Chapter Text
The compulsion didn’t return when Astarion expected it. He felt the tadpole go, of course, as he saw the Netherbrain tumble down into the Chionthar. He felt the blistering on his skin as he said goodbye to the sun, dashing to take shelter beneath crates and tarpaulin. But the compulsion didn’t return till much later.
On reflection, he wondered whether it had actually left him at all.
It was Gale who found him, in the end. The wizard’s brown eyes were hazy, focused on something else, as opposed to his vampiric lover shedding skin before him. Astarion’s throat hitched. It’s changed already?
Wyll and Karlach were gone, eventually Gale told him. Gone to Avernus to try and fix the tiefling’s heart. To try and enact revenge on Mizora and Zariel and all the other devils that had wronged them. Yes, thought Astarion, bitterly. There was always time for those enemies.
Shadowheart found the pair next, tears in her eyes. Lae’zel was gone, she murmured, not caring whether she was heard. Gone to fight Vlaakith with Voss. All that remained of her was a promise that she’d be back, but that Shadowheart had to look after her parents. Lae’zel had left her the egg, and the cleric held it close to her chest.
Demons, Goddesses, cultists, Murder Gods, Hags… what hadn’t they faced? Astarion wondered as the sun slowly made its way beyond the horizon. Ah yes, vampiric lords.
The compulsion hadn’t obviously returned by the time they arrived at the Elfsong either. Jaheira pressed a glass of wine that tasted like vinegar into his pale hand, talking of heroics and Volo waxed lyrical about interviews for his upcoming epic “The Cult of the Absolute and its Downfall”. Minsc and Boo were on tables, drinking cheap ale like it was ambrosia. Halsin had a gaggle of admirers fawning over him. Scratch and the Owlbear cub were asleep upstairs.
Astarion sat down at a table in the corner, nursing the vinegar. Gale still hadn’t spoken to him, not properly anyway, but Astarion had to concede that he hadn’t really spoken to him, either. Gods he was tired. His fingers were numb as he tucked a strand of pale hair behind his ear.
“So, Waterdeep?”
“Hmm?” Astarion looked up to see Jaheira smiling down at him.
“With Gale?” she asked.
Astarion shrugged. “I assume so,” he said, not assuming anything.
Jaheira sat down by his side. “You worry too much. Now is a time for hope, youngling.”
This caused Astarion to snort into his cup. “I’m older than you. Considerably.”
“Really? You don’t act like it.”
“All part of the charm, darling.” It was easy at this point to put on the lilt. It was all a performance. All a show, a façade, a mask. “Anyway, who says I’m worrying?” He took a sip, savouring the acrid taste on his tongue.
It was Jaheira’s turn to snort. “Your entire face.”
“Excuse me, my face is an utter delight.”
“Hmm, an utter delight consumed by worry.” The druid tapped her fingers on her own tankard. “He might be dead. Lots of that part of the Upper City was destroyed.”
Astarion raised a pale eyebrow. “I doubt it. I’d have…” he looked pensively at the busy bar behind Jaheira’s head. “I’d have felt it. The connection break.”
Jaheira shrugged. “You never know. You’ve not felt the connection since the Nautiloid.”
As if. He was certain of that now. Now that he had the freedom from the tadpole to admit it to himself, if not to Jaheira. Astarion had constantly felt the connection over the past few months. He had felt his leash tighten as the companions had approached Baldur’s Gate. He felt it now, a dull throbbing in the back of his mind. It was quieter than the tadpole had been, admittedly, but it had always been there. There just wasn’t a conversation being held on it. Just an empty vein between two vessels, ready to take blood from one organ to the next. It just wasn’t being used. And that worried Astarion more than anything.
It had taken till the Shadow-Cursed lands for his master to stop calling him. That incessant command had fallen quiet as they searched the devastated land for Thaniel or something that looked like Thaniel.
Thou know thou art mine.
The tadpole had quietened the compulsions, made them possible to ignore. But they had always been there, his master trying to pull him back to his side. He’d just stopped vocalising them to Astarion as the elf fought Needleblights and necromancers and cultists.
A quiet leash was still a leash after all.
His scars itched.
“Are you there, little vampling?”
Oh yes, Jaheira. She was still there, staring at him.
“Where else would I be?” Astarion took another sip of his drink. It finished the glass. He set it down with a thunk on the table.
“Sometimes I wonder,” mused the druid. She motioned to the empty glass. “Another?”
Astarion shook his head. He was already numb. He didn’t need foul tasting alcohol to make it worse.
“When’s the last time you fed?”
When will she stop with all the questioning? Astarion wanted to snap, like a feral creature. Instead, he composed himself. “Last night.” He placed his hands under the table so that Jaheira didn’t see him try and pierce his skin with his nails. People didn’t like him doing that. Said it was unhealthy. Astarion looked away, not meeting anyone’s gaze. “Wyll.”
Jaheira sighed. “A classic hero.”
“Indeed.” It felt like the right thing to reply. It wasn’t. What sort of monster hunter willingly allowed a monster to feed from his wrist?
“They’ll be alright too, you know.”
“Hmm?”
“Wyll and Karlach.”
“Ah yes. Them.” Astarion was becoming tired now. There were too many people around. Too many scents of wounds not completely healed. Too many voices and looks. His own blood hit his nose as his nail hit his mark in his thigh. No, not his blood, he thought, Wyll’s blood. A wave of nausea spread over him, and Astarion swayed slightly in his seat. He wanted to claw at his throat to get out the blood, it had to get out, it shouldn’t be in here.
Jaheira looked at him with a mixture of sympathy and pity. It made Astarion’s blood boil. “You look exhausted, cub.”
Finally, some truth. Astarion yawned, showing off his fangs. “I am.” Get out, get out, get out.
“Go and rest. I’m sure Gale will come up to see you.”
Oh yes. Him. Gale.
Astarion said nothing as he rose to his feet. He squeezed his way through the throng of people, holding his breath, trying not to breathe the stench in. He padded up the stairs and into the room the companions had shared. Apart from the animals, it was empty. Even Shadowheart’s parents were celebrating, and Ulder Ravengard had returned to Wyrm’s Rock.
Astarion was thankful that Scratch only pricked up his ears when he entered the room, closing the door softly behind him. The elf reached his bed and kicked off his boots. He picked up his funeral shroud and held it to his nose, inhaling the stale scent. It was comforting in a way. Some measure of stability for 200 years. As a force of habit, he folded it neatly into a square and put in the pocket of his trousers. Just in case he had to flee.
He shook himself, stripped quickly, and inspected his body. Acceptable, he thought, at first. Then – no, it’s not right. Astarion narrowed his eyes. What was wrong? His skin felt itchy and too tight across his skin. He poked his stomach and flinched as it gurgled. Get it out, get it out, get it out. He retched in his throat, bile flooding his mouth, mixing with the remnants of the vinegar wine. It coated his fangs unpleasantly, and he felt his venom drip down onto his tongue. He should swallow, put his fangs away… but the venom numbed his mouth, and it was better than the alternative so he swiped his tongue around his canines, eking out whatever venom he could create.
Ah yes, he thought. Wyll’s blood. Out, out, out, out.
He reached under the mattress and took out the dagger that he kept there. He looked around him. Scratch and the Owlbear were on the other side of the room, there’s no way that they could see. He sat on the bed, pressed the blade into the pale skin and sliced down his arm.
It’s coming out, yes, it’s leaving. No more, no more, no more.
Astarion couldn’t keep up with his thoughts anymore. He cut his other arm, slower and deeper. It scratched an itch in his mind, soothed him in a way. This was normal. It felt normal. And nice. His breathing slowed. He’d done this before. It helped … something? It helped, that’s all Astarion cared about. The elf looked at his stomach and frowned. It was too … too … something?
Full. Full of blood that’s not yours.
Astarion nodded to himself before plunging the dagger into his stomach. He ripped down into the flesh making a gash, causing thick, rich, streams of blood to poor out. It didn’t hurt, so it must have been the right thing to do.
He heard the creak of the stairs and flinched. Shit.
He dived under the covers, his head and neck just peeking out of the blanket. He could still feel the blood leaving him, the poison draining from him, like pus from an infected wound. He gave a deep sigh.
The door creaked open.
“Astarion?” whispered a voice.
Shadowheart.
Astarion lay still.
“Jaheira said you weren’t feeling too good?”
To Astarion’s relief, the cleric didn’t come closer.
“Looks like you’re trancing. That’s the best thing you could be doing. Well done.”
The cleric was drunk. She wasn’t normally this patronising. Astarion resisted the temptation to roll his eyes and sneer a snide remark at her.
“I’ll check on you in four hours, okay?”
Like it mattered, thought the vampire, as he heard the door close behind her. Astarion let out a breath that he didn’t realise he was holding. The blood was soaking into the mattress beneath him, sticky and wet. It was almost comforting in a way. Like this was how it was meant to be. He smiled to himself and willed himself into a deep trance. Hopefully by the end of the night, all the nasty blood would be out. And he would be better.
The change was immediate.
Whilst Cazador Szarr had always been a presence in his mind, it had been tucked away. Even before the tadpole. Now, it was at the forefront.
Astarion’s eyes slammed open. It was dark. He inhaled and tasted a scent of jasmine on the air.
It was strange though.
Astarion didn’t feel fear.
It felt right.
Come child. Collect your things. It’s time to go home.
Astarion stood up and grabbed his bag of holding. He quickly placed everything that he owned in it and laced up his boots.
It didn’t feel the same as compulsion. Compulsion felt like his limbs were being forced to do something. This felt natural, and deep in whatever remained of Astarion’s soul craved to be at his master’s feet.
So, he walked quietly down the stairs and through the still full and drinking tavern and out into the cold night air.
He looked down the cobbled alley and saw Him.
Astarion hastily made his way over, dropping his bag of holding, and lunging to his knees, forehead touching Cazador’s boots.
“Master,” he murmured.
“My boy.” The vampire’s voice was soft. Father-like, almost.
There was still a bit of Astarion that resisted. He thought of Gale and Shadowheart and Halsin and Jaheira and Minsc and Gale, and Gale, and Gale…
But it didn’t stop him from kissing his master’s black boot, reverently.
He looked up at Cazador through lidded lashes. “May I come home, master?” He felt a lump form in his chest. What if Cazador said no? Fear gripped Astarion and his eyes widened.
Cazador bent slightly, raising a dark eyebrow. He was still higher than his spawn, but he was able to easily take Astarion’s chin in his pale hand, rubbing his fingers along the jawline. Astarion opened his mouth, out of habit. Cazador smiled, as he used his fingers to inspect the smaller elf’s mouth, like he was horse to be bought and sold. He prodded Astarion’s fangs, causing them to unsheathe. The vampire lord hummed under his breath. “So, there is a difference, then?” he asked.
“A difference, master?” mumbled Astarion, his mouth still filled by Cazador’s fingers.
Cazador nodded. He smiled. He withdrew his fingers and wiped them on Astarion’s cheek. He bent down lower so his eyes were level with Astarion’s, crimson into crimson. Astarion reflected that he had never seen eyes as beautiful as his master’s.
“Indeed boy,” murmured the vampire lord. “You are looking at the first, and only, Vampire Ascendent.”
Astarion immediately lowered his head and started kissing Cazador’s boots with fervour, desperation.
Cazador chuckled. “To think,” he said to himself more than Astarion, as he looked at his spawn, “it only took 7 thousand and 7 souls for you to be the perfect spawn.” He rested his hand in Astarion’s white curls and began to pet his scalp. “I should have done this 2 centuries ago.”
Astarion melted into his master’s touch. Why had he been so frightened? This was how it had always been, hadn’t it?
“It’s almost ironic,” continued Cazador, “that you were the one to survive. My eldest son. My favourite. And now, we have eternity together.”
“Yes master! Please master, oh please master!” Astarion dared to come closer to his master’s legs. I’m not being thrown away, it’s all going to be fine.
“Stand.”
Astarion scrambled to his feet, eagerly awaiting his master’s next instruction. He hadn’t felt this full of energy in years, decades, centuries.
That smile again. “Get your bag. We’re going home.”
The elf turned to grab his bag when something, no someone caught his eye. He stumbled slightly. No, stupid boy, no stumbling, must be perfect! He grasped the bag of holding and turned on his heel to follow Cazador.
“Astarion?”
Gale.
Astarion froze and looked up at his master. Cazador looked beyond Astarion to where Gale was walking towards the pair, quarterstaff in hand. Astarion dared not look back but couldn’t help a whimpering keening sound escaping his throat.
“Quiet, boy,” hissed Cazador, lashing out with a ringed hand onto Astarion’s cheek.
Yep, fully deserved that, shit, thought Astarion. Bag of holding still in his hand, he clasped both hands in front of his mouth to stop any sound coming out. He couldn’t stop the slight tremors.
“Astarion, who are you with?” Gale’s voice was wavering, like he had had too much to drink but realised he had to quickly grapple hold of his brain and tongue.
The spawn said nothing, instead he stared at his master.
Cazador drew himself up to his full height. He looked haughtily down at Gale as the wizard kept walking towards them. “He is returning home,” he growled.
Home, home, home!
Cazador put a hand on Astarion’s shoulder. Astarion couldn’t resist the temptation to nuzzle into it, eager for any touch that his master would give him.
“Szarr, I presume?”
“Lord Szarr.” The threat was clear in the Vampire Ascendent’s voice.
“I won’t let you take him.”
Cazador laughed. He massaged his fingers into Astarion’s shoulder. Astarion’s legs trembled with happiness, and he nearly fell.
Good boy, he heard whispered in his brain. And what do good boys get?
Good boy? I’m a good boy, anything for Master. Astarion crooked his neck to try and kiss the fingers on his shoulders.
Yes, good boys get rewards, don’t they?
Cazador crooned around Astarion’s brain. It felt silky soft and sweet, like milk and honey, like peace and sunlight, and warmth from a fire.
“I don’t think you’ll stop me,” Cazador’s eyes had not left Gale’s face. “The boy belongs to me.”
Gale snorted. “He doesn’t belong to anyone.”
Now that didn’t make sense. Of course I belong to someone, the Master is literally here, thought Astarion in his blissed-out haze.
Another chuckle from Cazador. He paused a moment, reflecting. “Oh, I guess you were the one who held his leash whilst he was away?” His long, pale fingers swept round in soothing circles on Astarion’s bony shoulders. He tapped them to get Astarion’s attention. “Who is this, my little star?” He gestured towards Gale.
Astarion preened at the nickname. He liked it. It reminded him of home and a family he can’t quite remember… no, that’s not right, it must have been Cazador that first came up with it. Cazador was the only family he had.
“Little star?” whispered Cazador.
Astarion dragged his adoring gaze from his master and settled upon Gale. “Oh. Gale.” He said. “What are you doing here?”
Gale’s top lip had curled, and his eyes narrowed. “I resent you talking about him as if he were a pet,” he growled. “He has been independent for months. He’s his own man, a hero in his own right.”
“Now that doesn’t sound right, does it pet?”
Independent? Hero? Astarion shook his head.
“Did this man tell you what to do, whilst you’ve been away?”
Away? He’d been away, he’d been away from his master… Astarion attempted to prostrate himself down at Cazador’s feet again, but his master held him up with one strong hand. “I’m sorry master, I was kidnapped, there were tadpoles, and I didn’t know what to do so I followed the others. I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
“Shush, little star, we will deal with that at home.”
Home, home, home. Astarion kept repeating the word in his head.
“You’ll do no such thing,” snarled Gale. The wizard’s tone had Astarion trying to hide behind Cazador, shaking and trembling again.
Cazador smiled. “I think you’ll find I will be taking my son home now.” He put his arm around Astarion, doing the same lazy circles on the spawn’s back, grounding him. “As you can see, it is clearly what he wants.”
“Only because you’re compelling him.”
“There is no compulsion here. What you are seeing here is the perfect, natural, dynamic between a spawn and his sire.”
Gale’s mouth twitched. His fingers clenched around his quarterstaff.
Astarion would have laughed at the speechless wizard if he hadn’t been so terrified at being taken away from his master.
“Astarion hates you.”
Cazador waved a hand dismissively. “Does this look like hatred to you?” He rubbed one of Astarion’s pointed ears, eliciting a moan from the smaller elf. “He always has loved me. And I’ve always loved him,” Cazador paused for dramatic effect. “My sweet boy, who needs me more than anyone. I am his true master, and you shall not have him.”
“I will not…”
“Please, master! Don’t let him take me back!” sobbed Astarion. “I didn’t like being away! I want to go home!”
Cazador went back to doing the soothing circles on his shoulders. Astarion leant into him.
Gale paled. It was obvious even in the moonlight and lantern lit alley way. “You won’t get away with this.”
The vampire lord smirked. “I already have.” He clicked his fingers and Astarion sprung upright. “Come, Astarion. We return to the palace.”
“Yes master, right away master.”