madly up the stairs. 

The last child Astarion interacted with was Leon’s daughter Victoria. Truthfully, he’d always done his best to avoid her. Dalyria was bizarrely obsessed with her and Astarion had absolutely no desire to find out why. That way lay nothing but trouble. 

He tries not to think about the Gur children. 

And anyway, this child is not one of them, not trapped in a mansion full of vampires. He’s not fleeing for his life; he’s running because that’s what children do. He scampers off along the upstairs landing and disappears down the hall. 

Are you well?

Just startled. I’ll be fine. 

The large central dining room at the bottom of the stairs is packed. Jaheira, Rion, Tairn, Somi, and Wyll are present, as is Rolan, which is something of a surprise. The tiefling apprentice looks odd dressed in an ordinary tunic and trousers instead of wizard’s robes. There are a few unfamiliar faces as well: a Dragonborn woman, a half-orc in druid robes, a pair of humans wearing Harper pins. Disconcertingly, every single face in the assembled crowd turns up to look at him. 

Astarion gives a mocking wave. “Settle down. I know I’m gorgeous, but it’s impolite to stare.”

A scoff from Jaheira breaks the tension, and with that, Astarion descends the rest of the stairs. The lone empty chair in the room is between her and Tairn, close to the head of the table and directly opposite Wyll. Astarion sits down and tries to appear relaxed. 

Tairn has made tea. Almost everyone else here has a cup and saucer, but they know better than to offer one to Astarion. Instead, to his surprise, Jaheira passes him a goblet. 

It’s a testament to how scattered he is that he hadn’t noticed the aroma. But now his attention’s been drawn, there’s no mistaking it. Cow’s blood, by the smell, and still fresh. His teeth ache and his throat burns as hunger surges to the forefront of his awareness. 

He doesn’t think this is a trap, even though he can’t shake his knee-jerk reaction to hold back from drinking. Jaheira’s not Cazador, he knows. Still, he carefully sets the goblet down, as if it were nothing more than a cup of tea. 

“Purchased from the butcher early this morning,” says Jaheira. She makes a go-ahead gesture with one hand. 

Go on. They’re being thoughtful. 

Apologizing for letting him get caught, more likely. Astarion, doing his best to appear unfazed, lifts the goblet and takes a sip. The instant he does, he has to tamp down on his desire to drain the whole thing at once. He doesn’t want to look desperate. 

Even though it’s flat and cold compared to blood straight from the vein, it settles the emptiness within. He can feel the last remnants of his wounds start to close. Still restraining himself, he takes another small sip and sets the goblet back down. He feels a bit off-balance confronted with people who not only know what he is, but who are specifically accommodating him. 

He raises his glass in acknowledgement. “Much appreciated.”

Jaheira faces the rest of the table. “To business. We have much to discuss. You all already know that we are hunting a vampire, Cazador Szarr. Now, for those of you unfamiliar, allow me to introduce the people who set us on his trail: Astarion and Gale.”

Astarion gives a half-wave. 

“Another vampire?” asks the Dragonborn woman.

“Vampire spawn, technically,” Astarion replies as he takes another drink from his goblet. 

“And you’re helping us against one of your own kind?”

“I know this might be a challenging concept, but we undead are not all friends with one another.” He smiles, baring his fangs. Everyone in this room already knows what he is, and with a goblet of blood in hand and a room in Jaheira’s own house, he doesn’t think she’d let anyone stake him just for mouthing off. 

“Astarion has more than earned my confidence,” Jaheira says, which is a shocking thing to hear, although not an unpleasant one. She even sounds like she means it. 

“And what about the other one? Gale, was it?”

Present, albeit discorporated for the time being. 

Astarion duly repeats his words, adding, “He’s sort of haunting me, like a very persistent ghost.” 

The druid half-orc leans forward. “Interesting. You’re the only one who can hear him? How does that work?”

Astarion really doesn’t want to get sidetracked. “It’s a long story. One of these days, Gale will tell it to you, once he’s got his body back.”

“He used to have a body and now you’re sharing? Never met anyone sharing a body before.”

“And you still haven’t,” Astarion informs him. Because they are not sharing , that unpleasantness in Ramazith’s Tower notwithstanding . This body belongs to Astarion and no matter how much he likes Gale – and he likes him quite a lot – there are some things he will never willingly give up again. 

I would never ask that of you. 

Which is why I keep you around. Among other reasons. He lets a wicked note creep into his tone and he can all but see Gale blush. But he keeps his face still, concealing his feelings from the outside world with the ease of long practice. Flirting with Gale is most certainly a private matter. 

The druid, not privy to Astarion and Gale’s exchange and noticing he’s stepped on a sore spot, retreats. “No offense meant.”

“None taken,” Astarion replies with deliberately edged politeness. 

Wyll lifts a hand. “Now the introductions are through, let’s get back on task. We are all here for a common purpose.”

“Indeed.” Jaheira rises from her chair. “We’ll start by ensuring everyone is up to speed. Two nights ago, at the Midwinter Ball, Astarion, Gale, and I attempted to spring a trap for Cazador. I meant to cast Daylight and expose him for what he is, creating an opening for Astarion to kill him. 

“Our plan was foiled by the intervention of Lorroakan of Ramazith’s Tower. I was detained by the guards, and by the time Wyll was able to intervene to allow me to get away, Cazador and Lorroakan had already captured Astarion and Gale.

She turns to Astarion. “I don’t expect you to relate everything that happened if you do not wish to. Some of it, we already know thanks to Rolan. But is there anything else that would benefit our group to hear?”

What do you think, Astarion?

Rolan already knows more about Lorroakan’s plans than I do. They’ve even seen the books. The only thing left is what Cazador did to me, and I would rather not get into the particulars. 

No indeed, but we should find out what else Rolan knows. 

To the assembly, Astarion says, “I don’t think so. But Gale and I would so love to hear directly from Lorroakan’s very own apprentice about just what exactly is going on between an archwizard and a vampire lord.”

All eyes turn to Rolan, who lifts his chin stubbornly. “I don’t know all the details.”

“But you know some of them,” Astarion presses. 

“I – I didn’t even know you and Gale were there until… fine.” He straightens up, faces down the room of watching Harpers. 

“I got the position as Lorroakan’s apprentice half a year ago. At the time, I was overjoyed. It’s always been my greatest ambition to be an archwizard.” Admirable, Gale observes. “I came to Baldur’s Gate with Cal and Lia, my closest friends. They were with me when Elturel – in any case, I was distraught when I learned they wouldn’t be permitted to stay with me in the Tower. Still, I told myself that these were merely temporary trials on the way to achieving my goals. 

“I first learned of Lorroakan’s involvement with Cazador Szarr after Astarion and Gale paid a visit to his shop. He had informed me that he was expecting a shipment from a Gale of Waterdeep of books regarding Netherese magic, and the previous night, I bore witness to his rage when the promised delivery failed to arrive. He – he made his displeasure very clear, as was his habit.”

Astarion knows the look that crosses Rolan’s face. One hardly has to be a genius to put together the form that Lorroakan’s displeasure must have taken. He feels a surprising pang of something in response. 

“I suspected that he might have acquired the books less than legally, but feared further angering him should I make any protest.” He inclines his head at Astarion, or more likely, at Gale. “So when someone came asking for books of Netherese magic, and used Gale’s name, I felt obligated to report it. I gave him Astarion’s description, too. Had I known what you were running from… I am sorry. Truly.

“After that, my knowledge of the details is much more vague. I believe that it was actually Cazador who approached Lorroakan initially. They’d had dealings in the past regarding magical knowledge and items, and I believe Cazador came asking for an explanation of how Astarion was able to disobey his commands and walk in the sun.”

At that, a few of the less familiar gazes turn Astarion’s way. He ignores them. They can ask Jaheira or Tairn to fill them in. 

“After that, Lorroakan would periodically go over to Cazador’s mansion to help him with some project or other. I was never privy to the details. I never even knew Astarion was a vampire spawn until Lorroakan brought him to the tower.

“He had a plan to use Gale. I don’t know the full extent of it, but when he dragged Gale and Astarion upstairs and offered Gale a chance to cooperate with him, the offer was made in bad faith. He said as much afterwards. He meant to use Gale to discover how one might be joined with the Karsite Weave – the focus of magical power that he inhabits – and then he meant to dispose of him.” 

“Karsite Weave?” It seems this is one thing Jaheira hasn’t been filled in on.

Rolan gives a brief explanation. Astarion can feel Gale’s eagerness to participate, even to correct one or two misleading statements. He asks, Do you want me to translate? but Gale declines with a weary sigh. He’s accurate enough for the time being, I suppose. 

Astarion assures him, Not to worry. You’ll have the chance to set the record straight soon enough. 

Astarion keeps quiet when Rolan recounts what happened in Ramazith’s Tower. He has no particular desire to explain his side of the story. His ears perk up when Rion finally asks, “So why turn on your master?”

It takes Rolan a moment to gather his thoughts. Then, “I couldn’t be party to such cruelty. When I accepted the apprenticeship, I did not agree to keeping innocent people captive or turning escaped slaves over to be tortured.” Wyll gives an approving nod. Astarion drains the last of his goblet of blood with a grimace.

Heroes, he says derisively to Gale.

The nerve of him! Gale shoots back. To facilitate our escape from certain doom! It boggles the mind, truly. 

You’re making fun of me. 

I never!

Meanwhile, Jaheira has an announcement to make. “Now that we know Lorroakan and Cazador are working together, we can plan more effectively. We will need to reassign some of our units to observing Ramazith’s Tower. Maya, Rion, speak to me when we finish. Jord, I have some additional instructions for you as well.” The Dragonborn woman and the half-orc druid give nods of acknowledgement. “As for the rest of you, the true identities of Astarion, Gale, and Rolan are not to be shared outside this room without my express permission.”

She lifts her eyes to Wyll. “We are in your debt once again, Wyll.”

He demurs graciously. “Not at all. I’m only happy that I could help. If there’s anything else I can do –”

“-- You’ll be the first to know, I promise.”

And with that, the meeting is adjourned. It was really very efficient, which fits with what Astarion knows of Jaheira’s character. He’s glad she ordered her Harpers not to go spreading his and Gale’s names about as well. 

More importantly, he now gets to step away and get back to the vital business of spending time with Gale.

Well, darling? Nothing more for us to do, at least for now. Shall we – 

“Pardon me, Astarion, Gale. May I have a word?”

Wyll beckons him from off to one side. What could the Duke’s son possibly want with them? Astarion feels himself stiffen, but then forces himself to relax. He just has to get through whatever this is, and then he can return to his room. He clasps his hands behind his face and schools his face into a polite expression. 

“What can I – we – do for you?” 

“A brief moment of your time, nothing more. I wanted to tell you that I am sorry for how things happened at the ball.”

How unprecedented. Wyll is probably the most powerful person in this room, with the possible exception of Jaheira, and he’s going out of his way to apologize? It’s certainly not how Astarion’s used to being treated, least of all by nobility.

Wyll goes on, “I wasn’t aware of the details of the plan. I’d just returned to the city after a few months out in the Frontiers, mere hours before the Ball, and didn’t have time to catch up with the Harpers. Had I known, I would have found a way to stop you from being abducted. It took me a while to find Jaheira once she’d escaped from the guards, and by that time, you were long gone. Still, that doesn’t make up for what you suffered. I am sorry.”

Oh, says Gale, touched. He’s a proper hero type after all. 

Outwardly, Astarion does what he knows he ought to do when addressed by the son of a Grand Duke and a high-ranking Harper in his own right: he does a little half-bow, only very slightly mocking, and says, “How gracious of you to say so.” Inwardly, part of him wants to let Wyll know in no uncertain terms that his words are too little and much too late. 

But another part, oddly, agrees with Gale. Maybe it’s just that Wyll looks so gods-damned earnest when he says it. Like he truly means it, like he sees Astarion and Gale as worthy of consideration from the likes of him. 

“It’s the least I could do. If you need another place to go, come to the Palace and ask for me. I’ll make sure you’re let in.”

“That’s terribly kind.”

It is. Please tell him I said so.