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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.”

Chapter Text

Gale didn’t tell the rest of them. Not until morning. They were all too drunk to deal with it. Instead, Gale lay on his bed, the one next to Astarion’s, and wept. He wept silent tears, and the orb thrummed in his chest. It was painful, but not as painful as when his heart shattered as he saw Astarion trotting happily after Szarr.

A perfect natural relationship between a sire and his spawn…

It wasn’t until a towel was thrown at him the next morning that he stirred. He must have dropped off at some point, as he hadn’t noticed Shadowheart neither come to bed nor wake up.

“Where’s Astarion?” she snapped. “And why is his bed full of blood?”

Gale wiped his eyes. “I can’t answer the second one.” He turned to look at his partner’s bed as he sat up. Shadowheart was right, the mattress was stained a deep dark red. Gale felt sick.

“And the first?”

“Szarr.”

“No.” Shadowheart fell to the floor. “That can’t be right. He was fine yesterday, he was okay, there was no compulsion.”

Jaheira and Halsin had come up to the pair. Halsin seemed stoic, as he always did, but his eyes failed to hide his sadness.

Jaheira was agitated. “Well, clearly he was not fine,” the Harper snapped, gesturing to the soiled bedclothes. “Clearly, clearly…” she put her head in her hands. “I should have … I should have noticed something was wrong.”

Gale shook his head. “No, it’s not your fault Jaheira.” Gale’s eyes didn’t leave the empty bed next to him. “It’s mine. I was so caught up in the crown that I just… I just didn’t think.”

“None of us thought,” grumbled Halsin.

“Astarion did,” said Jaheira, stubbornly. “He was clearly worried about it. He told me as much, and I… I just told him to go to bed.”

“You couldn’t have known that this would happen.” Halsin’s voice was an attempted oasis of calm, but the waters clearly trembled with the effort.

“No, I don’t believe it,” whispered Shadowheart. She looked at the bed again. “Did he try…” her voice choked up. “Did he try and…?” She left the words unsaid.

Gale swallowed. He shrugged. He hated himself for it. It was callous and harsh. “I… I saw him.”

The others stared at him.

“With Cazador, I mean.”

There was silence still.

“I saw him walk outside the tavern with his pack, and there was blood on his shirt, and he looked so blank.” Gale ripped his gaze from the red bedclothes to the window. “I followed him. And… and…” his voice cracked. “He was there. And Astarion ran to him, like properly ran, and knelt at his feet and started kissing his boots…”

Jaheira’s nose wrinkled in disgust.

The wizard drew his knees up to his chest, burying his face in his hands. “And I just stood there, whilst Astarion asked the man to come home. He was begging. I had never seen him like it…” He shook himself. The others needed to hear this, so that they could come up with a plan. “He was like a dog being reunited with his master. And they were about to leave so I shouted out to Astarion.” Gale wiped the snot that was accumulating out of his nose on his sleeve. “And Astarion looked terrified.”

“Because of Szarr?” asked Halsin, though the large wood elf was pretty sure he knew the answer.

Gale shook his head. “No,” his voice became a whisper. “Because of me. He was so frightened that he was going to be stopped from going back to him.”

“Compulsion?”

Gale didn’t want to focus on the fact that Astarion hadn’t acted like he was compelled. He had been different from the other spawn that they had met. There had been no glowing eyes, no stiff movements. Just sheer, unadulterated terror. And sheer, unadulterated adoration for Cazador. Gale hadn’t done much reading on vampiric compulsion, but he knew that you couldn’t force true emotion. You could force a spawn to act like they were happy or sad, but Astarion had shown true love, the way he had softened and moaned at Cazador’s touches. It was different to the Astarion he knew, but maybe that had been all just a façade? “He looked like he loved him.” The wizard changed the subject.

“Oh.”

Shadowheart rose to her feet. She scratched her forehead. “But he hated him.”

“I saw no tale-tale signs of compulsion,” murmured Gale. “No glowing eyes, no attempt to resist. If it was acting, then it was hell of a good show.”

“Shit,” said Jaheira.

“But that means, that means … that Astarion is just going to walk to his death. He’s just going to walk down and be sacrificed to a devil. We’ve need to come up with a plan to break him out of there.” Shadowheart had begun pacing now. Scratch and the Owlbear came up to the group, awoken by the worried voices.

“Rescue him from a Vampire lord and hope we get there before he sacrifices Astarion and ascends?” Jaheira snorted. “Especially if what Gale says is true, and Astarion isn’t compelled – “

Gale flinched.

“- then he won’t come quietly. It wouldn’t be a rescue; it would be a kidnapping of a powerful creature that would show no qualms in hurting us.” Jaheira continued. She flopped down on the bed next to Gale. “It would have to be a bloody good plan.” She kicked the side of the bed. “Gods Damnit.”

There was silence amongst them. Gale wished for Karlach’s anger or Wyll’s righteousness and planning skill. But all he could hear was the snapping of the owlbear cub’s beak and little whimpers from Scratch. He allowed a single tear to drip down his face onto his blanket. A blanket repaired for him time and time again by Astarion, embellished by the elf’s embroideries. A tressym in one corner, a bottle of wine in another, and on the back, hidden from the world, the words: I put the Ass in Asstarion, darling!

Outside the Elfsong, bodies of the fallen were being cleared off the streets, and rubble being removed from the damaged buildings of the lower city. The four of them had decided to stay and help for a while before going their separate ways. Shadowheart would be travelling to the outskirts of the city where she hoped to make a home for herself and her parents, whilst Halsin hoped to take the orphaned children of the city to Reithwin where he wished to create a utopia for them in the Oakfather’s image. Jaheira, of course, would be staying in the city, and lead the rebuilding efforts as head of the Harpers. And Gale? Well, he had hoped to find the remains of the crown of Karsus, return it to Mystra, get rid of the orb in his chest, and then make a new life with Astarion. It had been assumed that it would be in Waterdeep, but the pair had never really discussed it, apart from the fact that Astarion couldn’t stay near Baldur’s Gate and Cazador. Gale was going to find a way to end any threats of compulsion and help his lover walk in the sunlight again. Astarion was going to want for nothing.

But now, all that future lay in tatters for Gale. He wanted Astarion back. And he didn’t know how to get him back.

“We loved Astarion,” murmured Halsin.

“Loved?” snapped Shadowheart. “He’s still alive.”

Halsin looked at her with great sadness in his eyes. “Yes,” he said. “But I think we have to consider that, at least for now, that he is beyond our help.”

Scratch whined, as if he could understand them.

Gale looked up at Halsin, his deep brown eyes filled with tears. “I can’t accept that Halsin. Not while I know that he’s still… still around.”

The druid sighed. “We cannot save him at the present moment,” he said, quietly. “A Vampire Ascendent is something that no one in Toril has faced before. Nevermind us.”

“He’s not ascended yet,” snapped the cleric. “Astarion’s not been sacrificed yet.”

“That we know of,” replied Halsin, sadly. “It could have happened last night.”

Why didn’t Gale shout the alarm! You’ve killed him!

Shadowheart chewed the end of her braid. She looked younger than she had done whilst on their journey. “We came so far,” she whispered. “And we didn’t lose anyone.” She closed her eyes. “It was meant to be a happy ending.”

Gale took a deep breath. She was right. They had almost done a complete fairytale ending. The heroes all alive at the end, the villains vanquished. He looked at Shadowheart, realising that she was grieving for two still-alive persons. Astarion yes, but also Lae’zel. Shadowheart’s love was much further away from Gale’s but also had much more agency than his. Lae’zel was about to be a hero in a legend of her own making. Astarion was returning to the life of a slave, a pig raised for slaughter, as if there had been no character development at all.

And there had been character development. Astarion had had an arc where he had started as a lying rake, with no loyalty or ambition beyond saving his own skin. He had slept with Lae’zel for protection, using his body the only way he knew how, even though it disgusted him. He had broken all four of Cazador’s rules, and, Gale hoped, had fallen in love with a wizard from Waterdeep who had thrown the perfect life away for the sake of a little more power. It had been Astarion who had convinced Gale to give the crown to Mystra, instead of becoming a God in his own right. It had been Astarion that had convinced Shadowheart to not let Shar win, and save her parents, damn the pain she would suffer for the rest of her life because life without pain wasn’t worth living. He had shown Karlach that she deserved to live and fight on, and inspired Wyll to leave his father and a poor sense of duty behind to go and fight beside the woman he loved. He had been the turning point for so many of them, and yet Astarion was right back where he started. It was almost as if the tadpoles hadn’t happened to him at all.

“What would he want us to do?” he asked, after musing Shadowheart’s words.

The other three stared at him.

“I mean it, what would he want us to do?” Gale swung his legs round and stood up. He stared up at the ceiling, trying to convince himself of the words he was about to say, nevermind the others. “He knew this was a possibility. He told me…the night before we killed the Netherbrain.” Gale scratched his eyebrow.

“Gale,” whispered Astarion. “I know we have to do it tomorrow, but promise me one thing?”

“Anything for you, my love.” Gale wrapped his arms around the pale elf as they sat on the roof of the Elfsong, watching the sun go down.

“Don’t blow yourself up.” Astarion’s tone was teasing, almost.

Gale chuckled. “I thought we’d been over that?” He tucked a strand of silver hair behind a pointed ear. “No blowing myself up, no becoming a god. Just plain old Gale Dekarios.”

Astarion arched an eyebrow and smiled lazily. He stretched his neck, so he was directly under Gale’s chin. “I like plain old Gale Dekarios,” he murmured. He kissed Gale’s wiry beard. “He’s quite possibly my favourite person alive.”

Gale smiled and bent down to give a kiss on the forehead. “You’re definitely my favourite person alive.”

There was silence for a moment.

“I mean, afterwards.” Astarion’s gaze was looking out towards the sunset again. “You have to promise me.”

“Why would I blow up afterwards?” asked Gale, confused.

“It’s a metaphor. I thought you would be familiar.” Astarion tapped his knee with his finger. He sighed. “I know we had to do it in this order. That this was the most important thing we had to do. Save the world and ourselves.” Astarion’s voice was soft but far away. “But that means that tomorrow…”

“He won’t my love, I’ll stop him.”

Astarion smiled sadly. “You may not be able to stop him. Which is why I need you to promise to do the things you said you would. And not just you, all of you.”

Gale was silent.

“Shadowheart needs to look after her parents. Jaheira needs to save the city and Halsin the orphaned brats...”

“I don’t think he’d take kindly to you calling them brats.”

Astarion shrugged. “Whatever. Karlach needs to find a way to keep living and Wyll needs to decide that it’s better living with her than without her. Lae’zel needs to save the Githyanki and you, my dear,” Astarion looked up at his lover with crimson eyes full of love and affection, “you my dear, plain old Gale Dekarios, need to get that orb out of your chest. Whether I’m there or not.”

Gale swallowed. “I can’t do it without you.”

Astarion pressed back against him. “You can, my love. For me.” The elf sighed again. “When Orin took you, I knew that was it. That I had to get you back, damn trying to stop Cazador and his stupid ascension. You were the most important thing; my soul be damned.” He laughed lyrically at his joke. Of course, his soul was already damned. “Don’t make my sacrifice needless.”

Gale wrapped his arms tighter around Astarion. He wouldn’t let Cazador take him and would do everything his power to prevent that from happening. He looked up at the darkening sky and swore by the stars that he would save Astarion.

“I need to hear you promise, Gale,” said Astarion, softly.

“For you my love,” said Gale, his voice choked, “consider it most enthusiastically done.”

Chapter Text

To Astarion, at least, the fact that Cazador had ascended was obvious. The elf was perfect. Transcendent. He was a God. My God , he thought, happily. Cazador had told him that he had been replaceable in the ritual and that there was no need to worry, he wouldn’t be sacrificed. He would be loved. That made Astarion happy.

The palace was quieter than Astarion remembered, padding quietly beside his master up the main driveway. Of course , he thought, no siblings. He wondered whether he was sad about that and decided that he couldn’t tell. Maybe the master would give him new siblings? That would be nice.

“I can hear you think,” mused Cazador.

“Sorry sir, I’ll stop thinking.” Astarion endeavoured to make his mind blank.

Cazador snorted. “You, stop thinking? I may be the Vampire Ascendent, but I think I’d have to be Ao himself to stop you from prattling on in that little head of yours.”

The large black doors opened before them. The thralls were still there, and the servants that believed that Cazador would one day turn them. In the foyer they busied themselves, bowing deeply if Cazador deemed to even glance in their direction. The master swept past them, however, and Astarion followed a couple of steps behind, as he had been trained. He said nothing, and tried to think nothing, but his trepidation grew as he recognised the way to the Kennels and Godey.

Astarion swallowed uneasily as Cazador stopped before the fake wall to Godey’s domain.

“You understand, don’t you boy? Why I must do this?”

Astarion bowed, nodding his head. “Yes master. I broke the rules. I was away from you. I drank the blood of thinking creatures. I…” he hesitated, before dipping his head even deeper. “I forgot that I was yours.” He didn’t dare look Cazador in the eye. “I will regret it for the rest of my unlife, master.”

“Hmm.” Cazador pushed Astarion into the kennels.

The clacking of bones startled Astarion, and he kept his head low, even as the skeletal, cold hand of Godey reached out to grab his chin. “Little doggy got lost?”

“Strip.” Cazador stepped back from the spawn for a moment, still clearly lost in thought.

Astarion immediately did what he was told, kicking off his boots, trousers, and underwear before Godey let go of his chin to allow him to pull his white shirt off.

“You tried to correct yourself?”

Astarion looked down at his arms and stomach. There was no blood left to pour out of his system. Between the fight with the Netherbrain, the sun, and his actions earlier, all that was left was bloodless gashes on his arms and soft flesh. “Yes master. I didn’t want it in me anymore.”

Cazador hummed again. He reached out and pushed his hand into the open would of Astarion’s stomach. “Thorough, I admit, boy.” He paused as his claws pushed through Astarion’s stomach lining and grasped his intestines, pulling them out of Astarion’s bloodless body. “Though I will have to remind you, that punishment is my remit, not yours.”

Astarion writhed in pain and fell to the floor, his vision whiting out as his sensitive scars hit cold flagstone. He could just about hear Godey chuckle above the buzzing in his ears. “Sorry master, I won’t do it again master,” he pushed out the whimpers through gritted teeth, feeling the bile rise again in his throat.

“I know you won’t.” Cazador wiped his hands on Astarion’s shoulders to get most of the gunk from the spawn’s innards off, and patted him, like a master might do a dog. “Now, let’s see…” He turned to Godey, thoughtfully. “How long was he gone for, Godey?”

The skeleton seemed to be able to chuckle using every individual tooth as an instrument, and it sent shivers down Astarion’s spine. “6 months, I believe the little doggy was lost for, master.”
6 months? Was it really 6 months? Astarion thought it felt longer, whilst also feeling shorter, somehow.

“6 months,” mused Cazador.

Astarion swallowed uneasily. He pressed his forehead down onto the cracked flagstones below, as if he wanted to meld with the floor. He held his breath.

“That’s what 183 days? Give or take a few hours.”

No response.

This apparently warranted a kick into Astarion’s stomach, just above the open wound. Astarion gasped and curled inwards on himself. “Yes, master! 183 days!” He tried to keep the pain out of his voice as his crimson eyes automatically started to fill with tears.

“Now then,” Cazador continued, ignoring the wheezing mess that was Astarion, “183 days and 4 rules broken.” He hummed.

Astarion didn’t have to look to know that a sneer was making its way across his master’s pale face.

“Let’s start with, say, 200 lashes, then, Godey?”

The skeleton giggled. He reached down and grabbed Astarion by his neck, with a grip so iron that Astarion thought that creature’s phalanges were going to pierce through his spinal cord. The pale elf was hoisted onto a frame, his wrists strapped to the corners.

“Pierce his wrists, Godey.”

Astarion bit his lip to stop a whine escaping him, as the skeleton roughly undid the straps and pushed through huge iron nails, almost like tent pegs, into the tendons in each wrist.

“No need to be quiet on my account, little star. ” Now Cazador was in Astarion’s eyeline and had settled in a chair a few metres away from him. His dark red eyes were fixed on his spawn, and Astarion felt uneasy as he was unable to read the myriads of expressions that seemed to be on his master’s face, yet the only dominant feature of the vampire lord was passivity.

The first strike took Astarion by surprise, so focused was he on Cazador’s face. Godey had chosen the Cat’o’nine tails, with silver tips so it burnt as well as scraped the fragile skin of a spawn’s back.

“Leave the back, would you Godey? I want to do something else with it later.”

Astarion swallowed again.

The whip struck again, his thighs this time. The pain lanced through him, and he knew that it would only become worse.

Cazador began to tut. “Honestly Astarion. 6 months and you forget how this works? Count, my boy.”

“Two…” Astarion shuddered.

“No, no. You didn’t count the first one. So, we go back to the beginning. You know this.”

“Sorry master, apologies master.”

Godey swung.

“One!”

“Good boy.”

There was a small part of Astarion that hated the way that his heart sang whenever Cazador praised him. Especially in a situation such as this. But that part was being shredded and torn by Godey’s malicious whipping as much as the rest him was. It was not worth it, to hang on to that feeling, Astarion decided. Eternity is so long. We only have the master…

The whipping continued without much fanfare. Astarion was surprised that Cazador didn’t seem bored. In the pre-tadpole times, Cazador had rarely spent time watching Godey punish his spawn, preferring either to start it or finish it. Sometimes he only came in to say that it was over. This time, however, Cazador spent the whole time staring at Astarion, like he was some prized painting or theatrical performance. Astarion couldn’t recall whether he saw him blink.

Noticing that would have been difficult, of course, as Astarion’s vision had begun blacking out at around the 87th strike. He managed to keep up his counting relatively unscathed until the 143rd, when he stumbled over his words and thus the 142nd strike happened 7 times until he regained control of his tongue.

He slipped more often after that. His noises became more like screams and wails than actual numbers. He wasn’t used to this pain. He had had six months of pain free liberty. He hadn’t numbed himself. Astarion had chewed up his lip until the flesh started to peel off his face, as he clamped down with his canines to try and minimise the pain. It didn’t work. The 200 hundred strikes happened multiple times over the next few hours.

“2… 2 hundred,” he managed to spit out, eventually.

Godey held his arm still, waiting expectantly at Cazador to admonish the spawn, to say it wasn’t good enough and to start all over.

Instead, the Vampire Ascendent stood and crossed the short space towards Astarion. He reached out with a long, pale hand, with pointed claws painted black, and softly stroked what remained of Astarion’s chin. “Good boy,” he murmured. “Your screams really are the sweetest.”

Astarion hated the keening sound that left his mouth, but it was a conscious decision to try and nuzzle more into his master’s hand.

Cazador smiled. He kept stroking Astarion, as he stretched up with his other hand and pulled out the pegs that secured Astarion’s wrists to the blood splattered frame. Astarion plunged to the floor in an undignified heap, and he felt bones cracking as he hit the stone flags. Cazador turned his attentions now to Astarion’s back, where the runes which dedicated his soul to Mephistopheles’s realm were inscribed. He drew a nail around the circle, deep enough to draw blood if Astarion had had any, humming softly to himself. “Now,” he said, finally. “We get rid of these.”

If Astarion had had a heart, it would have stopped beating at that point. “Master?” he croaked, pitifully. “I thought you liked it.”

Cazador laughed. “My tastes have moved on, Astarion. You must have a blank canvas for when my next wave of inspiration strikes.”

“Yes master, of course master.” Astarion pre-emptively stretched out his legs behind him, ignoring the agony of his ripped thighs and rear, so that he was lying flat on his stomach. He felt his organs falling out of him. No matter, he thought, if he needs me to have organs, master will give me organs . A slight after thought wondered whether vampires needed organs at all, but then again, the blood had to go somewhere, didn’t it?

Cazador patted Astarion’s bloodstained silver curls. He reached out a hand to Godey. “Needle.”

Astarion resigned himself that this was going to be as painful as when Cazador had carved the infernal runes in the first place.

“Do you love me, Astarion?”

Astarion raised his head to try and look at his master, just as Cazador plunged the dagger into Astarion’s back, tearing off large pieces of flesh and skin.

“Of course, master!” spluttered Astarion. “Of course I love you!”

“And you know that I look after my family?”

“Yes, of course, father! You look after us!” It didn’t even cross Astarion’s mind that his six siblings were dead and now playthings in Cania.

“So why did you run?”

The tears that had welled up in Astarion’s eyes began to fall freely down his pointed nose. “Master, I swear, I didn’t mean to!”

“I find that hard to believe. You always were a wilful child.”

“No, master! The Nautiloid, it took me! And then … then … there was a tadpole, and I was lost, and I didn’t know where I was. I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t hear you!”

Cazador didn’t even squirm as his blade contacted Astarion’s spine, cleaving all the flesh from the back of his ribs. “So, what then?” he asked, as if he were doing nothing more mundane than completing a jigsaw.

Astarion began to breathe heavily, hyperventilating despite not needing to. “There were others, on the ship with me. Other people with tadpoles!”

“Who?”

“There was … there was …” Astarion hiccoughed. “Shadowheart, a cleric of Shar. I met her first, she had this artefact thing that stopped us from being turned into mindflayers. Then there was Gale, he’s a wizard, and he helped me a lot.”

“Shar? I wonder what dark things she was hiding then.”

Astarion didn’t know whether he was meant to respond to that, so he didn’t.

“How did this wizard help you?”

“He… he… looked after me. He was the one to figure out what I was. He made sure I got food and that I was safe from hunters and things.”

Cazador paused in his stripping of the spawn’s flesh. “Looking after a spawn?” he asked, incredulously. Astarion imagined that he was wrinkling his nose in disgust. “Wonder what he actually wanted.” He tapped the blade of Needle. “Did he fuck you?”

“Not… not immediately,” admitted Astarion, relieved in this brief moment of respite. “When we got to Moonrise Towers, we did.”

“Him on top, presumably?”

“Yes master.”

“Go on. Who else was there?”

“Lae’zel… she’s a githyanki fighter…”

Cazador snorted.

“Then there was Karlach and Wyll. They joined us later.”

“And who were they?”

“Karlach was a tiefling who had been in service to Zariel. And then Wyll … Wyll Ravengard.”

“Duke Ravengard’s boy?”

“Yes, master.”

Cazador hummed again. “I had heard that he was back in the city. Interesting that it was with you though.” He was obviously pleased with the work that he had done with Astarion’s back, as he now pulled Astarion into a crouched position so he could look at his spawn in the eye. “And they were all, okay, with having you in their party?” His lips were turned in a sneer.

“At the beginning they weren’t happy,” conceded Astarion. “But Gale … Gale convinced them that I was useful!”

Cazador laughed. “Useful? Useful how?”

“With daggers and bows! And I can lockpick and disarm traps and be stealthy!” Astarion wanted to please his master, to show off what he knew.

The master kept laughing. “My dear boy,” he pressed the point of Needle into the spawn’s cheek. “The only way you’re useful to anyone aside from me is on your back.”

Astarion shook his head. “No, master, I’m good, I was a hero!”

Another snort. “Tell me boy, was this ‘Gale’ the only one who used you?”

Used? Astarion didn’t think that Gale had used him for sex. But if the master said … He dipped his eyes lower, so his gaze was fixed on the ground as opposed to Cazador’s face. “No master,” he whispered, sobs wracking his throat again.

The Needle pressed in deeper into his cheek. Astarion could feel the sharp point pierce through and rest on his teeth. “Tell me,” Cazador said, simply.

“The … the githyanki. She had me a few times, in the beginning, then she moved on.”

Cazador nodded, encouragingly.

“Karlach… she was too hot in the beginning, her heart was an engine thing, but then she was able to cool it down and she wanted… she wanted Wyll, but Wyll wouldn’t have one-night stands, so I said yes.” Astarion’s voice was quiet and wavering.

“Were you as I instructed you?”

“I behaved like you told me to, master.”

“Pity you couldn’t get the Ravengard whelp. That might have been useful. But his paramour,” Cazador spat out the word, “had you?”

Astarion nodded, laying his chin down to ground. He was so tired now. What remained of his flesh and skin was on fire, his nerves shattered and splintered by the whip and the knife. The radiant damage that had caused his ritual scars in the first place seemed to still burn into his very core; Astarion swore he could feel his spinal column turning to ash.

“Any others?”

“One more, master.” whispered Astarion. “The Archdruid, Halsin. The others weren’t interested.”

“And what was Halsin like?”

“He… he turned into a bear. I let him.”

There was a beat as Cazador considered his spawn. “The werewolf training was worth it then, I see.”

“Yes, master.”

“Did you use your techniques in other ways?”

“Yes sir. To get… to get what the party wanted. Favours, supplies, that sort of things.” Astarion scrunched up his eyes as he remembered the honeyed words and grasping hands as he bartered for supplies that he wouldn’t even use. He remembered pretending to them all that it didn't bother him. After all, it didn't both Lae'zel when she hit someone with a sword, did it? And flirting and using his body was just another skill, at the end of the day. Another weapon, he always told himself. He didn't know whether the weapon was against other people or himself. He tried not to answer that question too deeply. “And once, when I was caught drinking blood from someone’s cow.”

That had been early on. Before Gale started providing for him by draining the kills that anyone hunted. Astarion felt nauseas thinking about it.

Cazador chuckled. “Do you feel proud of yourself, Astarion?”

Astarion opened one eye, to look at his master. “Proud?” he repeated.

“You managed to survive a pack of heroes as a monster. And they were so enamoured with your body that they kept you around.”

“No, master, I was a hero like them!”

Cazador looked at him, pityingly. “Oh, dear Astarion,” he sighed. He rose to his feet and placed needle back in Godey’s outstretched hand. “You’re not a hero. The heroes just put up with you because you gave them what they wanted.”

“No… no…” The sobs were coming thick and fast now. From the pain and from what Cazador was telling him.

“The only person who truly knows you and appreciates you, is me, Astarion.” Cazador’s voice was level. If Astarion strained his ears he thought he could hear a flicker of kindness in his words, and so the spawn latched on them.

“This is why you’re the best master!” he cried. He tried to push himself upwards so he could stand, but his broken and battered limbs failed him. He slumped forward. “I thought… I thought…”

Cazador sighed again. He reached down to stroke the silver curls. “I know what you thought. You thought you might have been able to have a different life. One with heroes. But the thing is…” his voice turned quiet and cold. “The thing is that heroes like to live in the light. You can’t do that. To them, you’re nothing but a monster to use when needed and then to set alight when they’re done.”

Astarion wailed.

“Do you really think they would have let you be? If I hadn’t come and found you?”

“Waterdeep,” Astarion stuttered. “I was gonna go to Waterdeep with Gale.”

“And what were you going to do there?”

“I dunno!” the sobs were thick and fast. He felt like a child, and he just wanted to curl up against his master’s chest.

“He’s a wizard, dear Astarion. Do you know what that means?”

Astarion shook his head, his eyes wide.

“Academic research. Did he mention writing a book on spawn?”

Astarion thought about it a moment and realised that Gale had mentioned writing a book about vampires and their spawn. He nodded, slowly.

“Then there would have been experiments, little star. You’d have been nothing but a test subject. You would have been nothing more than a prisoner, with spells being thrown at you and being tested on.”

Bile rose in Astarion’s throat again. “I thought… I thought… he said he loved me.”

“Oh, my dear boy.” Cazador wiped some of the tears off Astarion’s cheeks. “I will be the only one who loves you.”

Chapter Text

6 Months Later

The orb had been removed, the Crown of Karsus given to Mystra, and Gale was now Professor Dekarios, School of Illusion. He was back in Waterdeep, teaching and studying, trying to avoid journalists and Volo. His tower was a sanctuary, the only other presence being Tara, and occasionally his mother, who was concerned about the weight he had lost and therefore brought over hundreds of calorific homecooked meals.

But now, Gale was back where it all started. Back in the camp by the river, where the ragtag bunch of adventurers had all met. Withers had put on quite a party, even Gale had to admit. There was music and food, even letters from the people they’d helped along the way.

Gale had been one of the first to arrive, naturally. He and Tara (the tressym refused to let him go places on his own now, lest he suffer another tadpole and mindflayer invasion) mulled around the wine; wine that was significantly higher quality than the bottles they had scavenged along the road to Baldur’s Gate. Next had been Shadowheart, with Scratch and the Owlbear in tow, followed by Halsin, who’s face kept flicking between happiness, calm, and a brief anxiety to the orphans that he had left behind in Reithwin. A sight that made Gale’s heart leap was Karlach and Wyll, stepping through a portal from Avernus, looking slightly singed but as excitable as ever. Lae’zel could only reach here as an image but couldn’t conceal her glee as Shadowheart told her about the progress of Xan, the little githyanki that had finally hatched from the egg she had rescued from the creche all that time ago. Nearly a year, mused Gale.

“You’re thinking, Dekarios.”

Gale was jolted out of his reverie by Jaheira and Minsc. The two looked virtually unchanged since the last time Gale saw them, though Gale knew they had been incredibly busy organising the rebuilding works in the city. “Always thinking,” he replied, giving a little bow.

“Ah, wizard!” beamed Minsc. “Boo is most happy to see you again! And all cured, no?”

The wizard allowed himself a grin in return. He tapped his chest, where the orb had been. “Yes, all gone now.” Once the crown was in Mystra’s possession, it was like there had been no orb at all.

“Good, good. You look, well I was going to say better, but I think healthier is the right term.” Jaheira raised her glass in toast. “I know Astarion always liked the tattoo.”

“Yes,” said Gale, quietly, “he did.” He hadn’t thought about Astarion for a while. Not because he wanted to forget, but because it was too painful to remember. He didn’t even know whether he hoped that the vampire was still alive. It might have been easier on him; a quick death at the hands of Cazador, as opposed to an eternity of torture. “I suppose…” He was reluctant to ask Jaheira the question.

Jaheira raised her eyebrows. “No, I have heard nothing. The vampires of Szarr’s palace are keeping quiet. For now, at least. Szarr is even contributing funding to the rebuilding works.”

“And you’re taking his money?”

Jaheira shrugged. “I am not, no. Not personally. Ulder Ravengard is, however.”

Gale shook his head. “That’s bad money.”

The druid sighed. “And don’t I know it.” Jaheira looked kindly at Gale, like a grandmother to a grandson. “My harpers are keeping their ears out, looking for any vampire spawn. They are instructed to … I hesitate to use the word kidnap, but essentially, they are instructed to kidnap any spawn who is also a pale, silver haired, elf. But as far as we know, Astarion has not left the palace grounds this whole six months.”

“So he’s dead then.”

Jaheira gave him what could only be described as a Look. “We don’t know that,” she said, softly. Sympathetic, even.

“We don’t know he’s alive, either.”

“What does your heart tell you?”

Absence. That’s what Gale’s heart told him. It told him of pain and suffering and a painful emptiness. It felt as though shards of poisoned glass were constantly stabbing his heart. That’s why he didn’t think about Astarion. Why he couldn’t. He knew he was spiralling. Spiralling into depths of anguish that he hadn’t known since he had first absorbed the Karsite Weave. Gale could only feel a crushing darkness, a relentless ocean of damnation. He looked at Jaheira. “My heart tells me there’s nothing,” he admitted, quietly.

Jaheira raised an eyebrow. “I never expected you to lose hope. Not this quickly.”

Then you don't know me well at all. Gale snorted. “Hope? He was taken by a powerful vampire who we know had plans to sacrifice him and become an unkillable Vampire Ascendent. What ‘Hope’…” he spat out the word, decorating it with the malice he felt about it. “What ‘Hope’ could there possibly be?”

“Rumours and conjecture.”

Gale squinted and waited for the archdruid to continue.

“There have been signs,” Jaheira began. “Signs that Szarr’s power grew before the Netherbrain fell. Burst of necrotic energy. Rats gathering in places, in numbers that they shouldn’t be. And apparently, rumour has it, that Cazador Szarr was seen in daylight.”

Gale snorted again. “Ridiculous.”

Jaheira shrugged. “It’s what I’m choosing to believe.”

It was Gale’s turn to sigh. You’re choosing to believe in lies then, he thought. He decided to humour the druid. “At least you’ve got a plan. I’ve got nothing.”

“We need information, first and foremost, before we can do anything. And besides, maybe this Withers of yours has news.”

Gale nodded. If Withers could spring Karlach and Wyll from Avernus, at least temporarily, he must be able to also release Astarion. If Astarion was alive… Stop hoping “Have your harpers spotted any other spawn?” Gale asked, changing the subject.

“A few. Hiding in shadows.” Jaheira tapped her glass.

“Hunting?”

“Presumably. But we’ve never caught them. And it’s hard to keep track of people going missing.”

“Why don’t you think Astarion’s dead?” The bluntness of his own question surprised Gale.

Jaheira looked at him, thoughtfully. She took a slow sip of her wine. “I have wondered this many times, little cub. But also…” she paused. “I don’t think I want to know the answer. If he is dead, then maybe, just maybe, he can be at peace. Maybe Mephistopheles doesn’t torture souls all the time. That hope may be better than the reality we know he faced…,” she gazed off into the middle distance. “And I don’t think Szarr would give him that peace. I’ve known men like Szarr. I reckon he’d torture Astarion has much as he could before ending it.” Jaheira returned her gaze to Gale, sharpening it. “It’s not hope, it’s pessimism. I would be relieved if…”

“Yeah.” Gale didn’t want her to finish the sentence. He knew it too. He drained his wine and poured himself a rather full glass of a rich red, to which Tara tsked at. He turned away from Jaheira and Minsc, pointedly avoiding Tara’s glare, and watched as Withers began to make his way to the centre of the camp, clearly intending to speak to the group.

“Thou wert called here. Some from above, some from below.”

Gale looked around the group. No Astarion. His heart sank.

“For with thine bond, together thou hast kept the Wheel of Fate spinning, when it threatened to halt.”

The wizard nursed his wine, not listening to the rest of Withers’s spiel.

“But one is missing.”

Oh, thought Gale, he is going to say something. The wizard lifted his head and listened.

“An invitation was sent but was left unanswered. But Fate keeps spinning, as time itself compels it. But perhaps, there might be a different way. A different fate, for thou lost heart?”

Gale dropped his glass. Withers seemed to be looking at him straight in the eyes.

“It can still be changed.”

Gale raised his head up to the stars above, not wanting anyone else to see the tears in his eyes.

Astarion was alive!

Happiness flooded his systems like a tidal wave. It crashed over him. He looked over at Jaheira who had tears in her eyes.

Gale’s happiness stopped.

What hell had he been facing since they had abandoned him?

Chapter Text

The Inbetween Times

Astarion screamed.

Or at least, he tried to.

His mouth was full of ash and dirt, clogging his throat with the taste of death. His claws were stuck rigid by his sides, tied to something cold, something stone. He couldn’t get the muck out of his mouth. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t see.

His skin felt as if it were on fire. He was sure there was no skin left, just lumps of raw flesh clinging on to a skeleton that had no business being there. His nerves were lightning, telling his brain that there was something wrong.

His ears were filled with buzzing, ringing, shouting. There was someone, or something nearby. He could feel them, hear them, sense them. They were laughing. Laughing at him? Or did they not know that he was there? Somewhere beneath their feet… If only he could scream, he could alert them somehow…

There was more than one someone. He could feel their footsteps vibrating through the ground above his head. He jerked his head forward. It clashed with cold stone, sending more spikes of pain through his ruined corpse.

This is it. This is how I’m going to finally die.

Astarion tried to scream again. Tried to open his eyes. Tried to claw. Tried to bite. Tried to swallow. It had a vague salty taste, and lumps of liquid glued the dirt together. He wanted to vomit. He couldn’t. He couldn’t breathe.

He couldn’t. He couldn’t.

Not anymore.

He couldn’t.

Help.

Someone.

Please?

No one would come for the little spawn in his tomb. Not until it was too late. Not until his marrow and nerves had been consumed by the maggots that he felt writhe over his flesh.

He couldn’t. He couldn’t. He couldn’t.

How long had he been down here?

He could feel something writhe behind his eye.

The tadpole?

The buzzing subsided. He could hear voices. Distantly. The sound of earth being moved. Shovels. Spades. Still laughing.

“Monster, monster, monster…”

“Are you going to behave for us now, little spawn?”

More laughing. More voices.

Astarion screwed his eyes shut as light burst in. His body was grabbed. He felt strangely separate from it. Lots of hands, lots of fingers, nails, grasping, grabbing, pulling, pushing.

His jaw was pulled open, and something pushed beyond his teeth. Pressing, pressing, convulsing, alien.

“No fight left then? Good, worthless piece of shit.”

A foot this time. In his side. He groaned. The thing in his mouth shuddered and he tasted salt again.

More feet. More groaning. More pushing. More pulling, more grabbing, more grasping. The hands pulling him apart, wanting everything from him. Manoeuvring him in ways that he did not want to be moved in. He willed his mind away, wanted to drift, wanted to die.

The hands anchored him to consciousness. He was made to be aware.

“Spawn, spawn, spawn, more like slut, slut, slut.”

“Shitebag.”

The claws in his side.

His claws.

Made to cleave his own flesh. The scars… oh the scars… they burnt with a fury of a thousand cambions.

A hand grasped his throat. “You’re going to listen to us now, little spawn. You’re far away from your master. He can’t do shit to you. Or to us.”

“Understand, monster?”

The grip on his throat tightened. “Understand?” It was a growl, an order, but Astarion couldn’t respond? How could he?

There were feet kicking him, things in his mouth, hands pulling and tearing. He tried to nod, tried to whine, tried to whimper. No noise left him.

His mouth was wrenched open again and a flaming hand clawed at his tongued.

Astarion screamed.

“Open your eyes, cunt.”

No. No. No.

He couldn’t. He couldn’t. He couldn’t.

He wouldn’t. .

“Little star?”

A soft voice. Kind. Astarion knew that voice. Where was that voice? He called out for it in his brain.

He felt something touch his shoulder. It felt cool. Soft. Tender. Soothing. A healing balm on his battered flesh.

“Little star?”

Astarion could breathe again.

His breaths were ragged, shaking his chest cavity. They turned into sobs.

“Hush, hush, little star. Don’t cry.”

There was a weight behind him. Astarion turned into it and he felt that he was being embraced. Protected. Safe.

“Just a nightmare, little star. Just a nightmare.”

Astarion whimpered.

“A bad memory, little star. Don’t worry, I won’t let them touch you again.”

Astarion curled up, pressed his head against a strong torso, and slept.

Chapter Text

Astarion was prodded awake, rather unceremoniously, by his master. Astarion lifted his head and then bowed it immediately, whilst simultaneously trying to uncurl his limbs from his sleeping position at the end of Cazador’s bed. “Good morning, my lord,” Astarion murmured.

“Up.”

The spawn pushed himself up and off the bed, his bare feet landing lightly on the plush carpet. He was now able to bow properly, long and deep.

This was how his mornings had been since arriving back at the palace. And it was actual mornings. Cazador, having received the gift of sunlight, preferred to do most of his real Baldur’s Gate business during daylight hours. It was less suspicious; the vampiric lord had told his spawn. Easier to make meetings. For Astarion, all it meant was that he had to dodge sunlight whilst awake, as he couldn’t hide during the day as he was expected to serve his master at every opportunity. No hunting, no nightly exploits into the Lower City. He was at Cazador’s side every moment, and slept on the vampire’s bed, curled up in a tiny ball at the edge at the bottom of it. Or sometimes he was on the floor, if Cazador was mad at him, or when Cazador used him for sex and he had done well at it, he was allowed to lie next to him, like a lover, almost.

“I am meeting Ravengard today.”

Astarion straightened. “Yes sire.”

His master was already awake and out of bed. Cazador was changing into suitable attire for meeting a grand duke. He clicked his fingers, and Astarion hurriedly went over to help him with his doublet. After fastening the clasps, he turned and poured a glass of blood from the charmed decanter on a chest nearby. He handed it to his master with another bow. Another routine.

“As such,” Cazador sipped his spawn’s offering. “You will be in charge of the house today.”

“An honour, m’lord,” murmured Astarion, lowering his head again.

Cazador snorted. “Indeed, it is, little star.”

Astarion smiled. He still enjoyed the nickname being used. It meant he was being good. Cazador noticed the reaction and stroked a claw along the spawn’s mouth. “Are you happy, little star?”

“Of course, sire. Happiest I’ve ever been.”

“Good, I’m glad.” He hummed.

“Any particular tasks you need me to take care of, sir? Or just the usual?” asked Astarion, enjoying the attention.

“Siras got spotted by a Harper last night. Make sure she knows that that is unacceptable.” Cazador’s mouth narrowed, as though he had taken a bite of something sour and unpleasant.

Astarion gave a little shiver. The Harpers weren’t known for being exactly caring for vampire spawn. One benefit to not leaving the palace anymore, he had to admit, was that he didn’t have to deal with the dangers of being spotted. Now it was the new spawns’ job to hunt. They wheedled their way through the lower city to act as Cazador’s eyes and ears in the lower city, as well as bringing back the occasional meal, to serve the master’s new goal. “Of course, master, I’ll see to it at once.”

“Good. Make sure the rest of them behave. I fancy a delivery this evening.”

He wanted a fresh meal, not stored blood. Astarion made a mental note to instruct the spawn accordingly, and he nodded. “Yes saer.”

“I expect your presence upon my return. Hopefully this meeting with Ravengard will be fruitful.” Cazador attached his dagger Rhapsody to his belt. “And thus, planning will need to be done accordingly.”

“I will attend to you at once, saer.”

Soon Astarion was padding down the halls of the palace, keeping to one side so he avoided the light that shone freely through the windows. He wore a new white shirt that he had begun embroidering with gold trim to feel fancier and the dark, tight fitting, trousers that Cazador always wanted him in. He didn’t bother with shoes nor socks these days, he never left the palace, and most of the flooring was covered in thick, red, plush rugs and carpets. He made his way to the spawn dormitory, forever thankful that he no longer had to sleep in there.

Astarion straightened his shoulders and pushed the door open, causing the spawn inside to scramble. There were 5 of them, each looking dishevelled and broken. Astarion knew none of them would be around for long. Cazador had mentioned to him that these were a stopgap, as he needed to prowl the city to find suitable, long-term solutions for Astarion’s missing siblings. This meant that Astarion didn’t have to regard them as family. It also meant that these five spawn had to follow Astarion’s orders, as Cazador had compelled them to do. It meant that they hated Astarion’s guts, but Astarion didn’t much care. They’d be dead soon anyway.

“Up,” he growled.

The five clambered awkwardly to their feet. There were three humans, a Wood Elf, and a tiefling. Astarion could barely remember their names, but they knew his, and that made him feel good. He knew that they all thought he had it easy, but he knew it was a reward for two hundred years of living like them. There was enough of Astarion’s personality left that he revelled in being able to lord it over the pathetic creatures, with no empathy for the fact that he knew exactly what they felt like.

“Master Astarion,” the five murmured, their eyes low to the ground.

“Tonight, you will go hunting,” announced Astarion. “The master would like a fresh meal.” He gazed around the five of them. “Young, healthy. Strong. Male or female, no preference. Post orgasmic. No one that will be noticed when they go missing.”

“Yes, Master Astarion,” chorused the spawn.

“And talking of missing…” Astarion took two strides until he was in front of the Wood Elf, Siras. He reached out with his hand and grasped the spawn by the neck. If the pair had both been alive, there was no chance that Astarion would have won this fight. But now, not only used to surviving on less but also better fed, Astarion had the upper hand. He squeezed until he felt the satisfying crunch of the trachea, watching Siras’s eyes bulge as she struggled to take a breath. Like all the spawn, Astarion included, breathing was instinctive. They didn’t need to do it, but it was the one remnant of life that clung on.

Siras was thrown unceremoniously down at Astarion’s feet. “What happened last night?” he snarled.

The wood elf scrambled to lever herself into an upright position, but Astarion placed his foot on Siras’s neck, warningly. “Nothing happened! I swear!”

“Really? So how do the Harpers know there’s a vampire spawn of your exact description floating around the lower city?”

“I don’t know!” squeaked Siras.

Astarion pressed his foot down. “Are you sure about that?”

“I was at the Mermaid, there may have been Harper agents there, but I swear I didn’t interact…”

Astarion snorted. “It doesn’t matter if you interact with them. It matters that you were seen.” He glared around at the other four spawn as he unsheathed the dagger from his belt. He twirled it around his fingers before pressing the blade against Siras’s cheekbone. “You all know how to avoid attention. And you all know how to spot those elements that would do the master harm.” He pressed deeper into the cheekbone, causing blood to well up on the skin. “And you don’t want to cause the master harm, do you?”

“No, master Astarion!” Siras’s voice was barely a whimper.

“So, what do you do every time, every moment you leave these grounds?” he growled.

“We make sure no one notices us,” whispered Siras.

“Pathetic.” Astarion released Siras, causing her to fall limp on the threadbare carpet. He flicked his dagger and plunged it into Siras’s eye, causing her to scream. Astarion twisted the blade and pulled. An audible pop and Siras’s red eye was on skewered on his dagger. With no decorum, Astarion plucked the eye off the point and placed it on one of the bed frames. “Go to Godey, Siras. You will not be hunting tonight.”

Siras scrabbled on the floor, one palm clutched to the empty socket. She limped off in the direction of the Kennels, and Astarion observed her, calmly. He would check on her before the master arrived home. He turned to the other four. “Do not make her mistakes,” he warned. The elf wiped the blood off his dagger and replaced it in his sheathe. He turned to walk out of the dormitory.

“Master Astarion?”

Astarion narrowed his eyes at the speaker, one of the humans. “What?” he drawled.

“Um, we were wondering… could we… could we have some food?” The human was plain looking, barely thirty, with freckles and brown eyes that looked hopefully at him. Astarion thought his name was Alain, and he was clearly Petras’s, his stupidest brother, replacement.

“You think I decide when we are fed?” Astarion was gobsmacked. “Darling, you have a lot to learn.”

Fake Petras flinched. “But… but… you’re so close to the master!”

Gods, he’s really keeping going with this. “I do not have a say on feeding. We are fed when we are fed. You should be grateful you are fed at all.”

“How often are you fed?” The tiefling, fake Aurelia but blue, asked. Wait, not Aurelia. Aurelia wouldn’t ask such stupid questions.

“Why the questions?” demanded Astarion. He could feel tension building down his spine and he clenched his fists. “Questions make things difficult here. You need to learn that or else you won’t survive.”
“We’re hungry,” said a second human, female this time.

Gods an idiot. They’re all idiots.

“It’s called the vampiric curse, darling, not the vampiric blessing,” he drawled. “We’re always hungry. Learn to control it.”

“Is the master always hungry?” Fake Petras again.

Astarion rolled his eyes. “Maybe you all should stop thinking about Lord Szarr’s eating habits and more on your jobs. If you did your job better, then you might be fed better,” he snapped. He turned on his heel and stalked out of the dormitory, hissing under his breath. They were idiots, the lot of them.

Thinking of feeding though, Astarion wondered when the spawn were last fed. Astarion himself was fed a lot more regularly than he had been. It was indicative of his new status, Cazador had said. It wasn’t just rats anymore either. Rats were when Astarion had been subpar. Now it was normally dogs or cats. Maybe some cow when Astarion had been really good.

He walked through the halls and wings of the palace, checking up on the servants. Cazador had implied that something would need to be planned if his meeting with Ravengard went well, and Astarion bet it was a party. His master hosted magnificent parties, but to host the Grand Duke would be something bigger entirely. He knew his master was spending an awful lot of money on the rebuilding of Baldur’s Gate, to begin his plan of dominating the city. He just hoped that Cazador would find a way to get rid of the irritating Harpers that had decided to keep an even closer eye on the palace since the fall of Netherbrain. He often spotted them lurking outside the gates when he sat on the roof watching the stars.

Lost in thought, he didn’t notice a servant run up to him. “Master Astarion!”

Astarion was jolted out of his reverie. “Hmm?”

“You have a letter, saer!”

The elf’s eyebrows knitted together in confusion. “No, I don’t.”

The servant nodded eagerly, her blue eyes wide. “It says your name on it!”

Astarion laughed. “I’ve had no mail in the past two hundred years. I doubt it would start now.”

“Look, look!” She held out the envelope.

Astarion looked at it, and his stomach clenched. Indeed, written in golden calligraphy was

Astarion Ancunín

The elf shook his head. “No,” he said. “It must be a mistake. Put it with the master’s mail. On his desk.” There was something about the envelope that he didn’t trust, that if he touched it, he would be doing something wrong. Astarion didn’t want to do something wrong. Those days were over, as far as he was concerned.

The serving girl was still staring at him, eyes like dinner plates. “But saer…”

“I said, put it on his desk,” Astarion growled, hackles starting to raise.

The servant swallowed. Astarion watched her throat convulse and he slipped out his tongue to wet his lips, hungrily, letting his white canines peek through the red. It was as if all he could see was the blood racing through her jugular, where he aches to bite. He wondered how she tasted. She probably would beg to be bitten, that's how desperate the servants here were to live the vampire dream. It wouldn't matter that he was a spawn.

His lip curled in a snarl.

“Yes Master Astarion!” The serving girl whimpered out, dipping her head. Exposing her neck.

Astarion blinked.

Astarion sprang back into his proper mindset, hackles down and fangs hidden. He needed to get a hold of himself. The master will be back soon, he reminded himself, and there are things to do. Can't disappoint the master just because you're being an animal brain. Idiot.

That's what Cazador called it. Animal brain. The idea that the veil between spawn and wild beast was so thin that the beast side sometimes bled through. Cazador always said it with an almost affectionate tone. It marked the difference between a true vampire and a spawn. A true vampire, unless poisoned or starved, would never experience the madness, the senseless insanity of the beast. In a spawn, however; the concept of “feral” was never really far away. It's why they needed masters; you have to be domesticated, Cazador had told him once. They needed someone to guide them, like reins on a horse. It was also why the spawn’s natural instinct was to love their master, the vampire had explained as he stroked Astarion’s hair. Astarion remembered Cazador bending down, his lips next to Astarion’s pointed ear. It's why you'll always come back, the master had whispered.

Idiot Astarion. Stupid brain. Astarion punched himself, making a dent with his knuckles in his pale forehead. Too busy thinking, not enough doing.

He quickly turned away from the servant who stared at him with wide eyes. He scampered down the hall, itching with energy. He made sure to do everything perfectly.

He checked the blood stores - both for Cazador and the spawn and remarked to the servant in charge that the rats were looking particularly juicy. The other spawn didn't know what hunger was. They should be made to hunt their own food, down in the sewer, like I was. Astarion was satisfied that his master had a decent supply of blood in charmed stasis, and he filled a new decanter to take to his master's personal chambers.

It was with a glint of pride that he opened the door to Cazador’s study. He was the only spawn trusted enough to be allowed in here. He placed the decanter on a polished, golden tray and placed a crystal goblet next to it. Satisfied, Astarion turned his attention to the rest of the room. He dusted and polished every inch of every piece of furniture. He inspected the carpet for dirt and waxed the floors. He ensured that there was enough ink in the inkpot and that his master had a selection of raven feathered quills with which to write. Astarion noticed the strange letter again. He felt pulled towards it but shook himself and continued with his chores.

He went and found the chamberlain, Dufay, and informed him that the master wanted to eat fresh, so four of the spawn would be out hunting and therefore would need (relatively) clean attire. Dufay merely huffed and snorted at him, nodding with his head. Out of all Cazador's staff, Dufay was the most aggrieved by Astarion's continued survival and thus his higher station in the palace. Astarion wasn't bothered though, Cazador had told him not to worry about it. So, he didn't. Instead, Astarion merely padded out of Dufay’s office, pretending not to notice the werewolf giggling in the closet and Dufay’s reddening face.

It was late on in the day now, certainly going towards the evening, judging by the bloody glow of light through the windows. He could expect Cazador back any moment, so he hurried towards the kennels to check in on Godey.

“Hello, child,” simpered the skeleton, as Astarion crept in. It was force of habit to be as quiet as possible when in here.

“Godey.” Astarion dipped his head politely.

“I do always like it when you give me someone to play with.” Godey was fixated on the limp corpse of Siras in front of him. The wood elf had lost considerably more than an eye now.

Astarion looked at the desperate mess in front of him. “Has she learnt her lesson, saer?” It was always better to be polite to Godey, even though Astarion felt sick whenever he was in contact with him.

Godey kicked the sobbing pile of elf. “She can't take a hit like you.”

Astarion bit his lip. “Well, I am rather special darling.” He didn't know how really to play Godey when he was in a mood like this. He wanted the skeleton to focus on Siras, not him. He hadn't been on the receiving end of Godey’s whip for months, not since he had first arrived back at the palace. Cazador preferred to deal with Astarion's errors directly, personally.

“Somehow you are.” Godey gave Siras another kick, this time to the head. “Now, little doggy, are you ready to behave?”

“I am always well behaved!” moaned Siras.

Godey tutted. “If you were well behaved you wouldn't be here, would you? You'd be all cozy in bed right now.” He turned to Astarion. “I think the little doggy needs more training.”

Astarion bowed. “Of course, saer.” He felt the prickle in his mind that meant the master was returning, so was grateful to avoid Siras’s wails and moans. The elf quickly left the kennels, straightened his clothes and hurried to the main foyer to greet his master.

Cazador was already there. Astarion rushed over to take his cloak and folded it neatly over his arms, ready to carry it to his master's chambers. He bowed as Cazador turned to him, staying low until the vampire ruffled his curls. “My lord.”

“My boy,” greeted Cazador.

Astarion straightened. He took in his master's demeanour. He seemed pleased, like a cat who had got the cream. “Was the meeting a success, sire?”

“Indeed, it was, my boy. Take that to my chambers,” Cazador nodded towards his cloak, “and then meet me in my office. We have great things to do!”

The spawn couldn't help the spring in his step as he ran to complete his master's orders. The vampire ascendant’s pleasure was intoxicating to Astarion, and he would do everything in his power to keep it that way. He hung the cloak up with care in Cazador’s bedroom, making sure it wouldn't be creased, before racing along the corridors to the office. By now it was fully dark, so Astarion didn't have to worry about sunlight streaming in from the windows. He ran into the four spawn being prepared for hunting by Sunday and pretended not to see the glare that the four of them gave him, and the way they whispered to one another. I'd have done the exact thing with my siblings, he thought, almost nostalgic. He shook his head. He'd have siblings again, proper ones, Cazador promised. The master just had to find them.

I'll love them so much when they get here. I'll show them everything they need to know.

That was a strange thought, a small part of Astarion said in response. It's not like you loved your dead siblings much?

That was different, Astarion told himself, crossly. They were the means to an end. Life was tougher back then. We had to get everything perfect for the Ascension.

But it wasn't perfect, replied the voice. You weren't there. You used to be a means to an end. How do you know you're not now?

Astarion reached Cazador's office door. He didn't know what to reply to the voice in his head, so he decided to ignore it. He knocked on the door.

“Enter, Astarion.”

Astarion did so. Cazador was sat at his desk, already reading pieces of parchment. Astarion bowed deeply, going down on one knee.

“Up Astarion.”

“Good evening, my lord. How can I be of service?”

“Vilhelm mentioned you terrified a serving girl today. And you look rather shaken. Why?”

Astarion hung his head, genuinely ashamed. “Animal brain, sir. It's been bad today.”

Cazador peered over the parchment at his spawn. “Come here, my child.” He gestured to a small stool at the side of his chair. Astarion trotted over and sat down, hugging his knees close to his chest. Cazador placed down the letter he was reading and looked at Astarion, critically. “Animal brain?”

Astarion nodded, sheepishly. “Been thinking stupid thoughts all day.”

“Now, now. What brought this on, hmm? You were fine this morning.”

The spawn tried to find an answer. What had set him off? Cazador had mentioned the Harpers first thing and that had spooked him. Even the name set his teeth on edge. Then the incessant prattling of the other spawn about food. That had pushed him more towards the precipice.

“I haven't got all night, Astarion.”

The voice was cold and Astarion flinched. “The other spawn, sir. They made me angry.”

“And how exactly did they do that?” asked Cazador, quietly.

“They’re… they’re not right. They don’t understand.” Astarion scratched his kneecap to ground himself. Cazador didn’t respond so Astarion continued. “They were asking about being fed and whether I could feed them.”

“And what did you feel about that?”

That was an odd question. Astarion thought about it. “Frustrated? They didn’t get it; they didn’t understand the fact that food is a reward and that I don’t decide when they get it. They don’t seem to understand that you’re the most important…” He looked up at Cazador, widening his eyes. “They’re always questioning things. Like Siras, with the Harper,” he shuddered. “She didn’t understand that just because she didn’t personally interact with the Harper that it was still bad that she was seen. And with Godey just now, she was adamant that she was well-behaved, but she can’t be, cos she broke the rules!”

Cazador hummed. He raised his hand and touched the shallow mark where Astarion had punched himself earlier. It felt gentle and Astarion couldn’t help but lean into it. “Poor little star,” the vampire crooned. “Anything else happen?”

“The letter, saer.”

“Letter?” Cazador raised an eyebrow.

Astarion nodded. He lifted his head and pointed at the pile of letters on Cazador’s desk. “It’s why I got mad at the serving girl. There’s a letter and,” his voice became a whisper, “it has my name on it. And that’s wrong.” He turned his head to look back at his master. “She wanted me to open it, and to read it. But that can’t be the case cos you only get letters and…”

“Hush, pet,” Cazador stroked Astarion’s curls. He reached forward and leafed through the letters until he found the one with Astarion’s name on it. He looked down at his spawn, with an almost fondness, and murmured, “Don’t worry, you did the right thing.”

The little elf sighed and released a tension in his shoulders that he didn’t even realise he was holding. Cazador opened the letter, and read it, eyebrows furrowing slightly. Astarion held his breath.

“You definitely did the right thing,” said Cazador, abruptly tearing the letter in two and throwing the pieces on the desk. “That letter would have destroyed what little of your mind there is left.”

Astarion cocked his head and then his eyes widened in fear. “Are people trying to get me? You won’t let them, will you?” he lunged forward and pressed his head into Cazador’s thigh. He then stilled immediately. Cazador didn’t like such outward displays of either emotion or affection from him, only when the master initiated such.

This time, however, Cazador gently stoked the back of Astarion’s neck, and the spawn relaxed. “Don’t you remember what I said when you came back to me? You are mine and I will never let anyone take you away from me. Not again.” They stayed like that for a moment, and Astarion felt himself release a small purr from Cazador’s affections.

“Now about the other spawn.”

Astarion looked up, resting his chin on his master’s thigh. “Yes, saer?”

“Do you remember what you were like? When I first turned you?”

Astarion thought about it. He remembered glimpses. He remembered his first rat. He remembered his first party. He remembered the first prey he took home. And he remembered Aurelia who had been kind to him, as she had always wanted a brother. But the memories were fragmented, broken into little pieces. Astarion shook his head. “No… not really. I… between the tomb and the tadpole it all kind of blurs,” he admitted, honestly. He considered himself a moment. “I wasn’t great though, was I?” He closed his eyes. “Runt.”

Astarion didn’t see Cazador’s smile. “You were wilful, badly behaved. My favourite of the seven, but not the most…” Cazador paused for a moment, “amenable to the task, let’s say. You asked questions, for the first few years. You asked for things like rats and baths and clothes. Eventually you stopped asking.”

“So, they’ll stop asking?”

Cazador nodded. “I hope so.” His facial expression darkened. “Or they’re not going to last much longer.” Cazador flicked one of Astarion’s pointed ears. It twitched in response. “But since you returned from your…”

Astarion stiffened.

“Kidnapping, you’ve been remarkable. Only slight slips.”

Astarion relaxed again.

“Like today. In front of the serving girl.”

Astarion opened his eyes, lowering his gaze demurely. “I know master. It reflects badly on you if I don’t behave,” he murmured.

“Indeed, it does. I have said to Vilhelm that you will be punished. The last thing we need is the mortal staff thinking that spawns can go feral.” Cazador laughed. “It would stop them wanting to become them.”

Astarion agreed with that. “Shall I go to Godey, my lord?” he asked.

Cazador shook his head. “No,” he smiled, all teeth and pointed fangs. “We can deal with this personally.”

“Where would you like me, my lord?” murmured Astarion.

“Clothes off. We’ll go to the bathroom. Easier to clean.”

Astarion pulled off his shirt in a clean, fluid motion. He rose to his feet and folded the shirt neatly on the stool. He took off his trousers and underwear, and folded them too, before following the Vampire Ascendant to the bathroom. Here the tiles were black with gold grouting, with a huge bath that you could swim in if you desired. Astarion had never been in here before and he gazed around in wonder.

“In.” Cazador gestured to the empty pool.

Daintily as he could, Astarion hopped into the bath. He shivered. It was cold. He watched his master as Cazador pushed up his sleeves to reveal his pale forearms. In his hands he held no physical implement, but a ball of smoke. Astarion cocked his head onto one side as he gazed at it. Magical torture was unusual, even for Cazador, a powerful sorcerer.

“Kneel, boy.”

“Yes, master.” Astarion knelt on his knees, head lowered, hands clasped behind his back.

The smoke appeared all around Astarion, with grey tendrils sneaking through every orifice in his body. It felt heavy, and pressing, thick and cold.

“Open your mouth. Inhale.”

Astarion followed his master’s commands, feeling the slightest bit of compulsion in the words. The smoke flooded down his throat and into his stomach. It cascaded through his sinuses and veins like a fast-flowing river. It tasted acrid on his tongue, and he felt the inside of his mouth being coated with an ashy substance.

“Dream.”

Astarion felt his head lolling back and he landed on his front with a sudden jolt, his chin cracking open on the tiles.

But that was nothing compared to the fire that roared around his head. His body was numb, and he felt locked in as his brain burnt. His chest heaved, causing spikes of pain to careen through his ribs. Astarion was aware of his body jerking, thrashing uncontrollably. Then –

Sunlight.

Astarion burst his eyes open and scrambled to his feet. He was in a clearing, with a river flowing gently next to it. He could hear birdsong, the cooing of pigeons and the caw of gulls. Astarion inhaled. The burning had gone.

“You’re a spawn?”

Astarion spun around and saw himself face to face with a group of strangers. His throat went dry. “It’s not what you think!” he heard himself saying, and felt himself plunging to his knees, hands up in surrender, trembling and shaking like a newborn.

“What do we think, bloodsucker?” leered one of the strangers, a Half-Elf with dark hair.

Another of the strangers held out a silver rapier. He placed the point on Astarion’s chest, right above where a heart would have been beating frantically, if he had had one. “You know,” snarled the man, a dark-skinned human, “I’ve never killed a vamp before. I’d like to add it to my list.”

“Please, no! I’ll do anything!” begged Astarion. This can’t be real, this can’t be real! I’m at home, with master, master said nothing would get me…

Oh wait.

Master said ‘Dream’.

But elves don’t dream…

This was a memory.

The knowledge that he had lived through this moment before didn’t make it any less terrifying for him. He shuddered and shook.

“What could we possibly want from a spawn?” sneered the man with the rapier.

“Indeed. Let us kill it and be done. We must make for the creche.” Another woman, a githyanki.

“Hang on a moment, Lae’zel.”

Lae’zel. He recognised the name, and he recognised the voice that said it. Astarion’s voice cracked. “Gale… I’ll do anything.”

Gale looked at him with cold brown eyes. He looked powerful and strong. They all did, whereas Astarion whimpered and scrabbled on the floor. “Anything?” repeated Gale.

Astarion nodded, breathlessly. “Please, anything! I won’t bite you!” Astarion knew what anything meant. And he knew what the anything was in this context. He remembered the 'anything'.

“Where’s your sire?” asked the man with the rapier.

Wyll? Astarion’s mind was blurry.

Sire, sire! Master, master! Help, help!

“I asked you a question, monster,” snapped Wyll.

“He’s in Baldur’s Gate, sir! I was kidnapped in Baldur’s Gate, and now I can’t hear him.” Astarion was hyperventilating despite his lack of need to breathe.

Wyll cocked his head to one side and shared a glance with Gale. “You can’t feel your compulsions?” he asked.

Astarion shook his head. “No, sir.”

“Tell us, did your master have any rules you had to follow at all times?”

Astarion nodded. “First, thou shalt not drink of the blood of thinking creatures. Second, thou shalt obey me in all things. Third, thou shalt not leave my side unless directed. Four, thou shalt know that thou art mine,” he listed easily. His ears were pinned back like a frightened dog. He knew he must have looked pathetic. Just a memory, just a memory, he repeated to himself. You survived this.

Another look between Gale and Wyll. “I guess you’ve broken the third one,” murmured Wyll.

“Let’s test another.” Gale was straight and to the point. He rolled up his sleeve and presented a bare forearm to Astarion. “Bite and drink.”

“What!” said the dark-haired woman. Shadow…heart?

“He’s a vamp, Gale!” exclaimed a giant, red-skinned tiefling who looked to be on fire.

Karlach! “He’ll drain you dry!”

The wizard shook his head. “No, he won’t.” He looked deep into Astarion’s eyes. “For many reasons. But mostly I know there’s a good boy in there.” The words fuzzed over Astarion’s ears like he was drowning. “You won’t kill me, will you Astarion?”

There it was. The moment Astarion latched onto Gale. Because Gale had used his name. Not spawn, not vamp, not an ‘it’, but Astarion. And Astarion looked deep into Gale’s eyes and swapped leashes.

He shook his head. “No… Gale,” he said, quietly. “I won’t.” He tentatively opened his jaw and let his fangs extend.

“Are you sure about this, Gale?” snapped Shadowheart. “Just look at those things!”

“I’m quite sure,” said Gale, softly. The wizard looked at his companions whilst turning the inside of his wrists closer to Astarion’s maw. “Look at this way. If he bites, then we have proof that the compulsions of his master have no hold over him. If he then lets it go, then we know he’s reasonable and therefore we can keep him around. If he can’t bite, then he’s a danger due to his vampiric compulsions and we kill him. If he bites and doesn’t let go,” Gale chuckled, darkly, “though I suspect he will because of other reasons, then he’s a danger and we kill him. Agreed?”
The others murmured a cautious assent.

“Go on,” encouraged Gale, nodding to Astarion.

Astarion hadn’t really heard Gale’s words to the others. He was fixated on Gale’s radial artery. He darted out a tongue and ran it over his venom glands. The wizard was looking at him in a way that could only be described as curious.

Remember: Bite, Swallow, Release. Prove you can drink thinking creatures then prove you’re reasonable. Easy.

Once enough venom was on his tongue, Astarion gave Gale’s wrist a few licks.

“Weird,” muttered Shadowheart.

“Oh no, quite clever actually,” said Gale, cheerfully. “See, vampire’s venom is part numbing, part coagulation agent, part aphrodisiac. It allows them to bite sleeping victims, prevent victims from reacting against the bite if they wake up, and allows them to close the wound so they can go back to the same blood source later.”

“Aphrodisiac? You mean like?” asked Karlach.

“Yes, it should activate my system something in the ways of arousal if Astarion here were to do more than a quick test.” Gale chuckled.

Wow, Gale knows more about this than I do, thought Astarion. It was just instinct to lick him. He glanced up at Gale once more, who nodded at him. He extended his fangs to their full extent and aimed.

The feeling of his fangs piercing flesh was euphoric. Endorphins flooded Astarion’s system. He had been perfect on his aim, and a large gulp of blood filled his mouth. Aphrodisiac for you, just think how it feels to me! Astarion swallowed, savouring the thick arterial blood on his tongue, full of oxygen and nutrients. It was heavenly.

Release, Astarion! Release!

Astarion let go of Gale’s wrist. His eyes flickered nervously around the group. He let the rest of the mouthful go down his throat. His chest was heaving. He licked Gale’s wound clean, allowing the bites to heal. He glanced at the wound. It was neat, precise.

“See, nothing to worry about!” Gale waved his wrist around in the air.

Nothing to worry about.

Then the bile hit.

It was if his tongue was dissolving in acid. The roof of his mouth burnt, and his stomach convulsed. But he must not show it. He had to be perfectly amicable, reasonable, obedient. The perfect spawn. But Astarion really wanted to spit it out and rinse his mouth with saliva or water or wine or rat or something. He wasn’t focused on what the group was saying about him, all he knew was that they were wrong about this being proof that Astarion was free from Cazador’s control.

He had broken the rules.

And Cazador was punishing him by turning the blood into poison.

But the heroes mustn’t know.

The world faded to black.

Chapter Text

Following Withers’s speech, the companions had gathered around Gale, expecting him to speak. Of course they were expecting him to speak, to lead the charge to free Astarion! But Gale felt out of it, worthless, useless. He had let his partner return to a life of torture. He had felt the memories that plagued Astarion’s nightmares and had eased the hurts that accompanied them. He had promised Astarion that he would help. But he had done nothing but let Cazador whisk the elf away. And worse, Gale had justified not going after Astarion because it hadn’t looked like compulsion, it had looked like love. Like adoration. And the blood covered bed that was found the next morning just seemed to collaborate that story. That Astarion was so unhappy, so depressed, that he needed to go back to someone he trusted. Someone who wasn’t Gale. Because Gale, full of alcohol and victory, had failed to notice that the one thing Astarion had said he’d never do, happened. Astarion had seemingly gone with Cazador, willingly. And six months of reflection and relief from the orb being removed had left Gale with nothing but guilt that he had let the most important person in the world go.

“Dekarios!” Jaheira prodded him.

Gale was jolted unceremoniously out of his misery.

“We know you feel bad for letting him go, magic man,” said Karlach, calmly. “But Withers wouldn’t have mentioned him tonight if there wasn’t a chance of getting him back.”

“I know,” sighed Gale. “But I condemned him to six months of hell.”

“Out of two hundred years, that will feel like nothing,” grumbled Halsin. “Astarion will understand what happened. And I presume now we can agree that he was compelled to go back to Cazador?”

Wyll and Karlach exchanged quizzical looks as the rest of the group murmured their assent. “There was debate on that?” asked Wyll, incredulously.

“I’ve seen compulsion. We all have. Remember those spawn who tried to come take Astarion from camp?” Gale looked around. “They had glowing eyes and were reacting, I don’t know, robotically? They could struggle against the compulsion too. But Astarion,” he thought back to that night. “Astarion’s eyes were normal. And he had emotion and personality still.”

“Do you think Cazador completed the ritual?” Shadowheart pondered.

Gale’s heart lurched. A Vampire Ascendant made this task of freeing Astarion had a whole lot harder.

“It would make sense why he’s still alive,” mused Wyll. “And why the compulsion looked different.”

Why didn’t I think of that? Gale shouted internally.

“In that case, you shouldn’t be too hard on yourself, Gale,” murmured Halsin. “There is no way you would have been able to free Astarion, whether you recognised compulsion or not. You would have died, facing him alone and inebriated. Maybe Astarion would have died too.”

Wyll sighed. “But it does make the business of rescuing him a whole lot harder.”

“We need to go back to Baldur’s Gate. Find information, anything on Cazador and his spawn.” Gale wanted a plan.

Shadowheart nodded at him. “I’ll come with you.”

“You are welcome to use the Harpers and our resources,” said Jaheira. “We’re stretched a little thin, but I think this will be worth it.”

“Minsc will always help!”

“I will come too but will have to arrive later. I must return to Reithwin to sort out a leader there,” affirmed Halsin.

Karlach and Wyll exchanged pained looks with each other. The astral projection of Lae’zel looked down at her feet.

“We must return to the hells.” Karlach’s tail thrashed angrily, threatening to set the canvas tent behind her on fire. She thumped her chest. “I can’t be on the surface much longer, but we’re so close to finding an answer.” She looked mournfully at Wyll. “And I can’t be there on my own.”

Wyll clasped his hands around one of hers. “Don’t worry, I’m not leaving you.” He looked at Gale. “There must be some way of you being able to contact us. We’ll be there for the final act.”

Gale nodded. Now he was at the height of his powers, he could figure a sending spell that could travel to Avernus.

“I am afraid it will not be possible for me to return,” said Lae’zel, quietly. She glanced at Shadowheart who looked in the opposite direction. “The fight here is relentless.”

“So,” said Shadowheart, brashly, ignoring her lover. “We go to Baldur’s Gate. As soon as we can. Wyll and Karlach, Gale will find a way to contact you. The rest of us, will be finding information.”

“The Harpers will look out for you and find somewhere for you to stay when you are here,” added Jaheira. She gripped Gale on the arm. “We’ll get him out.”

There was a vague chatter of assent and affirmation. They drained their cups and moved to leave camp.

“Or end his suffering,” said Gale, abruptly. “If we…” he swallowed. “If we can’t rescue him, then we end his pain. I don’t want…” the tears began falling from his eyes. “I don’t want him to suffer another two hundred years. Or to be sacrificed to some other demon when Cazador decides he wants more power. I want … I want his soul to be free.”

Wyll looked around the group and nodded. “I can agree to that. And I swear we will make it quick and painless if it comes to that.”

“But it’s a last resort,” added Karlach, her tail still whipping from side to side frantically. Gale knew she desperately wanted to stay on the surface and help. “There will be a way to free Fangs.”

Gale smiled weakly. “Dear Gods, Karlach.” He drained his wine. “I hope you’re right.”

It took a few days for Gale to arrive at Baldur’s Gate. He had had to return to Waterdeep and ease the issues that his departure would leave. Blackstaff was relatively easy to sort out. He had just mentioned things about “Ilithids” and “the Dead Three” and his paid sabbatical was put in place in perpetuity. It was his mother who had begged him to stay just a little longer.

“I can’t leave him there,” Gale had said.

“Why is this vampire so important to you?” Morena Dekarios had demanded.

I love him, Gale had thought.

“Will you at least write this time?”

Gale had rolled his eyes. “I promise I will send sending stones.”

Morena Dekarios had snorted. “25 words of impersonal trite.”

“It’s more than you got last time,” Gale had muttered under his breath.

But soon Gale found himself transported into Ramzaith’s tower. The teleportation circles had been set up by Gale and Rolan (via the use of sending stones) for Gale to teach the younger wizard. He was grateful for them now. He couldn’t have waited for the ship to Baldur’s Deep. Every minute wasted was a minute Astarion was under Cazador’s thumb.

“Shadowheart’s at the Elfsong,” called the tiefling, as Gale stepped into view of his desk.

“She’s already here?”

“Arrived sunset yesterday. Her new farm isn’t far from the city apparently.” Rolan didn’t even look up from his studying, thick tomes and quills and parchment spread out over his desk haphazardly.

“How do you know?” asked Gale, walking up to his desk.

“Cal and Lia saw her; they drink at the Elfsong.”

Gale thanked Rolan and hurried through the portal that took him to Sorcerous Sundries. It was pleasant enough to be back in the city. Though it was winter, Baldur’s Gate was still much warmer than Waterdeep, and Gale turned his head towards the sun as he exited the shop. He looked around him. The vast majority of the rubble had been cleared away and it was clear that many buildings were being rebuilt. His gaze was soon drawn to the imposing stature of the Crimson Palace, Szarr’s family home marking the border between the Upper and Lower City. Gale turned on his heel and made his way towards the Elfsong.

The streets were as busy as they always had been, as if there hadn’t been a mindflayer invasion six months ago. As if the city’s entire political system hadn’t just been usurped by a Baanite masquerading as a hero saviour. As if there hadn’t been chaotic murders on every street corner, turning the cobblestones scarlet.

As he approached the tavern, he recognised the silver plait of Shadowheart who was drinking wine outside. She raised her glass at him and beckoned him over to a seat next to him, pouring him a glass of white wine.

“White wine is usually a summer drink, no?”

Shadowheart raised her eyebrows. “Wine is wine. Makes no sense to abandon it to warmer climes. Besides,” she took a sip of her drink. “It tastes good.”

Gale smiled. He took his glass and held it up so Shadowheart could clink her glass against his. “I’ll drink to that.”

He took a few sips of his drink before speaking. Shadowheart seemed amicable enough to wait for a conversation.

“Any idea on where to start?” he asked, suddenly worried that he was coming across as naïve or stupid.

“None at all. Jaheira has tabs on a few spawn, but none of them have been Astarion.” She dug around in her pocket and produced a letter, with official stamps on it. “And anyway, apparently this is where we have to go tonight.”

Gale looked at the letter quizzically. He took it in his hands and recognised the seal of the Grand Duke of Baldur’s Gate. “Ravengard?” he asked.

Shadowheart snorted. “Just read it.”

Gale opened the letter.

Dear Miss Hallowleaf,

On behalf of his Grace, Ulder Ravengard, Grand Duke of Baldur’s Gate, Supreme Marshall of the Flaming Fist, I welcome your return to Baldur’s Gate. Since your great victory over the Netherbrain, the city has undertaken some great rebuilding works that I am sure you can see around you.

His Grace would like to invite you, and any heroic comrades of yours, to dinner tomorrow evening at Wyrm’s Rock to discuss ongoing programmes and possible future plans that will hopefully involve yourself and your esteemed colleagues.

Warm regards,

Councillor Florrick

“Are we comrades or colleagues?” queried Gale.

“Oh, shut up.” Shadowheart took another gulp of wine.

“Is this why you’re drinking?”

Shadowheart nodded. “Luskan courage.”

“Fair.” Gale also took a drink. “I don’t think either of us would be any good at rebuilding programmes.”

“No, I agree.” Shadowheart tapped her finger on the rim of the glass. “I’m glad you’ve turned up though, I would have hated going on my own.”

“Drat, and I thought I could slip away.”

“Don’t you dare!”

Gale grinned. He paused a moment, thinking. “I don’t know, maybe this could be useful?”

Shadowheart raised an eyebrow.

“Maybe old Ravengard knows something about Szarr. Jaheira mentioned he was taking his money.”

Shadowheart made a noncommittal noise. “Maybe, but I wouldn’t bet on it. I bet the money comes via the bank and Ravengard has never met him. Astarion said the old bat was a bit of a recluse.”

“Yes, he did.” Gale stared off into the distance. “Did he tell you about the parties Szarr used to host?”

“Yeah… he did once. Briefly. After I woke him from a nightmare.” Shadowheart shivered. “Why are you bringing those up?”

“Those parties must have had guests. And I doubt they’ve stopped now.”

“True, true.” She shivered again. “Maybe Ravengard does know something about Szarr. But I think he just wants to talk about Wyll.”

“Shit, yeah.” Gale rubbed his forehead. “He did just run off with Karlach at the end there, didn’t he?”

“Yeah, and it’s not like we stuck around long to tell Father Ravengard the status quo,” said Shadowheart, absent-mindedly. She drained her glass. “Come on, let’s get this over with.”

“The quicker we go…”

“The quicker I get to being a functioning alcoholic.”

Gale raised an eyebrow.

“Kidding, I’m not functioning.”

The other eyebrow went up.

“Oh, come on Gale, Astarion would’ve laughed!”

“I’m not going to dignify that with a response.”

Shadowheart laughed.

The two walked in relative silence as they meandered the streets towards Wyrm’s Rock. For Gale, there were too many memories for him to get lost in, and then not enough. He had been kidnapped by Orin, used as a hostage, to guarantee that the companions would dismantle Gortash’s tyranny, and his notorious Steel Watch. According to the rest of them, it had been Astarion who had driven the group relentlessly in securing Gale’s release. Before his capture, they had been making waves in their plan to take down Cazador, but Astarion had completely abandoned that, threatening that he would kill the rest of the group, take their hands, and go to the Temple of Bhaal alone if they didn’t concentrate all their efforts on rescuing him. As the Wyrm’s Rock fortress began to loom above them, Gale wondered what Astarion felt as he marched to kill Gortash. Determination, anger? Fury? Gale knew better than most what Astarion was like when fuelled by pure rage. He almost had to peel him off Elminster when the old mage had told him of Mystra’s orders to detonate himself and destroy the Absolute. Astarion was fuming, and it was only Halsin’s quick thinking (and large body mass) that prevented the vampire from plunging his dagger into Elminster’s eye. He remembered the Gur hunter that had tried to persuade the group to sell him Astarion. Astarion had sunk his dagger into that man’s skull, and then run into the bog, where Gale had eventually found him tearing Redcaps apart with his teeth.

“Toril to Gale?”

Shadowheart startled Gale out of his thoughts. People were doing a lot of that lately. “Oh. Sorry Shadowheart.”

The cleric looked at him kindly. “Don’t worry,” she murmured. “Just try not to drift with Ravengard, alright?”

Gale nodded.

“Because I do not want to be with that old codger on my own!”

Gale grinned. “Don’t worry, I’m sure I can bore him enough that he positively throws us out to get me to stop!”

Shadowheart beamed back. “That’s the Gale I love.”

They showed Shadowheart’s letter to the Flaming Fist on guard at the entrance to Wyrm’s Rock. They followed the soldier as they walked through the stone keep, up a maze of staircases and winding corridors. They arrived in a dining room, lit by candelabras, and decorated with paintings and other art. Florrick was there, the high elven wizard’s gaze was warm when she saw the two enter.

“Shadowheart, Gale!” she rose to her feet. “Wine?”

Gale and Shadowheart took the offered crystal glasses, filled with a rich red wine.

“We have a few moments before Duke Ravengard arrives, then we shall eat.”

Not for the first time, Gale missed the tadpole connection that allowed them to speak. Instead, he acknowledged Shadowheart’s side eye with a subtle nod. Florrick smiled at them both but made no attempt to engage the pair with conversation. Gale remembered with amusement Astarion’s comments about her.

Which Gods died and made Ravengard a deity? She treats him like she’s a bloody nun in his religion. She’s very much ‘holier than thou’. I imagine there’s a gilded stick up her arse. Or did Ravengard stick the stick up her own arse personally? Bless her internally. I bet they’re shagging, and they do it with sticks, the perverted fucks.

Not very nun like? Gale had replied.

Nuns and monks need shagging just like anyone else. And they hate themselves so much you can make them cream just by saying the words “nice tits”.

And monks?

Easy as pie, Astarion had grinned, just say the word “big” and you’re on cleanup duty.

Astarion certainly had a turn of phrase.

Gale smiled. Shadowheart noticed. “Something funny?” she murmured, covering her mouth with her glass.

“Just something Astarion said about her,” said Gale, mimicking Shadowheart’s action with his wine. “Not for polite society.”

“Nothing about Astarion is for polite society.” Shadowheart tried to conceal a snort with a cough as Ulder Ravengard made his entrance.

Peace and being un-tadpoled had done wonders for the Grand Duke. He looked less weary, his eyes sharper and surer of his movements. He was dressed, as always in Flaming Fist regalia; just in case you somehow forgot who he was. He had ditched the steel plating at least, for this ‘informal yet definitely still formal’ dinner event, but every other part of his clothing was still distinctly ‘militaristic’ in style. Gale felt remarkably under dressed in his basic purple robe that he had had since before the start of this whole ideal. It had been mended many times, carefully and not so carefully.

“Ah, Professor Dekarios,” grumbled Ravengard, in his bass tone. “How wonderful you could join Miss Hallowleaf here.”

“Shadowheart is fine.” Shadowheart pursed her lips. Miss Hallowleaf sounded like some old spinster alchemist, she always said.

No, Astarion had always snarked in return, that would be Miss Hollowleaf.

It hadn’t been one of his best jokes.

“Your grace,” Gale dipped his head in respect. He also preferred ‘Gale’ in these sorts of scenarios, but he reckoned that ‘Professor Dekarios’ was the best of a bad bunch.

“Please, take a seat.”

The pair did, on either side of Ravengard at the end of a long table that was fit for more a state banquet than a party of four.

“Apologies for my tardiness, I was held up in a most interesting meeting,” continued Ravengard, as appetisers and more wines were brought in.

Despite Gale being a more indulgent sort, he felt adrift at these sorts of gatherings. He was never the professor or Archmage that distinguished guests expected him to be. When a Chosen of Mystra he had been pompous and arrogant, but still slightly anxious when talking to dignitaries. In short, he had been rather unpleasant to be around unless you were also an Archmage or higher academic of the Weave. Since the tadpoles he supposed he had become coarser, rougher around the edges. He suspected that his companions’ personalities had rubbed off on him. Even as a child he had been conscious of parts of his few friends’ attributes sticking to him like burrs. For his companions though, he revelled in Shadowheart’s sharp tongue, in Karlach’s enthusiasm, in Wyll’s charismatic morality.

There was little more than small talk during the actual dinner. Gale took small bites, the food much too rich for his tastes and he noticed that Shadowheart stuck strictly to the vegetables. Florrick and Ravengard, on the other hand, ate with gusto.

Gale was relieved when the desserts (an actually quite pleasant lemon sorbet with raspberry jus) were cleared away and they took to sipping a sweet wine. It felt syrupy on his tongue.

“So, I expect you’re wondering why I’ve asked you here.”

Shadowheart and Gale nodded politely.

Ravengard sighed, sipping his drink. “I suppose my first question to you both is rather a personal one, and you don’t have to answer.”

There was a quick glance between the pair of them. Gale once again wished for the tadpole. Wyll, he thought. He would bet a pile of ruby dust that Shadowheart thought the same thing.

The Grand Duke placed his goblet down carefully. “Where is Wyll?”

Bingo.

Shadowheart leant back in her chair. “Alive.”

“Well, even,” added Gale.

Ravengard nodded. He seemed to relax momentarily, before remembering where and who he was and stiffened again. “With the tiefling?”

“Yes,” said Gale, flatly. When Ravengard had been in their camp, the wizard had always gathered the impression that the duke had never liked Karlach. She was too brash, too boisterous. Too inclined to take Wyll on harebrained schemes to Avernus.

“Are they safe?”

Shadowheart’s turn to answer. She shrugged. “Safe enough. We saw them two days ago.”

“Thank the Triad,” murmured Ravengard. “I understand you not wanting to say too much.” He and Wyll had not left on the best of terms. Ravengard had been simultaneously furious at Wyll having taken his pact in the first place, then breaking it that caused Mizora to try and kill the Grand Duke in the Iron Throne. He then had accused Wyll of not trying hard enough of trying to convince Ansur to join them against the Absolute. Wyll had taken to ignoring his father’s existence and spending more and more time with Karlach. “But I thank you for soothing an anxious father’s heart.”

Gale and Shadowheart didn’t comment. Gale didn’t know what to say and he knew that Shadowheart didn’t trust her tongue enough not to say something that would cause her to be thrown in prison.

“Now, to the main reason I asked you to come here.” Ravengard tapped his fingers on the table. It was a habit that Gale had seen Wyll do too. “I’m not going to lie, I was curious why Shadowheart had returned to the city, but seeing you here too, Gale, I’m doubly curious.” He gazed at them with brown, piercing eyes.

“We’re looking for someone.”

Gale was glad that Shadowheart answered.

“Right, I see.” Ravengard thought about this piece of information. “One of your companions?”

Shadowheart looked at Gale. “Something like that,” she replied.

“Will you be staying long?”

“As long as it takes,” said Gale, flatly.

Ravengard nodded, thoughtfully. “I do hope you don’t mind me then asking you a favour.”

Shadowheart couldn’t help her eyes narrowing, but Gale kept his face purposefully void of expression.

“We are six months into our rebuilding works. Of course, there is still much to be done, but already we are thinking about what comes next.” Ravengard surveyed the pair of them. “We are lucky, that we have had remarkable generosity from a number of Upper City patriars, that has allowed us to jumpstart our economy and rebuild greater than before.”

Gale couldn’t think where this was going. None of the former-tadpoled companions were going to be any help in the rebuilding of a large city.

“We want to celebrate the one-year anniversary of our victory, your victory.”

Here we go, thought Gale.

“And naturally, we want you all to be involved. A festival, in your honour.”

Gale resisted raising an eyebrow.

“Sounds… nice?” said Shadowheart. “We’re not very big ‘festival’ people though.”

“Think of less as a festival then, more of a celebration of survival. The city’s survival against its biggest threat.”

Gale exchanged a look with Shadowheart. “We can see that would be a wonderful idea, your Grace,” the wizard said. “And what would our input be?”

“Whatever you want it to be,” replied Ravengard, easily. For the son of blacksmith, he had a tongue that reviled that of experienced political operatives. “All I ask is that you meet with our principal donor who will be in charge. Talk to him, see what you can do.”

“And who is your principal donor?” asked Shadowheart.

“Lord Szarr.”

Chapter Text

A sending spell had been immediately sent to Halsin, causing the Archdruid to rush his arrival into Baldur’s Gate. He met them at a Harper safe house, close to the border of the Upper City. Jaheira had been pacing from the moment Gale and Shadowheart had told them of the Ravengard dinner, lamenting that whilst it was an opportunity, it was a dangerous one. Cause too much alarm about trying to remove Astarion from Szarr’s sight and they’d be dead.

“Surely though,” mused Halsin, “Szarr knows of you visiting him tonight. I suspect Astarion will be kept far away from you.”

“Us, Halsin, us,” reminded Shadowheart. “I’m not going in there without more than one person as back up.”

Gale was busy doing composing a sending spell to Wyll and Karlach.

Szarr funding BG and GD. Big celebration planned. GD wants us ‘heroes’ involved. Meeting Cazador tonight. Will scout out Astarion and what Szarr planning.

There was a brief reply.

Shit. Keep us informed. Be safe.

“We are on the back foot here,” said Jaheira. “Szarr expected us, nay, invited us. It is a snare most definitely.”

“I couldn’t refuse!” protested Gale.

“I know, I know, little cub. We all would have accepted, under the circumstances.”

“Is it safe for Jaheira? Do you reckon Szarr knows you’re a Harper?”

Jaheira shrugged. “We go in and assume that Astarion has told him everything he knows about us.”

Gale opened his mouth to protest.

“Not willingly, little cub. I doubt he would have had a choice.” She sighed. “But we hold no secrets from Szarr. Only secrets that we have developed the past six months.” She paused momentarily before grinning. “Anyway, I am looking forward to seeing how accurate my informants are about the Szarr palace.”

Halsin leant back in his chair. “I think our main problem is how we’re going to find Astarion.”

The Crimson Palace loomed large and threatening overhead. Gale felt his heart sink lower and lower into his stomach as they marched up the driveway. The stonework was intricate, with carved gargoyles and grotesques. The front door was overly large and black, with a brass knocker carved in the shape of a bat.

“He’s not very conspicuous, is he?” remarked Shadowheart, as Gale reached out a hand to knock on the door.

Immediately the door swung open. They had expected a spawn or thrall to open the door but instead it was someone else entirely.

Gale’s heart leapt back into his throat.

Standing right in front of them was Astarion. He was dressed in a crisp white shirt, folded up to his forearms, with a stiff collar, opened at the neck. He wore formal dark trousers, and Gale was surprised to see him completely barefoot. His silver curls were tussled to perfection. Astarion smiled, hiding his canines, and bowed deeply. He swept out an arm and stood to the side welcoming the group inside the palace. “Welcome my lords, my ladies,” he purred.

Shadowheart pushed Gale inside the foyer. Astarion shut the doors behind them. “May I take your cloaks?” He kept his arm out to accept the cloaks, which the group gave him with awkward arm moments and rigid postures.

“If you’d like to follow me.” Astarion motioned for the companions to follow him, and he began to trot up a grand staircase, covered with a deep scarlet carpet.

“He’s already got us on the back foot,” whispered Halsin. “Be on your guard!”

Gale was staring at the back of Astarion’s head, unblinking. The elf looked fine, he looked healthy in fact. His smile had reached his eyes, eyes that hadn’t been glowing with the tell-tale signs of vampiric compulsion. Though, he remembered, Cazador had ascended now, compulsion could have no signs at all.

Astarion led them into a grand dining room, decorated lavishly in black and white. An organ filled the back wall with towering bronze pipes, and in front of it, sat on a black marble dais, was a golden throne. On this throne sat Cazador.

When Gale had seen him before, he hadn’t had the time to take in what the Vampire Ascendant looked like. He was a High Elf, considerably taller than Astarion, perhaps slightly taller than Halsin. His face was pointed and narrow, his eye shape suggesting heritage from outside the Sword Coast. His hair was long, straight, and as black as shadow, swept behind his pointed ears. His eyes, of course, were red, but they were stoney and piercing compared to Astarion’s softer ones. His lips were thin as he surveyed his guests entering, and he stood. Cazador was elegantly dressed, in a rich black doublet, lined with ermine fur and decorated with gold clasps. His trousers were perfectly tailored, and he wore black leather boots, decorated with silver. On his hands were a great many rings with rubies. Gale noticed an ornate dagger at his belt and leant against his throne was a silver staff.

“Welcome,” Cazador drawled. His voice was thin and generally unappealing. Patronising in every syllable.

Astarion bowed deeply, and Cazador summoned him a flick of his hand. Astarion bounded up the marble steps. He dipped his head as Cazador whispered in his ear and put a hand on his shoulder. Gale watched with a sickening feeling as Astarion twisted his head to place his forehead on his master’s hand before he retreated and settled down, crossed legged, next to the throne, his head leaning against one of the arms of the chair.

Cazador smiled thinly. “Archmage Dekarios, Archdruid Silverbough, High Harper, Miss Hallowleaf.” He bent his shoulders in a mockery of a bow. “How nice to meet you at last. Please, take some wine, have a seat.”

The group moved forward, uneasily. Gale did not take his eyes off Astarion who had closed his own eyes, tilting his head back slightly as his master sat back down on his throne and began to mess with the silver curls. A few servants gave them wine in ornate glasses.

“I’m afraid Grand Duke Ravengard is running late,” announced Cazador. “Can’t be helped I suppose. Busy work, running a city.”

Jaheira was the only one who acknowledged Cazador’s words. She nodded. “As you would know, Lord Szarr.”

The corner of Cazador’s mouth curled slightly. “As you would too, High Harper.”

It was an interesting dynamic. Two predators staring each other down, exceedingly politely, and with full knowledge of what the other was capable of.

“I must say,” Cazador mused, as suddenly Astarion darted up and grabbed a glass goblet of wine for his outstretched hand. Cazador didn’t continue speaking until Astarion had settled back down next to throne. “I’m a great admirer of your work, High Harper.”

“I hope you won’t be offended when I don’t say the same about your work, Lord Szarr.”

“Careful Harper, admiration isn’t the same as approval.” The vampire took a sip of wine before passing it back to Astarion, who held it above his head, easily accessible for him. He watched Gale’s eyes narrow. “Jealous you couldn’t train him like this, Professor?” he smirked.

Gale dragged his eyes off Astarion and at the vampire lord. “I wasn’t training him,” he said, through gritted teeth.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

Gale felt Shadowheart’s hand touch his arm, lightly. He knew what that touch meant. Gale swallowed his pride. “How is he?” he asked quietly.

Cazador’s black eyebrow rose. “Perfect.” He reached down to stroke Astarion’s curls again, and the pale elf softened into the touch. “Perfect in every single way.”

“Surely, it’s obvious to the grand duke that you’re a vampire? With Astarion behaving like that, he knows Astarion.” Shadowheart asked.

“I brought Astarion out for your benefit,” said the vampire, simply. “He’ll go as soon as the Grand Duke arrives.” Cazador sighed. “My human servants aren’t as good as my little star, but they serve a purpose.”

“And what purpose does Astarion serve?” asked Gale, stiffly.

Cazador’s smile widened, pointed canines on show. “Shall we ask him?” He took the wine goblet from Astarion’s hands and gently nudged the spawn, who opened his eyes and gazed at his master. Cazador gestured towards the guests, and Astarion shrank back. Cazador bent down and whispered something in his ear again. Astarion’s ear twitched in response, but he sat forward looking worriedly at the group. “Go on, Professor Dekarios. Ask your question.”

Halsin, Jaheira, and Shadowheart all looked at Gale as he swallowed again. “What purpose do you serve here, Astarion?” he asked, trying to keep his voice as soft as possible. Astarion looked scared.

The pale elf glanced up at his master again, who nodded. Astarion took a deep breath and murmured, “I serve Lord Szarr in any way I can.” A heartbeat, and then Astarion seemed to relax again.

“And you compel him, to say that?” growled Halsin.

Cazador smiled.

“I don’t need compulsion,” snapped Astarion, indignantly.

“Hush, pet.” Cazador began stroking his head again. “But it’s true, Astarion doesn’t need compulsion. Not since I ascended.” He paused. “I am the closest thing Astarion has to a father, a family. He would be completely lost without me.”

“He had us!” snarled Shadowheart. “He should still have us!”

Astarion flinched. He scrambled to his feet and began to creep backwards. Cazador looked at him, and Astarion rushed towards his outstretched arm that had once been petting him. He began whispering and whimpering to his master. Cazador murmured something back to the elf, that seemed to calm him slightly, but he scurried away towards the back of the room and through a door.

“You had him,” said Cazador, calmly, “whilst he was infected with an illithid parasite. That tadpole did more than suppress my compulsion on him or allow him to walk in sunlight. It suppressed the animal side of him, making him seem more elf. More Ancunín, less Szarr, you could say.” The comment seemed to humour him slightly. He drank his wine. “Turning affects each vampire differently. On a scale of bloodthirsty beast to human with a slight blood fetish. My dear Astarion is very much towards the beast end of the scale.” He looked at Gale, pointedly. “You, dear wizard. You were going to take him to Waterdeep, weren’t you?”

He snorted as Gale nodded.

“And what were you going to do? Keep him locked in a tower all day, give him books to read? Let him out at night, like some sort of weird housecat?”

Gale couldn’t help the flinch.

“He would have gone feral within a tenday. No, Astarion needs his sire close to keep the beast under control. I can soothe the nightmares that plague him, calm his anger.”

“You caused the nightmares!” snapped Shadowheart. “He screamed at night because of you.”

“We all saw the nightmares,” snarled Gale. “Through the tadpole. You can’t pretend you soothe his nightmares when you are also the cause. You were torturing him every night.”

Cazador shrugged. “I won’t pretend I wasn’t firm with the boy. I won’t pretend that I’m not a monster, by your punitive definition of the word. He needed it back then. He was the runt of his siblings. Never the fastest, never the strongest. Always last to the food source, last to get my attention.” Cazador took another sip. “He was good at hunting; I’ll give him that. He was wily, charming, and witty. But in a superficial way. He was good at hunting because he was an easy lay. And the desperate and the angry would half the time have him against an alley wall before he even reached the guest bedrooms.” He chuckled, as if remembering a fond event.

Gale felt the anger and fury rising in his gut. “And now?”

“Now, he is revered. My favourite spawn. My treasure.”

“Until you can use him in some other ritual I suppose?”

Cazador laughed. It was a harsh laugh, as if it had knives in it. “Not even I can predict the future, but Astarion will have his place in it, one way or the other.”

“Why did you invite us here?” asked Halsin, wanting the change the subject before Gale and Shadowheart launched themselves at the vampire lord.

“To discuss the celebration of Baldur’s Gate, of course,” replied Cazador, smoothly. “And for you to see Astarion, to reassure yourselves that he’s alive. And to remind you that,” he smirked, “even though I do love him, he is easily replaceable. Like he was in the ritual. And you might soon have to make a choice.”

Cazador drained his goblet, as a human thrall rushed in to tell him of Duke Ravengard’s arrival.

“It’s him, or Baldur’s Gate. If you make one move against me and my plans, Astarion’s past pain will be nothing like the hell he will feel after.” He put the goblet down. “And he will know to blame you.”

Chapter Text

Good boy, you were a very good boy. The best boy.

Astarion was dry heaving in the library. It was far enough from the ballroom and the spawn dormitory that he thought he wouldn’t be found. He rested his back against one of the large ebony wardrobes, chest heaving. His master’s words spun around his head like a mantra, and he clung to each and every one of them. He had been good. He had fulfilled his master’s task.

He thought he had acted well when he had opened the door to the four intruders, even though he had wanted to scream in terror and plunge his dagger into their stomachs. But no, he had smiled, bowed, taken their cloaks, and trotted along merrily to his master’s side. He had been so relieved when Cazador had said he could sit next to the throne on the floor. It had meant he hadn’t needed to look at them. But then they had asked him a question. And Astarion had panicked.

He had turned to his master like a toddler to its father and had wanted to wail. But Cazador had leant forward and whispered.

“Just tell the truth, child. I love you.”

Astarion had hanged onto that, clung to it like a lifeboat whilst he faced four of his tormentors.

“I serve Lord Szarr in any way I can.”

Cazador hadn’t even waited a second before praising him, making his brain warm and fuzzy. That big oaf had ruined it, supposing that Astarion had been compelled. Compulsion? Compulsion was for lesser spawn. And I’m not a lesser spawn; he had wanted to growl and hiss. But Cazador had soothed him with a hand in his hair and a hush, whilst reaffirming that he was Astarion’s family. Astarion was thankful for that.

Then that cleric had suggested that Astarion should have stayed with them, after the fall of the brain. That had frightened Astarion. He didn’t want to be made to leave the palace again, so he had started to bolt, begging his master to let him go and hide.

“Do not worry child. They will not take you, go into the palace. Find a safe place. I will come and find you later.”

And Astarion had ran to the library. He had thought about the roof. He liked looking at the stars, they calmed him. But Cazador had said the words ‘into’, and perhaps there were Harpers about. The High Harper was inside the palace. The rest of the spawn had been instructed to stay inside their dormitory and Cazador had placed an illusion on the door, making it look like a normal wall.

Astarion knew why the four of them were at the palace. That duke, Ravengard, wanted them involved in the one-year anniversary of the fall of the Absolute. Astarion didn’t see why they were needed. Cazador would plan the best celebration. Without the need for them, heroes or not.

There were noises coming down the corridor.

“I hear Lord Szarr keeps some absolute treasures of Kozakuran history and literature,” said a voice.

Shit. The wizard.

“Yes, he does. His collection is unparalleled on the Sword Coast.”

Dufay. I am going to kill that man.

Astarion quickly hurried to a corner of the library, sheltered in the dark and gloom and picked up a book at random as the door opened.

“Oh, Master Astarion,” sneered Dufay, walking over to where he sat. He plucked the book out of Astarion’s hands and looked at it. “I didn’t know you could read Kozakuran.”

Shit.

Dufay handed the book to the wizard.

“Ah, a guidebook to the coastlines of Kozakura,” he said, jovially. “Planning a holiday?”

Guidebook, guidebook, think quickly!

“I like looking at maps,” said Astarion. It wasn’t exactly a lie.

“Then maybe an atlas is more your style,” scoffed Dufay. “Though I am pleased you’ve graduated from picture books. After all the work the master’s put into you over the centuries, I’m glad something’s paid off.”

Astarion glowered at him. He stood from his corner and put out his hand. “My book back, please.”

“Astarion…” growled Dufay.

Astarion glared at Dufay. “What?” he said, sullenly. He made himself flatten his shoulders and hackles. He needed to look less angry, more docile. And Dufay knew it.

“I must attend the master and his other guests. You stay here and help Professor Dekarios.” Dufay’s smile reached his eyes this time, knowing the predicament he was placing the other spawn in.

Astarion immediately panicked internally. He wondered whether the connection that allowed Cazador speak into his mind was two-way. He remembered briefly about his master saying that he could hear Astarion’s thoughts and so started broadcasting them as loud as he could as Dufay left him in the library with Dekarios.

Master! Please, help! Dufay’s left the wizard with me alone; I’m going to be kidnapped!

Dekarios was looking at him curiously. He gave Astarion the book back. “Not fond of him, are you?”

“What?” asked Astarion, shifting his weight from side to side, ready to run if needed.

“Dufay. You told me once.” The wizard was speaking slowly and softly, as if Astarion was some sort of feral beast. It didn’t help; it just made Astarion feel more feral.

“Can’t remember, sorry.”

Dekarios tipped his head slightly to one side, as if he were sizing Astarion up. It put the elf even more on edge.

Master, please, I need you! Astarion begged.

“Do you remember much, about the Netherbrain, about us?” asked the wizard.

Astarion gripped the book tightly. He didn’t know what to reply. In truth, he didn’t like remembering about the time with them. He didn’t like the fear that came with it, the nausea that made bile pour in his throat, the trembling shakes that racked his body whenever his mind passed anywhere near to the events of the previous year. So, he decided to lie instead. “Of course I do,” he snapped.

“Therefore, you know that none of us would hurt you, Astarion. We just want you safe.” Dekarios started making steps towards him.

I’m not feeling very bloody safe. Astarion didn’t reply, he just tensed his knuckles and began scratching the dorsal side of his left hand.

“If you come with me now, you can be safe forever. Far away from here.” Astarion could feel the wizard’s breath on his skin. “I love you Astarion, and I want you to be safe more than anything.”

Astarion’s eyes widened. Master! Blood started pouring from his hand and he backed up into the bookcases. He felt a hand touch his shoulder and Astarion froze. His limbs locked and he could feel the blood in his stomach wanting to come out of his throat; the pale imitation of vomiting under stress that vampire spawn could do. It was going to happen again...

Only one person could touch him.

“It would be easy. A quick dimension door out of the palace and then you could be free,” murmured Dekarios. “We could be free together.” The wizard hadn't lifted his hand and Astarion could still feel the breath on his face.

I’m coming Astarion.

The vampire lord materialised in mist, dragging a helpless Dufay along with him. “Professor Dekarios,” he remarked dryly. The Vampire Lord surveyed the broken mess that was his spawn, bleeding and trembling against the bookcase. “I don’t appreciate you causing my servant a panic attack.”

Astarion immediately relaxed, but Dekarios was still in between him and the master, between him and safety. He looked into Cazador’s eyes. Thank you master, I love you master, save me master.

“I was just engaging in polite conversation,” said Dekarios.

“And that’s why Astarion has scratched the blood out of his hand and shaking, right? You need to improve your polite conversation.”

What did he say to you?

He wanted me to go with him; he wanted to take me far away! He said he loved me…

Astarion gazed at Cazador with wide eyes. The vampire lord was still holding Dufay by the scruff of his neck.

“I see you’ve made your decision already, Dekarios.”

“What decision?”

“Luckily for me, Astarion here is loyal. He will not follow you.”

Definitely fucking not.

Cazador snickered. He had clearly heard Astarion’s thoughts. Dekarios was quiet, then he took a step back.

Tear Dufay’s throat out.

Astarion blinked as Cazador dropped Dufay to his feet.

Then he sprang.

His fangs extended mid-flight, and his claws unsheathed as he powered through the air to where Dufay was recovering his breath. He had aimed accurately, and his teeth met in Dufay’s throat, his claws tearing the chamberlain’s shoulders. Warm blood filled his mouth as he gnashed his jaw against Dufay’s trachea. Astarion pulled his head back and ripped Dufay’s throat from his neck. Dufay dropped. He looked at Cazador expectantly.

Spit the flesh at the wizard. Swallow the blood.

Astarion swallowed around the flesh and positioned it in his mouth, so that when he spat the flesh would hit the wizard in the face. The aim was perfect, splattering Dekarios with flesh and sinew. Astarion grinned.

“You’ve made your point, Lord Szarr,” sighed Dekarios, picking off the torn flesh and dropping it on the floor. Most of it had landed in his beard.

“I hope I have,” growled Cazador. “Don’t interfere with things you don’t understand. You may be an Archmage, but this is beyond your reckoning.”

Astarion was pleased to see Dekarios flinch. He deserved it; snooty wizard, coming here and wanting to control Astarion. Cazador beckoned to Astarion with a hand, and the elf slinked past Dekarios, stepping lightly over Dufay’s gurgling corpse. He made his way over to his master, dipping his head. “Thank you,” he whispered, quietly enough so that Dekarios couldn’t hear it. Cazador placed an arm around Astarion’s waist and kissed him on the top of his head. Astarion leant into Cazador’s side, closed his eyes, and breathed in his scent. Jasmine and citrus.

“I don’t want to see him hurt.” The wizard spoke, finally. He was looking at the floor.

“Neither do I,” said Cazador, his eyes glinting. “And he won’t be, as long as I get what I want.”

Go to my chambers, little star. I will see you soon.

Astarion cried. He sobbed, huddled next to Cazador’s bed. He wanted to tear, to rip, to stab. Tearing Dufay’s throat out had been a start, but he needed more. He needed to be in control. He started biting and clawing, gnashing at his flesh on his arms with his fangs and slashing strips of skin and meat from his thighs threw his thin trousers with his claws. Astarion wailed as he thrashed about, thoughts dashing around his head at the speed of light. It was impossible for him to figure out where the thoughts started and ended. All he felt was fear and hurt and the emerging darkness that threatened to consume him.

He didn’t even notice footsteps approach him. He didn’t notice the bottle of cow’s blood being forced on his lips, and his throat being massaged to encourage him to swallow.

“Bastard gets to drink and he’s being a fucking mess.” It was Kiara, one of the human spawns. She looked down at Astarion with disgust.

Astarion reached out hesitantly and grabbed the bottle from her. “Why are you here?” he croaked.

“Not out of the goodness of my own heart, I assure you,” spat the human. “Vilhelm sent me.”

Astarion drank the rest of the blood. It tasted good, warm and thick, providing life to his extremities and healing his broken body. “Thank you,” he murmured. Kiara snorted something under her breath and exited the room, taking the empty blood bottle with her. Astarion was relieved for the silence. Tears dripped down his face. He half-heartedly wiped them away with the back of his hand. His right hand was still covered in blood, and he began to lick it clean.

“Oh, my little boy, it’s okay.”

Astarion barely lifted his head from his bloodied hand as Cazador entered the room. Soft footsteps padded towards him, and the vampire lord knelt in front of him. He took Astarion’s hand in his own and lifted it to lips and began to lick the wound clean. The smaller elf looked up at him with wide eyes. “I’m sorry, master. I… I… I got scared.”

Cazador hushed him, licking up the last of the congealing blood. “It’s okay,” he cooed. “I know it wasn’t your fault. And Dufay will be punished I assure you.” Cazador looked at the rest of Astarion’s body. The blood that Astarion had drunk had begun to heal the scratches and bites on his limbs, but he was still covered in the spilt blood. “Come on,” murmured Cazador. “Let’s get you changed.”

Shaking, Astarion allowed himself to be lifted to his feet by the much larger elf.

“Arms up.”

Cazador’s voice was soft and lilting. He undid the buttons on the crisp white shirt and gently lifted it over Astarion’s head. He let the clothing fall by Astarion’s bare feet, before moving onto his trousers; pale, cold fingers tracing against Astarion’s navel. The trousers fell to the floor, and Astarion involuntarily shivered. Cazador placed his index fingers carefully inside the top of Astarion’s underwear and pulled them down, so they fell limply on the pale elf’s thighs. The bites and scratches were deeper here and oozed despite Astarion’s regeneration and the blood Kiara had brought him.

“Oh, my boy, what have you done to yourself?”

Astarion sobbed silently.

Fingers found his chin and lifted it as Cazador leant forward to capture his lips in a kiss. “You are beautiful when you are like this,” murmured the vampire lord. “No wonder they all want you.”

Tears still fell down his pale face.

“But I am the only one who gets to keep you, aren’t I, little star?”

Astarion mewled, chasing Cazador’s touch. His master smiled. “All mine. Forever, little star.”

Chapter Text

“At least we know he’s alive.”

Halsin was trying to be optimistic. Gale didn’t even look up at him. Instead, he pressed his head into the back of his hands as he leant on the table in Jaheira’s basement hideout. He hadn’t spoken since they left the Crimson Palace. He had let himself be guided to Jaheira’s house by Halsin, flanked by Shadowheart.

Shadowheart herself was piling books on vampires on top of each other. “Maybe there’s something in one of these,” she murmured, half to herself. She shoved one at Gale. “Go on, if you’re going to mope, you might as well read.”

Gale reluctantly lifted his head and took the book in his hands. The book was one of the few written specifically about Vampire Spawn, but Gale didn’t hold much hope for its success in telling them more about Astarion’s condition that they already knew. It was a slim tome, entitled The Subservient Spawne.

Sighing, Gale flicked through the pages, looking for an inspiring chapter title or index. He settled on one called ‘Servants and their Masters: The Relationship between Lords and their created Spawne’

It didn’t start off great.

The link between Vampyr Lordes and their pitiful spawne has been of little interest to academics, beside necromancers.

Gale rolled his eyes.

Ye form of magik that creates a spawne is necrotic in nature, created by a True Vampyr by draining their victime of blood and then granting them a drop of their owne. From this moment, ye victime undergoes a rapide transformation from alive to undead. They lose everything that makes them, them. From the moment ye droplet of Vampyr’s blood is on their tongue, ye only thing on their mind is their master. There is a connection between Lorde and Spawne that cannot be broken apart from by the Vampyr’s deathe. It is similar to that of a devout monke and their God.

How a spawne developes seems to individual to the Vampyr. A Lorde can make them in their image, an equal, but this is rare. Vampyr Lordes are tyrannical in natur and crave domination and they enact that desire on their spawne. But despite this, a spawne’s natural inclination seems to be utter adoration and devotion. Even without the added effects of compulsion, it takes a lot to convince a spawne that their master is evyl. Thus, it is recommended that if thou is bitten and transformed, informe thy family to kyll thou, for thou will not be thee.

“Well, that was fucking useless.” Gale slapped the book shut.

Shadowheart hummed in agreement. “They all seem to know very little about spawns or just advocate killing them.”

“To be fair…” Gale rubbed his face, “I’m pretty sure Astarion advocated the same thing. In his words, the tadpole stopped him from being a ‘conniving, murderous, Cazador slut’. He was pretty fixated on the idea that spawns should be killed.”

“I don’t think Astarion is the issue,” said Shadowheart. “Spawn or not, there is a huge difference between what his siblings were like when we met them, and what Astarion is now. The variable must be Cazador.” She gestured to the books around her. “No one knows anything about spawn apart from the basics, but there is going to be absolutely nothing about vampire ascendents.”

“I can’t imagine Cazador writing any books any time soon,” mumbled Gale.

“Nor Mephistopheles,” added Jaheira, darkly.

Gale opened his mouth, but Shadowheart glared at him. “We are not making a deal with a devil, Gale!” the cleric snapped. “If we do anything with devils, then we could be putting Karlach and Wyll at risk, not just our own souls.”

“Surely we can risk it?” argued Gale. “We killed Raphael, after all.”

“Count that as a sincere fluke, cub.”

Gale had to admit that Jaheira was probably right. “Then what do we do?” he demanded, harsher than he wanted it to be.

“Cazador clearly wants something. He gave us a choice, didn’t he? Baldur’s Gate or Astarion?” said Halsin, slowly.

Gale nodded. “He said that I had made my decision. When I saw Astarion in the library.”

“You saw Astarion?”

Oh. I forgot I hadn’t told them.

“Yes… when the chamberlain took me to look at Kozakuran literature.” Gale cracked his knuckles. “He was there; he was hiding.”

“From whom?”

Gale looked down. “From… from us, I think. He was terrified. I tried to ask him some questions, tried to jog his memory.” He blinked a couple of times. “I told him I loved him.” Gale felt Halsin’s giant hand gently rest on his shoulder. “But he was so scared. Then Cazador materialised dragging the chamberlain with him. And Cazador knew that I had told Astarion to come back with us, somehow, he knew. And then, Astarion became some sort of wild animal and tore the chamberlain’s throat out.” Gale shuddered. “It was… unnerving.”

“And what did Cazador say?”

“I said that Cazador had proved his point. He replied that he hoped he had. And to not interfere because I had no idea what I would be dealing with.” Halsin squeezed Gale’s shoulder as he spoke. “I… I couldn’t help myself. I said that I just didn’t want to see him hurt.”

“And Cazador?” whispered Shadowheart.

“He said that he didn’t want to see Astarion hurt either. And that he wouldn’t be hurt, if Cazador gets what he wants.”

“So, what does Cazador want?”

Gale raised an eyebrow. “Apart from domination over Baldur’s Gate? Who knows.”

“And if we let him get Baldur’s Gate, Astarion lives?” asked Shadowheart.

“And if he doesn’t, Astarion dies. Or is tortured. Or trapped in a tomb or something.”

Jaheira exchanged a look with Halsin. She sat down at the table across from Gale and reached across to touch his hand. “I’m sorry,” she murmured. “But I cannot sacrifice the city for one man. Even if that man is Astarion. My loyalty is to Baldur’s Gate.”

Gale looked up at her. He exhaled through his nose. “I don’t hold it against you,” he replied, quietly. “But I don’t think I can be involved. I have to stay away. For everyone’s sakes.” He stood up and made his way towards the exit. “Just let me know when you’re successful. And I do want you to be successful. I just want to know when I might be able to bury him.”

The Wizard of Waterdeep didn’t wait for an answer. He closed his eyes and walked out with a confidence that he didn’t have. Once on street level, he allowed his feet to walk towards Sorcerous Sundries and the transportation rune to his tower in Waterdeep. The familiar tower seemed even emptier than before he left. He destroyed the rune so Rolan couldn’t drop in on him unannounced and made his way to his bedroom. Gale collapsed on to his bed, scrunching up that same tattered blanket that Astarion had embroidered, and allowed himself to sob for the first time since their adventures against the Absolute had started.

“I love you Astarion,” he whispered into the pillow. “I will always love you. And one day, we’ll be together again, I promise.”

He knew it would never happen. But if he said it out loud and promised it to the stars, there was a small hope that one small God would take pity on him. There was a small part of Gale that knew that the best option now was one where Jaheira stopped Cazador from whatever domination he was planning and Astarion died as a consequence.

Gale wished he had detonated on the Netherbrain.

Then they’d both be dead.

“For you my love,” Gale whispered. “Consider it most enthusiastically done.”

Astarion sat on the roof of the Szarr palace. He was gazing at the stars. He was calm now. There was about an hour before the sun started to show its face above the skyline of the city. His wounds were healed now, and his brain was empty. His brain was always empty after spending time with his master like that. Normally he had to stay, too, but this time Cazador had merely kissed his forehead and murmured sweet assurances, saying that Astarion should go and decompress somewhere. The master had business elsewhere anyway.

The elf smiled to himself. He would whistle, if whistling were allowed in the palace. He looked up towards the stars, and his smile grew wider as he saw a shooting star dance across the night sky. He screwed up his eyes and made a wish.

I wish for it to be perfect, for the master and me.

Perfect, perfect, perfect.

Astarion didn’t exactly know what perfection looked like, per se. He saw a glimpse tonight, when Cazador had gazed at him affectionately and had whispered, “You did wonderfully pet, the wizard will no longer be an issue.”

The spawn had hummed around Cazador’s cock, sucking on it adoringly. He didn’t know whether he had anything to do with the wizard no longer being an issue, but he was glad of it all the same.

To me

Astarion lightly rose to his feet and scampered across the roof, squeezing through the small window and dropped down into the attic. Astarion was pretty sure that he was the only one who came here anymore. The wooden planks that made the floor were rotting and cobwebs spanned from floor to ceiling. Various ancient torture devices and coffins littered the space, old letters and diaries that Astarion wasn’t interested in were scattered on various bookcases and desks.

The spawn slipped down iron ladders and through hatches before appearing in Cazador’s office. The Vampire Ascendant was sat at his desk, writing something with one of his black raven-feathered quills. Astarion padded silently towards the desk and bowed before his master. Cazador looked up, a glint in his eye.

“Ah, my boy. Feeling better?”

He was. Astarion nodded. “Yes, thank you Master.”

Cazador let out a pleased grumble. Astarion couldn’t help but smile. “How can I be of service, my lord?”

The Vampire Lord grinned. “We’re going to find a devil.”

Chapter Text

Shadowheart screwed up her nose. This was unbelievably dull. The papers were stacked in front of her, full of archaic bureaucratic nonsense, and even more were discarded on the floor behind her, in the little office room she had rented in the Stormshore Tabernacle. She had agreed to help Jaheira figure out what Szarr was planning. She had to. Halsin needed to return to Reithwin but had made the pair promise they’d stay in touch. And Gale… well Gale had been useless. A tiny part of Shadowheart had understood, but she was still living whilst Lae’zel was galivanting off without her. At least Astarion was in the same plane, and they knew exactly where he was, and what he was going through. Lae’zel however…

The cleric sighed. Her mind wandered easily. Back to the farm on the outskirts of the city, where her parents were recuperating and little Xan probably causing chaos. Her heart clenched. She missed Xan. He was long limbed and had ears much too big for his little pointed head. He had just started to crawl and clamber when Shadowheart had left for the reunion. She wished she had brought her with him, just so he could meet an image of who Shadowheart described as his other mother.

She shook her head. This wasn’t helping. She needed to work, to read.

The Baldur’s Gate Committee on Rebuilding – Minutes

Grey Harbour Dock Area – Session 1

Issues:
1. Broken Docks
a. Material – wood.
i. CS suggests stone from IG quarry – IG agrees a lower price of stone if given tax break – idea forwarded to UR
b. Suggested by CS to extend the western side of the docks and repurpose Steel Watch building as naval infrastructure – idea forwarded to UR
c. Labour -CS suggests the Gondian and Ironhand gnomes, now collectively under the charge of BW
i. Complaints from WF, NL, AR about the use of ‘foreign labour’ as opposed to Baldur’s Gate labour
ii. CS counters with the gnomes help in defeating the Absolute, their residence in the city, and their propensity to ask for lower wages – CS suggests a 10 gold per hour for each individual gnome, plus 1000 gold to the gnome community (500 now, 500 on completion)
iii. WF, NL, AR happy with CS suggestion
iv. CS to provide the 1000 gold
2. Iron Throne
a. Decision on whether to keep it?
i. CS offers to purchase Iron Throne outright for 10000 gold – idea forwarded to UR

Shadowheart’s eyes narrowed. Out of all the meeting minutes she had scrawled through, this was the one that caught her eye. The others had included funding for other building city projects, many of which Cazador had paid the bill, but not in these numbers. 11,000 gold, she mused, plus good favour with gnomish engineers and a secret underwater base. Hang on, didn’t vampires burn in running water? Shadowheart dabbed her quill in red ink and scribbled next to the iron throne point:

No other vampiric presence? What does he want hidden from everyone?

She underlined the ‘everyone’ a few more times. Secret underwater base for a vampire? Didn’t make sense.

Shadowheart had spent an hour discussing with Jaheira what Cazador could have possibly meant by ‘Baldur’s Gate’. Shadowheart was fixated on the fact that it seemed to have an equal value to Astarion’s life. Jaheira brushed that off as Cazador wanting them to back off. Halsin hadn’t said anything.

The papers and books still loomed tall on her desk, but it was getting late. The cleric stretched. She wanted to go out tomorrow; to do something that wasn’t sat down reading publicly accessible committee meeting minutes. Her eyes glanced down at the page in front of her.

Tomorrow she’d go down to the docks.

She attached her spear to her back and walked down the stairs. The rock gnome Vicar Humbletoes nodded to her as she made her way to the Statue of Selûne. She bowed her head in front of the statue and whispered a quick prayer to the Moonmaiden. She then straightened, waved a farewell at Humbletoes, and left the Tabernacle out into the crisp morning sun of a Nightal day in Baldur’s Gate. The streets were quiet, the first early morning workers and shoppers barely making their way into the open. Shadowheart loved this time of morning. Back at the farm, her and Scratch would go hiking at this time in the morning, occasionally taking the Owlbear with them.

Shadowheart made her way towards the docks. She passed by the Society of Brilliance and walked down the slope to where Flynn’s Cargo was. She gazed out across the water, once again picturing the Netherbrain screaming as it plunged from the sky, their companions with it, saved from smashing into the sea from a well-timed Feather Fall from Gale. Shadowheart remembered thinking to herself how glad she was that she had taken up on that swimming lesson from Lae’zel. A whisper of a smile swept over her face. She closed her eyes, breathed, and turned towards the dilapidated warehouse that had been Flymm’s Cargo.

The warehouse hadn’t fared well since the fall of the Absolute. The skeletons of the worgs hadn’t even been moved, though it was clear that the place had been looted, with boxes and crates torn apart and thrown all about the place. It smelt rotten, and Shadowheart could taste the mould in the air. The roof had been caved in from falling debris from the fight with the Absolute, and it was clear that the weather had not helped with the decay. She found the hatch, covered in crates and rags, opened it and climbed down the ladder.

The lower floor of Flymm’s Cargo could only be described as metal. All the metal crates were covered in dust, and it made Shadowheart sneeze. She did notice, however, that the metal floor had an uneven coating of dust, meaning that something, or someone, had been down here since their misadventures last year. Shadowheart held her breath, instinctively, trying to see if she could hear anything.

She crept forward and stepped into the holding cell area. The stench of the sewers was the same as always. Shadowheart clocked the entrance to the city sewage system, remembering that from what Astarion had told her, it was incredibly easy to move from Szarr’s palace to anywhere in the city using the sewage tunnels. She noticed slight footprints on the floor and headed towards the machine storage room. The door was open ajar slightly.

Shadowheart cast Pass without Trace. She crouched down and entered the room. Stepping carefully, she stalked up to the railing and looked out across the room.

Cap, the submersible, was still there. Its hatch was open, suggesting that someone had used it recently. But Redhammer, the original captain, was dead…

The cleric held her breath as she heard footsteps echo along the gantry way. She recognised the tall vampire at once, and, eyes widening, realised she knew the short rock gnome with him, too.

“How’s Astarion?” asked Barcus, clearly unaware of the relationship between Szarr and his friend.

“Still not well,” sighed Szarr. Shadowheart knew that his feigned concern didn’t reach his eyes.

But Barcus didn’t seem to notice. “Ah a shame, I’d like to see him again. You’ve got him on a very busy schedule, no wonder he gets ill!”

“And him you.” Szarr was being very polite. “How’s progress on the Throne going?”

Barcus preened himself. “Excellent, if I may say so myself, sir. We have successfully restored the structural integrity of the base and are now working to build the generator as per your specifications. We’re now happy to send whole teams down there now on a rotating basis, as opposed to just one or two at a time. I must say, this whole underwater engineering project is an exciting marvel!”

Szarr gave an approving noise. “I’m glad it’s going so well. You are proving to be your money’s worth.”

“Us gnomes can build anything.”

“It seems to be so. I commend your hard work.” Szarr paused. “I will return next week for an update, Mr Wroot.”

Barcus bowed. “Of course, Lord Szarr. I look forward to it.”

Szarr dissolved into mist and vanished. Shadowheart leant her head on the railing, adrenaline surging through her. What was Szarr planning?

She stood up and called for Barcus, waving to attract his attention. He seemed surprised to see her but happily came up to the entrance of the room to see her. “Miss Shadowheart, how delightful to see you.”

The gnome looked well. He looked more confident than when Shadowheart had last seen him, before they went to face the brain. He wore thick leathers with a badge printed on it. The badge was of two hands clasped together and proudly said

GONDIAN IRON: HAND IN HAND

“You look well, Barcus,” said Shadowheart.

“As do you,” said the gnome. “You’ve got a good sense of timing. A little earlier and you would have met my benefactor, and I doubt that would have gone well.”

“No?” asked Shadowheart, hoping her voice sounded neutral.

Barcus shook his head. “Very secretive. But very rich.”

“So secret that you can’t tell me who it is?” teased Shadowheart.

“Why, hasn’t Astarion told you? It’s his boss after all.”

Shadowheart raised an eyebrow. She could work with this. Barcus didn’t seem particularly inclined to hold his cards close to his chest. “You know what Astarion’s like. He’s a terrible gossip if it doesn’t involve lust and secret love children. I barely know what he does.”

Barcus laughed. “That sounds like Astarion. I must thank him next time I see him; it was him that persuaded his boss to give us this contract.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, the Gondians originally weren’t too happy to be working on the throne after what happened.” Barcus gestured around him. “But the money that Astarion managed to get us...” The gnome whistled. “I had no idea that he was that influential.”

“Have you seen him, recently?”

Barcus nodded. “Yes, he came to our offices in Harpside a few months ago. I tell you; I was most surprised to have a visitor at that time of night. I was just glad I had to work late, Toobin was off on holiday the next day you see, and I needed to make sure all was to help his secretary.”

“I’m glad Astarion was able to help you out,” replied Shadowheart, sure that she had to say something.

Barcus rubbed his hands together in glee. “Absolutely, this Iron Throne project will put Gondian Iron on the map, I assure you. A fully secure, self-powered, self-contained laboratory.”

A laboratory? What did Cazador need an underwater laboratory for?
“Or least, I think it’s a laboratory.”

“You don’t even know what you’re building?”

Barcus shrugged. “It doesn’t really matter to me what it is, as long as I’m building it.”

“Sounds intriguing,” mused Shadowheart. “I’d love to take a look…”

“Absolutely not!” Barcus said, shaking his head. “Out of the question, Lord Szarr will be the first to see it and not until it is finished.”

Shadowheart pouted.

“Don’t make that face at me! Talk to Astarion if you want access.”

Ah yes. That’s simple.

Chapter Text

Astarion’s head hurt. A crippling, throbbing pain behind his eye. If he moved at all, burning screaming pain rushed through his body. He wanted to remove his head from his neck and see if that would help.

Devils, devils, devils, he mused. His master wanted a devil. Astarion had no idea how to acquire such a thing. He had a vague recollection of being in contact with a devil before but he had no real concrete evidence to hook the memory into place. He assumed that his impression of the devil was simply a way for his brain to cope with the torture he had faced on the road. It made sense for it to have been in a devil instead of a wizard who had claimed that he had loved him.

Astarion’s stomach rolled with nausea. His head still hurt. He still had no idea how to find a devil. He wondered how his master had managed to conjure up this specific type of pain. He hadn’t felt it since he was alive.

Astarion felt the complete opposite of alive now. He was curled up underneath Szarr’s bed, forbidden to move until the master returned from his meetings in the city. Szarr had left him this morning, kissed him on the forehead as he always did, and told him to go under the bed. So that is where Astarion stayed. Even if he didn’t know why. Because Astarion was a good spawn, and good spawns always did what they were told.

He didn’t know how long he had been there, the headache was messing with his already poor sense of time, but eventually he heard the telltale click of the heels of his master’s boots on flooring and the door to the bed chamber open. The footsteps made their way over to the bed but Astarion did not dare let himself be seen, or heard, or begin to creep out from under the wooden slats.

“Good boy.”

The headache began to soften.

“Out now, Astarion.”

Astarion’s limbs were asleep, and he struggled to push himself from out underneath the four poster bed that his master now sat on. He ungainly scrabbled and shoved his unwilling corpse into a kneeling position, head bowed and waited for further instruction.

“I’m glad to see that you’re safe, sweetling,” said the master.

Astarion hadn’t realised that there had been a possibility that he would not have been safe. His stomach tightened. The nausea was still there, but it was lessened now his master was being kind to him.

“You’ve had another fright, haven’t you?”

Astarion furrowed his forehead slightly. “I… I don’t remember.”

Cazador cocked his head onto one side. “What can you remember?”

Astarion’s forehead furrowed more. “I… I… have a headache. And I feel sick,” he said, finally, after thinking about it for a few moments. It hurt to think.

Cazador nodded. “Classic anxiety response. You’re shaking, too.”

Am I? Astarion lifted one of his arms up, so his hand was in front of his face. The limb felt so foreign, so unlike Astarion. His vision was blurry, and he wasn’t sure that he could see the hand shake.

“It’s the adrenaline response,” explained Cazador, calmly. “Your fight or flight response.”

“Oh,” said Astarion. He put down his hand. He felt it pressed on the floor, but it still felt foreign, too alien, too not him .

“Are you going to tell me what happened?” prompted the master.

“Happened?” The nausea was swilling around Astarion’s throat now, and he could taste the bile that would accompany it. No, he hissed in his brain, you cannot throw up in the master’s room .

“Aww, baby boy,” cooed Cazador. “It must have frightened you a lot for you to forget.”

It must have done. Astarion considered the things that frightened him. What could it have been today?

“What do you remember?”

Astarion pointed to the bed. “Hiding. Headache. Feel sick.”

“And that’s all?” prompted Cazador.

Astarion thought about this some more before he nodded. “I… think so?” he said, hoping that was the right answer.

“Do you want me to tell you what happened?” asked Cazador.

Astarion had a lot of holes in his brain. One more wouldn’t hurt, surely? But if the master was going to tell him, he might as well know, so he could try and be braver next time.

Cazador waited, patiently enough for a vampire ascendent with a broken minded vampire spawn. His red eyes tracked Astarion carefully, as if he could see every thought that tripped through the elf’s brain. Astarion wondered whether Cazador could fix his brain, make it whole again. Or at least, make it somewhat better.

“Yes please, master,” Astarion said quietly, after a few moments pause. The nausea was still there in his oesophagus; he could feel the pressure building on his chest, like a hand was pressing down on his ribs. Was that the adrenaline? he wondered.

The master reached out with a hand and pushed the spawn down, so instead of kneeling, Astarion was sat on his bottom, legs drawn up to his chest. He allowed his head to rest on his pointed knees. Astarion then realised that he wasn’t wearing trousers, as his claws rhythmically scratched patterns into his skin. He shifted slightly. He still had a shirt on, he thought, and maybe smallclothes? Gods, I really am broken if I can’t tell that! Astarion shuddered with the realisation that whatever was going on with him, wasn’t good .

He looked up at his saviour with doleful eyes. “Help, master, please,” he whimpered, red eyes filling with tears. “What’s going on?”

Cazador sighed as he looked at his eldest son. The lone survivor and his favourite. “You had a fright today,” he murmured, gently. “Some harpers tried to get into the house. To try and steal you away.”

The blood from his stomach rose up then, and Astarion worked overtime in swallowing it back down. He could now feel the trembles as his muscles spasmed. His knuckles creaked and he dug his claws into his calves.

Cazador reached down again and took his hands away, gripping his wrists. “No,” he said, firmly.

Astarion looked away.

“Not now, my boy,” Cazador whispered. “Can you look at me?”

Astarion loved looking at Cazador. His master was beautiful in every way, but he couldn’t bare to look at the disapproval on his face. Astarion remembered the feeling of being caught… not hurting himself, Astarion never considered it hurting himself. Because it didn’t really hurt him. It gave him relief, like he was releasing something from a container too small for it.

“Little star?”

Astarion twisted his neck back round to the front and looked mournfully up at Cazador. “I’m sorry, master.” A sob now made his throat convulse. His head was killing him again. He was so tired.

“Hush now, pet.” Cazador still gripped his wrists. “Not in front of people,” he murmured, “you know this.”

Astarion tried to make himself smaller, but it was hard to do so whilst sat in the position he was in with Cazador holding onto his hands. He twitched slightly.

“The harpers didn’t get you,” murmured Cazador. “They didn’t get near you. The werewolves stopped them.”

A nervous swallow and an audible gulp. He allowed himself a brief glance into his master’s eyes.

“And you did the right thing; you went and hid under the bed. Where they can’t get you.”

Astarion nodded. He couldn’t remember this happening, but he couldn’t remember much.

“There’s a traitor,” hissed Cazador, his eyes narrowing.

Astarion started. “Not me, not me, not…”

Cazador squeezed his wrists threateningly. “I know it’s not you, you idiot,” he snapped. “They’re trying to kidnap you. If you were the traitor, you’d just go to them.”

Astarion flinched at the harsh tone.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, little star,” crooned Cazador, quickly rubbing his fingers over the insides of Astarion’s wrists. “I’m just worried, I would never take it out on you.”

Astarion relaxed.

“Who’s the traitor, master?” whispered Astarion.

Cazador looked past Astarion, out through the window that looked out upon Baldur’s Gate. A winter’s storm crackled and blew its way across the Chionthar, battering the still the recovering city. The vampire was still making those little soothing circles on Astarion’s wrists. “It doesn’t affect you,” said Cazador, finally. “I don’t want you to worry.”

Astarion decided that he wouldn’t worry. This was another thing that the master would take care of.

Cazador let go of his spawn’s wrists and they fell with a thump onto Astarion’s knees. The Vampire Lord looked at his spawn, an interested glint in his eyes. “Come back," he whispered. "Are you okay to do some work now, little star?”

Astarion brightened immediately. He liked work. He nodded and scrambled to his feet as Cazador gave him the signal to rise. He scampered over to Cazador’s desk and sat on the little red stool by Cazador’s desk chair. Cazador followed him over at a more leisurely pace.

“Have you had any more success with the devil, master?” asked Astarion.

Cazador pulled his chair out, not bothering that it hit Astarion in the process. He sat down, cracked his knuckles, and began to pull out pieces of parchment. Most were covered in infernal runes and sigils, much like the one Astarion used to have on his back.

“A little,” replied Cazador, drumming his claws on the mahogany desk. He pulled out a larger piece of parchment and handed it over to Astarion. “What do you make of this?”

Astarion preened, as he did every time the master asked him to do something like this. He took the parchment in his hand and began to read. His brain began to whir. He remembered things like this, he realised, slowly. “Contract law?” he asked, hesitantly, hoping he wasn’t wrong.

The master nodded and Astarion relaxed again, reading the contract. It seemed to be pretty basic, nothing really confusing. A service wanted, a price given. The service was a construct, as far as Astarion could tell, and the price not quantifiable on this plane. “Infernal contract law,” he mused, out loud.

Cazador nodded again. “Contracts are always full of loopholes,” he said. “I want to find one in this contract.”

Astarion read the contract again. He couldn’t really see any loophole jumping out at him. There was nothing obvious. “The terms,” he murmured. “They’re not…”

“Not what?” asked Cazador.

“Solid. They’re open to interpretation.”

“That’s what devil contracts are. It’s how they get you in their clutches. You think you’re agreeing to one thing, but you’re actually agreeing to another.”

Astarion nodded slowly, still reading. “But doesn’t that work both ways?”

Cazador cocked his head.

“Like this one,” Astarion pointed at a clause.

The debtor must show the debtee due deference and respect as such he is owed or the debtor is forfeit

“What about it? The devil clearly wants respect.”

“How can you quantify how much respect someone is owed? There’s no monetary value, and respect differs from person to person.”

Cazador hummed thoughtfully. His eyes narrowed. “Go on.”

“Potentially,” said Astarion, thinking about it some more, “the devil assumes, key word being assumes, himself entitled to high respect. But there’s nothing about a title or any deeds he’s done, or how much money he has, on the contract. Therefore the debtor can assume how much respect the devil is owed. Which may be nowt.”

Cazador chuffed. “You know what, little star?”

Astarion cocked his head onto one side as the master slid his hand down the back of Astarion’s neck and began to rub and massage. “Yes master?” he purred.

“I think we’re going to be very good at this.”

Astarion's head still hurt.

Chapter Text

It was dark and raining. The harper pulled his hood closer around his head as he ran through the streets of Baldur’s Gate. He splashed through puddles and the dirty water splattered his leggings and boots. Flashes of lightning briefly illuminated the harper’s surroundings and claps of thunder echoed around him. There was hardly anyone around; a few hardy tavern goers, even fewer desperate street whores, and a couple of homeless who hadn’t managed to hunker down in the sewers yet.

The harper rounded a corner and noticed a small triangle, written in chalk on the wall opposite. He approached it, and wiped off the marking, before following in the direction that the triangle was pointing in. He kept his bundle close to his chest, heading towards the bridge that led to the Upper City. There were slightly more people here, as there always was at this part of the gate, but the Harper managed to slip through with little problems.

He knocked on a door. A small child opened it, peering through the small crack she had made. Her eyes were accusing until the harper showed her his harper pin.

“Alright,” the girl said, “I guess you can come in.”

The harper dipped his head at the girl and followed her into the house. It was warm, magically so, and full of plant life that the harper would find typical of a druid house.

“Wait here,” said the girl. “Don’t move, you’ll get mud everywhere.”

The harper nodded. He stayed in place, taking his package from inside his cloak and unwrapping the vellum that that had attempted to keep it dry. It had worked, for the most part. He hadn’t believed his luck when he had managed to get hold of it. The girl, who the harper noticed was wearing a wooden sword at her hip, ran up the stairs, taking them two at a time.

The harper didn’t normally find himself running through the streets of the city during a thunderstorm. In fact, his normal position was normally in Sharess Carress, watching for Cazador Szarr’s vampiric spawn. The harper considered himself a hard worker, worthy of being rewarded with promotion within the harper ranks, and he hoped that this secret he had found would be worthy of such a reward.

The High Harper soon stood in front of him, her eyes hard and inquiring. “I hope you have a good reason for coming here at this time of night.”

The harper nodded. “I do, ma’am.” He held out his package.

Jaheira frowned at it. She reached out and took it, weighing it in her hands. “What is this?”

“Information.” The harper swallowed.

Jaheira raised an eyebrow. “Go on. Report.”

Irkhan, the harper in question, had been placed at the brothel for a few months now. The Mamzell Amira knew who and what he was, and didn’t bother him, as long as he didn’t bother the patrons. He was fresh faced and eager, having only joined up after the fall of the Absolute. He was committed and determined to be very good at his job. He knew his brief: find vampire spawn and find out what they’re up to. Kidnap any silver haired ones.

Now Irkhan hadn’t found any silver haired vampire spawn. But he had found one. A beautiful, Mephistopheles tiefling named Araya. Her hair wasn’t silver, but dark as a raven’s wing, with beautiful red eyes that made Irkhan feel that he was looking into rubies. Irkhan didn’t know much about vampire spawn. But he wanted to know about Araya.

So, he watched. He watched Araya who came into the brothel around once a week. It was never the same day, never the same time. Irkhan was clever, he used seeming to disguise himself, so he looked just any other random patron. He was not going to be outed as a harper, not like that idiot Marran who was back on office duty instead of being in the field after being clocked by the spawn he was tracking. Whenever Araya was in, Irkhan watched. She laughed with patrons, bought them drinks, and occasionally went out with them. When that happened, Irkhan followed them.

Usually, he followed them all the way to the gates of Szarr palace. He would watch from afar whilst Araya took her victims back to her master. Irkhan knew enough about what went on at the Szarr palace to know he shouldn’t be fawning over her, to know that technically she was a monster. But Irkhan was a romantic, and he was sure that Araya wasn’t like that. She was doing it against her will. Irkhan had heard stories about spawn still having some free will. Hells, Jaheira herself had mentioned a friend of hers, a brave spawn who had tried to fight back against his master. Irkhan was sure that one day Araya would do it too.

About two months into his watch, Irkhan followed Araya out into the city. It was raining and morning was fast approaching. Araya was clearly in a hurry, and her target was a huge brute of a dragonborn. He was fondling her whilst slurring his words. She kept whispering to him, “Later, later! Wait till I take you home…” It had made Irkhan feel sick, thinking about what Araya was made to do by her evil master.

The dragonborn, however, wasn’t in the mood to wait. He shoved Araya angrily and forcefully against a wall, pinning her with a giant hand on her back, whilst his tail pulled her legs apart. Irkhan couldn’t watch.

He knew that he should turn away. That Araya was a vampire anyway and shouldn’t be tugging on Irkhan’s heartstrings. Besides, Irkhan knew nothing about her. She could be awful, evil, fully deserving of the title of monster. But her pleas. Her pleas stirred Irkhan to go against his training, and he sprang out, sword drawn and knocked the inebriated dragonborn out.

Araya hadn’t screamed. She had smoothed her dress down and turned around, looking at her prey and then at Irkhan. She had sighed. “I guess I should say thank you?”

Irkhan sheathed his sword. “It’s… it’s no problem.” He had stumbled over his words. If it hadn’t already been raining, Irkhan was sure that he would be covered in sweat.

Araya had shaken herself, raised one of her eyebrows, and gazed down impassively at the dragonborn lying on the floor. “Brilliant,” she muttered. She had prodded him with her foot. “You don’t fancy come back with me, do you? As a reward?”

Irkhan had shivered a little at that. It had sounded callous but the lack of effort in her words betrayed Araya’s lack of enthusiasm at her task. “I’m sorry,” Irkhan had replied, “but I know… I know what you are. I know what you do.”

“Whore?”

“Vampire spawn.”

“Shit.” Araya had sighed again and leant her head against the alley wall. “You got a stake in that pocket or are you just pleased to see me?” Her tail twitched, betraying her anxiety.

Irkhan placed his hands in his pockets. “I don’t want to kill you,” he had whispered.

“Why?” asked Araya. Her voice had taken a demanding tone. She looked him up and down. “You are a harper, aren’t you?”

Irkhan couldn’t help the flinch. He had nodded, slowly. “I know… I know you’re forced to do what you do.”

Araya had snorted. “You don’t know the half of it.”

“No, I bet I don’t.”

There was silence between the pair. Araya seemed more relaxed than Irkhan was, as if she was resigned to the inevitable. Irkhan didn’t know what the inevitable was, but he knew that it wouldn’t be good.

“I want to help you,” said Irkhan, finally.

Araya had furrowed her brow, her tail still twitching.

“Please, let me.”

“You don’t know me.”

“I know you can’t want this.” Irkhan gestured to the unconscious dragonborn on the floor. “I know you haven’t been a spawn for long. I know you must have friends and family around who still love you.” Irkhan had paused. “And I know that Szarr isn’t good. I’ve not been a harper for long. But I know that much.”

It was Araya’s time to flinch. “Again,” she had sighed, “You don’t know the half of it.” She paused a moment, as if she were sizing Irkhan up, guessing about his potential. “How would you help me, anyway?”

“We’re trying to take Szarr down. But we need to find out what he is planning. If you tell us anything, then we can use that against him.”

“Fools,” muttered Araya. “Why are you telling me this? I could easily tell Szarr.”

Irkhan shrugged. “I trust you wouldn’t unless you were compelled. And if you did, I wouldn’t blame you.”

“What else?”

“We’re looking for a silver-haired elf spawn.”

“Why are you looking for Astarion?” Araya eyes had transformed from blasé to interested now.

“You know him?”

Araya shrugged. “Barely,” she said. “The master keeps him close. There’s something… there’s something up with him. He has no… no free will at all. He tells us what to do occasionally but normally he’s running around after the master.” She snorted. “I don’t know why you’re bothering with him; he’s basically a dog.”

“I don’t know why either,” admitted Irkhan. “All I know is that we have orders to kidnap him if we see him.”

“Really?” Araya was thinking. “He’s the oldest I suppose. He’s from before the brain. He had escaped and the master had to go find him.” She paused a moment, narrowing her eyes. “It’s funny.”

“What is?” asked Irkhan.

“It’s just that… Astarion is used in two ways…” Araya laughed. “And I don’t think either of them would be useful to the Harpers. I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”

“I’m inherently trustworthy.”

“Are you now? I don’t even know your name.”

“Irkhan.” The harper bowed. “Now you do.”

Araya laughed again. “Fair enough Harper.”

“You said Astarion was used in two ways?”

Araya nodded. “Someone we’re meant to emulate – the perfect spawn. But then also a warning. Of what happens when we misbehave.” She looked up to the sky. “Shit. I need to get back.” She looked down at the dragonborn. “Help me move him?”

Irkhan picked up the dragonborn and hoisted him over his broad shoulders. He followed Araya around the streets until they made their way to the back gate of the Crimson palace. Irkhan recognised that what he was doing was inherently evil, practically delivering a victim to a vampire, and also incredibly dangerous, following a vampire spawn to her master’s lair. But he did it anyway.

He passed the body of the dragonborn over to Araya when they reached the iron gates.

“Thanks,” she said.

“Will I see you again?”

Araya smiled. “You really want to help, don’t you?”

“I really do.”

“You’re a fool.”

“I guess.” Irkhan smiled. “Please, let me help you.”

Araya had cocked her head onto one side. “Fine,” she had said finally. “Same place. Sometime next week.”

Irkhan had seen Araya many times again. She often had no information for him, but Irkhan got the sense that she sometimes just wanted to complain about life in the palace. Irkhan would buy her drinks and would be a sympathetic ear to her troubles. She was nervous about giving away too much, Irkhan guessed, so he never pressed. Sometimes she didn’t talk to him at all, but Irkhan guessed that that was because she was being watched. He could never guess who by though.

The months passed. The information was patchy, but Irkhan knew that the little information Araya gave him was accurate and all that she was comfortable giving him. It became more and more as time went on, as Araya began to trust him. She seemed most comfortable telling him about Astarion. How he was quick to anger, quick to hurt himself. He was the most scared of Szarr’s torturer out of all of the spawn. He spent his days following Szarr’s heels, following orders to the exact letter, and was punished for seemingly nothing by him. Araya had mentioned that the more Astarion was ‘punished’ by Szarr, the more devoted the elf was to him. He was easily spooked and avoided the other spawn; Araya was sure that he didn’t even know their names. He spent time sat next to Cazador, sparing into space, and occasionally crying. It was said that he had nightmares about his time away and would beg for Szarr to keep him forever, that he would do anything.

Irkhan still had no idea why his orders were to kidnap him if he was ever found outside the palace. Araya had thought about it and wondered if it was anything to do with his time away and said she would try and find out what he had done.

This led them to this evening, in the rain outside Sharess Caress. Araya had seemed excited. “Irkhan!” she had cried, running up to hug him.

“Hey,” Irkhan had squeezed her back.

Araya had been practically giddy as she pulled out something from her pocket. It was a small package, wrapped in oilskin to keep it dry.

“What’s this?” asked Irkhan.

“I found it,” said Araya, proudly. “In the ballroom, whilst I was cleaning. I’ve only read a little bit, but it looks like it’s one of the master’s journals.”

Irkhan’s heart skipped a beat. He took the package and quickly placed it under his cloak. “What did it say?”

“Planning more parties, bits about Astarion.” Araya grinned. “Did I do good?”

Irkhan wanted to kiss the tiefling. “Very good,” he murmured. “Thanks for this.”

Araya shrugged. “I better get back; we’re not meant to be out at the moment.” She looked about them briefly before stepping forward and giving Irkhan a peck on the cheeks. “I’ll see you soon,” she whispered.

“Yes,” breathed Irkhan. “I’ll see you soon.”

Araya had turned and melted into the darkness.

Irkhan looked at Jaheira, who hadn’t yet unwrapped the oilskin. “You’re a fool, harper,” she said, finally, after a long pause.

“Maybe,” Irkhan started to protest.

Jaheira raised an eyebrow, cutting him off. “There is no way that Cazador Szarr just leaves his diaries in ballrooms for his spawn to pick up. And there is no way that your…” she waited to choose the correct phrasing, “infatuation with this tiefling has gone unnoticed.”

Irkhan flinched.

The Archdruid finally unwrapped the journal. It was bound in black leather, tied together with gold string. It looked fairly worn, and Irkhan guessed it was nearly full. “This,” said Jaheira, “is what Cazador Szarr either wants us to know, or wants us to think.”

Chapter Text

Jaheira flicked through the journal in her basement office. She didn’t trust it one iota. She had sent back the half-elf harper to headquarters with his tail between his legs. Fool, she thought again. Why can’t people tell when they’re being played? She was settled on a couch, legs curled up under her. The journal was on her lap, and one hand fiddled with Khalid’s necklace around her neck. Jaheira began to read.

The first half of the diary, Jaheira assessed, might actually be true. It was from before the fall of the Netherbrain, lots of ingoing’s and outgoings of the Szarr palace, occasional titbits about the various spawn. Jaheira recognised a few of the names from what Astarion had mentioned on their journeys – Violet, Yousan the gnome, Leon the father. The diary wasn’t sentimental, just lists of party guests. At the end of each day was a number that Jaheira was quickly totting up to equal seven thousand. The seven thousand souls needed for the Rite of Profane Ascension.

The diary became slightly more interesting when Astarion was captured by the Nautiloid. Szarr’s hand, usually so precise, became erratic and scratchy. Jaheira read the entries from right before the fall of the brain:

Astarion failed to return from his hunt this night. Godey informed. He will have the pliers ready when the boy shows himself again.

Still missing. I ought not to be surprised - the boy has always been troublesome. But to disappear now, when we are all but ready? It is unconscionable, even for him.

I have dispatched the brood. They will find him and bring him home. And when they do, I will make him scream for this.

It has been days and he is still missing. No amount of pain has motivated his brothers and sisters to find him. It seems Baldur's Gate has swallowed him whole.

I am searching further afield, but my reach outside the city is limited. In the meantime, the hunt continues here.

Dalyria and Petras returned from today's hunt, rushing to report that they had seen him in Wyrm's Crossing. Their tale was fanciful, but they believe it to be true.

Astarion, standing in the sun's light? Willing and able to disobey me? Inconceivable.

It seems he has become more than troublesome - he is now a liability. But he will be brought to heel.

He will come home, take his place with the others, and complete his purpose.

My spawns fail me. Astarion eludes me. I WILL HAVE MY DUE.

Jaheira remembered the night Astarion’s siblings came to return him home. It was just before Gale was kidnapped by Orin, and right after Shadowheart’s parents were rescued. They hadn’t rented the Elfsong at that point – that was a post Gale kidnapping idea – and had awoken during the night to Astarion hissing and snapping at four vampiric spawn, red eyes glowing with compulsion. They fought with their teeth and claws, as did Astarion, ripping at his siblings’ flesh, snarling like a rabid dog. They had nearly taken him too, if Halsin hadn’t wild shaped and torn off the biggest, Leon, from Astarion’s back. Shadowheart had been bitten whilst trying to cast sunlight on them, attempting to avoid Astarion. It had eventually worked, their flesh peeling and flaking off, causing them to flee back into the night. Jaheira remembered looking across the stone floor of their camp, seeing Astarion sat, shaking, in a pool of his and his siblings’ blood.

“Well,” he had said, trying to come off as unaffected. “You’ve met the family.”

Gale had come and sat next to him and had taken the smaller elf into his arms, hugging him tightly. Astarion had pressed his head into the crook of the wizard’s neck, scenting him, making sure there was no blood on him. It had taken a while for Astarion to calm down. He had wriggled free from Gale’s grasp eventually to check on every other member of the crew, inhaling their scent, checking for wounds. It had unnerved a few of the companions, Wyll and Lae’zel in particular had no idea what to make of it. Shadowheart looked traumatised when Astarion started licking her bite wound. Jaheira and Halsin had recognised the behaviour as part of Astarion’s more animalistic nature. He was checking that his pack were okay, and so Jaheira had let him scent her before scenting him back, sniffing along his neck and patting him down. Astarion had no clue that what he was doing wasn’t exactly human or elf like, but Jaheira was in no mood to prevent him. Eventually, Astarion had returned to Gale and had hidden himself in his arms.

Jaheira had walked past the wizard’s tent that night and had heard the whispers.

“Don’t let me go back,” Astarion had said to Gale.

“I promise you,” murmured Gale. “You will never return to him.”

“You need to kill me, if it even looks like that’s a possibility,” Astarion’s voice had been wobbling and trembling. He had sounded hysterical, and Jaheira remembered her heart breaking as she heard him.

There had been a pause. Jaheira had imagined the wizard wrapping the rogue up tightly in his arms, kissing his forehead, before replying, “You do not have to fear that man again. We’re going to kill him.”

But of course, it hadn’t worked out that way. Jaheira thumbed her way through the next few pages of Szarr’s journal. The vampire lord looked to have been worried about the increased tremors from the brain and had theorised that becoming a Vampire Ascendent was going to be one of the few ways that he may possibly survive it. There was no mention of a new spawn, but Jaheira realised that he must have replaced Astarion by the day they had rescued Gale and killed Orin. For on that day, there was a simple sentence.

I am reborn

Two days later, the Absolute had fallen. Astarion had never had a chance, thought Jaheira bitterly. Astarion’s decision to destroy the Steel Watch and save the Gondians from the Iron Throne, to kill Gortash, then Orin and rescue Gale had sealed his fate. Jaheira wondered then if Astarion had felt anything. Gale had mentioned Astarion making him promise that they would all continue without him the night before they faced the brain. Maybe something had triggered, only temporarily hidden by the tadpole. But maybe Astarion had had an inkling that his fate would lead back to the Crimson Palace and a life of servitude.

It was at this point in the journal that Jaheira became more sceptical. There was something not right about having access to the diary without Szarr knowing about it. She read on anyway.

The connection awoke tonight. Astarion was thrilled to see me. The ascension has deepened our connection, or his adventures have weakened his mind. He told me many interesting things over our session tonight.

Astarion is doing better now than he ever did before. He still cries and screams, but he clearly needs me more than he ever did. He has become precious.

The other spawn hate Astarion. It is clear that he is different, after all, and that they are nothing. He will rise with me, whilst they stay where they or fall. Vellioth had always mentioned a special spawn. Maybe Astarion is mine.

I am fortunate that Astarion tells me everything. He mentioned casually that he had met Ulder Ravengard, just before I was about to bring him to a meeting with the man. No bother, I went on my own. Meeting was a success; the man will be eating out of my hand before long.

Many of the entries were details of meetings with the various patriars and dignitaries of Baldur’s Gate. It was clear from them that Cazador was amassing political and economic power and alliances, but that much had been obvious from Shadowheart’s research.

Ravengard mentioned that he is finally going to reconvene the Council of Four and fill Stelmane’s empty seat. This is the moment.

Astarion has acted weirdly all day, frightening the thralls and spawn. He asked for correction, for help. It seems the cause was a letter with his name on it. He didn’t open it. He knows that all that is his, is mine. He welcomes punishment and is even more beautiful afterwards. The spell works.

Jaheira knew that this entry was for her benefit. All other notes about spawn’s punishments, including Astarion’s had been simple: A was punished for speaking out of turn, D failed to bring food, S was spotted. This one however was carefully crafted. Jaheira looked at the timings of it. The letter, she figured, must have been the invitation from Withers. It was a subtle poke by Szarr to see if Jaheira would be provoked, she assumed. The mention of the Council of Four was obvious too; the empty seat left by Stelmane was an opportunity for Szarr to seize real political power, outside of his donations. It was also a political opportunity that Jaheira’s Harper network could not directly interfere with. Ravengard would not persuaded against Szarr, this much had been apparent from Shadowheart and Gale’s meeting with the duke. This spell, that Szarr mentioned, however…

That intrigued her.

There were a few more mundane entries after this. No more mention of 'The Spell' that had worked. Szarr started noting down the weather for some reason. It was Nightal, and yet the vampire seemed obsessed with noting every rainfall, fog, and thunderstorm. Astarion popped up now and again, for punishments or other activities (Jaheira flinched when she figured out what that might mean).

Astarion was perfect today. The wizard is out of the picture. Three more to go.

That was a clear threat.

It became clear to Jaheira that Szarr knew that Gale would not be able to face him aggressively, if at all, if Astarion was in danger. She sighed. It chastened her to think that the four of them were all so readable. There was nothing else in the diary. Its empty pages taunted the druid. The journal was nothing more than a slight insight in the mind of Szarr, specifically how the vampire lord thought Jaheira would think. Nothing more than the slight possibility of political intrigue. Nothing that the Harpers could involve themselves in. They were a non-political group and Jaheira had to follow that creed. Ulder Ravengard could, theoretically, appoint whoever he wanted to the Council of Four.

Jaheira closed the diary. She leant back on her couch, stretching her legs out in front of her. She wondered what would happen to the tiefling her harper was so obsessed with. Nothing good, she thought, with a slight pang. Irkhan had meant well, but had just given Szarr an avenue to show off his power. It made Jaheira grit her teeth.

The next day a letter was posted through Jaheira’s door. Fig ran into her mother’s office with it. It was marked with a simple ‘J’. Jaheira thought she recognised the handwriting.

She opened it.

Her heart sank.

“Bastard,” she hissed.

The letter wasn’t a letter. It was a list. A list of every Harper in the city, and beyond. It had their locations as well.

Jaheira’s blood ran cold as she read the last few names on the list.

Rion (Elerrathin's Home)

Jord (Elerrathin's Home)

Jhessem (Elerrathin's Home)

Fig(Elerrathin's Home)

Tate(Elerrathin's Home)

Fig hadn’t left the room. Jaheira reached out and grabbed her in a tight hug, not moving when the girl complained about being crushed.

That’s two of us out of the way, she thought, bitterly. What will he do to the other two?

Chapter Text

The girl was ill. Her skin was pale and blistering, pus filled nodules bursting and covering her body with foul smelling infection. Her muscles stiffened, her jaw locked shut. The cartilage in between her joints seemed to be rotting away from the inside. Her eyes will dull, barely tracking Halsin as he tried to soothe the fever that racked her small frame, her lithe chest barely rising and falling as she struggled to breathe through her nose. The disease had come around quickly, and this girl was the third of the refugee children to succumb to it. At least this girl could still blink. The other two, a boy of five and a girl of seven, could not even open their eyes and a film of crust had settled on their pale eyelids.

It was like nothing Halsin had ever seen before. He wondered whether it was a follow up to the Shadowcurse, but Thaniel had murmured to him that it was nothing to do with deities, Sharran or otherwise. Whatever it was, it had terrified the refugee community of Reithwin.

The disease seemed to only affect children. Or, at least, no adult had fallen to it yet. Halsin kept praying to the Oakfather that this would remain the case. Though praying hadn’t done anything so far. It had been a week since the first girl had fallen ill, and there seemed to be nothing that Halsin could do for her. Halsin mopped her brow and had resorted to breaking her jaw so he could manoeuvre it open to pour gruel and water down her throat.

The food didn’t seem to be doing anything for any of the children. Neither did Halsin’s magic. He had called for Isobel, the cleric of Selûne, to assist him, in the tiniest hope that Thaniel was wrong and that this was the result of Shar. He was also glad that he didn’t have to go through this on his own.

Halsin had reclaimed the House of Healing, turning it into a proper hospital. He had ridden it of its Sharran imagery, and the druids that had arrived at the Reithwin enclave had filled it with plants and life. Nettie and Rath from the Emerald Grove had travelled to join Halsin at Reithwin, and Halsin was thankful for their presence. It was grounding for him and kept his mind from wandering into terror.

“You need to sleep.” It was Nettie. Halsin hadn’t noticed the dwarf enter the ward where the children slept.

Halsin shook his head. “She needs to feed. Her jaw has just seized. She needs energy.”

Nettie sighed. She didn’t have the strength to break the jaw bones herself. Instead she watched as Halsin grimaced and grasped the girl’s jaw. The face looked tiny in Halsin’s giant hand, and he flinched as he pulled it down, hearing the joint snap. It allowed him to pull open the girl’s mouth, and drip water onto the back of her tongue. “Drink,” he pleaded, trying to stimulate her throat muscles.

“I can feed her now. You’ve been awake too long.”

How long had it been? Two days? Three? Halsin couldn’t remember. His vision was going blurry, and numbness had spread through his legs. He looked around at his three tiny patients.

“Halsin…”

If Nettie had been capable of growling, she would have growled his name. “Go and rest.”

It wasn’t a suggestion. It was tantamount to an order. Halsin sat back on his haunches before standing. His back cracked. He had been crouched next to the girl for two long. He looked at Nettie sadly.

His apprentice smiled kindly at him as he approached her, on his way out of the ward. She reached out to touch his arm, softly. “You are doing everything you can,” she whispered.

Halsin looked at the ground. He closed his eyes so Nettie couldn’t feel the tears forming in them. “It’s not enough,” he whispered back.

Nettie pressed deeper slightly into Halsin’s arm. “We will find a way.”

By the time that Halsin awoke, another 4 children had been brought to the House of Healing. All were pale and clammy, covered in pustules and infection. Rath and Isobel had joined Nettie; all three barely stirred when Halsin padded softly into the ward. Halsin dragged his eyes along the seven tiny bodies, their breaths barely sounding. They were a mix of tieflings, humans, and half-elves. Halsin’s heart sank as he recognised Doni, the non-verbal tiefling, as one of the new patients. Doni, who had gone through so much, only to fall ill when he was meant to be safe. It broke Halsin’s heart.

Isobel looked over to the Archdruid, a sympathetic look on her face as she took in the exhaustion and raggedness on his face. She sighed. “It’s not natural,” she said, finally.

Halsin cocked an eyebrow. “Shar…?”

Isobel shook her head. “It is not of the same magic as the Shadowcurse.” She paused a moment. “It’s too…necrotic.”

Halsin considered this for a moment. “An undead curse, then, potentially?”

“Perhaps,” acknowledged the cleric. She pushed a silver strand of hair back behind her ear. “I can’t feel any centre to it, if it is.”

“It feels malignant,” said Nettie, as she pressed a cold, damp towel to a young half-elf’s neck. The child squirmed slightly. “It feels evil,” the dwarf tried to soothe the child by drawing a thumb down his side.

Halsin shuddered. He certainly agreed with that. “Necrotic,” he mused.

“It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen before,” said Rath, from where he worked in the corner, washing towels.

The archdruid rubbed his eyes. “What are we going to do?”

The next few days didn’t bring any respite. The whole of the hospital was full of sick and ill children. There was nothing the healers could do.

The ones who had had the illness first looked to be decaying almost, as if their bodies were rotting.

Halsin was sat outside the House of Healing. He was on the ground, cross legged, his back leaning against the crumbly stonework of the hospital. He had been working non-stop, as had every person in Reithwin with a passing knowledge of healing, and had taken a few moments to smoke his pipe, whilst most of the children were asleep.

He couldn’t sleep. He had just felt the flesh and muscles of a human girl slough off in his hand. The insides were black and clotting. He had wanted to vomit but had forced himself to bind the girl’s arm in tight white bandages. Halsin tried to close his eyes, to ease himself into something resembling a trance, but it was impossible. His mind’s eye was full of rotting, gangrenous flesh. The stench of death sat heavily in the back of his throat.

The mute tiefling, Doni, had died two days before. He remembered his guardian’s scream. Rikka had wailed, saying that she had promised the boy’s father that she would look after him. There had been no consoling her. They hadn’t seen her since they had cremated the boy’s body. She had walked off into the forests.

Doni had not been the only death.

Halsin chewed the end of his pipe. It was slightly comforting, as much as anything could be comforting at this moment. A raven cawed above him. A rat scrabbled in the dirt nearby.

The druid opened one eye and observed the rat. It had probably been attracted by the scent of death and putrid flesh.

“It probably wouldn’t be good to eat, little one,” murmured Halsin.

The rat twitched its whiskers. “No. Bad eat.” Its bald tail flicked.

“Should warn your colony.”

“My colony isn’t here.”

“Oh?” Halsin opened his other eye. “Why’s that?” Maybe, just maybe, this rat would tell him some sort of secret about the disease. Maybe its colony had been decimated by the disease. Maybe it knew the source.

The rat sat on its haunches, its beady eyes looking at Halsin with characteristic rat intelligence. “In Baldur’s Gate.”

Halsin felt his hope fade in his stomach. “Why are you here then? It’s a long way to Baldur’s Gate from here.”

“Got message.”

Rats were not a common messenger animal. Birds, yes. Halsin had utilised squirrels and mice before. But not rats. “Oh?” Halsin said again. “For whom?”

The rat’s rounded ears flicked, and the rat considered Halsin. It cleaned its whiskers briefly. “Big Elf Halsin.”

“Well, that’s me,” said Halsin. He couldn’t deny that it was an accurate description.

The rat twitched its tail again. “Good.”

“Is the message from Jaheira?” asked Halsin. “The druid in Baldur’s Gate?”

“Druid?” asked the rat. “You first druid I met.”

Oh, thought Halsin. “What’s the message then?”

“Deaths can be stopped. Disease stopped.”

Halsin’s heartbeat quickened. “How?”

“Make decision.”

“What decision?” Halsin’s eyebrows furrowed.

The air seemed to thicken around Halsin, as soon as the rat had mentioned the word ‘decision.’ It was cloying. It tasted like the scent of death that rippled from the bodies of the ill children and looked like dark fog. It surrounded the druid and the rat. It felt cold and Halsin saw his breath mist in front of his face. The rat was still strangely illuminated. The light around it was pale green and had the tell-tale feeling of magic. Necrotic magic, thought Halsin.

The rat hadn’t blinked either. It stayed on its haunches, staring at Halsin. The druid couldn’t help but feel he had seen those eyes before.

“Promise not to interfere. Disease stop.”

Halsin didn’t say anything.

“No more death. No more ill.”

Halsin blinked. He looked at the pipe in his hand and reached into his pocket. This particular tunic was one that he had worn a lot on the adventure of last year. It still had a present inside of the pocket, meant to be given to someone before they left. The druid took out the wooden bat and rubbed his index finger over the chiselled wing.

“And do I just promise you?”

The rat nodded.

Halsin swallowed. He looked at the rat.

“I promise.”

I’m sorry, my heart.

Chapter Text

Shadowheart paused as she looked at the door. The building itself was nothing unusual. It had been the house of one Lavernica, the former groundskeeper of Bloomridge Park, and Shadowheart knew that it had a concealed entrance to a cave underneath it. After all, they had found a piece of Dribbles underneath its unassuming façade. Now all signs to its former occupation were removed, and all that was left was a door with a strange sigil on it that the cleric vaguely recognised and a small plaque. The plaque was nondescript, made out of bronze, and inscribed with the words:

Astarion Ancunín, Personal Assistant and Lawyer to Lord Szarr. By Appointment Only.

Shadowheart hadn’t believed Barcus when the gnome had said that Astarion had an office. An office with his name on it, like he was a normal employed person, not an enslaved Vampire Spawn. But Shadowheart had done the research and found that Szarr had purchased the home from the city at an exceptionally low rate at the promise of renovating it. Shadowheart could see why he would. It was a hop from the central wall that provided easy access from Cazador’s palace to the Lower City.

She was surprised that Szarr, for all intents and purposes, was renovating it. A second floor had been added, and what looked like an attic. Its walls were freshly painted and repaired. The stench of death no longer wafted from it either.

Barcus had said that Astarion did all his meetings at the office after sunset. It made sense, after all.

That’s why Shadowheart was here at midday. She wanted to snoop and perhaps see if she could do a little forgery that would allow her to persuade Barcus to go to the Iron Throne.

She looked around her. There were a few people walking by, but, importantly, no Fist. She drew out the scroll of Knock that the group had found at the Mason’s Guild in Reithwin all those months ago. The cleric was glad that she had hung on to it, even though it had had practically no real use. Not since Astarion had been around. He had always joked about wanting a skeleton key, but in reality, he was a Skeleton key. Shadowheart drew the symbol in the air and the door opened with a soft click.

When they had been here before, Lavernica’s home had been plain, simple, and covered with dead spiders and duergar. Now this room had been turned into a rather plush entrance room, with thick red carpeting, bookcases, and a small desk. On the wall was a portrait of Cazador Szarr, and an unsuspecting wardrobe covered the entrance to the basement. Shadowheart looked over to the desk.

It was plain and unassuming. An inkpot and a quill, and a couple of sheets of paper. The paper had nothing of interest on it, just what looked like a schedule. It wasn’t written in Astarion’s handwriting. She picked it up and read it:

15 Nightal – Alain
16 Nightal – Siras
17 Nightal – Araya
18 Nightal – Kiara

It didn’t really give Shadowheart much information, though she guessed that this desk must be used by other spawn, as kind of a receptionist to Astarion. To give whatever enterprise they were running here a vague picture of plausibility. She put the schedule down after memorising the names of the spawn. Shadowheart moved towards the stairs. This was completely new.

This floor was clearly Astarion’s office.

The walls were completely lined with bookcases, filled to the brim with books. Books on magic, law, history, engineering, architecture, and even poetry. Shadowheart knew that Astarion loved reading and all manner of books; it’s what had bonded the elf to Gale in the first place after all. There was also a lot of wine, another telltale sign of Astarion’s presence. Ithbank, Baldur’s Grape, Stardust Shandy… lots.

There were plush burgundy sofas and a mahogany coffee table in the centre of the room where Shadowheart assumed Astarion conducted business meetings on Szarr’s behalf. She itched to find out what those meetings were about. On the furthest edge of the room there was a desk. It was much larger than the one downstairs, covered in paper, quills, and journals. Shadowheart found several maps of Baldur’s Gate and the surrounding area. The notes on them were in Astarion’s slanted, yet elegant, hand but were written in some sort of shorthand. She studied the map of the Lower City.

At first, it seemed just a normal map. Shadowheart tried to make sense of Astarion’s scrawling.

He had drawn circles around certain points in the city. The largest was around Szarr palace, and Astarion had shaded it in in green. There was a smaller one around Philgrave’s mansion, an even smaller one around the little house on the shoreline in Heapside Strand. Flymm’s Cargo had a sizeable circle but was shaded in blue. Shadowheart noticed that the House of Grief had a circle too but unshaded. Next to it, Astarion had written the initials “S. R.” Shadowheart peered at the other letters written next to various circles. Philgrave’s mansion had been designated “Sm. R. S.” The shoreline hideout just “S” and Flymm’s Cargo undesignated.

Shadowheart studied the map some more. In the areas without circles there were occasional asterisks. One was by the Graveyard to the north of the city, and one just above the old Steel Watch Foundry. Another by the headquarters of the Baldur’s Mouth gazette. There was a question mark over what Shadowheart recognised as Crimson Draughts and one by the Elfsong tavern. The marks didn’t seem to have any correlation with each other. Not that Shadowheart could gather anyway. Astarion had scribbled ticks on a few more buildings too; Shadowheart recognised Old Garlow’s Place, Flymm’s Cobblers, the Blushing Mermaid, and the Chromatic Scale.

The cleric moved on from the map and found what she was looking for: a piece of headed paper with the words:

The Office of Lord Szarr, A Ancunín

Shadowheart could make a forgery work on this. Astarion was a scribbler, and his handwriting didn’t seem to be that consistent. It would work to Shadowheart’s advantage. She placed it in the pocket of her robe and began to turn to leave the office when there was a soft thunk.

And then pain.

Shadowheart looked down at her hand. A dagger had been thrown at the desk, perfectly aimed to just scrape the top of her hand, wobbling slightly where it had hit the wood. Shadowheart turned around.

“What are you doing here?”

It was a feral snarl.

A plain looking human was growling at her. They were perched precariously on the rungs of a rope ladder that led, Shadowheart presumed, to the new attic of the house. The human was clearly a spawn. He crouched like Astarion did, fangs bared, shoulders drawn up to his neck. His red eyes were narrowed at the cleric.

“I’m looking for Astarion.”

The spawn snorted. “No one looks for Astarion.”

Shadowheart gestured around her. “This is his office, isn’t it?”

The spawn shrugged. “By appointment only,” he hissed. “As it says on the door.”

“And how do I make an appointment?” asked Shadowheart, almost sweetly.

“You don’t. Lord Szarr makes appointments for Astarion.” The spawn hadn’t blinked.

“This was a bit of a wasted journey for me then, wasn’t it?”

The spawn didn’t reply.

Shadowheart took a few moments to take in the spawn. He seemed more rigid, more wound up, like a coiled spring, than Astarion had been when they had seen him at the Crimson Palace. There were no glowing eyes like the rest of Astarion’s siblings had had, but there was just an edge of something. Something that Shadowheart couldn’t quite place but guessed was compulsion.

“I’ll just leave then, should I?”

The spawn’s eyes narrowed to slits, like a stalking cat. “You’re the cleric, aren’t you?” he asked.

Shadowheart tilted her head slightly. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, I am. Shadowheart. And you are?”

“Alain.”

There was a pause. Shadowheart didn’t expect the spawn to actually give his name.

“You could kill me.”

A brief spark.

“I’m not going to.”

Alain cocked his head onto one side, again very animalistic in his nature. “Why not?”

Shadowheart shrugged. “You haven’t done anything.”

“I’ve done lots of things.”

“Under compulsion? You’re not responsible for the crimes of your master.”

“The master hasn’t committed any crimes.”

This ‘edge’, as Shadowheart had decided to term it, clearly wavered in its severity. Sometimes Alain twitched at his words, sometimes his eyes widened, and sometimes his voice was monotone. It flickered from sentence to sentence, as if the ‘edge’ was allowing him to say some things, and not others.

“Are you sure he hasn’t?” asked Shadowheart. “You’ve not been with him very long.”

“Astarion would know,” snapped Alain. “Astarion says he hasn’t.”

“And what do you know about Astarion? And how do you know I’m a cleric?”

Alain had the self-awareness to look around shiftily. “You hear things,” he said, after a while. “Astarion screams in his sleep.” He paused. “And in his daydreams, when the master isn’t there.” The human spawn refocused his gaze on Shadowheart again. “He screams your name, sometimes. Then screams about burning. Radiant burning.” Alain shrugged again. “Doesn’t take a genius to put two and two together.”

Shadowheart didn’t quite believe him. There was an element of truth in his words, to be sure, but there was something that didn’t quite add up.

“How did you know what I looked like?”

Alain looked at her disdainfully. “You smell like a cleric.”

Shadowheart raised an eyebrow. Astarion had never mentioned being able to smell people particularly well. Maybe he was just being polite and not mentioning it? Wait. Astarion’s never polite. “I don’t think that’s a thing.”

Alain’s eyes narrowed again. He began to move backwards and forwards on his perch. “Like you’d know,” he sneered. “You need to leave.”

“I will,” said Shadowheart. She was feeling weirded out by this. She had a voice in her head, probably Lae’zel’s, going, Chk, just kill him already . She squashed it down. She began to head towards the stairs down to the lower floor, causing Alain’s head to follow her progression. She heard him scramble down the rest of the rope ladder and follow her, easily six feet away. Shadowheart did not look back until she was out of the door, when she paused and called, “Tell Astarion I called by!”

The Edge came back in that moment. “You should go home,” the Spawn advised. “I get the feeling something is looking for you.”

“What the hells does that mean? Tell me!” demanded Shadowheart.

Alain visibly flinched and he scowled. “If I wanted my bowels removed, maybe,” he muttered. He scurried forward the last few feet and slammed the door behind Shadowheart, leaving her alone on the porch steps. Shadowheart looked up to the sky, barely past midday. If she hurried, she could make it back to the farm by dawn. It was just to check in on her parents, she told herself, and little Xan of course. They were due a check in. A little check in, then back to Baldur’s Gate to continue investigating. Easy.

The Edge unnerved her.

Chapter Text

The night was dark. The rain lashed down and the wind hurled through the streets. It was the sort of weather where hail and snow would be expected rather than a surprise. The sort of weather that would keep most people inside.

There were two figures, however, who were stalking the streets of the Lower City with a purpose and a poise that suggested that they didn’t care about the weather. The first did anyway. The second followed with a demeanour that said that his purpose was one of Following.

One had a cloak, but underneath was rich clothing that would be deemed unsuited to the current climate but suggested that the wearer prioritised looking wealthy as opposed to practicality. The other was wearing a thin white shirt and black trousers that suggested that he didn’t care about anything.

It had been so long since Astarion had had shoes on his feet that he didn’t notice the gravel digging into his soles. Any scratches would heal anyway, so why should Astarion care at the stones gently scratching his skin. He supposed a perk of being a vampire as well was that he didn’t shiver; didn’t feel the cold, not really anyway. He was also very good at seeing in the dark, and this helped him a lot with his nerves, as he padded through Baldur’s Gate. Seeing in the dark meant he could see threats , and that was important to him. He wanted to be able to see where the daggers were coming from, so he could dodge out of the way. Some might call him paranoid. He called himself prepared .

Though the elf did have to admit that it wasn’t very likely that something would happen to him at this precise moment. Because the Master was with him. And Astarion was always safe with the Master.

So Astarion padded quietly through the dark streets, following his Master like a shadow. This was not the first time he had been out since he had returned to the Crimson Palace. He enjoyed his little excursions to the small office by the park, where he could pretend to be both alive and a lawyer. He didn’t like that he was always accompanied by one of the Spawn. They annoyed him. The Master didn’t annoy Astarion. The Master didn’t feel the need to have a conversation whilst they walked through the streets. The Spawn did.

It occurred to Astarion that he recognised where he was going. Of course he did, he snapped angrily to his brain, he’s lived here two centuries. He knows every crack in the pavement, every lose tile on every roof. His brain really needed to be quiet sometimes .

Do you know everything? replied his brain, quietly. Can you remember?

Yes, retorted Astarion, angrily. He just didn’t … want to. Some memories are best left hidden.

Astarion shook his head to rid it of the conversation. The Master chuckled at his spawn, arguing in his head. Astarion wanted a blank brain.

The vampiric pair crossed the bridge at the northwest of the Lower City. Cazador led and Astarion followed, not really paying attention. He registered that they entered a building, and that it stank of dust, old books, and stale blood. His nose twitched at that scent. He was used to fresh now.

The old Astarion would want to lick the floor, Astarion told his brain, proudly. He’s improved.

The current Astarion licks something else, his brain countered.

Astarion hissed, quietly. He followed his Master and vaguely recognised that they were descending down below the city. His bare feet disturbed cobwebs and vermin droppings. He could hear the squeaks of bats hiding in crevices.

“A poor colour scheme choice,” remarked Cazador, jolting Astarion out of his stupor.

Astarion looked around. “Very purple,” he supplied.

“Nothing gets past you,” sighed Cazador, his boots echoing on the stone floor.

He gestured Astarion to wait and sit on the floor behind him. Astarion crossed his legs and leant forward, chin resting on his hands. Before them was a halfling thrall holding a squirming sack. There were a few other thralls as well, a variety of humanoid creatures, as well as a couple of werewolves, their tails gently waving in the still air. Astarion didn’t much like the werewolves that kept Cazador company. He felt on edge around them.

The sack squeaked.

“Is this it?” asked Cazador, nodding towards the sack.

The halfling bowed, her eyes glowing with purple light. “Yes, my lord.” Her hair was curly, obviously styled well, and Astarion wondered whether the thralls had the freedom to choose their appearance, or whether Cazador specifically ordered her to style her brown locks in a specific way each morning. Astarion would ask, one day.

His brain snorted.

The halfling dropped the sack in an undignified manner.

Astarion narrowed his eyes at it as it wriggled. He opened his mouth to the taste the air. There was no blood on the thing in the sack, as far as Astarion could tell. One of the dwarven thralls had a scratch on him, but nothing on the thing in the sack.

Not yet, muttered his brain, darkly.

Astarion shook himself again.

Cazador hadn’t moved towards the sack; he seemed to be musing over his thralls. He turned to one of the werewolves (Astarion did not care which one) and snapped his fingers. “All has gone to plan, I hope?” The Vampire Lord’s voice was cold yet bored, as if he were asking about the weather.

“Yes, mi’lord.”

Werewolves always sounded as though they had multiple frogs stuck in their throats and fur growing in between their teeth.

“Good.” The Master clicked his fingers again. “You may go.”

The order was meant for the sentient creatures. Some of the thralls left with them, but a few remained, flanking the two vampires and the Something in the sack.

“Little Star?”

“Hmm?” Astarion perked his head up.

Cazador gestured towards the sack. “Early or late birthday present for you.”

For him? Astarion delicately rose to a crouched position, leaning back on his haunches. He surveyed the sack cautiously.

“Are you not going to open it? Are you going to throw my generosity back in my face?”

Astarion heard the spit from Cazador’s words hit the floor and he also heard the threat in his master’s tone.

He crept carefully towards the sack. He reached out with a hand towards the opening, his stomach turning as it began to squirm more. He pulled the drawstrings lose and glanced back at his master.

“We don’t have all night.”

Astarion swallowed and reached into the sack. His hand touched hair.

A head?

A small one. It had teeth, judging by the way the Something tried to snap at his wrist. It barely grazed him. Small teeth. Astarion narrowed his eyes. Baby teeth? He hadn’t even thought of the concept in years. He reached lower down and wrapped his hand around what he thought was most likely a neck.

He pulled.

The Something was a creature. An alive, young, creature. What struck Astarion most was its ears. They were huge, not fitting its head. Astarion wanted to pull on one, to chew it, to lick it. The eyes were weird too. They were reptilian or maybe amphibious in look. Large and yellow with a narrow slitted pupil. They were full of fear. The skin matched the eyes, green and spotted. It had limbs too long for it, gangly and obviously were not being controlled well by its owner.

Astarion dropped the Something on the floor. It echoed.

“What do you think?” asked Cazador. He was staring at his Spawn as the pale elf sat back down fully on his rear again.

Astarion cocked his head at the Something. “What is it?” he asked.

“Do you not recognise it?”

Astarion shook his head.

Cazador hummed. “First, rip off its ear.”

Astarion had wanted to feel the ear. He felt his claws extend. The Something whimpered. Astarion could feel his brain try and talk but he really wanted to feel the ear, and ripping it just felt right.

Astarion cracked his fingers.

He dug his claws into the Something’s ear tip, relishing how they plunged into the green cartilage. It felt nice.

It felt right.

Astarion pulled down and tore the ear from the side of the Something’s head.

The Something screamed.

Astarion flinched at the noise. He sniffed at the air. Blood. Warm. Enticing. Cazador prodded Astarion’s shoulder and held out his hand. Astarion placed the dripping extremity onto his Master’s pale hand.

Cazador turned to one of the remaining thralls and gave it to her. The thrall soundlessly ran out of sight. Cazador clicked his tongue as the Something’s wails eventually devolved into whimpers and whines.

“Is it young?” asked Astarion, finding his voice again.

Cazador nodded. “A baby.”

“Oh.”

“You’ve seen an adult version before.”

“Have I? I don’t remember.”

Cazador smiled one of his thin smiles that seemed to just be reserved for Astarion. “Yes, little star,” he murmured. “They were horrible to you.”

“Oh,” said Astarion, again. He stared at the Something. A bigger version of this hurt him?

“More than hurt, little star. They tortured you. Used your body against your will. Broke your spirit.”

“Oh,” repeated Astarion. He cocked his head onto one side again. He looked at the Something, curled up and crying, and tried to remember.

“They’re a brutal race, the githyanki.”

Githyanki?

The eyes of the Something seemed familiar. Astarion got glimpses of a memory, of those eyes peering at him through the dark, of those eyes above him hungry for something.

Hungry for him?

A whine escaped Astarion’s mouth.

“I’m sorry little star to bring these bad memories up,” crooned Szarr. He rubbed the crown of Astarion’s head, pushing his claws gently into the scalp. “But this one, this one is related to the one that hurt you.”

“Related?”

Cazador nodded. “This creature’s mother hurt you.”

“Mother?”

Cazador nodded, massaging firmer now. “And by hurting you, she hurt me,” he whispered.

Astarion’s red eyes widened. “Not hurt the master,” he panicked.

“If you had died as she originally wanted you to,” continued Szarr in a lilting, comforting, hushed voice, “then what would have happened to me? I would have been heartbroken. What could I do without my little star?”

Astarion swallowed. He felt tears well up in his eyes as he thought of a heartbroken Cazador. Cazador who had rescued him and took him back home and cared for his wounds and his tortured brain. “Father,” whimpered Astarion.

“Shush, shush, no need to get upset. You’re back, safe and sound, so I am fine,” murmured Cazador. He reached down with the hand that wasn’t in Astarion hair, and wiped underneath Astarion’s eye with a claw, picking up one of the tears that had fallen. “Though don’t you think she needs to suffer as I have suffered?”

Astarion nodded, wildly. A growl bubbled in his throat.

“An eye for an eye, a claw for a claw.” Cazador bent down so his mouth was right next to Astarion’s ear. “A son for a son?” he hissed.

Astarion’s lip curled in a snarl, and the growl escaped. His fangs unsheathed and his claws itched.

“Don’t kill. Just hurt.”

Astarion leapt.

He avoided the jugular. He avoided the fleshy organs that living creatures needed. He wasn’t sophisticated; slashing and slicing and slitting and scything and shredding and stripping. He plucked out an eye and crushed it. Skin was in tatters and blood welled beneath his claws. He tasted blood in the air and his mouth, on his tongue. It decorated his teeth.

He couldn’t hear the screams that became sobs that became snivels that became silence.

He couldn’t hear his growls and snarls. The way his teeth gnashed against young flesh. The way his claws tore skin.

“Stop.”

Astarion stilled.

“Back.”

Astarion rolled back on his heels.

“Here.”

Astarion crept to his master. He knelt.

“Good boy.”

Chapter Text

Shadowheart’s farm was not that impressive to look at. She could have found somewhere, well, more , but she found that the small stone buildings and the beginnings of the surrounding moorland suited her. Even though her status as ‘Hero of Baldur’s Gate’ could have afforded her a holding ten times the size, complete with (hopefully dashing) farmhands. But Shadowheart wanted peace and quiet. Her parents needed peace and quiet.

It never got too cold on the farm. Shadowheart appreciated that. Even in Nightal, even on a night like this with howling wind and rain, she didn’t need to spend too much money on heating. Shadowheart was frugal; she didn’t like spending money when she didn’t explicitly need to, a hang over from her Sharran days she always supposed. Nightal was full of uncharacteristically heavy rainfall this year, but even so the stone buildings kept Shadowheart’s family safe and warm. Her main extravagance was the small shrine to Selûne that she had had constructed. It was a middle finger to Shar, certainly, but mainly Shadowheart had it built for her parents’ benefit. Like the peace and quiet, however, the cleric found herself in front of the statue more and more.

The farm wasn’t usually completely silent anyway. But animal noises, reasoned Shadowheart, were a different category of sound. Soothing where a person’s voice was jarring. Even Buttons’ howls were a balm to the Hallowleaf family’s worries and fears. If anything, it was a sign of safety; a small wolf cub singing to the moon.

Dusk was approaching as Shadowheart crested the final hill. The wind whipped around her, chilling her chin, causing her to dig her hands into the depths of her pockets. The stone buildings, however, welcomed her home. She shouldered her pack and moved down the hill, carefully picking her way down the stony outcrop. As she looked towards her destination, Shadowheart thought about why she was here. A sending stone would have done it, wouldn’t it? Dad knows how to work those. . Shadowheart didn’t know why Alain had spooked her so much. She logically tried to reason it out. She thought about compulsion. About how some sentences, some words even, that had been Alain’s, but others had been the silver tongue of Cazador Szarr. She thought about Astarion.

“Their obedient puppet,” Astarion had explained, each plosive sound precise and bitter, like he wanted the words to stop coming out of his mouth at all. Like he was ashamed of what he had been reduced to.

The Astarion that Shadowheart had known was far removed from a puppet. He was surprisingly full of life for a dead person. Catty, certainly, with a selfish streak and a penchant for fancy language whilst being unequivocally unapologetic about himself. Even when he had hidden his true identity from the group, he had been witty and sharp-minded. He was sharp edged, dynamic. But the Astarion that Shadowheart had seen at the Crimson Palace… That had been nothing more than a ventriloquist’s dummy, his tongue completely used and controlled by Cazador, despite the Vampire Lord’s lips not moving. If she hadn’t known the trick, she would have thought it had been fully Astarion. Alain, however, had been different. Shadowheart reflected that there had been flickers of a unique personality, a personality that differed greatly from the words he said; something not completely smothered by Szarr.

Shadowheart reached the bottom of the hill. It was at this point that she expected to be tackled by Scratch and an Owlbear unaware of his size. She shivered. It was cold.

The door was open.

Shadowheart narrowed her eyes.

It was one thing that Arnell Hallowleaf was particular about. Being kidnapped and tortured for decades would do that to a man. Doors remained closed.

A low whine rattled through Shadowheart’s core.

The cleric pushed the door open.

In stereotypical fashion, it opened fully with a creak. Shadowheart fell to her knees.

His fur was stained red, eyes dull. His ears weren’t pricked, and his claws were torn. The dog had fought, that much was clear. A large gash welled on his flank. An ear twitched and a lip curled in a whisper of a snarl as Scratch didn’t fully recognise Shadowheart as deep scratches had destroyed his eyes.

“Te Curo,” she whispered.

Scratch whined as the magic tried and failed to heal his wounds.

“ Te Curo! ” she said again.

No, not Scratch… First Lae’zel, then Astarion, it couldn’t be Scratch… They had trusted Shadowheart to look after, to protect…

“Te Curo! ” she shouted.

The magic bounced off.

Scratch closed his eyes.

“No…”

Shadowheart pushed herself off her knees. She walked into the home, throat convulsing, shaking, trembling, tears already falling down her pale face. She blinked rapidly. As if doing so would stop the sight in front of her. Render it obsolete.

Blood covered everything.

Bile rose in Shadowheart’s throat. Her skin immediately became clammy with sweat. She struggled to control her breathing.

In…
Out…
In…
And Out…
In…
And Out…

A distinctive smell hit the back of Shadowheart’s throat.

The scent…

The stench…

The distinctive aroma that accompanied stale blood and freshly made corpses.

Shadowheart’s chest heaved. She grasped for the mantlepiece.

Arnell’s eyes were open. His eyebrows were furrowed; lips curled in a snarl as he defended his wife. Emmeline’s eyes were closed, and if it were not for the gash at her throat, Shadowheart would have thought her mother asleep.

Shadowheart’s breathing sounded too loud. There was too much noise, too much sight, too much…

Too much…

She sank to her knees. She closed her eyes.

Xan.

Xan.
Where was Xan?

Shadowheart screamed until her voice was hoarse and cracked. “Xan! Xan!”

She tore through the house, discovering murdered animal after murdered animal. Four dogs with their tails severed, eight cats with throats torn out, nine chickens with heads ripped off necks, four sightless sheep with red stained wool, six featherless pigeons with broken beaks, Daphne the milk cow with udders destroyed and daggers plunged in her eyes and the odd little squirrel sliced in half.

Shadowheart found the Owlbear in Xan’s room.

He still wasn’t fully grown. He still had fluffy downy feathers in places. He was still a child in the way he followed Scratch. How he played with Xan. So bouncy and full of life.

His feathers were crimson, and eyes dull. He had been bitten by beasts with large teeth and jaws. He had gotten one, Shadowheart saw the corpse of some werewolf lying underneath his claws. But it hadn’t been enough to stop another beast plunging into his neck. Shadowheart hadn't been enough...

Shadowheart reached out with a hand and gripped a few of the feathers from his head. “To defeat the Absolute,” she whispered, “to be hunted by beasts. Maybe we should have left you with the Goblins…”

Another death to add to tally of people that Shadowheart could not save.

She stepped over the body.

Xan’s room was empty.

She felt her heart shatter.

Lae’zel had trusted… believed… keep Xan safe…

Shadowheart gripped the wooden crib that Halsin had made, decorated with stars and planets and owlbears and dogs. Her tears kept falling.

On the bed of the crib was a single, green, ear.

It had not been a clean cut.

It wasn’t knife work.

It was animalistic, bestial.

It had been ripped from Xan’s head. Claw marks were still present in the young’s flesh.

Shadowheart looked up. Unwilling to keep looking at her greatest failure.

On the wall, written in the Owlbear cub’s blood was written:

LOSS

It was a joke, a stab in the heart, scrawled there for all the world to see of Shadowheart's inability to do anything successfully. She had failed Shar, and she had failed her family. She had failed her friends. She had failed her son.

There was a whine from behind her. She turned and fell to the ground when the wolf cub limped towards her.

Maybe there was one life she would be able to save. But as she looked at the wolf cub, she realised that the cleric had failed. She would never be able to save anyone.

Chapter Text

Nightals in Waterdeep were cold. Icy winds whipped around the harbour, the ships creaking and groaning under the strain, ropes dusted in frost. The waves were dark, white tipped crests bashing against the wooden docks. The fish stalls that littered the bay were closed, wooden boards nailed firmly across windows and doors. Further inland, shoppers braved the weather in determination to buy midwinter cheer; hot mulled wine and roasted chestnuts. There was a hum of activity, typical of a city this far north and used to the chill.

The so-called Gale of Waterdeep saw none of this, however. He had entered yet another prison sentence of his own making. He spent his days locked in his study at the top of his tower, reading and drinking wine, a picture of academic solitude if hadn’t been for the absent look in his eyes and his continued absence from his place of work. His desk was messy, as always. Covered with quills and inkpots, coloured ink splattering the wood, and reams and reams of parchment, scrolls and tomes.

Gale didn’t really know what he was researching. He didn’t know what he was working on. He wanted something to hook him, something to grab his attention. He wanted the obsession, that sense of hyperfocused purpose that had accompanied his research on Netherese magic. His brain yearned to be scratched, to be satisfied with something.

So, Gale read and read. He read on all the schools of magic, following whatever paths his interest briefly sparked. Tara only became worried when the tomes turned to darker aspects of necromancy but luckily the phases were swift.

Tara called Gale depressed.

Gale said that he was just lacking purpose .

Gale thought that he was just lacking .

Which is why that he ignored Tara’s reasoning that if he wanted a purpose then all he had to do was to go back to Blackstaff and his teaching post. He could illuminate the young minds with glittering examples of illusion. That would give him a purpose.

Gale refused. It wouldn’t stop him from lacking .

His mother tried to drop in on him from time to time, delivering meals with green things in them. Morena imagined Gale shrivelling into a skeletal husk, pale and decrepit. Gale thought the description apt, at least on the inside, and was in no inclination to do anything about it. In reality though, much to Tara’s worry and despair, the quantities of wine that Gale was imbibing meant that his skin was permanently red and puffy. He hiccoughed often and slept when the wine haze took over, slumped over his desk. Gale ate the green things when Tara forced him too, by levitating spoons next to his mouth and threatening grievous bodily harm if he didn’t open his mouth and swallow.

“Mr Dekarios.” Tara prodded him with a paw, claws extended. There was no softness with her interactions with Gale anymore. Sharpness was how she roused him from alcoholic slumbers.

“What?” grumbled Gale, not raising his head from his hands on the desk. His hair was long and tangled, and if he had been more aware, he would have noticed severely more grey streaks in his brown locks. His beard was long and scraggly. It didn’t bother him.

“Mr Dekarios.”

“What?” snapped Gale. “Go away Tara, I’m working.”

The tressym growled. “With all due respect,” she hissed in a tone that had no respect in it at all, “you are not working , you haven’t worked in weeks .”

“Fuck you.”

“I will elect to ignore your rudeness.”

“Just ignore my existence.”

“As your familiar I can’t exactly do that.” Tara’s eyes narrowed as she surveyed her wizard.

“What do you want, Tara?”

“You have a message.”

“Tell the message to fuck off.”

“No.”

Gale snorted, head still on the desk, muffling his mouth. “What’s the point in a fucking familiar if you don’t do what I say?”

“I am a creature of magic bound to help you in magical experiments and adventures; I am not a slave to your whims.” Tara’s meow was harsh and cold.

Gale did not respond from his position on the desk.

“Do you want to know what the message says, Mr Dekarios?”

Gale huffed and shrugged. “I don’t much care.”

“No, I don’t imagine you do.” Tara ruffled her feathers. “Do you want to know who it’s from?”

Only if its Astarion or Death itself , thought Gale, grumpily. Actually, no, not Death. Withers would only speak in riddles. .

Tara said nothing. She didn’t move either.

“Fine,” sighed Gale. Bloody tressym won’t leave him alone until she delivered the bloody message and told him who it was from.

“It’s from Miss Hallowleaf.”

Gale snorted again. He raised a hand and waggled it in a vaguely continue gesture.

Tara rolled her eyes. “She says she needs help.”

Another huff. “I’m not much use to anyone,” grumbled Gale.

“If you were perhaps an actual wizard…”

“As opposed to what? A fucking failure of a man?” snapped Gale, raising his head for the first time that morning.

“I wouldn’t have put it so vulgarly,” meowed the tressym, calmly, “but you seem to have gathered my feelings on the matter well.”

Truth, reasoned Tara, was always better than coddling . Morena Dekarios coddled and it did nothing more than make Gale believe more that he was, in his words, a fucking failure of a man. Tara would always endeavour to tell her wizard the truth.

Gale narrowed his eyes.

“Yes, yes, very threatening dear,” Tara brushed him off. “Anyway, Miss Hallowleaf requests you help her find away to contact a certain Lae’zel?”

“I’m not getting in the middle of their domestic issues.”

“I don’t think that this would qualify as getting in the middle of,” said Tara, “more of a carrier pigeon role as opposed to a relationship counsellor.”

“Carrier pigeon?” Gale raised his voice. “I am an archmage not a stupid bird.”

“Hmm,” said Tara. Pigeons were decidedly more useful and better to be around than Gale, she thought. They were also tastier. . “You’re not much of an archmage at this point either, Mr Dekarios. As far as I recall, archmages actually do things.”

“I am doing things!”

“Drinking wine does not count.”

Gale growled.

“I am so scared right now,” Tara deadpanned. “Are you going to ruffle my feathers?”

Gale said nothing. He reached out for a half empty bottle of wine that he had been halfway through drinking the night before.

“Don’t you think you’ve had enough?” asked Tara, tiredly. “I’m sure your liver is calling out for more adequate hydration.”

“My liver can go fuck itself.”

“You have become quite rude recently. All this profanity does not suit a man in your position.”

“What position is that?” Gale lifted the wine to his lips and drank, not even tasting, just wanting the warm feeling that came with alcohol. The wine he drank was foul. He only bought the worst ones. All the good bottles he had would not be touched. For a certain pale elf would have liked them. And Gale was not allowed anything that Astarion would have liked.

“Apparently an Archmage and so-called Hero of Baldur’s Gate.”

“So-called,” mocked Gale. He put the now empty bottle on the desk, letting it topple over, red drips spotting over parchment and joining the ink splatters.

“Really, Mr Dekarios? Your mother brought you up better than this.”

“Watcha gonna do? Tell on me?”

Tara narrowed her eyes again and fluffed out her tail behind her. “Yes.”

Gale laughed. “See if I care,” he muttered.

“You know, you’re turning into your father.”

“You didn’t know my father.”

“That’s what your mother said to me.” Tara waited for Gale’s reaction, hoping to snap something out of Gale’s psyche, hoping that he would react with the fire that Tara knew was in him.

Gale’s shoulders drooped even more.

If Tara swore, she would have sworn.

“Well,” said the wizard. “She would know, I suppose.” He tapped his fingers on his desk, thoughtfully. “I wonder if alcoholic depression is genetic?”

“Do you want an answer to that?”

Gale sighed. “No.”

“Are you going to help Miss Hallowleaf or not?”

Gale glared at Tara.

“Again, I’m terrified,” said Tara, dryly.

Gale kept glaring at her. He then sighed and looked down at his desk. “Where is she?”

“Where do you think?”

“She’s not here, is she?” asked Gale, suddenly worried, trying to peer behind Tara to see whether the tressym had been hiding a cleric behind her wings.

Tara sighed, exasperatedly. “No,” she grumbled, “You’ve not let anyone in this tower apart from me since you ingested a piece of Netherese orb.”

Gale didn’t reply. His silence was pointed.

“She’s in Baldur’s Gate. Apparently, she wasn’t happy that you had destroyed the teleportation sigil at Sorcerous Sundries.” Tara paused. “Neither was Rolan, to be frank.”

“How do you know all this?”

“Lia.”

“You talk to Lia?”

Tara nodded.

“What? How? Why?”

“The tiefling is polite. She brings me fish as an offering.”

Gale rolled his eyes. “I’m not even gonna…”

“Miss Hallowleaf is staying at the Stormshore Tabernacle,” said Tara, in response to Gale’s original question.

“I can’t go back to Baldur’s Gate.”

Tara looked at her wizard, curiously. Gale hadn’t spoken about his tumultuous and abrupt departure from Baldur’s Gate. Tara, as she was wont to, did not press. She had assumed that Gale would tell him in his own time. Gale hadn’t told her yet. She had guessed that it had had something to do with Astarion.

Gale was shaking his head. “I can’t go back. Not until…”

“Until what, Mr Dekarios?” Tara tried to make her meow soft.

Gale sighed. “Szarr.”

“Astarion’s…” Tara hesitated to use the word sire , even if it was academically accurate to do so.

“Yes,” grunted Gale, “Astarion’s.”

He paused, lost in some thought, eyes dazed. Tara left him to brood. She wouldn’t prod at this. Her natural inquisitiveness would allow her to wait; she knew if she asked for more then Gale would clam up.

Gale shook himself after a few months. “Szarr, he’s planning something. Something that he doesn’t want us involved in.”

“Do you know what that is?” asked Tara.

Gale sighed again. “No,” said the wizard. He looked out of the window, gazing out on the stormy sea beyond. “I can’t imagine it’s good though.”

“So why aren’t you stopping him?”

Gale dragged his eyeline to Tara and raised an eyebrow.

Tara said nothing.

“Astarion.”

Tara nodded, waiting for Gale to continue.

“Astarion, Astarion, Astarion.” Gale slammed his fist on the desk. “That… that… thing ,” he hissed, “is using Astarion’s life to stop us from doing anything. To stop me from doing anything. I can’t investigate, can’t do anything against him, because if I do… if I do…”

“Astarion dies?”

“Worse probably.” Gale scratched his nose. He sighed again. “If it was as simple as Astarion just dying I’d probably take that deal. It would be better for him.” He looked at Tara, sadly. “I didn’t tell you what Astarion was like, did I?”

Tara shook her head. She sat down and curled her tail around herself, neatly resting the tip on her paws. “You haven’t told me anything, Gale,” she meowed, softly.

Gale swallowed. “I’m sorry,” he breathed. “I’ve been a bastard, and I know it. But Astarion… seeing him again… it makes me want to die and bring the world with me.”

“What’s happened Gale?”

“You never call me Gale,” he said, absently. The wizard looked back out of the window again. “Am I that pathetic?”

“I’m that worried about you. We all are.”

“I’m worried about Astarion.”

The silence descended again.

“He’s…”

“Compelled again?”

Gale shook his head. “No. Not compelled.” He paused again, and Tara could see the cogs in his brain whirring as the wizard thought of the correct wording. “Broken and rebuilt,” he finally said, quietly. “Broken, Destroyed, Recreated. As some Cazador puppet or dog. The perfect spawn.” He flinched at his own words.

“So, he’s not living then?”

“No, I guess not.”

“And you’re happy leaving him to that not life?”

“No… But what choice do I have? I could make it worse for him.”

“Only if you fail,” murmured Tara.

Gale did not respond.

Tara’s ear twitched. “Can I be honest?”

Gale nodded.

“You’ve got three options, Mr Dekarios. One, you do nothing and you hole up here, stop helping your friends, and drink yourself to an early death on subpar wine, alone and depressed. In this option Astarion remains under Szarr’s thumb, broken and living a shadow of a life whilst Szarr grows in power and destroys Baldur’s Gate.” Tara flicked her tail. “Option 2, you go back to the city, and you find out what Szarr is doing, you help your friends. You save the city from Szarr and Astarion in the process. And Option 3, you go back to the city, you find out what Szarr is doing, and you fail miserably. You die, Szarr tortures Astarion, and he wins.”

“Option three sounds pretty shitty,” commented Gale.

“But at least you would have tried. Your death would mean something. One last act of love for him. Better try and save him then leave him to his fate, don’t you agree?” asked Tara, quietly.

Gale didn’t respond straight away. He leant back in his chair, exhaling through his nose. “You’re right,” he said, finally. “As always Tara. Insightful and erudite.” He gave a small smile. He closed his eyes, shook himself. “Tell Rolan to get the sigil up and running. I’m going back.”

“First you’re having a shower and eating the pie your mother dropped off for you two days ago.”

Gale laughed.

To Tara, it sounded beautiful.

Chapter Text

Shadowheart looked terrible.

Bloody hells, thought Gale. That’s probably what I’ve looked like for the past two weeks.

Shadowheart hadn’t even plaited her hair, and that’s how Gale knew she was in a bad place. The hair, normally bright and healthy, was knotted and oily. Her eyes were wide with huge bags underneath them. Her skin was paler than usual, with dirt and grime encrusted on her face. It was clear that she hadn’t looked after herself.

“Gale,” she croaked. “Why are you here?”

“To help,” replied Gale, softly. “I want to help, Shadowheart.”

The cleric looked at him forlornly. Her eyes were blank and filled with tears.

“Can I come in?”

Shadowheart shuffled backwards, letting Gale into her small room in the attic of the Tabernacle. Gale moved quietly, trying not to disturb her too much. “Shadowheart…”

“He’s taken Xan.” Shadowheart looked down at the floor. “He’s taken… he’s taken my little boy.”

“Oh Shadowheart.” Gale’s heart broke.

Shadowheart screwed her eyes shut. “My parents are dead. Scratch and the Owlbear cub are dead. My life…”

There was a whimper from underneath Shadowheart’s small single bunk. Gale peered into the gloom and saw two mismatched eyes and a white ear.

Shadowheart saw him looking. “Buttons survived,” she said. Her voice sounded as if she had run out of emotion with which to give it light and shade.

“Oh Shads,” Gale stepped forward, awkwardly. He held out his arms and Shadowheart flung herself forward, resting her head against his chest. Gale wrapped his arms around the cleric and held her as she grieved. He manoeuvred them to the bed, sat down, and drew Shadowheart close, supporting her on his legs. He rested his chin on her head, remembering vaguely that Astarion used to find this helpful whenever he had had a nightmare.

They stayed there for a few minutes, Gale gently rocking his friend.

“I’m sorry,” said Shadowheart, from her position with her face squashed against Gale’s chest.

“For what?” asked Gale, trying to gauge whether humour was appropriate. “Apart from snot all over my robe I don’t think I can hold any grudges against you.”

A small titter from the cleric against his chest. She extracted herself and slid next to him on the bed. She drew her wrist against her eyes and shook herself. “I needed that.”

“I needed it too,” said Gale, quietly. “I’ve been a mess.”

“Yeah, I thought you would be,” said Shadowheart.

Gale raised an eyebrow.

“What? You’re that sort of person.”

I love being known as a mess of a human being, thought Gale bitterly. Instead, he flashed a grin. “I live to fulfil expectations, my dear.”

“Can you help me then?” asked Shadowheart, suddenly.

“Get a message to Lae’zel? Yes, I imagine I…”

Shadowheart shook her head. “No, I mean… I mean, well yes, I do want to tell Lae, but I want to get Xan back.”

“Of course, I am at your disposal,” said Gale, earnestly.

“They left me his ear,” whispered Shadowheart, hoarsely. “They tore off his ear and left it. In his crib.”

Gale’s heart broke again. He took one of Shadowheart’s hand in his and rubbed soothing circles with his thumb. “I’ll help you get him back,” he murmured. “Whatever it takes, I’ll do it.”

“Even if it costs Astarion his life?”

There was a pregnant pause. Gale looked out of the window. He couldn’t see the Crimson Palace from this angle, but he could sense its presence. A malignant spectre just outside of his periphery. He sighed.

Shadowheart did not break the silence.

“I’ve… I’ve been thinking.” Gale scratched his chin. Tara had made him trim his beard and comb his hair before he left for Baldur’s Gate. “Astarion… Astarion isn’t living, not really. He’s not himself. He’s… he’s not the man I fell in love with.” Gale’s voice was soft and low. His eyes began to fill with tears, but he blinked them away rapidly. I’m here for Shadowheart, he told himself, crossly. Get it together you cretin! . “Szarr says he will torture Astarion and Astarion will blame me if we cross him or try to find out what’s going on. But he’s already torturing Astarion and Astarion already blames me.” Gale shrugged, as if he was trying to dismiss what he himself was saying. “I don’t think that Astarion’s death is the worst option. I need to try and free him, or try and kill him, or die trying.”

“I’ve not heard you so committed since Mystra,” sniffed Shadowheart.

“I love him,” said Gale, simply. “I love him more than anything and I would destroy the entirety of Toril for him. The love I have for him makes the affection I had for Mystra seem like a schoolboy crush on a teacher. Which, come to think of it, it was. What I had with Astarion was the real thing.” He closed his eyes and rested his head on Shadowheart’s shoulder, briefly, before lurching himself back upright again. “I cannot leave Astarion to suffer alone.”

Shadowheart seemed to think about Gale’s words. “Then we need to find out what Szarr is doing.”

“You’re not scared off? What if he harms Xan more?”

“I would be a fool if I thought that he hadn’t harmed Xan more. I bet he has, and I bet he used Astarion to do it.” Shadowheart shook her head. “Szarr is not getting away with this,” she hissed. She looked at Gale, a glimmer of sharpness back in her eyes. An unspoken question being asked on her face. A commitment wanted.

Gale shook his head. “No, I’m with you, Shadowheart,” he said, softly. “Stopping Szarr… Astarion isn’t living the way he is. And I need to help. Szarr crossed a line when he kidnapped a child. Whatever he’s got on Jaheira or Halsin or any of us. He’s hurt a child, a baby.” He cracked his knuckles. “He needs to be destroyed.”

Shadowheart gave him a small smile. “Thank you, Gale. We’ll save him, whatever it takes.”

Shadowheart filled in Gale on what she had found out. The Iron Throne, the Gnomes, Astarion’s office, her encounter with Alain the Spawn. The maps that she had found on Astarion’s desk, the fear she felt when she realised that Xan was probably either already dead, turned into a vampire, or actively dying. That’s what had given her the resolve to continue. Lae’zel, Shadowheart had reasoned, would not be cowed to threats, even if they included Xan. She would just work harder to take her enemies down. Damn their threats.

Gale thought that that was exactly what Astarion would do too.

He had easily forged his lover’s handwriting on the headed paper. A note to Barcus allowing him and Shadowheart to whatever Szarr was building underneath the sea. He didn’t know what Shadowheart was expecting to find, just that the cleric had fixed them with a Look whilst they meandered their way through the streets of the Lower City.

“I’m telling you,” she said, gruffly. “There’s something there.”

Gale decided to believe her.

Their wander to Flymm’s Cargo was purposefully non-purposeful. Shadowheart had argued that Szarr would definitely know that Gale would be back; he seemed to know everything that was going on in the city. The best way to go about coming back, therefore, was (according to Shadowheart) to act like Gale was merely visiting the city for leisure.

“But I’m going out with you,” Gale had protested.

“Read: desperately trying to contact my former partner because my parents are dead,” Shadowheart had retorted, dryly.

Gale had thought about this and decided not to press too much. He saw Flymm’s Cargo below them. He had never been here before. The warehouse was bigger than he had imagined it would be, from what the others had told him. When Astarion had regaled him with the tales of what had happened while Gale had been in the Temple of Bhaal, the Iron Throne was a mere footnote. A case of Astarion wanted to kill Gortash, so he had to disable the Steel Watch, and the Gondians wouldn’t fight back if their families were still being held hostage. Astarion hadn’t cared about the gnomes, and Gale had gotten the sense that he had felt nervy being so far deep underwater.

“Vampires can’t go underwater,” said Gale, as Shadowheart pushed open the doors to the warehouse.

“No,” replied Shadowheart. “I suspect Szarr can though. You know, ascension stuff.” She shrugged and made her way to the trapdoor.

Gale followed her. “So, there’s no chance of running into Astarion then?” he asked, trying to keep his voice light as he descended the ladder.

“Don’t sound too hopeful Gale. We don’t want Szarr’s attention too heavily focused on us.” Shadowheart reproached him with a look. “But no, from what I could gather Astarion’s only been to the Iron Throne once and that was when he went with us. He handles the logistics of Szarr’s dealings, buying property, making deals with craftsmen’s guilds and the like. Nothing practical.”

“Ah,” said Gale. The wizard looked uneasily around him. “Stinks down here,” he commented.

Shadowheart snorted. “Sewage and Seawater. What a combination.”

The cleric made her way down the corridors towards the machine storage room. She walked confidently. Gale followed, trying to act as confident as Shadowheart looked.

The circular machine storage room was not as full as it had been when Shadowheart had spied on Cazador. There were a few gnomes hanging around towards the centre, where Cap was docked. None of them were Barcus, but Gale recognised the hair and blindfold of Zanner Toobin. He had been introduced to him at the party at the Elfsong after the fall of the brain.

“Mr Toobin!” called Shadowheart, getting the rock gnome’s attention.

“Miss Shadowheart.” Toobin turned around. He bowed his head to the cleric.

“You remember Gale?”

“The wizard? Ah yes. Greetings Archmage.” Toobin bowed his head in Gale’s direction.

“Good morning, Mr Toobin,” Gale bowed as well before remembering that Toobin couldn’t see him.

“How can I help you both? Barcus isn’t here and this is his baby really,” Toobin murmured in his even tone.

“No matter,” said Shadowheart, cheerfully. “He just said that if we wanted to have a look around down there all we had to do was get permission from Astarion.” She triumphantly removed the forged note from her pocket and handed it to Toobin who passed it onto one of the gnomes next to him.

“If those pesky busybodies are so interested in a hump of metal beneath the sea, be my guest. Feel free to poke your dirty little noses wherever you like. Signed Astarion xxx.” The gnome read out the note to his boss.

Toobin chuckled. “I’ve not had much to do with Mr Ancunín but that the note sounds like his tongue.”

An odd turn of phrase but Gale would deal with it.

“We alright to go down there?” asked Shadowheart.

Toobin nodded. “We’re working topside today anyway. Lord Szarr has given us permission to take over this warehouse for ourselves. We’re just sorting it out.” He gestured towards where Cap was docked behind him. “You know how to work it, don’t you?”

Shadowheart nodded and led Gale to the submersible.

The pair were quiet on the descent through the water. At any other time, Gale would have been in wonder at the engineering spectacle and thinking of all the applications that he could use Cap for, being able to conduct experiments at different levels of pressure, how did magic react when submerged in seawater? Instead, the wizard’s mind was curiously blank as the metal beast sank through the sea.

“He hasn’t made many design changes,” commented Shadowheart, as the structure loomed in front of them and Cap docked.

“Just making it workable then, as opposed to a grand monument to his achievements?” wondered Gale.

“I suppose so.” Shadowheart thought about it for a moment. “Other vamps can’t get here. There’s no one he can show off his achievements too. It’s not like Ulder Ravengard is going to be particularly impressed with the knowledge that Szarr sacrificed 7 thousand and 7 souls from Baldur's Gate to Mephistopheles, is it?”

Gale grunted an agreement. “Let’s just see what’s down here.”

What struck them first was the smell. It hit them like a knife to the throat. Gale thought that his lungs would break as the stench seeped into his cells. He saw that Shadowheart was taken aback by the pungent odour too; her eyes were wide, and lips pursed together. Gale could also see that Shadowheart definitely recognised that smell.

“Oh, Gods Gale,” Shadowheart whispered. “What have we walked into?”

Gale did not say anything in response. Instead, he followed his nose down one of the corridors. The air felt thick and cold down here, as if the temperature of the sea was the temperature of the construct itself. It was dark, the only light a dim specteral glow from the light that had managed to filter through the dark sea above them, basking the place in an eerie grey glow.

The gnomes had mended the floors, covering them with sheet metal. There were grates every so often, every couple of feet or so, with grooves that led to them. Gale quickly realised that liquid was expected to pool down these corridors, in quantities that needed an effective drainage system. The floors too had to be easily cleaned. On each side of the corridors were cells and from every one of them the smell of death permeated.

“Do you think the gnomes come in here anymore?” asked Shadowheart.

Gale shook his head. “Barcus has morals. He’d know something was up if he smelled this.”

Shadowheart murmured her agreement and took the lead, casting a light cantrip on a ring on her finger. Gale vaguely recognised it as one that Lae’zel had given her in the creche after they had fought wolves in the Kithrak’s office. The wizard followed the cleric and her light. Metal clanged as the Iron Throne flexed and creaked under the water. It set Gale’s teeth on edge.

The stench became more and more overpowering.

“Shall we have look in one of the cells?” asked Gale, quietly.

“The main source of the smell is coming from down here,” replied Shadowheart. They continued moving south along the corridor.

Gale’s eyes widened.

Before the pair were tables, lined up neatly with gaps in between each so people could move around them. And on each table, was a corpse. Gale, holding his breath, moved to the closest one.

Their skin was an eerily fluorescent green, and their throat ripped out. A strange miasma floated around them, dark green in colour and surprisingly thick, like smog, wrapping tendrils around the body. The corpse itself looked to be human, stripped naked, eyes wide and jaws open in a scream.

“Shadowheart?” asked Gale, trying not to vomit.

“They’re all the same,” mused Shadowheart. “Green skin, this weird smoke thing…” she clapped her hand over her mouth and nose. “I don’t think we should be breathing this in,” she said from beneath her palm.

Gale looked around at the other bodies. He copied Shadowheart’s hand position before replying, “Their throats have all been torn.”

“I guess we now know what Szarr is using his spawn for.” Shadowheart looked around them.

The metal creaked and clanged around them. Gale felt his chest tighten and sweat began to bead on his forehead, despite the cold. “Shadowheart… I think we should go…”

“But what’s he using these bodies for?”

“I don’t know, but I don’t think we should be here…”

Clang.

Clang.

Clang.

Silence.

“Gale?”

“Yeah?” Gale began to step backwards slowly towards the direction they had come in.

“Did you hear that?” Shadowheart began picking her way across the room.

“Yeah,” repeated Gale, quietly.

“You don’t think…?”

Gale heard Shadowheart audibly swallow.

“You don’t think there’s someone down here, do you?”

Gale stayed still and didn’t respond. He didn’t know why he suddenly froze.

But then…

A flicker

Something out of the corner of his eye, and he dragged his head around to find the source.

There, on one of the tables so neatly and precisely laid out, a finger twitched.

Gale wasn’t an expert on healing magic. He wasn’t an expert on health. But he could recognise necromancy and suddenly the room swelled with it.

Bones snapped, ligaments cracked, and air rushed out of dead lungs as the corpses rose from their slumber.

“Oh shit.”

Gale lunged forward and grabbed Shadowheart by the arm. “We gotta go, now!” He spun on his heel and made to run down the corridor. Gale didn't look back, and didn't lose his grip on Shadowheart's arm.

"Gale, what the fuck!"

"I don't know!" screamed Gale.

Doors opened from all sides of the corridor as the inhabitants of the Iron Throne made their move.

Chapter Text

“Zombies?” repeated Jaheira, incredulously.

Gale nodded. “Animated undead, whatever you want to call them.” His skin was pale and clammy, and he had huddled himself into a corner of Jaheira’s couch in her underground office. Shadowheart was in the opposite corner, staring in front of her, having collapsed after telling the story to the Harper.

The flight from the Iron Throne had been… well it had been something. Gale remembered drips and drabs, his grip on Shadowheart’s arm so hard that it had left bruises in her skin in the shape of his fingerprints, his heavy breathing, the overwhelming odour of death as the undead had come at them in unrelenting waves. Shadowheart had had briefly enough wherewithal to cast Sunlight. The line of crumbling zombies had been satisfying but they just kept coming. Gale remembered pulling the cleric up the ladder to Cap before casting Chain Lightning to give them enough time to flee.

The pair had rushed past Toobin and the other gnomes, pausing only for Gale to empty the contents of his stomach over the gantry way into the water. Shadowheart had taken over the directions then, yanking Gale behind her, nails digging into his purple robes. They had fled the warehouse, and Gale hadn't recognised where his feet were running to before he collapsed at the door to Jaheira's house.

It had been Minsc who had opened the door. The ranger had been surprised to see them but he had (or Boo had told him) realised that something was wrong. He had taken Gale and Shadowheart under each arm and carried them to Jaheira's study. He stood next to the druid now, Boo nestled into the crook of his neck, a confused look on the Rasheman’s face.

“What in the hells is that man doing?” asked Shadowheart, finally. She tried to rub some colour back into her cheeks with her hands.

“Not man, but monster! An undead horde underneath the sea.” Minsc shook his head. Boo squeaked. “Yes Boo, you are right as always. Sounds like fairytale.”

Jaheira said nothing, but Gale watched her expression carefully. She hadn't said much whilst Shadowheart had relayed what had happened under the waves. A couple of eye movements, flickers of her lips, suggesting she wanted to say something but was forcing herself not to.

“What do you think, Jaheira?” asked the wizard, softly. He remembered the Jaheira he had met at the Last Night Inn, bold and brave, like lighting made flesh. He remembered how excited Karlach had been to meet her hero and how the druid had surpassed all of the giddy tiefling’s expectations. She didn't look like that now. She looked older, somehow. More frail.

Jaheira blinked slowly. “I don't know,” she said quietly, after a moment’s pause.

“Don't worry Boo, Jaheira will always come up with a plan!”

Jaheira sighed. “I don't know,” she said again. She rubbed her temples with her hand. “I don't know whether I can come up with a plan.”

Shadowheart narrowed her eyes. “He's got my son, Jaheira.” Her tone was cold.

“Believe me, I know the feeling.” Jaheira sighed again.

Shadowheart snorted derisively.

Gale said nothing. He just watched.

“Szarr knows the location and name of every Harper agent in this city. He knows my children. Part of his aims seem political, and I can't interfere with that…”

“He knows where your children are. He's got my son and ripped off his ear to prove it.”

Gale couldn't help his flinch.

The cleric pushed her way to her feet and glared at the druid. “I will sacrifice everything to get rid of Szarr.”

“You have nothing left to sacrifice, little cub. I have everything to lose.”

“So, you're just going to give up? How do the rest of the Harpers feel knowing that you're willing letting an evil creature take over the city just so that they're not in danger?” Shadowheart wasn't even trying to keep her voice calm. Danger and ire soaked every syllable.

“It's called leadership…”

“It's called cowardice!”

Shadowheart was squaring up to Jaheira now. The druid looked even smaller and older than she did before. Shadowheart’s eyes were narrowed and hands clenched into fists. Jaheira blinked back at her. She shot a look at Minsc who gave a tiny shrug. Gale felt slightly removed from it all.

Jaheira attempted to drag Gale back into the conversation. “You can't talk to me about backing away,” she snapped, clearly trying to get some of her old authority back.

“I… I made a mistake,” said Gale, tentatively. He hated admitting to mistakes. He didn't like being wrong. He felt he was being wrong more and more lately.

Jaheira snorted. “And you're willing to sacrifice Astarion for this harebrained scheme that is going to get every person you've ever cared about killed anyway?”

“I wasn't living before. And neither is Astarion.” Gale tried to breathe normally. Talk with authority, like he 100 percent believed in what he was saying.

“And we haven't got a harebrained scheme that's going to kill us yet. We've got nothing because we've spent so long hiding and running away in fear. And I'm sick and tired of it!”

“We need to think of the people who will be affected by this…”

Shadowheart snorted. “What, like the entirety of Baldur’s Gate if Cazador wins?” the cleric snapped, venom lacing each word. “Like my son who had his ear torn off by a bloody vampire? Like my parents who lived through so much only to be mauled to death by fucking werewolves?” Her voice was a crescendo and Jaheira the object of her frustrated anger. “This is bigger than just Gale not being able to save Astarion and you know it! You never liked him, you always felt he was below you; you always treated him like a bloody animal…”

“How dare you?” Jaheira matched the cleric’s fury. “I loved Astarion like a son…”

“That doesn't say much considering you abandon your children every chance you get.” Shadowheart was shaking now.

Gale exchanged a panicked look with Minsc who was staring at the confrontation in front of him with wide eyes.

“I protect my children,” Jaheira hissed.

“Well, I'm trying to protect mine!”

Gale was trying to figure out when the right point was to intervene and how best to do it.

Jaheira took a deep breath. “I understood Astarion's nature. You treating him like he needed to be wrapped in cotton wool was not good for him.”

“I treated him like a human being who was hurt and needed help. Because I'm a fucking cleric!” snarled Shadowheart.

“Astarion isn't human!”

Silence.

Gale’s brain helpfully supplied: well, no, he's an elf. But that's not what Jaheira meant.

Jaheira inhaled deeply. She closed her eyes briefly and fixed them on Shadowheart. “He isn't human, he isn't an elf. He's been a vampire an awful lot longer than he was alive. He can't remember being an elf. You treated him like he was an elf, which isn't helpful. What you helpfully termed ‘anger issues’ was him being him. You can't shut that away from him.”

Shadowheart narrowed her eyes even further. “You sound like Cazador.”

Silence.

Gale spotted the magic dancing around Jaheira’s fingers and recognised that now was the time he needed to intervene. He took a deep breath, pushed himself up to standing, rolled his shoulders, and pushed his way in between the cleric and druid. The wizard extended his arms, pushing the two half elves away from each other. “Now this, this, is not helping anybody.” He stared at Shadowheart like he would a student needing discipline at Blackstaff.

Shadowheart looked away.

Jaheira looked at the ceiling.

“No matter your differing views on how Astarion should have been treated…” Gale knew that the vampire would have hated both methods. “The crux of the issue is that Cazador Szarr seems to have an army of the undead under the sea. I feel like that should be what we are discussing?!”

Shadowheart grunted.

Jaheira swallowed.

Minsc made as if to speak but was silenced by a glare from his druid.

Gale sighed, exasperatedly. “Bloody hells, the pair of you… Last time I checked I was the one who had bloody meltdowns like this, not you two. So put aside your anger for one minute and act like fucking adults.”

Jaheira sighed. “Sorry Jenevelle.”

Gale flinched. Oh, for fuck’s sake.

Shadowheart twitched. “Sorry Archdruid,” she drawled.

That was as good as Gale was going to get. “Now, some ground rules.” He glared at the pair of them. “Emotions are running high, but we do not shout at each other. We also, do not mention how people may or may not have treated Astarion. That clearly will not get us anywhere. We also address the fact that this could end absolutely terribly for everyone involved or not involved . It is more than likely that people are going to die.” He swung his head round to face Jaheira. “Now you, High Harper, are going to accept the fact that you cannot protect every single Harper. And that every single Harper who signed up to be a Harper knew that there would be danger, it’s kind of expected in the job. So, you need to tell them to be very fucking careful. Because, with all due respect, you need to get your head out of your arse and recognise that you are absolutely itching to do something about Szarr; do not let that bastard win by pressuring you into apathy.”

Gale rubbed the bridge of his nose. He swivelled on his heels to glower at Shadowheart. “And you, Shadowheart, will understand that Jaheira is understandably worried about her children and that does not mean that she does not care about Xan. We will all be civil, we will all understand that every single one of us has quite a lot of skin in this game.” He exhaled. “We do not have the time to be arguing like this,” he said, softer. “Do I have your agreement?”

Jaheira nodded.

“I guess,” said Shadowheart, sullenly.

“Verbally please, Jaheira.”

“You have my agreement and my oath that I will not behave like a bratty child again.”

“Thank you.”

“What shall I promise, wizard?” Minsc beamed at him.

Gale sighed. “Just… just you keep doing what you’re doing, Minsc.”

“Of course, and that means following Boo’s every directive!”

“Good, good.” Gods, Gale had a headache.

Gale made everyone tea. Chamomile to be precise in order to calm everyone down. He wished he could have sneaked valerian root in but managed to persuade himself that he needed Jaheira and Shadowheart to at least be awake. This was not good for his blood pressure, especially after a few weeks of drinking nothing but shoddily fermented red wine. He scratched his forehead, took a sip of hot tea, burnt his tongue, put the mug down and cleared his throat.

“Now,” he said, trying to avoid using the tip of his tongue. “What do we think is going on?”

Gale refrained from using profanity. It had been another rule he had recently imposed to stop tempers flaring too much.

Jaheira had rolled out a map of the Lower City. She gestured to Shadowheart to draw the circles that had been on Astarion’s map, handing her a quill. Shadowheart worked quickly, remembering the different sizes of circles and whether they had been shaded in or not. She couldn’t quite remember the notes Astarion had scrawled beside each circle, nor the asterisks and ticks that had been on random buildings, but it had been a good start.

“It looks all random to me,” said Minsc. He had not received chamomile tea. It was too calming for his brain if he still wanted thoughts, he had explained to Gale, cheerfully.

Jaheira looked thoughtfully at the map. She tapped the abandoned smuggling house on the shoreline. “This one will be easiest to investigate, I think. The others are too…”

“Important,” supplied Shadowheart. “More people around them.”

“Exactly.”

Gale leant back on the sofa. “Why does Szarr need undead for anyway?”

“An army?” suggested Jaheira.

“He’s a vampire ascendent. I would have thought he would have had more panache.” Shadowheart scratched the side of her neck and pulled a strand of hair back behind her ear. “And zombies aren’t exactly panache.”

“A show of his power, maybe?” asked Gale. “But I feel there must be a bigger purpose to it than that. That smoke that was around them, that wasn’t normal animate undead. That was a much greater magical force.”

“An alarm, perhaps? To wake them up in case they were attacked?” wondered Shadowheart.

“Magical alarms are normally more subtle than that. Or more often than not, they’re runes of some kind.”

“Szarr is a sorcerer. Would that mean he had a different way of going around things than a wizard?” asked Jaheira, thoughtfully.

Gale shook his head. “Magic is magic. Whether it’s internal or academic. A magic missile is a magic missile whoever decides to cast it.”

“I know you didn’t get a good look, but was it coming from the bodies or was it surrounding them?”

Gale looked at Shadowheart. “I would have said encompassing?”

The cleric nodded her agreement. “It felt thicker the closer to the corpse you got though,” she added.

Jaheira tapped her fingers on the desk where the map lay. She paused in her tapping and her eyebrows quivered. “What about the bodies as a spell component?”

The wizard cocked his head to one side. “That’s dark magic if it is. But theoretically possible.”

“He’s done dark magic before,” said Shadowheart, quietly. “It’s not exactly out of character.”

“What could he want, though?” Gale rose to his feet, as if a different height would give him literally a different perspective on his problem.

“He wants Baldur’s Gate,” replied Shadowheart. “We know that.”

“But why is he going about it like this? He has Ulder Ravengard eating out the palm of his hand. Politically it’s a dead cert that Ravengard’s going to announce him to the Council of Four. So why is he doing this?” Gale screwed up his eyes. He thought about all he knew about vampires and their powers. “Oh.”

“What?” asked Jaheira and Shadowheart at the same time, both jumping to their feet. Minsc followed a half beat later.

“We’ve been looking at this all wrong.”

“What?” asked Jaheira, again.

“We’ve been thinking of Szarr as a unique vampire. And he is, I’m not disputing that, ascendent and all that…”

“To the point, Gale,” interjected Shadowheart.

“But at his core, he’s still a vampire, isn’t he? A powerful one, who wants more power. But Szarr doesn’t have one thing that all vampires want. And he doesn’t have it because he lives here. In the city. Now, if I’m correct then his plan is on a larger scale than any vampire I’ve ever heard of, and it’s actually kind of impressive when you think about it...”

“Gale,” said Shadowheart, firmly.

“Don’t you think the weather has been bad lately?”

“It’s Nightal. Always bad.” Minsc shrugged.

“But it’s been worse. Hasn’t it?”

Jaheira gasped. “His journal… he writes down the weather.” She turned to her desk and pulled out the leather journal, opened it and pointed at a few entries. “See, he always notes down when it’s foggy or raining or stormy.”

“What about rats? Have people been seeing more vermin around recently?”

Minsc narrowed his eyes. “Boo says they have been making more noise recently.”

Gale nodded. “Yes, yes, this is making sense. And if Jaheira is right about the bodies being a spell component, then I think it all fits.” He spun around to face Jaheira. “Tell the Harpers to go to the abandoned smuggling house. They need to make a note of anything necrotic – temperature, light levels, vermin levels. Anything that if it was a book it would unsubtly scream Vampire at you.”

“Okay,” Jaheira nodded slowly. “What’s Szarr doing?”

Gale pushed strands of his hair back behind his ear. “Remember the palace? Remember how we all thought that it was obnoxiously on the nose? How he wasn’t trying to hide that he was a vampire? But there’s something wrong about the Szarr Palace. Apart from the décor, it looks completely normal. It’s not a lair. It’s never been a lair. He had to look like a patriar, right? Fit into society. He doesn’t need to now, not now he has the power to completely take over the city.”

“Gale, for one moment please act like you’re on the same plane of existence as the rest of us.”

“Lairs. Lairs, how did I not see it? It’s obvious when you think about it, you just have to think about vampire biology, society and their behaviour patterns. Cos Cazador’s not an elf. He doesn’t want High Elf things. He doesn’t want to show off to mortals. He wants to show off to other vampires. And how do you that?” Gale was practically giddy. He was gesticulating wildly.

“Er…” Shadowheart looked at Jaheira for help.

The druid narrowed her eyes. “Territory,” she said, after a moment’s pause.

The wizard clapped his hands and pointed at Jaheira with glee. “Exactly. Territory. Territory. He wants to have the biggest territory. A mansion isn’t good enough for him anymore, especially as he’s had to hide the vampire-ness there for so long. So why not use the entire city?”

“He wants the entire city… as his lair?”

“Think about it as simple territorial expansion. A lair as a nation state, as opposed to a singular building or cave or whatnot. And he’s using the necrotic energy from the undead to do it, as a spell component, like you said. The whole city, bang, cloaked in shadow.” He looked at the map. “I bet you, every one of these circles has undead underneath it.” Gale glanced at Shadowheart. “Those other scribbles that you can’t quite remember? Szarr is buying up property that I bet have basements or cellars or something that he can use the place the bodies in so that there are frequent enough points of magic that he can use to grow his lair. They’re focal points of power.”

“The whole city,” murmured Jaheira. “That’s a big lair.”

“I assume living people don’t fit in his lair?” asked Shadowheart, quietly.

Gale shook his head. “No. And if we don’t stop him, I don’t think he’ll stop at Baldur’s Gate.”

Chapter Text

“Astarion, here.”

A snap of the fingers, an index pointed to the floor at his feet. Astarion woke from his daydream and happily padded to where his master had indicated. Fingers worked their way into his silver curls, massaging his scalp. Astarion purred. He cautiously lent forward so his chest was resting on Cazador’s lower leg, head tilted to the side and lying on his master’s thigh. He purred louder as he heard Cazador chuckle and scratch his head with his claws.

“You’re a good distraction,” murmured Cazador, as he used his free hand to move some papers on his desk.

Astarion hummed happily.

They stayed like that a little longer. Cazador reading and writing, occasionally reaching down to stroke Astarion or mess with his ears, and Astarion dozing calmly at his master’s side.

There was a knock on the door.

“Enter.” Cazador did not look up from the letter he was writing.

Astarion opened one eye to see who had entered. It was Dryan, the third human and most unnoticeable of the Spawn. Out of all of them, it was Dryan who had the potential to survive. He was obedient but so very boring. Dryan knelt before Cazador’s desk, blue eyes purposefully staring at the carpet. He was conventionally attractive, Astarion thought, in the basic tall, blond, muscular sort of way. He must have relied on his looks to avoid having to develop any glimmer of a personality.

Astarion closed his eye. Whatever Dryan had to say, it was undoubtedly going to be unimportant and dull. Astarion could go back to sleep.

“Oh,” drawled Cazador, looking up at last. “Dryan my boy.”

Astarion couldn’t help the tension in his lips when Cazador addressed the human. I’m your boy he whined to himself.

The whining noise did leave his throat it seemed. A hand came down to rub his ear. “Hush little Star, let’s hear what the little man has to say.”

Little man, Astarion chuckled to himself.

“I have collected the items you requested, mi’lord.”

Even Dryan’s voice was dull.

Astarion vaguely registered the noise of a bag being placed carefully on the desk. Astarion pricked up an ear to see if it was alive like the last one. He snickered to himself. This one was not alive. No fun to be had there. Dyran didn’t get the fun sacks. Astarion got the fun sacks because he was the best one.

“Thank you Dryan,” he heard his master say. “You may go and rest.”

Astarion imagined Dryan bowing.

“Thank you, master.”

Astarion heard the spawn’s retreating footsteps and the opening then closing of the door. He sighed, contented, and relaxed deeper into his master’s thigh. Cazador rubbed Astarion’s ear.

“Come Astarion.”

Comfy complained Astarion.

“You’ll be comfy again,” chided Cazador, softly.

Astarion grumbled but pushed himself vertical. He waited until his master had stood before rising himself and following Cazador a couple of paces behind. The pair went towards the lift in the corner of Cazador’s office. Astarion’s ears pricked up in interest, he was hardly ever taken down here.

Astarion liked the Tourmaline Depths. He loved the colours of the stone walls and floors; how depending on where he stood and the light, they flickered from red to orange to purple to blue to green and back again. He loved the gold delicate framing of the gates between sections, and the braziers that seemed to hang from nowhere, bathing the place in a celestial glow. What he loved most of all, however, was how the Depths suited Cazador. Personally, Astarion believed that the grandeur and spectral beauty of the place, the other worldliness of it, suited the Vampire Ascendent more than the Crimson Palace did. Szarr’s Palace was typical, Astarion always thought, but Szarr himself was not.

So Astarion always enjoyed the few trips he had been on down here. He loved seeing his master in his natural habitat. He would gaze upon the ritual circle that gave his master his awesome power. He would thank his master greatly for the opportunity to serve him.

Cazador led the way to the ritual circle, braziers lighting his way. He had moved his coffin away from here, as the Black Mass was the only ritual he planned on doing that required its presence. The coffin was hidden further down into the depths below, nearly in the Underdark itself. Cazador had taken to keeping some of his grave dirt in a pendant around his neck, relieving him of the need to return to his coffin each night. He had done similar for Astarion, snipping a piece of his funeral shroud and placing the fibres in a collar that Astarion wore at night. Astarion thought this was very kind of him, as it meant he no longer had to bring his dirty shroud to Cazador’s bedchamber in order to trance. The shroud besmirched Cazador, but the collar was classy and elegant.

“Just settle by the steps, pet.”

Astarion did so, curling his limbs around him, and prepared to watch his master. Not comfy he grumbled to himself, trying to find a position that wouldn’t numb his rear.

“We’ll go back up soon,” cooed Cazador, “then you can sleep.”

Astarion quite liked this new dynamic of theirs. He didn’t actually have to speak, and he felt that suited him. He still had to speak with the Spawn and the thralls and that tired him out. He much preferred just being able to think.

Not that you think much these days, said the voice in his brain, sullenly.

Shut it, I’m tired, grumbled Astarion.

You used to be so energetic, complained the voice. So full of life, joie de vivre. Now look at you, some pathetic pet.

Astarion did not much like the voice in his head sometimes. He elected to ignore it and instead focus on what his master was doing.

Cazador was faced away from him and had placed objects in the summoning circle. Astarion could see a black diamond, a dagger, a goblet and a silk pillow from where he was sat, but there were three other objects too. Black and red candles had been lit, and Cazador had cast his cloak to the side. His pale skin glowed in the orange light; ruby eyes narrowed in concentration. Cazador stalked the summoning circle like a predator pursuing his prey. Each step was purposeful, placed exactly where the vampire wanted it to be put. Astarion thought he looked magnificent.

The Vampire Ascendent was murmuring words under his breath. His eyes danced with magic and crystal circle rippled to life with the power of his sorcery, red and orange flames sparking into life. It roared with a hellish fervour and Astarion scrabbled backwards, putting his weight on his feet in case he needed to spring into action.

Stand behind me, boy. No fear.

Swallowing, Astarion rose and walked over to where his master was. He pushed his shoulders back and raised his head, hands neatly clasped behind his back. He watched as the flames grew taller, hissing with arcane power.

In the centre of the circle, with a sudden gush of wind, a creature appeared.

Astarion did his best not to show any fear, but he couldn’t help flashing a glance at Cazador who stood gazing at the creature with a smirk of satisfaction.

The creature itself was huge. It towered over the two elves, easily over 8 foot, with a build that matched. Astarion thought that it looked like a wasp, with huge antenna-like horns and clicking mandibles protruding from its head. Its face was humanoid, a heavily scarred woman with one eye missing and chunk taken from her chin. Astarion swallowed hesitantly when he eyed a huge, barbed stinger on the end of the creature’s tail, rising and falling threateningly. Its wings were obsidian black, and the body itself was covered in a shell-like substance. It had six, long and jagged limbs that tapered into clawed points. The jet-black body was coated in spines and there were coloured strips of red and orange that glinted in the firelight.

An Advespa, explained Cazador in Astarion’s mind.

Astarion’s eyes widened further as it took in the monstrous fiend.

It hissed at Cazador, almost buzzing at him.

Cazador looked at it, cooly. “Is that how you great a potential benefactor?” he asked, in Infernal.

The fiend laughed. “What are you? What do you have that could benefit me?”

Cazador smirked. “I am Cazador Szarr, the Vampire Ascendent of Baldur’s Gate.”

The advespa snorted. “Ah, I’ve heard of you.” A large, yellow eye narrowed slightly as the devil surveyed Cazador. “You are one of Mephistopheles’s lackies, no?”

Astarion tried not to react to Cazador being termed a ‘lacky’.

The Vampire Ascendent did not react. “I am working with Lord Mephistopheles, yes.”

“Is that meant to impress me, vampling?” sneered the devil, spreading her wings and curling her tail.

“I suspect it impresses you more than you’re hoping to reveal to me, yes,” replied Cazador, smoothly.

The advespa said nothing for a while. She seemed to be considering Cazador, focusing her attention on the vampire. “I heard that Lord Mephistopheles had concluded his business with you, Lord Szarr,” she said, finally.

Cazador shrugged. “Business is never truly concluded in Baator, surely?”

“If your business has not been completed, then I have to wonder why you have summoned me here,” replied the advespa.

“I hear you are the best in what you do, Lady Casura.”

Lady Casura smiled. It unnerved Astarion.

“So,” Casura hissed. “The Vampire Ascendent has need of a Baator spy.”

Cazador smirked. “A rogue one at that,” he said.

Casura’s face gave nothing away. “You will treat me with the respect I deserve, vampire.”

The vampire’s smile widened. “And how much respect is that?” he asked. “The respect you think you deserve or the respect you do deserve? Last time I looked, traitors were relatively low down the food chain.”

“Still higher than you,” growled Casura.

“I wouldn’t bet on that,” replied Cazador, calmly. “But if you take on this job for me… then let’s say I can help your status rise once more.”

Casura snorted. “You think you hold that much sway?”

Cazador was all teeth. “I know I do.”

The advespa paused in her seething. She seemed to consider Cazador carefully. “You have a contract?”

The vampire gestured to Astarion. “My lawyer will draft one,” Cazador said.

Astarion took a step forward. “My lady,” he murmured, bowing.

Casura raised what Astarion thought could have been an eyebrow. “A legal spawn? How novel, Lord Szarr.” She had genuine amusement in her tone.

“He has his uses,” replied Cazador.

“It is normal that the devil drafts the contract, however,” purred Casura.

“Consider this, an abnormal case,” Cazador smiled. “You are in no position to bargain. Every moment I hold you here increases the chances of you being spotted.” He scoffed. “Just think, an advespa giving information to a hezrou. How…” Cazador paused. “How embarrassing.”

The amusement vanished from Casura’s face. She growled again, her tail coiled intimidatingly, like a scorpion’s.

Cazador tittered. “I can help you. Make all your problems disappear. All you need to do, is find someone for me, report back, and track him.”

Casura snorted. “You think you can buy me?”

Cazador shook his head. “No. I know that I can buy you,” he said, almost sweetly. “Anyone can be bought for the right price. And yours is simple. Being in the service of Lord Mephistopheles will protect you from the ire of Maladomini.”

Casura watched him, carefully. She looked nervous now, and Astarion knew that she would agree to Cazador’s terms. “How do I know you have the power to grant me a position in Cania?” she asked.

The Vampire Ascendent shrugged. “You don’t. But I don’t believe you really have any other option, do you?”

The advespa sighed and looked towards Astarion. Astarion did not waver, looking at her in her singular eye. “Your lawyer may draw up the contract,” she said.

That smile again. “And you will sign.”

Casura nodded. “Your wish is my command, Lord Szarr.”

Chapter Text

“You have got to be kidding me.”

Shadowheart’s nose was scrunched up in disgust. She stared at the envelope in Jaheira’s hand like it was going to explode and cover her in entrails. Gale swallowed nervously. Halsin shifted his weight from side to side.

“Minsc will not go!” The ranger was furious. “Astarion told him what goes on at these so-called parties. It is not like the parties that Boo hosts.”

Gale and Shadowheart exchanged a Look. Minsc would be going nowhere near the Szarr Palace.

Halsin sighed. He had arrived the day before, more skittish than Gale had ever seen him. Reithwin’s children had recovered from the illness, but Gale could tell he was worried that his presence in the city would cause another bout of plague. Apparently, it had been Isobel who had convinced him to come and help, upon hearing about the deaths of Shadowheart’s parents and the hordes of undead being kept under the city.

Jaheira had sent Harpers to many of the locations Shadowheart had remembered. The old smuggling hut by the shoreline had reeked of necrosis. Gale had been with Jaheira when a young half elf had made his report. The boy had been fiercely committed to his task, but Gale noticed that he seemed to view Jaheira with a certain wariness, like she had attacked him in the past. The half-elf had reported on a group of undead being kept in the basement of the shack, but not in the quantity that there had been at the Iron Throne. Gale theorised that the corpses were prepared as spell components in the Iron Throne and then shipped out to other locations across the city.

Other locations were harder to get to. The House of Grief was under guard. Harpers had described the presence of charmed thralls on the bridge leading to the old Sharran cloister and that the building felt colder and darker than it had been before. Philgrave’s mansion too seemed to be a hideout. The Harper informant network had confirmed that Mystic Carrion was gone, but the stench and vermin levels suggested that there was still darkness at work there.

Jaheira had decided not to push the Harpers’ luck.

Gale sighed. He drummed his fingers on the oak table. “Do we go?” he asked the group at large.

Minsc muttered something under his breath.

“It’s technically an invitation from Ravengard,” Jaheira pointed out. “We are still Heroes of Baldur’s Gate after all.” She wrinkled her nose, as if the words had had a bitter taste to them.

“If it’s Ravengard, then we are obliged to go,” grumbled Shadowheart. “Just why is it being bloody hosted there.”

“Szarr is baiting us again.” Halsin folded his arms.

“Making sure we don’t break our promises,” murmured Jaheira.

Gale folded downwards and put his forehead on the table. He exhaled deeply. “We’re bloody going, aren’t we?”

Astarion loved parties. He hadn’t been to one in months. And Cazador had promised him that this one was going to be something special. The palace had been made spotless, and the spawn and servants well instructed (by Astarion). Rich champagne and delicious delicacies (for the mortals who could eat them) were being prepared, and Astarion had been promised horse blood if he did well. And Astarion was going to do well.

He was sat polishing his master’s boots in the main bedchamber. He carefully rubbed in the polish, making them shine. He was sure that if he had had a reflection, he would have been able to see his face in the toe caps. He smiled to himself, satisfied. The silver buckles gleamed.

The door opened and his master stalked in. Astarion bowed his head. Master, he murmured, demurely.

Cazador surveyed his spawn’s work. He nodded briefly before clicking his fingers at Astarion, walking to his closet. Astarion sprang up to follow and dutifully began to help his master change.

“You are responsible for the spawns tonight,” rumbled Cazador. “This needs to be perfect.”

Astarion pulled the silk shirt around Cazador’s powerful frame. “It will be, master,” he purred. “I will make sure it is.” He had realised quickly that occasionally his master preferred to have verbal conversations with him, in moments like this. Quiet and peaceful; comfortable, easy. As if they were the only two people in the world.

“You will be beautiful I know,” said Cazador, almost absent-mindedly, allowing Astarion to help him into well-tailored dress trousers.

Astarion smiled as he tucked the silk shirt into the trousers and turned to pick up the velvet jerkin. It felt beautiful on his fingers, and the burgundy colour would go well with the black silk with slightly ruffled sleeves underneath. He handed it to Cazador who pulled it on, then began to do up the silver clasps. “You will be the most beautiful, master,” he said.

Cazador scoffed. “Such a flatterer.”

“The truth, milord.”

Cazador extended his hands and Astarion devotedly decorated the pale hands with rings. He finished by placing a gold chain on his shoulders, before stepping backwards and kneeling so he could help the Vampire Lord into his polished boots. Just before he rose again, he felt Cazador’s hand dance across his face. Astarion looked up and smiled. Two fingers pressed under his chin, and Astarion let himself be guided up. Szarr looked piercingly into his eyes.

“I could not control the guest list,” he said in a low voice. “But they will not lay a finger on you.” Cazador placed his index finger on Astarion’s lips, pressing slightly, demanding entry. Astarion acquiesced and sucked on the digit. “Show them how beautiful you are, little star.”

Astarion loved parties.

There were more lights outside the Szarr Palace this time. The doors were already open, and guests were filling the halls. Servants lined the walls with silver trays filled with champagne. Gale looked around nervously, feeling out of place. Shadowheart had dragged him to Figaro’s shop the day before. Gale had to admit that the midnight robe was gorgeous and seemed to dazzle with starlight, but it wasn’t exactly him .

Shadowheart looked gorgeous, wearing a teal, silk dress that flattered her figure immensely. She seemed comfortable, but Gale guessed that she was relying on her infiltration training from her Sharran days. Jaheira and Halsin stuck out like sore thumbs, dressed nicely, but definitely druidic in contrast to the more business and regal attire of most of the guests.

There must be hundreds of guests here, thought Gale as he gazed around the corridor feeding to the huge ballroom, sipping a glass of champagne without much consideration. The four of them kept close together, allowing the cleric to lead their group forward. Gale felt much too on edge to do much talking. He just hoped that they would not have to speak to Szarr himself.

The four of them had agreed to act as if though they knew nothing. Halsin had been the most adamant about this, not wanting to give Szarr any reason to inflict more pain on his orphans. His dark eyes were filled with bitter sorrow, and Gale knew that his memory kept flickering back to the children who had died, rotting away whilst Halsin could do nothing but watch. Jaheira, by comparison to her somber companion, had decided to fall back on her more catty personality, and Gale could easily see the graceful panther within. Her eyes were focused, taking in every detail of the soiree. She would be strong, she had told Gale as they had made their way up the grand driveway to the palace, arms intertwined at the elbow. She was expected to be strong and bright, eyes not missing anything, and she was stubbornly determined to play her role exactly.

It was actually Shadowheart that Gale was most concerned about. For the first time, Gale prayed that she would retreat into her Sharran instincts. It would take one word from Szarr - child, Xan, baby - and Shadowheart had the potential to shatter like a crystal bauble. Gale just had to hope that his friend remained strong.

For himself, Gale knew that he would be tense if he saw Astarion. They had reasoned, however, that Astarion would be kept away. His mind was clearly fragile, and Szarr knew that. Duke Ravengard was also aware of Astarion, he had known him since the pale elf had rescued him from his underwater prison. Ravengard hadn’t necessarily liked Astarion but had understood that the elf was the leader of their little group and as much as Ravengard had hissed the word ‘Vampire’ with venom, the duke knew that Astarion was untouchable. Ravengard was many things, but he wasn’t stupid. Knowing a vampire wasn't something you forgot easily. If the spawn made an appearance at Szarr’s side tonight, even after being mysteriously absent from events the past 8 or so months, the duke would put two and two together and realise that Szarr was his sire. Szarr wouldn’t allow that to happen. Not when he was so close to getting what he wanted.

“Professor Dekarios! Miss Hallowleaf!”

Gale did not need to see Shadowheart’s face to know that the thin smile on the half-elf’s face was thin and fake, eyes showing no warmth, as the pair were beckoned over to Counsellor Florrick.

The High Elf looked merry, clearly having imbibed in more than one glass of the excellent champagne that Szarr had provided. She smiled cheerfully at Gale and Shadowheart. “Glad you could make it,” she greeted, warmly.

Gale bowed politely and Shadowheart dipped her head.

Florrick clearly didn’t spot the passive coldness. She took another sip of her champagne. “A momentous day,” she commented. “Another step forward in our recovery.”

“Oh?” said Shadowheart, grimace hidden by the champagne.

“I thought you more astute, Miss Hallowleaf.” The insult was not concealed and Florrick clearly could not care less. She raised one dark eyebrow, her bronzed skin dancing in the candlelight.

Shadowheart did not respond.

Gale wished he had the tadpole back. He glanced over his shoulder where Jaheira was talking politics with some heads of various merchant guilds, Halsin stood next to her like a huge bodyguard. When he turned back Shadowheart’s eyes were still fixed on Florrick.

The half-elf was not intimidated easily. This was the woman who had inspired Lae’zel to confess her feelings and denounce her God, after all. Shadowheart would not suffer fools and if Florrick thought that she could bait Shadowheart into a scene, then she was very much mistaken. Her pale eyes stared daggers into Florrick. Gale glanced away, swallowing. He was unnerved by it, and he wasn’t the one being targeted.

“I think you’ll find, Counsellor,” Shadowheart’s voice layered with icy venom, “that I was inviting a conversation starter. I do not appreciate slights on my intelligence.”

To her credit, Florrick did not look uneasy. Gale was the one who felt uneasy, and he rocked his weight back and forth on his feet. Florrick took another sip of champagne. “Forgive me, Miss Hallowleaf,” she said, finally, dipping her head in some modicum of respect. “The alcohol has gone to my head a little early, it seems.”

“The bubbles,” commented Shadowheart. “Maybe you should stay away for now.” She smiled a half smile. “As a cleric, I can recommend that if you’re feeling it now then perhaps drinking more might not be the best course of action for you.”

Florrick looked over their heads and mumbled a vague “Excuse me,” and quickly made an exit through the throng of people.

Gale exhaled. “You’re terrifying, you know that?”

Shadowheart grinned. “The training comes in useful, what can I say?” she shrugged, blasé.

Gale’s eyebrow twitched and he took a gulp of champagne. The bubbles felt tingly on his throat. He was distracted by the announcement of Lord Szarr and he turned to the dais where Szarr and Grand Duke Ravengard would be sat for the formal part of the evening. The two lords of Baldur’s Gate made their approach steadily to the two thrones set out for them, Szarr a half-step behind, as decorum dictated. Gale’s breath hitched.

Astarion looked celestial. His silver curls were perfect, framing his pale face with red eyes looked down demurely. He was dressed in white silk, like a virginial sacrifice that Gale had read about in his history and mythology books as a child. Gold chains looped around his long arms an attached to the silk at his right shoulder, the cloth draped down his chest and around his pelvis. His chest was broad, one nipple out, yet his frame wasn’t overly muscular, still skinny but well-defined. His back was completely bare, pale and unmarked, and he was still barefoot but like this it was an elegant stylistic choice. Around his neck was a gold band, worn tightly, and there was another on his ankle.

“His scars,” breathed Shadowheart. “His scars are gone.”

Gale dragged his eyes away from the collar on Astarion’s neck and looked at the pale elf’s back. It was pristine. No one would have known that there had been an infernal contract hacked into his flesh. Gale looked at Shadowheart who extended her arm, took his hand in hers, and squeezed. “Breathe Gale,” she whispered, “you will get through this night.”

Astarion had noticed them straight away, as soon as he entered the ballroom. He made his mind blank as possible, but he couldn’t help the point of one of his ears twitching. He knew that Cazador would have noticed. But Astarion had a job to do, and he would execute it perfectly. That wizard would not ruin his master’s plans.

Cazador and the Duke were announced, a toast made, and then the two men sat. Astarion kneeled at Cazador’s feet, his back on show to the rest of the ballroom. Cazador took a goblet of wine and sipped it, before passing it to Astarion to hold.

Do the spawn know their targets? Cazador asked him, the Vampire Ascendent’s eyes still focused on Ravengard who was talking about the rebuilding projects of the Lower City.

Yes, my Lord, Astarion murmured back. Once the speeches are done, I will give them the signal.

Good boy

Astarion couldn’t help a small smile and a hint of a purr. The way that his master’s lips twitched told Astarion that Cazador wanted to praise him more.

This evening would go perfectly.

A delicate chime signalled the guests to still their conversations and draw their attentions to the men on the dais.

Szarr, as host, spoke first. Cazador greeted the guests in the way a great lord would; small jokes at his expense, comments about the palace itself, the eminence of his esteemed guest of honour.

He looks majestic, Astarion thought as he gazed up at his master in adoration. He had turned so he was facing the crowd now, still looking politely at his master’s polished boots, posture perfect, eyes half closed. He could feel the eyes on him. Eyes from people who knew what he was (previous guests of Lord Szarr), eyes from those who were confused by his existence and behaviour (new guests of Lord Szarr), and eyes from four intruders who wished to do him harm. He ignored the latter group. Cazador had promised that no harm would come to him tonight, as long as he was perfect. As long as the spawns were perfect.

You would think that, sneered the voice in his brain. Pathetic.

Szarr had finished his speech, and had beckoned with his arm for Ravengard to speak. The Vampire Lord glanced down at his spawn and gently rested his palm in his hair. Astarion looked up slightly and saw the warmth in Cazador’s eyes. Astarion gave a small smile.

Good boy

Ravengard’s speech was not of great importance to Astarion. He already knew what the Grand Duke was going to say, anyway. Cazador had planned it, after all.

The duke’s words were not as eloquent as his master’s, Astarion noticed with a pleased glimmer in his stomach. Proof that master needed to take control of the city, he remarked to himself.

Ridiculous.

Astarion sighed to himself. You are a bastard, he told his brain, firmly. The voice, for once, kept quiet. Astarion turned his attention to Ravengard.

“We all grieved the tragic death of our good friend Belynne Stelmane,” the duke was saying. “I always described her as a survivor. She powered through great personal adversity to serve Baldur’s Gate in every way she could. Her gaze was steel, her faith unyielding. Her death was part of a myriad of tragedies that befell us last year but she would not want us to grieve in perpetuity. As such, today I stand before you as Grand Duke to announce her successor in the Council of Four. I give you, Duke Cazador Szarr!”

“It was to be expected,” a familiar voice in his hear jolted Gale out of his stupor and he turned to face Jaheira who was gazing at the dais icily. “Predictable and predetermined.” She took a sip of wine.

“Indeed,” Gale mirrored her, just as something to do.

“Don’t be baited into going to Astarion,” the Harper said, eyes on the elf in question still kneeling at his master’s feet.

Gale sighed. “I know.” He took another sip of his drink, actually wanting it this time. “Doesn’t make it any easier though.”

Jaheira paused thoughtfully, index finger tracing the rim of her glass. “No,” she said, finally. “I don’t imagine it does.”

Gale rolled his right shoulder back. “Learn anything useful?” he asked.

Jaheira gave a considered hum. “Depends on what you mean by useful.” She passed her now empty glass to a passing servant. She looked around the room, eyes seemingly taking in every individual. The dancing had started, and couples graciously roamed the dancefloor.

Gale smiled. Wyll would have been in his element here.

“There are six spawn here, including Astarion.”

“I’m just glad he hasn’t gone for seven,” muttered Gale. “Magic number aside I’m getting tired of everything being group in sevens. I’d kill for a group of five.”

Jaheira laughed. “It wasn’t the number I found interesting. And I suppose Szarr has fulfilled your wish.” She came closer to Gale and murmured, “It’s that they’re here at all. That’s what I’m finding interesting.”

Gale found himself looking at Astarion again. The elf was stood now, with Cazador’s arm around his thin waist. Ravengard was talking to the now Duke Szarr. Gale cocked his head slightly. “Why isn’t Ravengard noticing Astarion?” he wondered, out loud.

“I fear his grace, the Duke Cazador Szarr, has been giving our dear duke more than his money,” said Jaheira. She intertwined her arm in the crook of Gale’s elbow and began to pull him away towards the door to the gardens. “You were staring,” she whispered, as an explanation.

Gale allowed himself to be dragged away. “Charmed?” he whispered back.

“At the very least,” Jaheira smiled and dipped her head to some passing patriars who knew her.

The wizard pondered the ramifications whilst he let himself be introduced to various great men and women of Baldur’s Gate. His eyes, however, were never truly focused. Instead, he was trying to spot the various spawn. The humans were easy to pick out. Red eyes on humans were relatively abnormal and the three were pale and skinny to match. Two men and a woman, dressed similarly to Astarion. Gale supposed that one must have been Alain, the spawn Shadowheart had met. He guessed it was the brown haired one, wearing blue silk.

That left two more. He spotted a wood elf trying to make conversation with a group of patriars. She was dressed in purple silk, laughing in a high-pitched titter. Her mannerisms were slightly forced, Gale noticed, but he couldn’t see her eye colour from this far away. He was about to comment this to Jaheira when

“Excuse me, High Harper?”

A blue tiefling girl, with dark hair, stood before them, looking nervous with her head down.

“Do I know you?” asked Jaheira, eyes narrowing slightly.

The girl looked up and Gale saw a flash of red.

Spawn.

“No…” the girl was scared. “You know… you know one of my friends…”

Jaheira sighed. “Irkhan?”

A glimmer of a smile on the tiefling’s lips. “Yes…”

“You must be Araya,” commented Jaheira.

Araya nodded, her fingers fidgeting. “I just… I just wanted to know whether he’s all right? I haven’t seen him for a while…”

Jaheira considered the girl. Gale said nothing. Instead he was curious about how Jaheira would react to Araya in person. She had told Gale how furious she had been at the young Irkhan, how stupid he was. Gale knew that every moment Jaheira spent with this girl was another moment when a Harper was less safe.

Finally, the druid spoke. “He is fine,” she said, quietly. She cocked her head onto one side, her gaze softening slightly. “It is not safe for either of you.”

The tiefling swallowed. “I know,” she whispered. “It’s just… he’s been the first person who’s been kind to me since…”

“You don’t need to finish that sentence,” said Jaheira, gently.

Gale looked behind Araya and his heart stopped. Astarion was staring at the tiefling with fury in his eyes. He had left Cazador’s side and was mingling, clearly pretending to talk to a few of Szarr’s staff whilst his eyes tracked Araya’s movements wrathfully. “Araya,” said Gale, slowly. “I think you should leave us. Someone is not happy that you’re talking to us.” He kept his voice calm and quiet.

“Shit.” Araya couldn’t help but look behind her. “Shit, Astarion.”

“Stop panicking,” murmured Gale. “Just move on.”

The panic was clear in the tiefling’s eyes as she quickly moved to another group of patriars, breath heaving. Gale watched as Astarion turned his head to follow her movements. The pale elf placed his glass on a servant’s tray and began to approach her. He prowled like a cat stalking its prey, claws out. It was so unlike Astarion. Gale's temperature rose.

Jaheira growled in her throat. “Don’t Gale.”

“He’s gonna torture that girl…”

“ He isn’t. Szarr is,” snapped Jaheira.

“Via Astarion,” grumbled Gale.

“And there is nothing you can do. Just leave it.”

Gale watched as Astarion moved slowly to where Araya was. He joined in the laughing of the group of patriars before gripping Araya’s elbow and manoeuvring her away. One hand traced the tiefling’s spine, resting just above her tail, as he leaned in and whispered in her ear.

Astarion was furious. That wretched tiefling ruining everything! He watched her slink away into the gardens after he had given her a few choice words about what was going to happen to her after the party. He couldn’t quite remember what he had snapped in his ire, but it was definitely something about tails being removed.

He took a moment to breathe. Don’t let it get to you, he hissed to himself. Astarion briefly closed his eyes, straightened up, swivelled on his heel and walked to his target, hands clasped behind his back.

“Lord Kairon, how delightful to see you here,” he purred as he approached the Patriar who owned one of the largest trading companies on the Sword Coast.

Gale had managed to calm himself down. The evening continued with nothing too out of the ordinary. The numbers of guests gradually dwindled down, and Gale assumed that it was soon going to be late enough that he and his friends could make their own exit. He had listened to Ravengard wax lyrical about Szarr politely but apart from that, the wizard had not said or listened to much.

The wine still flowed heavily, and Gale had discovered that champagne seemed to have a strange addictiveness for him. He would have to watch out for that in the future, but it didn’t stop him from taking another glass from a passing servant. Jaheira and Halsin had stayed out in the gardens. Jaheira was well known enough to have people constantly going up to her and Halsin had needed the air, so played the part of her plus one. Shadowheart moved from group to group with a social ease that Gale would never match up to. His eyes followed her around the ballroom as both men and women yearned to speak to her.

If you asked him later, Gale would have said it was the alcohol. The bubbles that had gone down his throat so deliciously now fuelled a fire in his belly. His eyes fell upon Astarion who was sat with a group of senior patriars and businessmen, head thrown back, hands delicately placed on the oldest one’s shoulders. It made him angry to see how the man had place Astarion on his knee, hand over the elf’s rear, groping and fondling. It made Gale see red. He was moving towards the group before he realised.

“Oh, Professor Dekarios,” remarked Astarion, sultrily. “How nice of you to join us.” His red eyes gave nothing away.

“Ah, a Hero of Baldur’s Gate,” the man didn’t bother hiding what he was doing. If anything, Gale’s arrival made him do it harder. The man was probably in his late fifties, red faced and bearded, with a large stomach to match. Gale thought he gave the impression of a pig, but most pigs had a lot more dignity than him.

Gale’s eyes snapped to Astarion. “Are you okay, Mr Ancunín?”

The patriar scoffed. “Ancunín? This is Master Szarr, aren’t you, lovely?” He pressed a kiss to Astarion’s side.

Gale was pretty sure there was teeth involved. That used to be his...

Astarion laughed and pressed delicate fingers to the patriar’s lips. “Whatever you say,” he teased, purring.

Gale’s eyes narrowed at the marks on Astarion’s skin. He remembered nibbling at Astarion’s perfect skin, making him moan, kissing him…

“If you’re jealous go and find another Szarr,” said another of the patriars, sneeringly. “This one’s ours.”

“And we’ve got the best one, haven’t we, sweetheart?” The patriar was petting Astarion who giggled in response. Oh how Gale longed to do that!

“Oh, you are a sweet thing,” he laughed, tossing his head back.

The patriar growled. “Oh, the things I’d do to you…”

“Is that a promise?” tittered Astarion. He leant backwards on the patriar’s chest and accepted the slobbering mouths on his pale neck. Gale felt sick. He used to kiss that neck, he used to support his lover with his chest, he…

“You don’t have to do this you know,” Gale snapped.

Astarion closed his eyes, purring again. The patriar’s hand moved to caress his chest, before moving lower. Astarion smiled, sensuously, arching his back as the hand moved towards its target, moaning deliciously. That should have been his hand…

“And what is ‘this’ exactly?” asked one of the other patriars, standing up aggressively as if though he could sense the anger coursing through Gale’s brain.

“Being a whore,” snarled Gale, before he could think about what he was saying.

Astarion’s eyes snapped open. He looked angry for a moment but then seemed to soothe himself in a second. He leaned his head back and smiled lazily.

Gale felt a hand on his shoulder. “I’d move away,” whispered a cold voice, “before you cause a scene, Professor Dekarios.” Gale shrugged the fingers off and turned on his heel, trying to block out the breathy moans and laughs from the elf. Astarion seemed to be making more noise the further the wizard moved away, trying to find his friends. He ignored Szarr’s stares but as he rejoined Shadowheart he couldn’t help but look back at Astarion.

A cold feeling spread through his gut when he saw Astarion leading the group of patriars through a door at the opposite end of the ballroom. He could only guess at what was going to happen, but he knew he had to get out of there before a fireball suddenly descended upon the palace.

Gale closed his eyes and wished he had detonated on the Netherbrain.

Chapter Text

“I’m not a whore, am I?” asked Astarion.

Cazador twitched his eyes. “Don’t listen to him,” he growled, warningly. He stalked over to his spawn and put his hands on Astarion’s shoulders. “That wizard was jealous, that’s all, little star.”

Astarion sighed, exasperatedly.

Cazador raised an eyebrow. “Astarion…” The rumble was low.

“I’m sorry master.” Astarion looked down at his feet. He then twisted his head so that his forehead was resting on one of Cazador’s hands. Cazador gripped his bony shoulder harder in response. Cazador bent forward slightly and kissed Astarion’s curls. Astarion looked to the side and smiled.

Astarion did not quite understand why the wizard’s words had affected him so. The patriars had still had a good time; he could still feel the marks on his skin after all. His clavicles were bruised, and hickeys were welling up all over, but apart from that it had been relatively tame. He should feel fine.

You used to be a whore though, his brain snarled at him.

Astarion blinked rapidly.

“Little star?” Cazador was rubbing his shoulders now, massaging the bruises on his naked skin. “Tell me what’s going on in that little brain of yours.”

“Did I used to be a whore?” asked Astarion, quietly. “Before… before the kidnapping?”

Cazador sighed. “Whore is not the term I’d use,” he said. “A job is a job. A skill is a skill.” The Vampire Ascendent’s eyes raked over Astarion’s bare form. “Why be so derogatory?” he asked, softly.

Astarion thought about this for a moment.

“They enjoyed themselves, didn’t they?”

Astarion nodded.

“Did you?”

“Had better,” Astarion teased his master with a lustful look in his eyes.

Cazador playfully smacked his face. “So, what’s the problem? The wizard lies, the wizard is jealous, and the wizard is not a problem.” His eyes narrowed slightly as he moved to grip Astarion’s chin and guide him towards the bed. “Why don’t you show me all the better things you’ve had?”

Astarion purred.

Whore. Whore. Whore.

Astarion always felt better after sex with Cazador. It was as if his body just created endorphins whenever the Vampire Ascendent touched his skin. Cazador could be rough, and Astarion tore frequently, but he healed quickly enough so there was no issue there. His head always felt fuzzy and warm, like Cazador was giving his brain a hug.

Cazador finally let him breathe after spilling down his throat.

“Good boy, good boy,” panted his master, patting Astarion like a pack horse.

Astarion closed his mouth, feeling the stiff muscles try and relax. “Thank you master,” he murmured.

He was so tired. He made to curl up at the end of the bed. He closed his eyes…

“I don’t think so Astarion.”

Cazador pulled him upright and threw him off the bed. Astarion landed with a squeak. “Master?” he croaked.

Cazador raised an eyebrow. “It’s a shame, little star,” he said, as he stood above his spawn. He was still dressed in trousers, shirt, and boots, the only sign of his activities for the past hour being slightly dishevelled hair.

“Master?”

“The tiefling.”

Astarion turned away to look face down at the floor. “I’ll deal with her master, I promise…”

“No, you’ve been dealing with them for the past 8 months,” hissed Cazador. “But it’s clearly not working, is it?” Cazador kicked Astarion’s head, who instinctively curled up to protect himself. “Stop it,” the master growled, “extend your fucking body.”

Astarion did so, trying to swallow the tears down in vain. He turned over onto his back, his head touching the toe of Cazador’s boot. He stretched out his arms to either side of him, so he was lying in a shape of a T.

Cazador put a boot on Astarion’s throat. “So, tell me, Astarion,” he growled, “why did the tiefling talk to the Harper?”

Astarion mewled. “Master, please, I don’t know!”

The boot pressed down on his trachea. Astarion heard the cracking of tissue before he felt it.

Cazador snorted. “I don’t believe you.”

“Master, please!”

“Beg all you want Astarion.” The master’s other boot pressed on his sternum. All of the vampire’s weight was now pushed down onto Astarion’s useless respiratory system, wanting to push the spawn’s chest and neck down into the ground below. “I want the truth!”

“Master! I didn’t hear what she said!” Astarion let the tears fall.

The foot on the neck now moved to crush Astarion’s nose. Astarion screamed. “I’m waiting, little star. Don’t make me use compulsion on you, it’s so…unbecoming of someone of your status.”

“Master…please…master.” Blood gushed from his nose into his mouth. He gurgled around it, spitting it around his face as he struggled to talk. Remnants of Cazador’s sperm on his chin and cheeks began to be mixed in, painting Astarion’s face pink. He didn't want compulsion, he wasn't like the other spawns, he didn't need compulsion...

"Astarion..."

I don’t know what to say, I don’t know anything, I don’t know what to say! Please stop it! Astarion began wailing and sobbing.

Cazador released the pressure from his sternum and nose by walking down the length of Astarion’s body. He jumped on the fleshy parts of Astarion’s stomach and groin causing the spawn to shriek.

Please master, I don’t know! I thought I did well…

“Well?” Cazador snorted and ground the base of his heel into Astarion’s cock. “I don’t want ‘well’ boy, I expect perfection. And you should it know it by now.”

Astarion squealed. His vision flooded with stars as the pain ricocheted through his body, his nerve endings frazzled as his nervous system tried to make sense of what was going on to his corpse.

“What did she want with the Harper?”

The sizzle of electricity alerted Astarion to Cazador’s magic coming into play. The lightning coursed through his body, causing him to spasm. His vision completely went black. He didn’t recognise the other magic at play, but he felt like there were hundreds of creatures with razor sharp teeth biting and snapping at every scrap of flesh that Astarion had managed to somehow hold onto for the past two hundred years.

It burnt ice and it burnt fire. He felt everything and somehow felt nothing. He saw too much and nothing at all. He plunged through the core of the sun and through the icy depths of Cania. He was torn apart by devils and demons, sewn together again by rats with poison stitches. Hellfire rushed through him and Astarion felt every cell dying and dying and dying and dying…

“Tell me.”

Cazador’s voice was everywhere and nowhere. It echoed throughout Astarion’s mind and disappeared with a cacophony of noise and silence.

Astarion racked his brain, but he didn’t think that his brain could work anymore. He could feel it turning to mush inside his head, his cognitive processes crashing, the last sparks flying to find some reason that will let him survive…

He tried to remember the conversation that the tiefling had been having. It was with the half-elf harper and that bloody wizard, the one who had called him a whore…

What had they said?

Who was the tiefling?

Astarion couldn’t remember but he knew he had to remember something. It was incredibly important that he remembered.

For god’s sakes, thinking of something! The voice in his brain was panicking. Astarion reflected that it was unusual that him and the voice were on the same side.

The tiefling had done something and Astarion needed to know what it was.

Master, please I’ll find out! Astarion begged. Please, master, just give me a chance. .

The pain stopped.

Astarion was numb.

“Go.”

He burst into the Kennel and snapped at Godey, “has she said anything?”

Godey chuckled. “Oh, little boy, it’s been a while since I’ve seen you like this.”

“Godey, please!”

That skeletal laugh made Astarion furious. He turned to face the skeleton, arm raised but found red chains forcing his fist down.

“Be polite, little doggy,” crooned Godey. “Politeness gets you places.”

“Godey, please!”

Godey was incapable of smirking but the energy that came off him was one of a smirk with a mirthful joy. “She’s said nothing,” he simpered. “Have fun.” He released the red chains and disappeared into the gloom.

Astarion turned to the broken body of Araya. “You!” he grunted. He picked her up with strength that he did not know he had, lifting her by the neck and pinning her against the stone, cobweb and blood encrusted wall of the kennel.

She shrieked.

“Tell me what you said to that Harper, or I swear to the Gods, you will wish you were dead.”

“I am dead,” breathed the girl.

Astarion slammed her head against the wall.

He slammed again.

The blood that came out was red and it was red and it was red and it was good.

Astarion wanted to see more of it. Wanted more of it to come out. Red, red, red...

“Tell me,” he growled.

“Why should I tell you?”

“You follow orders.”

“So do you.”

Crack

Astarion painted the wall with her blood. Red, red, red...

She filled the room with her screams and shrieks and yells and whimpers.

“I will make your unlife a living hell. I will find what makes you love, and I will destroy it.” Astarion’s teeth were millimetres away from the tiefling’s eyes.

“You know nothing about love,” hissed the tiefling.

“So, there is a love, then?” snarled Astarion. “Brilliant, I’ll bring you his head.”

“You’ll never find him.”

“You wanna bet on that?”

Astarion vaguely remembered threatening her tail. He turned to grab a hacksaw and let the girl fall as he did so. When he was back around he saw that she had struggled to her feet in some vague, pitiful, attempt at resistance. Astarion’s lip curled. He grabbed her and forced her wrists into chains that dangled from the ceiling. He had to lift her up because she was too short to reach and Astarion heard the satisfying clunk as her shoulders dislocated. Twirling the hacksaw around in his right hand, he grabbed her blue tail, already speckled with blood, in his left. “I wonder,” he sneered, “I wonder if he'll ever let you have enough blood left to grow it back.”

“I didn’t betray the master!”

Astarion snorted. “Of course not, that’s why you were talking to the fucking High Harper of Baldur’s Gate about bloody shitting nothing!” He emphasised each word by drawing the hacksaw through the blood and sinew of her tail.

The tiefling screamed.

“Please, I didn’t tell her anything!”

“You sure as hells looked like you were speaking to me,” Astarion growled.

“I was just asking her whether Irkhan was okay!”

“And who… the fuck… is Irkhan?” The hacksaw hit bone.

The tiefling screeched and wailed.

Astarion liked the red as he kept sawing through the tail.

“He’s the harper I gave the Master’s journal to!”

“You’ve been meeting with harpers?” Astarion tutted. “Dear me, dear me. I removed Siras’s eye when she was spotted by one. What shall I do with you?” He continued sawing through the tail.

“I was just talking to him!”

“Hmm, just talking… which is why you went and spoke to the High Harper about him. Sure, just talking.”

“He’s my friend!”

Astarion snorted. “You’re a spawn. You don’t have any friends.” He chiselled through the last pieces of sinew holding the tail to the base of the spine. “And let’s not gloss over that you gave a harper the master’s journal.” He tutted again. “Treachery, treachery, treachery.”

“No, no,” sobbed the tiefling. “He just wanted to know about you, nothing about the master.”

“A likely tale.” Astarion laughed and waved the severed tail in front of the tiefling’s face. “Oh look, a tail!”

“Please…please…”

Astarion cocked his head and gazed at the ruined girl. “Don’t betray the master.” He threw the tail on the floor. He turned on his heel to leave the kennel to go back to Cazador.

“Don’t hurt Irkhan, please!”

Astarion narrowed his eyes. He whipped his head around and snarled. “Whatever you think this relationship between you and this harper is,” he growled, “It is not the truth.”

“He said he loved me!”

“They say they love you one minute, and the next they call you a whore.”

Chapter Text

The nausea was all consuming. His stomach kept producing stomach bile, his skin was clammy, and his limbs were shaking. Gale’s eyes were wet with tears. He lay face down on the cot set up for him in Jaheira’s house, trying to make sure that his sobs didn’t wake Halsin and Minsc who were snoring in the room with him.

Why had he done that? He screamed at himself. He dragged one fist up to his mouth and bit, hard. He gnawed on his knuckles, but for some reason he couldn’t manage to break the skin. His throat convulsed with the silent cries, chest hiccoughing madly.

“Gale.”

Shit. He’d woken Halsin up.

“Gale,” the druid rumbled again.

Gale felt the presence of the druid come and sit by his head. He felt Halsin’s calloused hands reach out and touch his cheek, trying to push him gently onto his side. Another hand grasped Gale’s wrist gently and pulled his knuckles out of his blunt mouth. “Tell me what happened,” said Halsin, gently, as Gale was finally rolled onto his side.

“I…” Gale closed his eyes.

Halsin did not look judgemental at that moment. But Gale knew that once Gale had told him what was bothering him, then the archdruid would never be able to look him in the eyes again. And Gale knew that he would deserve that, but those green eyes bored into his soul and Gale grieved for their loss.

The druid looked at him kindly and rubbed soothing circles into Gale’s shoulder. The wizard threw the calming touches off and screwed up his eyes.

He hiccoughed again. “I called him a whore,” he said, quietly.

Halsin, to his credit, said nothing. He sat back on his haunches and looked at Gale sadly.

“I… I…” Gale turned over fully so he was lying on his back and opened his eyes to gaze absently at the ceiling. “I got jealous… of the people touching him…”

“So, you called him a whore?”

Gale flinched. It felt brutal, hearing the word come out of Halsin’s mouth. Gale nodded, not wanting to look his friend in the eye.

Halsin sighed. “This is why I did not want to go.”

“Because you knew I’d do something stupid?”

“Because any of us could have.” Halsin spoke in a firm tone of voice. “Yes, it wasn’t exactly clever, but to be honest, it was harmless in the grand scheme of things.”

“Harmless?” Gale scratched his forehead, feeling the sweat pool in his frown lines. “I called the love of my life a…”

“Yes, but he’s currently a vampire slave so to be honest, it wasn’t Astarion you were talking to,” interrupted Halsin, sharply. “No one is dead, no one is going to be dead. Just a slightly more cross vampire spawn who was already cross with you anyway.”

Gale huffed. He paused for a moment. “Astarion’s dead.”

“Yeah, but for him it’s more of a side effect than an actual state of being.”

Gale gave Halsin a Look. Halsin cracked a grin at him and the pair laughed. Gods I’m being stupid, thought Gale, as Halsin gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder and moved to his own bedroll to sleep for what was left of the night.

The morning rose as expected, and the five companions settled down in Jaheira’s basement hideout, nursing cups of tea. Minsc was happy to hear about the goings on at the party and Gale conveniently forgot to mention Astarion’s presence at all. Shadowheart had spent the evening ‘socialising’ because “the rest of you idiots didn’t” and had found out that the patriars of Baldur’s Gate could be separated into two broad groups when it came to Duke Cazador Szarr:

1. Those who were surprised at his sudden arrival on the scene considering his reclusiveness for 400 years and had never been invited to parties before

And

2. Those who said nothing to Shadowheart, but the cleric had noticed them follow Spawn out of the main reception areas and come back later looking rather dishevelled.

There were no rumours, no gossip or anything about Szarr, Shadowheart had said, regretfully. People either knew nothing about the new Duke so said nothing about him, or they knew too much and so said nothing about him.

Apart from Araya the tiefling, no spawn had approached the companions. Shadowheart had tried to approach Alain, but the human spawn had spotted her coming a mile off and ran off in the opposite direction. The others had looked at Shadowheart blankly and offered her drinks. There was no new information there.

Some of the guests knew about Astarion. Again, these guests fell into the second category and Shadowheart would not repeat what they had said about the elf, especially with Gale in the room.

What they were sure of, however, was that Duke Ravengard was under the control of a powerful charm or sanguine mind control spell. Astarion’s presence close to the duke made this an absolute. They debated about whether to inform Wyll but ultimately decided that they could do nothing about it at this stage and that Wyll and Karlach were better off fixing the fiery tiefling’s heart in Avernus.

They sipped their tea and tried to figure out what to do next. Halsin was adamant that they go and rescue Xan. Jaheira countered that that was probably what Szarr expected them to do. Shadowheart had said nothing but gave Jaheira an evil glare.

The problem was, of course, that they had no idea where Xan was being kept.

“You do.”

A rich, caramel voice echoed around the group. Minsc was the first to jump up, longsword swinging immediately around his head.

A chuckle. “Calm Rashemaar, I am in no mood to harm you or the rest of your little group.”

Gale’s eye twitched.

“Then why are you hiding?” Jaheira rose to her feet, less impulsively.

“Call it… a security measure,” replied the voice, smooth and lilting.

Shadowheart exchanged a look with Gale. “What do you want?”

Another chuckle, deeper this time, as if the owner of the voice genuinely found Shadowheart’s question amusing. “Now, now. It isn’t about what I want. It’s about what you need.”

“And do we need?” asked Shadowheart, not taking her eyes off Gale.

“A little push, a little prod in the right direction. An outsider’s perspective can be so illuminating, you see. I can help you see what you cannot.”

“And what would you want in return for this… prod?” Halsin hadn’t stood, but Gale could see that the giant wood elf’s hands were twitching, eager to cast magic and wildshape into his familiar ursine form.

“All in good time, all in good time, little bear.”

“How do you know where Xan is?” asked Shadowheart, trying to hold back the tension that was creeping into her voice, trying to crack it.

“The same way that birds know how to fly south for the winter, that fish know how to swim, how tigers know how to pounce. A natural order, a divine inspiration, an omniscient wherewithal that mortals find themselves pining to understand.”

Gale did not much like this voice. It seemed very full of itself. There was also a pressing edge to it that told Gale’s mind not to trust it.

“Besides, me knowing is not an abnormal state of affairs,” continued the voice in its low and rumbling timbre. “Lots of people know. I know, the Gods know, the Devils know, Cazador knows, and you know.”

“If we knew, we would have got him.” Gale’s teeth were gritted.

“You’re just not thinking. Poor wizard,” the voice tutted. “Intelligence is truly academic in someways. The abstract knowledge that the real world clearly needs to be understood is not grasped by you, is it?”

Gale clenched his hands around his mug of rapidly cooling tea. He scrunched up his nose and made the conscious decision not to respond.

“Oh, you’re no fun anymore. Used to be so full of fire and Netherese anger. You should have kept the orb.”

Gale pressed his jaw closed, grinding his back molars with determination.

“No, you’re too suicidal to keep the orb I suppose.”

Gale flinched.

“Oh, sorry, was that meant to be a hidden feeling? Silly me. Pardon my very obvious transgression.”

“Tell us what we want, voice,” growled Minsc.

The voice snorted a little. “I will give you a clue, I suppose. Think about what Cazador is. Think about what the vampling knows about you. Information and knowledge are how he has leashed you thus far; temptation to keep you walking on those same paths that you swore you would never walk on again. Paths you swore you would forget. Paths that took away everything.”

The voice faded and the companions were left in silence.

“Paths I swore I would forget…” mused Shadowheart, quietly. “Paths that took away everything.”

“You believe the voice?” asked Halsin.

Shadowheart said nothing, deep in thought, looking down in her now empty mug. She then narrowed her eyes as if the dregs of tea intrigued her, before looking up suddenly. “Loss,” she said.

“Loss?” repeated Gale.

Shadowheart nodded. “They wrote it above Xan’s crib.” She tapped her nails on the ceramic mug.

Gale looked at the cleric, curiously.

“I know where Xan is.”

There were fewer people guarding the House of Grief than Gale expected. Even so, they were doing their best to be inconspicuous. Both Jaheira and Halsin had wildshaped into small rats, hiding in Gale’s robe sleeves. Gale himself had dressed in Society of Brilliance robes, and was stood by the waterline, pretending to collect water and add various substances to it. Shadowheart had cast illusion on herself and Minsc, to allow them to quietly stealth their way over to the entrance.

Gale turned to face the House, leaning against a tree whilst he pretended to experiment. The balcony had two halfling guards, dressed simply in purple robes with halberds. Minsc and Shadowheart would make easy work of them, especially as since their escapades last year, not many people came up this way. The House of Grief, as far as anyone else knew, stood completely empty. Not many people wanted to commandeer a former Sharran cloister. That meant no Fist patrols; they ended just before the bridge.

The wizard watched as Minsc sneaked past the first guard, followed by their cleric. Minsc quickly slit the throat of the second guard whilst Shadowheart pierced the first one’s spinal column. Gale quickly hurried over with his rodent passengers as Shadowheart quickly checked the bodies for valuables.

“Put them in the garden,” hissed Shadowheart. “They need to be hidden from the bridge.”

Minsc easily picked up the two corpses and disposed of them in the small garden next to the House of Grief. Shadowheart pushed open the door and slipped in, followed by Gale. Minsc crept in after, closing the door behind him. Gale shrugged off the Society of Brilliance robes as Jaheira and Halsin scurried out of the dark blue sleeves.

Gale looked around him. The reception hall of the House of Grief looked unchanged since their last visit. Skeletons lay around the room and Gale realised with a gulp that they were the remains of the Sharran attendants that they had killed when they rescued Shadowheart’s parents. At that thought, Gale looked at Shadowheart and saw her shake herself, eyes filling with a determined sharpness.

Yes, thought Gale. We have a job to do.

Shadowheart took the lead. Halsin and Jaheira had shifted back into their humanoid forms and followed the cleric through the Mapping Room, easily dispelling the illusion that hid the entry way to Cloister of Sombre Embrace. Here the air was musty and filled with a necrotic sharpness. Jaheira put a hand on Shadowheart’s shoulder. “We’ll find him,” she promised. It was the softest Gale had seen her ever be with the cleric.

Shadowheart gave a small smile, face full of hope that she did not dare to articulate, and began to descend the large stone staircase, the statue of Shar looming over her.

It was at this point that Gale remembered that the House of Grief had been circled on Astarion’s map of the Lower City.

“Keep a look out for undead,” he whispered, urgently, to the group.

“The undead need to look out for Boo!” Minsc nodded, and pushed ahead of Shadowheart, in the typical Rashemaar way of fight first, ask what the orders are later. His voice echoed uncomfortably around the chamber. Boo sat on his shoulder, nose twitching. Shadowheart drew the Blood of Lathander, the yellow glow soothing in the huge stone chamber. The purple aura was overwhelming here, stifling and oppressive. The tang of death made it worse, and Gale kept close to Shadowheart, close to the divine mace that might help them during this fight.

In other scenarios, Gale might have thought that the House of Grief would have been silent on their descent to the main chamber of the cloister. It was previously, Gale recalled. Their footsteps had echoed on the stone flooring, and he remembered Astarion commenting on Shar’s style much to Shadowheart’s chagrin. He wondered whether Shadowheart was remembering it too. The fact was that this time, the cloister was not silent. There were chittering noises, scrabbling, clawing, running, scraping sounds that set Gale’s teeth on edge.

Halsin’s ear twitched. “Rats,” murmured the wood elf. “Entire colonies.”

Jaheira paused, mouth slightly agape as if she was tasting the air. “Bats too,” she whispered.

Gale gripped his fingers tighter around his quarterstaff.

“We’re so close now,” breathed Shadowheart, so quietly that Gale could barely hear her. “I’m coming Xan, Mama’s coming.”

The smell of death was thicker and cloying in the main chamber. There were still the remains of the Sharrans that they had fought the last time, and Gale noticed the same green miasma surrounding the skeletons that he and Shadowheart had seen at the Iron Throne. There was no one alive here.

Minsc fell back, letting the cleric take the lead as she walked towards the Threshold of Loss. The huge door was open. Gale could hear the ebbing of water that he knew was at the far end of the chamber. He saw Shadowheart close her eyes, murmur a quick prayer to Selûne, before walking to where she had rescued her parents and where she hoped she would rescue her adopted son.

Dust and cobwebs covered the stonework. The gold inlays were chipped and fraying. All the valuables had been stripped, Gale noticed, for he remembered Astarion’s pouting when he wasn’t allowed to come back to loot more after Shadowheart had chosen to save her parents. But someone had clearly come and plundered the place. On reflection, Gale realised that Astarion had probably done it. Gale shook himself, determined for once not to be lost in memories.

He surged forward, eager to help Shadowheart with Xan when -

The wail was inhuman.

It encompassed all the negative emotions that Gale had ever felt: fury, depression, terror, guilt, anxiety, shame and failure. It cracked open the very walls of Gale’s soul, pain racking through him at a rate he thought he would die. Clutching his hand to his chest, rubbing his sternum, he rushed into find the source.

Shadowheart.

Oh Gods.

“Shadowheart!”

The wizard clambered up the stone steps to where the Mirror of Loss hung coldly. He saw the cleric collapsed on the floor and he looked beyond her.

A tiny body.

A tiny, mauled body.

Ripped apart and shredded.

The face was barely recognisable.

Limbs unattached to his shoulders, legs twisted abnormally.

Blood drank apart from when it had been used to scrawl words on the floor:

Rip out your beating heart, for the reign of Szarr will start.

Keep Away

Gale sank down to his knees behind his friend and encompassed her into his arms. She had stopped wailing, and now huge inhuman sobs racked her skinny frame. She leant back into the crook of Gale’s shoulder, soaking his robes with her tears. Gale rubbed her back and her arms, trying to comfort her when he knew that he would not be able to.

Just something else I’ve failed at.

No, you’re here for Shadowheart. Stop making this about you.

Gale rested his chin on Shadowheart’s head. He looked at Xan’s tiny corpse, closed his eyes, and swore that Szarr would not take anything else away from them.

“You were too late.” The caramel voice again.

Gale turned his head around, keeping hold of Shadowheart tightly. His eyes widened when he saw the source.

Raphael.

Chapter Text

The devil was in his human form. He was well put together as per usual, the rich ruffled clothes and well-tailored attire as well put together as when Gale had last laid eyes on Raphael. The large forehead, the chiselled nose and the hint of canines as he flashed a subtle smile at the wizard. He looked tired though, slight bags under his eyes, and his eyes, normally solid and hawkish, twitched involuntarily.

“We killed you.”

Gale hadn’t even noticed Halsin and Jaheira’s approach. Halsin immediately went to Shadowheart, taking her from Gale’s arms so that the wizard could rise shakily to his feet. Jaheira came to Gale’s side, and behind them Gale could hear the gentle swish of Minsc’s sword as he watched.

“A minor setback if anything,” said Raphael. He seemed genuinely not bothered by the memory of being killed in his own house.

The wizard kept watching, however. There was something odd about the devil, something that Gale either hadn't noticed before or hadn't been there the last time they encountered one another. Raphael didn’t seem as solid as normal, his purring sultry tone a mere disguise for something else, hidden beneath his skin. Raphael knew that Gale was appraising him, and so the cambion’s eyes narrowed slightly.

“How did you survive?” Jaheira’s voice was cold, but Gale thought she was doing a tremendous job of not letting it shake.

Raphael sighed. “All in good time,” he said.

“Why are you here?” Another question from Jaheira.

Raphael pushed his hand through his hair, scraping strands of it backwards. He was nervous, and Gale didn’t like it that something could make a devil nervous. Raphael himself seemed to gather himself, to give the same impression of collective coolness that he always did. It didn’t work; Gale could sense the bubbling anxiety. Gale could feel the bubbling anxiety, it was pooling in the wizard’s gut. The instinct that drove Gale’s tension allowed him to easily recognise it in others, and Raphael was not as separated from human anxiety responses as he might think. Or hope to be.

The devil gave himself a few moments before replying, curtly, “we can help each other.”

Jaheira raised an eyebrow. “And we’re to believe that?” she replied, just as curtly.

Raphael didn’t reply straight away. He seemed to be putting most of his effort into being completely still. “We can help each other. We have the same goal, even if it doesn’t seem like that immediately.”

“And let me guess,” spat Jaheira, “this help involves a deal?”

A wry smile from the devil slipped across his face. “But a most satisfying one.”

Jaheira snorted.

“How possibly can we have the same goals as you?” grumbled Halsin, from his position on the floor, encroached protectively around the silently weeping cleric.

“Different reasons, same short-term goal,” replied Raphael, easily.

“Short-term?” asked Gale.

“My ultimate goal is much more advanced than yours, little wizard,” answered Raphael, still not looking any of them in the eye. “My point is, I can help you. And to persuade you further I am telling you that it is in my best interests to help you. So the deal, you can trust, is in good faith.”

Gale snorted. “I wouldn’t trust you as far as I could throw you.” He heard Minsc behind him mutter something about being able to throw the cambion a large distance, but the mileage wouldn’t affect the Rashemaar’s distrust for him. Gale allowed himself a slight smirk.

“Nor I you.”

Gale raised an eyebrow.

“For all intents and purposes, you killed me. Ideally, I’d have nothing more to do with you. But now fate,” Raphael spat out the word ‘fate’ with particular venom, “fate has forced my hand.”

Jaheira scoffed. “And how on earth can we believe that this is not some act of devilish revenge?”

Raphael cocked his head slightly. “Oh, it is devilish revenge, little cat,” he purred. “Just not from my side.”

“Someone wants revenge on you."

Gale blinked at the cambion who gave a slight twitch of his chin, the barest indicator of an agreeing nod.

Raphael looked at the group, his eyes dark and honey like, as if he was daring the group to question his motives further. “As I say, the deal I offer is lucrative for both parties.”

“And it’s something that you want to give, on your part?”

“Oh indeed pet,” the grin on the devil’s face widened. “It is something I am most eager to give away.”

“And how sure are you that we want it?” pressed Gale.

The caramel chuckle seemed to rise unbidden from Raphael’s throat. It was deeper in person and Gale’s entire chest seemed to vibrate with it and for a split second he worried that the cavern would crumble down around them and crush them, deal or no deal. “How can you not want it?” rumbled the devil, eyes glinting with amusement.

Gale and Jaheira exchanged a glance. Raphael looked between the two, looking like he was surveying a particularly delicious meal. Jaheira let her shoulders drop. “How can we take you at face value?” she sighed.

Raphael grinned wickedly. “You can’t,” he gloated. “Though I did lead you here. Good will and noble intentions and all."

“Not fast enough.”

Raphael looked at Halsin as if he were surveying the scene for the first time. Gale watched the devil carefully. Raphael didn’t seem to be completely in control of his facial expressions; Gale was convinced that he saw a flicker of something that wasn’t glee or malice cross his handsome features.

“No,” said the devil, finally. “Not fast enough.” He looked tired.

Gale squinted at Raphael.

Raphael shook himself. His gaze darkened again, and he seemed to steel his features, determined not to make anymore outward show of emotion. “So,” he said, smoothly. “This deal…”

Jaheira looked at Raphael, measuredly. Gale wondered if he had seen the same changing expressions on the devil’s face that he had. “What do you want in return?”

“Nothing concrete, not yet,” murmured Raphael. “A favour from each of you, to be cashed in at some undetermined point in the future.” He thought about it for a moment. “Including your friends currently in Avernus.” He raised a hand as Gale tried to protest, “I will say, that as this deal is so favourable to me, the favour you give will be favourable to you.”

Gale’s lips twitched. “We don’t even know what you’re offering.”

That smirk again.

Raphael held out his palms and there was a shimmer. A glimmer in the air around him as the devil summoned something from a different plane. In his hands appeared a ranseur, easily six feet in length. It glittered with cold silver, encrusted with sapphires and diamond along its shaft. It seemed to hiss in contact in the air, and Gale saw that the air condensed around it, as if it were freezing to touch. Its spear tip and hilt looked to be made from pure ice, a blue glow emanating off it.

“The Ranseur of Mephistopheles,” explained Raphael. “Found by myself, deep in the ruins of Kintyre, far beneath the glaciers of Cania. Mephistopheles himself thinks it lost.” He looked at Jaheira and Gale, a smooth smile on his face. “This is what I offer.”

Jaheira narrowed her eyes. Her gaze took in the cambion and the ranseur delicately held in his hands. “And what does this ranseur do?” she asked.

Raphael laughed. “It contains Mephistopheles’s power in its purest, most raw form. It is the only weapon that can destroy something made from that power.” He paused. “What do you know about the Rite of Profane Ascension?”

Gale shrugged. “Not much. 7000 souls baring an infernal mark, Cazador gets more power.”

“I’m surprised you haven’t researched more into it.” Raphael did sound surprised. He started to quote: “Oh, piteous dead! Oh, ravenous dead! Immortality is your gift, but darkness is your prison and hunger its gaoler. The Rite of Profane Ascension will release you. Walk in the sun. Suffer not from hunger. Grow your power beyond anything you imagined. A pact has been made with the Lord of Hellfire. Deliver unto him seven thousand souls, each bearing an Infernal mark, and you shall be free of your chains. You shall know true power. Deliver the souls. Speak the words. Ecce dominus, Has animas offero in sacrificio, Nunc volo potestatem quam pollicitus es mihi..”

Gale took in the Devil, still holding the ranseur out in his outstretched hands.

“All of the power that Cazador holds is given to him by Mephistopheles. Without Mephistopheles, Cazador is nothing.”

“Speak plain, Devil.” Jaheira’s words were sharp.

“Szarr is no mere vampire now. No stake through the heart will kill him, nor will sunlight turn his body to ash. He fears nothing of garlic nor being far from his coffin. For he is not a creature of the night, not now. He’s a creature of Cania, a manifestation of Mephistopheles’s power, an experiment in how far the Lord of the Eighth can bend the rules that we have been living with for millennia.” Raphael tapped the shaft on the ranseur. A loud chime sounded throughout the cloister.

Gale looked at the ranseur. “You’re saying that that is the only thing that can kill Cazador.”

Raphael nodded. “I knew you’d get it,” he smiled, languidly, almost feline like.

Jaheira stretched forward to take it, but Raphael stepped backwards. “Ah, ah,” the devil smirked. “Accept my deal and the ranseur will appear to you the moment you have the greatest opportunity to murder Szarr.”

Gale narrowed his eyes at him. “And you’re willing to give this to us because…?”

“I know you will make use of it,” replied Raphael, easily. “And I will say that inconveniencing Mephistopheles is at the very top of my list of Favourite Things to Do. And this,” he said, almost proudly, "the removal of Szarr will definitely inconvenience Mephistopheles."

Jaheira looked back towards Minsc and then to Halsin before nodding at Gale. “All right,” she said, finally. “We accept your deal.”

Raphael’s canines glittered.

Chapter Text

Gale sighed. Sending stones were a brutal form of communication anyway, nevermind when the subject matter was this. But Lae’zel needed to know.

The wizard glanced over to where Shadowheart was curled on Jaheira’s bed. She hadn’t spoken a single word since they had left the House of Grief the previous day. She drank water when Halsin placed glasses to her lips, but apart from that, there were no signs of life. Her eyes stared straight ahead at the wall, unblinking, focused on nothing.

25 words. 25 fucking words.

That’s all Gale had to inform Lae’zel of Xan’s murder and try and get her to come home. It seemed impossible. Gale laid his head back against the wall. He was sat on the floor, trying to get the message right. The four of them – including Minsc – spent time on the floor next to Shadowheart’s bed. Halsin, as a healer, spent the most time watching over her. The death of a child… well, it was only Halsin really who understood what Shadowheart was going through.

Gale dragged his mind back to the githyanki that he was trying to convince to return to her former lover. The relationship between Lae’zel and Shadowheart had always been tense. When the two loved, they loved fiercely, and when they hated, they hated fiercely too. Shadowheart’s anger was sharp and icy, Lae’zel’s anger was blunt and forceful, and the definition of an unstoppable object meets an immovable force. The connection was fraught but beautiful, but everyone knew that without the pair of them being thrown together by circumstance, it wouldn’t have worked.

Lae’zel had known that, Gale mused to himself as he gazed at Shadowheart’s taut form. But she went around leaving in completely the wrong way, promising that they would be together again at some point. Gale wondered how the gith felt about it. Gale wondered what Shadowheart felt about it.

The wizard sighed again, resting his head back against the wall. 25 words. 25 words that were good enough to drag a battle hardened, passionate, heroic Lae’zel back from the fight to free her people. It would be a hard sell, even if it wasn’t Lae’zel.

Gale thought about Lae’zel for a moment. His interactions with her personally were mainly academic, at least to begin with. Gale was curious about githyanki culture and craft, and Lae’zel, for the most part, was happy to indulge him. She knew nothing of the human tendency to lie to save one’s feelings (Gale remembered a particular moment where she described his beard as “the hairy tufts upon the psurlon, the largest of wormkind that slither our skies”) but a heart was there, deep down. After all, she had warmed up eventually, even cracking jokes about gnomes and short fuses.

By the Gods, it sounded like begging, it was begging but Gale didn’t care.

It would do. It wasn’t Gale’s greatest literary moment, but it would do. One can’t write a sonnet in 25 words, Gale thought as he completed the sending. He sighed once more and closed his eyes, hoping to rest.

Minsc took over from Gale a few hours later. The Rashemaar plonked down onto the floor next to Shadowheart, and Boo jumped across from a broad shoulder to a small one. The little creature nuzzled into the crook of her neck and immediately the cleric seemed to relax, sighing. Gale exchanged a small smile with Misc who started doing his yoga stretches and began to make his way downstairs for a cup of ginger tea.

There was a young man stood in the kitchen. He was a half-elf, so Gale had no real ballpark for guessing his age, but he looked younger than Shadowheart. Gale recognised him from leading a group of Harpers to the old smuggling house on the shore. He had been wary then, Gale recalled, with a slight degree of hostility towards Jaheira. His hostility towards his commander was still present but now cloaked in his nervousness. He was dressed in dark leathers, and a dark green cloak, typical ranger garb, and soaked to the skin. His skin was dark with pointed features and dark brown eyes that peered out from under a long dark fringe that he pulled about, like he was nervous and needed comfort. He was fidgeting and eyes flicked up to Gale when he entered the room.

“Ah Gale,” greeted Jaheira. “Any change?”

Gale shook his head. “None at all.”

Jaheira pushed a mug towards him. The others were drinking wine. Gale didn’t comment but knew that his alcoholism over the past few months hadn’t gone unnoticed by his friends. He sat down quietly and began to slowly sip, feeling its warmth.

The High Harper gestured towards the ranger. “This is Irkhan,” she introduced.

Irkhan nodded in greeting, nervously casting his eyes about the room.

“He’s a fool,” added Jaheira.

Irkhan scowled. He dug his hands in his pockets, biting his lip as he refused to answer back to his superior.

Halsin took pity on the boy and pushed a chair back so Irkhan could sit. “What’s the matter, Irkhan?” he asked, softly.

Irkhan flashed Halsin a grateful look. “It’s Araya,” he said, haltingly, as he sat down. He clasped his hands together, probably thankful for the outside rain for hiding his nervous sweat. Irkhan pointedly did not look at Jaheira.

Jaheira rolled her eyes. “It’s dangerous. For the pair of you.”

“The spawn?” asked Halsin, ignoring Jaheira’s commentary.

Gale nodded in response to Halsin’s question. “The one who spoke to Jaheira and I at the party.”

“Idiot girl.”

“Ma’am,” began Irkhan, eyes twitching. “Please!”

Jaheira met Irkhan’s plea with a cold stare. She seemed to be working something out in her head, for she then shrugged, pressed her wine goblet to her lips and said, “I guess I can’t be angry about something that’s already happened. You may speak, Irkhan.”

The young ranger dipped his head. “Thank you, ma’am.” He took a deep breath, steeling himself. “So, Araya and I… we’ve been meeting relatively frequently and sending messages to each other.” Irkhan kept his gaze fixed on the table. “She hasn’t been out recently, as she’s waiting… waiting for her tail to grow back…”

Gale flinched. He knew who must have been the sword that carried that punishment out.

“But then she sent me a message. This morning.”

Thunder thrashed outside the house and bright light filled the room as a lightning bolt hit its target nearby. Gale couldn’t help but think that the Gods had an odd sense of humour, literally using the weather to underline their points.

Irkhan took another breath. He was trembling now. “And it said…” he took a ragged piece of paper out of his pocket and stretched it out on the table so Jaheira, Gale, and Halsin could see. The parchment was crumpled and the writing rushed and hurried:

Irkhan,

Szarr is planning something big. He keeps saying “it’s time”. Astarion has banned us from leaving our dormitory and if we disobey… Kiara got savaged just because she opened the door. We don’t know whether she’s going to make it. If your harpers are going to do anything it needs to be now.

All my love

Araya

PS: Assume that Szarr knows about this message. I don’t know how trustworthy these rats are.

“Rats?” asked Halsin.

Irkhan nodded. “It’s how we would get messages to and from each other. Animal messengers.”

Jaheira sighed again. She leant back in her chair; goblet empty of wine. A drop of it remained on her lip. “Now what?” she asked.

“We go and fight!” declared Irkhan.

Jaheira raised an eyebrow. She snorted. The droplet of wine fell onto the oak table. “So, there’s…” She counted around the table, “the four of us and Minsc. Do you really think we’d be able to take on a vampire ascendent and his spawn and whatever other undead he’s got? Wolves, werewolves, countless thralls, undead armies? It would be suicide.”

Irkhan grumbled. “There’s more than 5 of us if we include the rest of the Harpers.”

“Which we are not doing,” snapped Jaheira. “I am not putting the entire organisation in danger of extinction because of this.”

“But you’ll sacrifice the entirety of Baldur’s Gate?” asked Gale, quietly.

Jaheira scowled. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand,” she said, finally, after a long pause.

“Try me.”

The druid sighed and pushed a strand of hair back behind a pointed ear. “So many people died because of me.” She leant back in her chair. Her wine goblet was empty, and it was clearly bothering her; she wanted something to distract herself with. “Not just with the Absolute. But before. Khalid…” Jaheira blinked. “I’m tired of people dying,” she whispered, slowly. “I’m tired of people dying and it being my fault.”

Gale looked at Jaheira. She looked old, frail and tired. Her skin was wrinkled, with bags under her eyes, hollowed cheeks and a vacant, gaunt look in her eyes. Gale recognised the look, he had felt it burn within his soul every day since Astarion had left. “You’re beginning to sound like me,” the wizard whispered, quietly.

“Bah,” scoffed Jaheira, incredulously.

“I mean it.” Gale sighed, taking larger sips of ginger tea. He’d always liked ginger tea; it soothed his constant anxious nausea. He needed its fire, its strength. “Not in the words, maybe. But in the sounds. You sounded like I did when I was adamant, I was going to die for Mystra. A way to wipe the slate clean.” He looked at Jaheira, sadly. “Doing nothing won’t stop people dying.”

“And it won’t be your fault, either,” added Irkhan. He looked at Jaheira, the wary hostility beginning to fade from his eyes and begin to be replaced by something more like reverence and determination. “Give the Harpers a choice. Tell them the stakes. I guarantee all of them would be more than willing to die for Baldur’s Gate.”

Lae’zel’s arrival had been swifter than Gale had imagined. The red dragon was also a surprise, but Gale tried to not let it affect him. She had stormed into Jaheira’s house, plated in silver Githyanki armour, Voss’s old silver sword secured to her back. She had narrowed her eyes at Gale who had merely pointed to the upstairs room, nodding.

Heavy footsteps signalled her arrival back to the kitchen. Lae’zel swept into a seat, holding Shadowheart in a faux-bridal style hold, fingers gripping the cleric’s arms like a vice. “I did not give her the option,” Lae’zel growled. “She will join our quest for revenge.”

Gale imagined that Shadowheart hadn’t even managed to voice an opinion before being grabbed by the githyanki. “Thanks for coming back,” Gale said, softly.

Lae’zel gave a chk sound from her throat. “It was no question,” she said, plainly. “Revenge is necessary. Xan’s murder will not go unpunished.” She curled her lip, revealing her teeth. Shadowheart gave a small whimper, and Gale did not think he imagined that the githyanki gave the cleric a squeeze as she held her in her arms. “The question,” she snarled, “is how we get that revenge. The sooner the better.”

“I like her,” commented Irkhan.

“Ishtik.” Lae’zel rolled her eyes.

The storm lashed around the house as the companions plotted and planned. Lightning illuminated the determination in their faces, and Gale, for the first time in a long time, began to feel a tiny sliver of hope as he quickly sent a sending spell to Wyll and Karlach, alerting them of their plan.

Chapter Text

The hope failed as the sewers’ gloom wrapped around him. He didn’t have the others' instinctual confidence, even Jaheira had seemed to manage pushing her fears away once a decision had been made. That’s the difference, thought Gale, between them and me. He gazed at his friends around him. They’re fighters. I am not.

Gale tried to feel more confident as they crept through the sewers, closer to their destination. He felt on edge, constantly looking around him, peering through the gloom, searching for any signs that hinted at vampire. Ahead was Jaheira, flanked on each side by Minsc and Irkhan. Minsc seemed as much as he always did, keen for the fight ahead, whereas Irkhan was a coiled spring, fists clenched and Gale could tell that the young ranger was itching to hold his bow, to feel some semblance of calm, of control, for composure. Gale could only guess at the whirlwind of emotions coursing through his body; terror maybe for what they were about to do, pride for being at his leader's side, hope for success, fear for failure, love for Araya and dread for what condition she might be in when he finally found her again. Gale was useless at categorising and explaining his own emotions, but through the prism of Irkhan, he found himself being able to label each surging feeling that wrapped itself around Gale's soul. Terror for the fight ahead, pride about how he had managed to overcome his own demons in getting to this point, hope for success and what that meant, fear of failure and what that meant, love for Astarion burning through him like wildfire, dread at the prospect of having to kill him or find him an empty husk. Trepidation about what happened after.

That's what Gale thought about as they climbed through sewer grates and walked on the flimsy walkways. The fact that whatever happened today, Gale had no idea what happened next. He thought about Tara's options, and he thought about Option 3. The failure and the death of Gale and all his friends. If anything, this option was easier for Gale to comprehend. It was the simplest. And for once in his life, the naturally perpetually inquisitive Gale longed for simple.

He shook himself. He couldn't give in to the allure of failure and the simple end it suggested. It had the worst implications for everyone else apart from Gale, after all. Gale hated his tendency to ignore the pain that Gale's self-destructive ideation inflicted on others. He was selfish, self-centred, self-obsessive. Constantly thinking about what would make it better for him.

Gale wondered whether there was an option 4. Self-sacrifice. Some sort of blaze of glory, like the martyrs of the past. The urge to self-detonate in order to cleanse his soul of his sins was still prevalent in the wizard’s psyche. It had started long before the Netherese orb, too. He often wondered whether his determination to find the Karsite weave was part of his self-destructive personality. It had preceded the orb, certainly, and would most likely be a feature of Gale to his dying day.

Gale wished he had detonated on the Netherbrain.

It would have satisfied the itch he had in his head. His self-worth solely bound with the concept that his death would make things better. The orb gave Gale the perfect opportunity to do it. To finally be a martyr.

But of course, he had been stopped. Prevented from making that last step in self-control. And of course, it had been Astarion. That beautiful elf had told Gale that he deserved to live and be free. To be a hero.

If there was one thing that Gale had learnt over his life, was that it was easier to die as a martyr than to live as a hero.

He glanced to his right. Lae’zel, resolute as always, eyes gritted with determination, with revenge. He wondered what would have happened if Lae’zel had been at the Elfsong that night. If she has followed Astarion out to Cazador instead of him. The gith was sure of herself at all times and Gale somehow knew that if she had seen Astarion grovelling at Szarr’s feet, then she wouldn't have hesitated. Astarion would have been dead, safe from the torture, from the destruction of everything that made him him.

Astarion may have doomed Gale to life as a hero. But Gale had taken away the choice from Astarion. He was neither hero nor martyr.

A shadow in the dark, doomed to hate, doomed to fear.

Gale had promised that Astarion would never enter the dark again.

He had failed. Broken promises and shattered dreams, splintered hearts and blighted hopes.

Gale looked ahead to where the glimmer of gold hinted at the entrance to the underworld of Cazador Szarr.

For someone who contemplated the action of death, Gale very rarely confronted the meaning of what it meant to be dead. The noun as opposed to the verb. Falling asleep? A step into a new life? Heralds and trumpets blazing as he faced his destiny at the City of Judgement? Or was it this simple, simple as crossing the golden boundary of Szarr's territory? Would Gale truly feel it as breath fell out of his lungs for that final time? Would he care?

Gale liked to think he wouldn't.

Jaheira held up her hand for the pack to stop moving. Lae’zel made a point of not stopping and stalked her away up to Jaheira who hissed something in her ear that Gale couldn't hear. Lae’zel nodded in response and gestured to Irkhan to follow her. They disappeared into the gloom ahead.

The druid waited a few beats before beckoning Gale, Halsin, and Shadowheart forward. “We’re right underneath Szarr’s palace,” she whispered. “Remember the plan?”

Shadowheart nodded straight away and unsheathed the mace of Lathander from her back. Halsin wildshaped into his ursine form to make his understanding known and Gale rolled up his sleeves, holding his quarterstaff out in front of him.

Plan, plan, plan…

Lae'zel and Irkhan were acting as the scouts. The natural stealth of the half elf made sense, and no one was going to tell the githyanki that she couldn't go first. Then the rest of the Harpers would follow, led by Shadowheart, working their way through the tourmaline depths, destroying as much as they could, up until they reached the heart of the Crimson Palace. Halsin, Gale and Jaheira would act as magical support. They hoped that they would overwhelm the vampires with sheer force of numbers, whilst the ability to burn and destroy on their way through would stop the vampires from being able to regroup.

They heard a whistle from up ahead. Irkhan had found something. Gale hurried to catch up and saw that they were in a clearing with a mushroom circle in it. There was one clear path up, wrapping itself around a cliff face of blue rock, winding its way to the upper heights of the cavern, and from there, the main palace. Gale looked at the circle, eyes twitching.

“You normally see these as teleports to the Underdark,” he said, curiously.

Jaheira nodded. “Investigate Gale, catch up with us.”

Gale gave a brief nod, before stepping into the circle. The familiar rush of faerzress whirled around the wizard and he stumbled slightly as he landed in a part of the Underdark. It was a cave, and Gale couldn't see an entrance. He summoned some dancing lights and looked around him.

In front of him was a grand crypt, made from marble, decorated with gold and ruby. It was huge, with carvings of skulls and rats etched beautifully into the stone. At its foot was a smaller crypt, obsidian with a cloth laid on top of it. Gale approached the main crypt. Engraved on it, in both common and Kozakuran, were the words:

Gale expected it to be Szarr's coffin so wasn't surprised, but his stomach clenched when he recognised the shabby funeral shroud laid on the smaller dark crypt. He picked it up, feeling the texture under his fingers, and breathed it in. It smelt cold and a hint of dirt, but Gale believed he could smell brandy and bergamot, the scents that accompanied Astarion wherever he went. Gale folded up the shroud and placed it in his pocket.

There was an engraving on this tomb as well, the writing gold and bright:

Gale slammed his palm on the writing. His index finger lined up in the groove of the ‘H’ on ‘Hero’ and the wizard couldn't help but scratch at it, as if to remove it. The fury of Astarion being described as a faithful servant and given the last name Szarr made him sick. Bile rose in his throat as he looked at evidence that Szarr was curating and moulding Astarion's image, infantilising him whilst promoting him as a hero. Astarion never got to receive the glories and here was Szarr, trying to rewrite his own glory through association. The hero of Baldur’s Gate, little more than a lap dog at his master's feet, in life, in death, in unlife.

The thunderwave blew out of Gale involuntarily, his magic reacting to and matching his ire. The white and black crypts crumbled under the force, spilling dirt and dust from within out into the air. He threw a bottle of holy water on the wreckage and set it alight with a hissed “Ignis!” for good measure.

Gale gripped the funeral shroud that was in his pocket. He took a few deep breaths before happy with the destruction of the tombs and turned on his heel to return to the tourmaline depths.

It didn’t take long for him to catch up with the others. They had taken a pause whilst Irkhan scouted further ahead. The cavern apparently widened out, and Jaheira wanted to make sure it was safe before dedicating her forces to a fight where the potential for an ambush was higher. Jaheira wanted to be the ambusher not the ambushee.

“Anything?” the Harper asked, as Gale drew level with her.

“Tombs,” replied Gale, shortly.

Something in Jaheira’s eye twitched. She seemed to be thinking about saying something, then changed her mind when it was on the tip of her tongue. “Destroyed?”

Gale nodded. He felt for the shroud in his pocket, slightly soothed by the fraying texture.

“Good.” Jaheira gave a short nod. She looked up towards the darkness where Irkhan had gone. “He should be back soon.”

“He should be back now.” Lae’zel was pacing, greatsword drawn, the blade glinting in the low light.

“I’m sure he’s just on his way,” Shadowheart tried to soothe the githyanki, but Gale noticed how her hands gripped the shaft of her mace, knuckles whitening.

A gurgled scream from up ahead, cut off before its natural conclusion.

Jaheira’s face turned white.

Gale closed his eyes.

Lae’zel twirled her sword. “Let’s go.”

Chapter Text

Teeth. Or more accurately, fangs.

Gale recognised the handywork straight away. He had seen this death before; a person held up by their neck whilst Astarion Ancunín pounced and gripped their throat in his teeth, tearing away as gravity pulled him back to the ground.

Irkhan’s eyes had faded, but his face was still contorted into a snarl. He had tried to go down fighting.

But you didn’t go down fighting once Cazador Szarr had decided that Astarion Ancunín was going to kill you.

Blood pooled around the body. It trickled from the open wound in his neck.

This was a message, thought Gale, grimly. He wasn’t even worth a meal.

Jaheira knelt down next to her harper and closed his eyes. She shook slightly as she did so, her confidence and self-belief crumbling down around her like stone walls in an earthquake. “ Revar thar,” she murmured, closing her own eyes. “ Vian quarlani akh Wutheh Tel’ Daoine.”

Rest well, your soul must find the stars…

Gale bowed his head. He heard Halsin and Shadowheart whisper their own prayers. Gale raised his head up just to see a single tear fall from Jaheira’s eye. The other druid reached out for her, holding her arm in a light grip. “Don’t let his death be in vain,” he whispered. “Let him be the final victim of Cazador Szarr.”

Jaheira exhaled softly. She rolled her shoulders back as she stood, her posture proud and strong. “We will come back for him,” she said, louder than necessary, for her own benefit more than those around her. She gritted her teeth in determination and stared ahead. “Lae’zel, take the lead. He dies now.”

“Htak'a!” The githyanki snarled and pressed forwards, Shadowheart on her heels.

The rest of the Harpers, Gale, Halsin, and Jaheira surged forwards, a tidal wave of fury and anger. They were the rage of the storm that pelted down on Baldur’s Gate, all teeth and claws, lightning and fire. Gale followed the radiant glow of Shadowheart’s mace, magic bubbling at his fingertips.

They scrabbled through the Tourmaline depths, destroying any evidence of Szarr’s presence. Scrolls, magical components, artefacts, even the tiniest scrap of paper that might have the tiniest hint of meaning to the vampire was destroyed by fire, ice, acid, thunder. Shadowheart and Gale destroyed the ritual circle, with its bloodstained rock. Gale realised with horror that this was where the Ascension ritual must have taken place. It was here that Astarion was destined to die, sacrificed for a master who claimed to love him.

The nausea churned into fury and Shadowheart had to reign the wizard back, to keep his energy up for when there were actual enemies about. For the Tourmaline depths was sparse of vampires, though Gale knew that his enemy was somewhere nearby. He could feel them watching.

Gale’s heart was beating in his throat and drumming in his head. His pulse had never felt more overbearing in his life. He kept his eyes fixed on Shadowheart and the radiant glow of the mace. The group climbed steadily upwards, through rows and rows of cells, blood dried and congealed.

It was quiet, too quiet.

Gale was constantly expecting something to come out of the darkness ahead. He kept thinking that he heard things moving in the gloom, that he could see the occasional twitching shadow, hear the soft footfalls of someone sneaking around. Of course, in his mind it was Astarion padding just out of sight. His form lithe, melting into the shadows in the spidersilk armour he had taken from Minthara, or maybe the leather armour he had upgraded it to when in Rivington, the two daggers at his hips, the bow on his back, the mischievous grin on his face. The hunter in the dark, the assassin in the night, the thief in the gloom. Gale’s heart ached. For all he wanted the imaginary figure to be Astarion, if it was then a sharpened stake would have to go through his lover’s chest. Gale didn't know whether he could do that.

Szarr was counting on the fact that he couldn't.

There was a large circular lift ahead, ready to raise them into the palace proper. Lae’zel stalked on, proud and daring any vampiric presence to take her on. Gale found himself following, urged on by Halsin and Minsc’s steady presence at his side. Jaheira gathered her Harpers around her and Gale looked up to see where his destiny, and that of Baldur's Gate, led.

Gale was thrown backwards.

A huge, grey wolf with red eyes and gnashing jaws threw itself at him, knocking him on his back.

“Ignis!” Gale yelled, giving himself sometime to get back to his feet as the wolf snarled around him, nose singed.

The wolf pounced again, but Gale managed to dodge. He brought his quarterstaff down on the beast’s back, thunder staggering it as it howled. As it lay prone, Gale finished it off with an ice knife, before staggering away.

The room was a cacophony of screams and roars. It whipped around Gale like a hurricane. He saw blurs of beasts and blades. Thralls, werewolves, rats the size of dogs all threw themselves at the invading force.

Gale sent magic missiles at a werewolf about to surprise Jaheira and then sent a burst of lightning from his hands to make quick work of the rats. He saw Halsin in bear form, wrestling with a large, Black werewolf and turned to see Shadowheart sending bursts of radiant light at ghouls and ghasts.

Blood rushed in his ears. He sent wave after wave of magic, trying to support the melee fighters as much as possible. He was squeezed tight by the bodies, crushing his ribs, forcing air out of his lungs.

He kept trying to spot a tuft of silver hair but couldn't. He realized that he couldn't see any vampires at all.

Claws ripped at his side, and he felt himself get pushed to the floor. He scrabbled desperately trying to get from under the body of the werewolf who seemed to have decided that smothering Gale to death was the best choice of action.

Can't breathe…Can't breathe…

He clawed desperately at the heavy body on top of him but couldn’t shift it.

Fuck, I’m going to die, I’m going to die

The stench of wolf and necrotic magic was clogging his senses; he had no way of fighting back against the weight of the beast. He felt his vision darken and his ability to feel fade away when suddenly he (and the werewolf) was flung sideways, the werewolf unable to grip Gale’s body as they flew through the air. Gale screamed as the claws tore out of his flank.

It was Halsin who had managed to push the werewolf off Gale, grunting and snapping his jaws into the enemy’s scruff. The werewolf hissed manically, paws and claws flailing as it tried to dislodge the bear. Gale scrabbled backwards and succeeded in propelling himself into an upright position. His chest was heaving, sucking in all the relatively clean air, and the pain and blood poured out of his side.

The fight had pushed through to Cazador’s ballroom. The jet and ivory colour scheme was now highlighted by scarlet blood. Magic pulsed from various harpers – acid, fire, ice, thunder, and lightning – lighting up the room in various auras. Gale forced his way through the fray, internally wincing when the floor beneath his feet turned from marble to corpse, stone to flesh and sinew. He needed a vantage point; he was useless amidst the melee. The wizard tried to listen out for his friends through the din. He heard githyanki battle cries and insults so was gladdened by Lae’zel’s continued survival. Occasional bursts of radiant fire suggested that Shadowheart still fought. He heard roars from Halsin and Jaheira, and he was reassured by glimpses of Minsc’s bald head, looming tall above his foes.

Get a grip Gale. You need to keep going, stop standing around. Go find the vampires!

Gale shook himself and spied a group of werewolves congregating in an attempt to regroup. A grunted “Arde!” landed a fireball on their position. It wasn’t particularly clever move, Gale had to admit, but hearing their screams gave him some satisfaction.

There we go. Not that useless.

“Wizard!”

Gale turned.

Araya nearly collapsed into him, causing him to stagger backwards. “Where’s Irkhan?” she cried, desperately, as Gale grabbed onto her should to steady the spawn.

“Araya, what are you doing here?”

“I needed to know…” panted the tiefling. The fire reflected in her eyes and it dazzled Gale for a moment, but looking deeper the wizard could recognise two conflicting emotions: grief and panic. “Astarion…”

Gale gripped Araya’s shoulders tighter, probably bruising the girl. “What about Astarion?” he asked, quickly. Gale’s fireball seemed to have an unleashed an inferno behind them. The flames spread, and more magic users contributed to the blaze.

Araya tried to steady herself but inhaled the gradually building smoke that flooded the hall. “Astarion said… Astarion said…” she coughed and spluttered. “Astarion… he said that he killed Irkhan.”

Gale looked at Araya, blinking slowly. He knew it had been Astarion. For it was always Astarion. Ever since the beginning. The wizard lowered his head, not able to look the tiefling in the eye.

“No…”

“I’m sorry.”

“No…No!”

“He went down fighting.” The snarl was etched in Gale’s memory.

“That bastard!” The tiefling screamed. She turned on her heel, stumbling as her amputated tail failed to give her the balance she needed, the mutilated stump frantically trying to stabilise her. Profanities erupted from her mouth as she fled the ballroom in a storm of fury.

The rational part of Gale, crushed by bruises, smothered by smoke and ripped by claws as it was, knew that Szarr was trying to bait him. Trying to get him to run after the tiefling. Trying to get him to rescue the tiefling who had no chance in hells of laying even a mildly aggressive hand on Astarion. Szarr wanted him isolated. Araya was going to die. Those were facts. If Gale followed, he would die, running willingly into an ambush. Still, despite being aware of Shadowheart screaming his name, Gale found himself charging after Araya, out into the corridors of Szarr’s palace. Rationality never won for Gale, not when Astarion was concerned.

It wasn’t even a hero complex. It was an obsession with a love he couldn't have.

“Araya!”

The smoke and heat had billowed out into the corridors. It would not be long until the flames fanned their way here too. Gale caught a glimpse of blue out of the corner of his eye, dashing down the main staircase. He followed. He could hardly hear anything except the ringing in his ears and the sound of his pulse.

There was a burst of flame ahead. Gale urged himself forward, begging himself to run faster and try harder.

Lush carpets sparked and embers hit wooden rafters, breaking and descending around his head.

More fire. More destruction, more smoke.

He recognised an “Ignis!” from up ahead.

Come on Gale, just a bit more… maybe this time you can save somebody…

He readied Ice Storm, the incantation on his lips…

The scream.

Gale stumbled to a halt.

Failure.

Again.

You failed again, Gale.

Failed.

Again.

Astarion was licking his lips and the back of his hand. At his feet, as expected, was the body of Araya. Throat torn and face scratched. Nothing more than a memory of grief and love.

And Astarion? Well, he looked callous in his calmness, uncaring and apathetic. He looked relaxed, and Gale noticed that he wasn’t even wearing armour. Instead, he wore a black silk shirt, trousers and a gold band around his neck. He wasn’t even wearing shoes . He looked like was dressed for a night in the library, as fire and wars for survival and love raged on around him. The fire illuminated his pale features in an orange glow, and he looked completely removed from it all.

Gale swallowed. He took a step forward.

Astarion looked up. His eyes narrowed. He flashed his canines and shook out his hands, claws extending. “Wizard.”

Gale inhaled deeply. He took another step forward.

Astarion’s eyes furrowed. “Are you sure about this?” he growled, coldly. His lips curled as he turned slightly, so that he was directly facing Gale.

“I’ve never been sure of anything with you,” replied Gale, quietly. He stopped moving and dropped his quarterstaff to the ground.

Astarion followed the fall of the staff with piercing ruby eyes before he snorted. “Because I managed to escape you? Didn’t fit your mould of perfectly behaved spawn?” he sneered.

Gale gave a wry smile. “You were never a perfectly behaved spawn. That’s why I liked you.”

Astarion hissed. “You took me from my life. You took me from my purpose.”

Gale shook his head. “No. The Nautiloid saved you. You escaped this life by being with me. You found your purpose with me.” He searched Astarion’s face for any glimmer, for any hope of recognition. “This isn’t you.”

“You know nothing,” snarled the elf.

“I know that this isn’t you,” said Gale, sadly. “But I do know you. I know that you drink red wine because you think it makes you look classier even though it tastes like vinegar to you. I know that you’re a sucker for historical romance novels even though you pretend to only enjoy high literature and legal nonfiction. I know that your right ear is more sensitive than your left and you don’t know why, and that you scrunch up your nose like a cat when things happen that you don’t like.” Gale didn’t understand why he was so calm. The fire still grew around them and the shrieks of battle still thundered.

Astarion scoffed. “No.”

Gale nodded. “I know that when the sun’s out you like to sunbathe. You like stargazing and drinking hot drinks because you like the feeling of internal warmth. I know that you’re brilliantly kind and clever. You’re witty and brave. You’re more than he ever made you to be.”

“No.” Astarion’s face was stormy. “You’re a liar,” he hissed.

Gale shook his head. “I never lie about you. I never lie to you.”

The vampire spawn lashed out with a claw.

The wizard reacted by taking a step backwards.

“Liar.”

“No.”

Another strike with the claws but this time the spawn hit his mark. Another wound on Gale’s side, blood welling up and pain blooming.

“Fight back, you coward!”

“No.”

For Cazador Szarr, in all his insanity and hatred, had been right about one thing. It would take more than the death of Xan for Lae’zel to stop fighting. It would take more than the murder of her parents for Shadowheart not to investigate. Jaheira could be persuaded to take up arms and Halsin convinced to fight larger causes even when gripped in sorrow. But Gale Dekarios could never hurt Astarion Ancunín.

Another slash. At Gale’s stomach this time, aiming for Gale’s vital organs. The force of the blow made Gale fall. He pushed himself into a sitting position, one arm outstretched as Astarion stalked towards him.

Time seemed to slow. All of Gale’s focus was on Astarion. All his hopes, all his dreams. The pale elf, bathed in fire, was the epicentre. And Gale had to believe. Just once. He just had to believe.

“This isn’t you!” Gale shouted, pleading. “Astarion, please look inside yourself. You’re not a slave!”

The spawn’s fangs extended as he stopped a couple of paces from Gale. He looked hungry, angry, vengeful. Gale had seen this look before but always directed towards people who had hurt Gale. It tore a hole in Gale’s soul deeper than any of Astarion’s claws could.

“You are more than just a thing to be used,” begged Gale. “You make your own choices, nevermind how scary it is. You like to say that revenge is the most important thing to you, but it’s not, it’s freedom. Not just yours, but everybody’s! You’ve freed gnolls and gnomes. You saved me from the God of Murder, you’ve struck down a Sharran curse, and you ordered a Netherbrain to self-destruct. You are the most incredible creature in the universe. You are and always will be. The most radiant spawn.”

Astarion cocked his head to one side. Gale didn’t know whether he had absorbed anything that Gale had said, but the wizard felt tears on his face come unbidden. “Please, Astarion.”

He couldn’t see anything around the pair. The darkness, the fire, the smoke. It roared in his ears and his heart thudded in his chest.

Astarion’s right ear twitched.

“Little Star.”

Gale dug his hand into his pocket, grasping for the funeral shroud, clutching onto the familiar texture, holding onto Astarion . The blood in his veins turned to ice and he shuddered.

Cold and singsong like, Cazador Szarr’s voice blotted out the light.

“Little Star.”

Crooning and wrapping around Astarion like a spider’s web. Astarion glanced behind him. Gale couldn’t see where he was looking at. The pain of his wounds was overwhelming his system and he desperately needed Astarion for once in his life to listen.

“Please, Astarion! Please…” The tears fell down Gale’s face.

“Kill him.”

Astarion’s gaze snapped back to Gale. His body tensed.

Gale looked Astarion in those crimson eyes that he had spent eight months dreaming about. He closed his eyes.

“I love you.”

Astarion pounced.

Chapter Text

Gale always wondered what it would be like to die. Would his life flash before his eyes? Or would time slow down, heart thudding in his chest like a march to the scaffold? Death and dying had always been a feature in Gale's life. Mortality, and the consequences of it, are a feature of most lives, but Gale had always been obsessed. Even when he was chasing the highs of being Mystra’s chosen and the possibility of ascending to Godhood, death always seemed to be around the corner.

A dark and grim spectre, hooked and crooked, cloaked and daggered. Skeletal fingers on his shoulder, the music of a scythe in his heart. The consequence of battling your own head was to constantly be aware of the cost of your own failure. And in that moment when death calls your name whether you think of it as a reward or punishment encapsulates your entire being.

For those such as Gale, it was the last act in a war against the soul. Death was the last act of defiance. Proof that you had agency. Evidence that you could stop the pain. Confirmation that you had some semblance of control and had the power to choose your destiny.

But as Gale faced death, he found that he had no choice. And the battle in his soul still raged on and for a brief moment he wondered whether this would how it would have felt if he had detonated on the Netherbrain.

His eyes were wide, and his chest heaved. His wounds would kill him anyway, Gale reasoned. It was better this way, to have Astarion kill him. Quicker. Probably less painful.

Gale looked into those crimson eyes and recognised nothing.

It was not the man he had fallen in love with.

There was anger, hatred, fear and disgust flooding the ruby glow. He could also see excitement. Gale wondered whether Astarion saw this moment as momentous as he did. Whether the vampire spawn, claws out and fangs extended, saw this as the final paragraph in the concluding chapter of a book. Except for Astarion, he would get a new book, maybe even a new bookcase.

For Gale, the last page was being torn out.

Don't close your eyes. Don't close your eyes…

Astarion kept coming closer.

Gale knew it was just a weird perspective as his body panicked, but it seemed as though as time slowed down.

He could see the venom drip off the canines.

He thought about how those teeth would feel pierce his flesh.

It would probably hurt.

A lot.

He held up his arm in front of his face.

He lowered his head.

Deep breaths. Deep breaths.

Try not to shake.

Gale made his gaze meet Astarion's. Red into brown.

Deep breaths.

Be brave. For Gods’ sakes, be brave.

He withdrew backwards slightly.

He could hear the snarl.

He heard the rush of air leaving lungs. The sound of breaking flesh and cracking bones. The taste of blood in the air.

But it wasn't his… blood?

Not his flesh splitting?

The death rattle wasn't his.

Gale blinked.

Astarion seemed to be frozen in mid-air. His mouth was open, but it wasn't in a snarl. His facial expression was not one of aggression or victory; it was shock, it was pain.

Gale blinked again.

A sharpened stake through his ribs.

He stumbled, falling back.

Lae’zel was on the other end of the stake.

Her grip was secure, face stoic and aggressive. She pushed the elf to the floor.

Gale's eyes were wide. Staring at the blood that poured out of Astarion's chest. It was thick and sluggish. The spawn's throat convulsed, and a stream of blood began to trickle from the corner of his mouth.

Gale just realised that it wasn't Astarion's blood that fled his body. He wondered who's it was. Which poor sod died so Astarion could live just slightly longer? It was a waste, some part of Gale decided. To die so someone else could live and kill two more people.

No not someone.

A monster.

Astarion.

Monster.

The spawn’s eyes rolled back in his head. It was still clinging to life, or the faint recollection of it that the spawn held. The body spasmed.

Strong hands gripped Gale’s shoulders and hauled him to his feet. He blinked again. Tears, he thought, feeling them fall onto his face. Interesting. The whole world felt on mute. Lae’zel was pushing him behind her, ordering him to do something but he couldn’t hear her. He was transfixed on the dying spawn. It looked smaller now, as if its body was constricting. It was panicking, Gale observed distantly, its eyes trying to dart around to look for something.

A piercing noise stabbed through Gale’s noiseless world.

It even made Lae’zel flinch.

Gale turned and was met with fury in elf form.

“You will pay for this,” Szarr snarled, grabbing the spawn’s shuddering form. He held it close to his chest, rocking it, cradling it.

Gale thought that something was supposed to happen. He stood in front of Cazador Szarr, vampire ascendent of Baldur’s Gate, and was silent. He held out his hands and expected something to appear.

“Raphael!” Lae’zel’s hiss burst into Gale’s eardrums.

Yes, Gale thought, absently. He was expecting the ranseur.

But nothing came. No glittering silver, no sharpened ice. Gale frowned. Lae’zel was furious. She was cursing in githyanki, promising to throttle the devil if she ever laid her hands on him.

Gale reckoned it wouldn't be that simple. Nothing ever was.

Szarr, gathering the spawn closer to him, glared at the pair. He uttered some words and fog and mist wrapped around him. A blast of wind whipped through them, dispersing the dark clouds, and Cazador Szarr was there no more.

All that, thought Gale, staring at the spot where the vampire lord had been. All that for nothing.

He felt Lae’zel’s hand on his shoulder. He swallowed.

One dead monster.

One alive wizard.

Still alive.

No.

Not a dead monster.

Astarion.

Free.

Gale fell to his knees and sobbed.

Chapter Text

Astarion growled. He notched an arrow to his bow, fingers pulling over the flight to gather some sense of comfort. The stench of blood filled through his mouth, overwhelming him, making him nauseous. Normally he would salivate over the amount of blood he could smell, but now it just made him sick. It smelt rotten. Cloying, over the top.

He felt a prod in his side. Astarion shook himself. Lae’zel looked at him with narrowed eyes. “Ishtik,” she said, almost fondly. “Let’s go. Finish this.”

Astarion nodded. He rolled his shoulders and began to creep forward. “It smells rancid in here,” he remarked to Wyll, padding quietly at his side.

Wyll nodded. “I’m glad I don’t have as sensitive a nose as you.” He wrinkled his own nose in disgust.

“My nose is perfect, thank you darling.”

Wyll gave a good-natured eye roll. “Come on you, let’s get your wizard back.” He clapped Astarion on the back.

Ah yes. The reason why they were creeping into a temple dedicated to a murder God. Gale.

Astarion focused back into the cavern. It was huge and expansive, a thin bridge crossing a cavern. There was a large tower-like structure across the bridge, and Astarion gathered that’s where they were headed. He felt a slight pressure build around the group and he shook himself.

You’re here to help Gale, he thought, crossly. Rescue Gale, kill Orin, grab the netherstone. Not necessarily in that order, but that was the general jist.

The ritual to enter the Temple of Bhaal, Astarion thought was a little excessive. Even more disappointing was the fact that the Farslayer had just disappeared and hadn’t dropped any loot.

“Poofing off, just like that? Hmph.”

“You’re never satisfied, are you?” chided Shadowheart.

“You’d think someone like that would have something impressive on him.”

“Oh, shut up, Astarion.”

Astarion grinned, leading the way into the main temple. He knew that he had managed to get a snort from Jaheira at least. Jaheira could never resist his snide comments. And Astarion was the King of Snide.

“Oh well. This… this is a lot. Even for me, this is a lot of blood.” Astarion knew that he wasn’t exaggerating. He also knew that he was talking more to cover up his nerves. He didn’t like feeling nervous, he much preferred the persona of self-assured confidence and flair.

He was terrified about what was beyond that the door. He felt a hand on his shoulder, squeezing reassuringly. He didn’t know to whom the hand belonged to, but he was thankful for it all the same. The stone opened before him when he shakily pressed the amulet of Bhaal to it.

The inner sanctum opened up before them. More blood filled Astarion’s nose. He wrinkled it as if that would stop the smell from going into his sinuses. He felt that Gortash had had more style than Orin. He wondered whether Bhaal’s chosen got an opportunity to redecorate the place on becoming chosen.

Another prod in the back. Halsin pointed to the centre of sanctum, where there was a circular platform. In the centre was a raised stone altar, and Astarion’s heart dropped into his stomach.

He began to try and launch himself down but was held back by Halsin tackling him. “I’m gonna kill her!” he grunted against Halsin’s arms. “I am going tear out her entrails and stuff her eyes with them and then scramble her lungs and eat them on toast!”

“Maybe wait till we’ve saved Gale, yeah?”

“Then I’m going to tear her veins out and wrap them around her and use her nails to comb my hair!”

Halsin slapped his palm over Astarion’s mouth who kept mouthing what he was going to do with Orin’s corpse. The large druid stood patiently until the smaller elf started to calm down. He finally removed his mouth and raised an eyebrow. “Finished?”

Astarion opened his mouth but caught Jaheira and Shadowheart glaring at him. “Fine.”

“Let’s go Fangs.”

Karlach led the way down towards Orin and the perfectly arranged Bhaal cultists that stood around her.

Orin laughed at the ragtag group. Astarion tried to strut. He felt that strutting suggested power. That power faded when Orin’s dagger pressed to Gale’s throat.

“Bitch.”

Wyll stood on his foot.

Orin cackled.

Why did the insane ones always cackle?

Did Cazador cackle? Astarion couldn’t remember whether he had ever heard Cazador laugh. Probably not. He didn’t know what humour was unless it was dry irony that made Astarion Not Have A Good Time.

Wyll was talking to Orin. The warlock was charismatic, Astarion had to admit. He was also easy on the eye, but Astarion only had eyes for Gale. But he seemed to be able to charm the crazed murder God chosen product of incest. And that counted for something .

“Can I kill her yet?” asked Astarion, through gritted teeth.

Shadowheart shot him a look. “Not. Yet.”

Astarion growled.

The beast that appeared before them could only have been described as monstrous. It was huge, six limbs and a tail, with huge mandibles. It roared.

“Well,” said Astarion. “Can we kill it now?”

Shadowheart rolled her eyes. “Astarion.” She readied a spell.

“What? I’ve learnt I’ve had to ask these things.” Astarion unsheathed his daggers, grinning manically.

His question was answered by Karlach’s battle cry. Astarion hopped up the stone steps to get a higher vantage point before letting loose a flurry of arrows. One eye was kept constantly on Gale’s limp form, making sure the clumsier members of the group ( Cough, Cough, Karlach ) didn’t go anywhere near him. Arrow after arrow flew into Orin’s thick hide. It didn’t seem to affect her at all.

Eldritch blasts flew from Wyll’s palms, swords and axes thudded and slashed from Lae’zel and Karlach, necrotic and radiant light danced around Shadowheart, and Halsin and Jaheira howled and roared.

“Bloody hells,” hissed Astarion.

At least the cultists weren’t getting involved, as the Slayer leapt around, limbs and jaws flailing around as it did. Astarion grunted in frustration as the tip of its tail hit him in the flank. “Shitting hell!”

“Focus Astarion!” shouted Wyll.

“No, I’m enjoying getting distracted by this fucking thing!” Astarion yelled back.

A Hunger of Hadar was Wyll’s response. “Cover Shadowheart!” he ordered.

Astarion rolled his eyes and let loose some more arrows. He jumped higher up the steps and notched a lightning arrow. “Take that you bloody…thing!” Shadowheart ducked out of the way, hitting a guiding bolt just before Astarion’s arrow hit its target, right in the top of the slayer’s head.

It screamed and stumbled, allowing Lae’zel and Karlach to slam their weapons into the soft, fleshy underbelly. Astarion watched with satisfaction as angry red lines appeared in the white skin. “Make it hurt you bastards!” he screamed.

He could feel Shadowheart’s eyeroll.

Astarion let loose another arrow and flashed the cleric a flirty grin. “You love me really, darling!”

“In your dreams!” Shadowheart shouted back as she slammed her mace down on the slayer’s back.

The rogue tittered. He danced forward, unsheathing his daggers. He began to spin and twirl, blades poking and slicing against skin and flesh. It was satisfying and gratifying, Astarion’s humour being overtaken by his residual anger. It was this thing that had taken his Gale, his wizard. And no one took anything from Astarion. Not anymore at least.

He screeched as he plunged his daggers into the flesh. Blood gushed over his hands, the red in stark contrast to his pale white hands, and he giggled.

“Elf!” Lae’zel drew him out of his stabbing, “would you focus on the fact that you’ve killed it and now we’ve got four cultists to murder?”

“Oh.” Astarion looked down. Stabbing an already dead corpse wasn’t as fun as a live one, especially as it looked like the Slayer was about to explode, its skin and flesh rippling and bubbling. He turned and jumped on a cultist about to try and cast silence on Wyll. Astarion opened his jaws and sank his teeth into the cultist’s jugular.

He let the cultist drop to the floor and saw that the other three were being supressed easily by the others. He scurried over to the altar and began tapping his wizard’s jaw with his fingers.

“Wake up, damn you!” He began shaking the wizard. Astarion fiddled with the locks tying his lover to the stone, relieved as Gale began to stir.

“What…Astar…”

“Shush, shush, don’t over-exert yourself.” Astarion shoved his shoulder behind Gale and lifted him to a sitting position.

“Don’t… shush me,” whispered Gale, hoarsely.

Astarion kissed the top of his head. “Thank the Gods…” He was still as aggravating as ever!

“It’s nice to be on the right side of divine intervention for once,” murmured Gale. He looked exhausted, pale and gaunt, with huge dark circles under his dark eyes. “Makes you grateful to be alive.”

“Yes, and don’t you forget it.” Astarion couldn’t help the desperation with which he held the wizard, taking all Gale’s weight onto his slighter frame, hugging him tight. “You must be tired.” It sounded obvious but Astarion had the urge just to keep talking so that Gale could hear his voice, so that he would remember that he was loved.

“Hmm, exhausted. Not sure I’ve got the energy for much more vigorous adventuring,” said Gale, sleepily.

“No more adventuring today,” promised Astarion. “Might get a day off tomorrow. Call it a preparation day, the others will go for it.”

“That sounds nice.” Gale closed his eyes, resting his head against the elf’s shoulder.

“Sleep, my dear wizard,” whispered Astarion, kissing Gale’s forehead again. “I’ll be here when you wake. And I’m never leaving you again.”

Astarion had bundled Gale into his own bed. He had made a sort of nest on his bunk in the Elfsong. It was the one in the furthest corner, tucked away behind privacy screens, and a second bed that Astarion was loathe to let Gale use even if he wanted to. Gale needed to stay by him. Where he would be safe. Looking at his wizard under multiple blankets and pillows, he thought he had done a good job making it cosy. He slipped off his boots and snuggled into Gale’s side.

Gale stirred after a few hours. Astarion hadn’t slept. Instead, he had wrapped his arms around Gale, gently tracing shapes on his stomach and having his nose tucked into Gale’s neck.

“Star?” groaned Gale.

“I’m here, I’m here,” soothed Astarion.

Gale groaned again.

“Do you need anything?”

“You.”

Astarion gave a soft chuckle. “Flirty wizard.” He bopped Gale on the nose. "You can always have me."

Gale sighed and reclined against the elf. Astarion made an effort to breathe and move slightly, so that Gale would remember that he was safe, that he was home with Astarion. “I’ve been threatened with the sharp end of a dagger before.”

“Only you would make that sound like a boast.”

Gale gently headbutted him. “But never with a monster such as Orin.” He shook slightly, voice trembling.

Astarion squeezed Gale tighter.

“It certainly would have been a disappointment to spend so long resisting the instructions of my own God, only to die as the plaything of another.”

Astarion rested his forehead against Gale’s hair. He knew that Gale needed to get it out.

“I’m not sure I’ll ever recover from the embarrassment of falling for her tricks.”

“Trust you to worry about embarrassment when you’ve literally just survived being kidnapped by a literal murder cult,” deadpanned Astarion.

“She spared me.”

Astarion snorted. “You seem almost thankful.”

“Whatever modicum of reason lurked in that warped mind of hers led her to spare me, rather than skewering my corpse over her temple door I will be eternally grateful for.”

“Luck, dear Gale. Luck.”

“I don’t believe in luck.”

“Believe in me then?” Astarion kissed him on the top of the head. “I’m the definition of luck.”

Gale gave a soft chuckle. “You’re right, that’s what I automatically associate with you. Luck and the vampire spawn slave,” he said dryly.

The elf smacked him playfully. “I wouldn’t have fallen for Orin.”

“Hmm,” said Gale. “She might have been a raving lunatic, but she knew exactly how to lower your defences.”

“My defences?”

Gale hummed. He turned so he was facing Astarion. “ Your defences.” He poked his lover in the chest.

“And how did she do that?”

Gale looked into Astarion’s eyes. “She took me,” he murmured. “To get you to do what she wanted.”

Astarion shrugged. He knew that Gale would blame himself. And it was Astarion’s job to convince him otherwise. “She’s dead. Unless she wanted that, she didn’t get what she wanted.”

Gale raised an eyebrow. “Star…”

“Yes Gale?” teased Astarion.

“Shuddup.”

“Exactly.” Astarion bopped Gale’s nose again.

“She used my pride against me,” murmured Gale, absently.

Astarion gave him a kiss on the nose. “How so?” he asked.

“Elminster. That’s the form she took. She came to camp whilst you were gone, claiming to have found a Netherese artefact he’d found. One he thought could turn the tide in our favour.”

The elf hummed. He didn’t say anything, he knew that Gale had to get this off his chest otherwise the wizard would stew .

“Part of me knew it was too good to be true. But the greater part of me wanted to believe my old friend. That I could do some fancy magic and win the day." He sighed. "I should have known it wouldn’t be so easy.” Gale’s face screwed up like he was tasting something bitter.

Astarion grabbed Gale harder as tears welled in the wizard’s eyes. He rested his pointed chin on his head, covering as much of Gale’s body that he could. “It could have happened to anyone my love.”

Gale shuddered against him. “I hope we never see Orin’s like again. Mind Flayers and Absolutists I can handle, but she was nothing, but cruelty and carnage incarnate. Another one whose God should not be worshipped.”

“I recommend no Gods at all,” replied Astarion.

Gale cracked a small smile. It warmed Astarion’s heart and he clutched at Gale. “I’m so glad you’re back. I don’t know what I would have done…” He cleared his throat. “Orin had to die. And I was glad to kill her.”

“I’m grateful that you did. Most would have abandoned me to my fate, rather than take on a Chosen of the God of Murder.”

“Not me,” grumbled Astarion.

“No, not you,” smiled Gale. “For some reason.”

“Because you’re the best thing that ever happened to me?” Astarion shrugged. “Simple reason.”

“No, I think you’re the best thing to ever happen to me.”

Astarion frowned. “Are they mutually exclusive?”

Gale finally smiled in a way that showed teeth. “No, I guess they’re not.”

Astarion grinned. “I’ll always keep you safe. Forever.”

As Gale snuggled into Astarion, the elf held him close. He looked into space. He didn’t want to sleep. He knew the nightmares would come back and Gale deserved one night’s rest without being disturbed by his whimpers and whines. He settled to staying the night awake, looking after Gale. He knew that their time together was coming to an end. He could feel the night wrapping around the pair of them.

Astarion kissed Gale again. “I love you,” he whispered. “I will never hurt you. And if I do, you better put a stake through my heart.”

Chapter Text

Gale was vaguely aware of other people around him. He paid them no mind; just stared straight ahead, eyes on nothing in particular. It was a sunny day, the first that Gale had experienced for a while, even though it was so cold. Gale supposed that he should be grateful for that. He found that he couldn’t quite stomach the positive emotion. He felt a hand on his back. He looked up and saw Wyll smiling down at him.

“You alright?”

Gale shrugged. “As much as to be expected.”

Wyll nodded. “I don’t know what I expected.” Wyll was always honest.

Gale hummed a non-committal response. The companions were stood in their first campsite, gathered around the large rocks in the centre. Gale was grateful for their presence. Shadowheart was stood next to Karlach, huddling next to her for her warmth. Lae’zel stood a little way away, standing guard, but Gale noticed how her eyes kept flitting towards the cleric, softness in her gaze. Jaheira, Minsc, and Halsin were talking about the clean up projects in Baldur’s Gate. There were a few other people here too; Alfira the bard, Lakrissa the ranger, Rolan the wizard, Cal and Lia, Isobel, Rath, and Nettie. Barcus was here too, a solemn look on his face. Gale turned to the gnome and smiled sadly. “It’s not your fault you know,” said the wizard, softly.

Barcus contorted his face. “Ironic that Zander is actually blind,” he remarked. “I was blinded by money. What a fool I am.”

“I don’t blame you.”

Barcus looked at him, something close to his relief on his face. “I should have realised…”

“We all should have realised,” said Gale, firmly. More firmly than he felt. “Don’t beat yourself up about it.”

Barcus didn’t reply and Gale turned back to the little grave he had dug.

It was small. They had no body to lay to rest after all. Just a few memories to bury beneath the earth. Gale had chosen the spot specifically. It was the place where Astarion started his journey into freedom. It felt right to commemorate the elf here.

A hand brushed his side. His wounds were healing nicely. Gale had rejected magical healing, preferring to heal the hard way. Shadowheart had grimaced at him, but Gale was having none of it. He wanted to feel the pain. He didn’t want to become numb again, so he welcomed the fact that he briefly flinched at Wyll’s soft touch.

“You ready?” murmured the former warlock.

Gale nodded. “As much as I’ll ever be.”

Wyll smiled again, his features soft. No wonder Karlach had fallen madly in love with him. “Let’s go.”

Gale twitched his mouth in hint of a smile back. He couldn’t force himself to do more than that anymore. He knew that one day he wouldn’t feel like this, but at this moment the grief wrapped around him like a second cloak. He didn’t mind it, per se, it felt oddly comforting. Like Astarion was still with him, holding him close.

The wizard had been having vivid dreams recently. They weren’t nightmares, just vivid, he had tried to explain to Tara. They had been quietly disturbing as if his brain was trying to conjure up memories that did not exist. He dreamt about holding Astarion in bed, about reading next to him on the balcony of his tower, walking along the Chionthar, hand in hand. He felt his soft touches, heard his quiet laugh, rested against his purring chest. It was like the elf had been saying goodbye.

“Has Withers ever said anything?” he had asked his mother, one day.

Morena Dekarios had been surprised. Her son hadn’t said much since he had returned to Waterdeep. He hadn’t wanted to leave but Halsin had ordered it on medical grounds. Morena had taken it in her stride, effectively declaring Gale to be in convalescence. “About what?” she had replied.

“Him. Where he is.”

Morena had gazed sadly at her son. Gale hadn’t seen the look; he had been too busy inhaling his ginger tea. “No,” she had answered, quietly. “And I don’t think he ever would.”

Gale had hummed. He had tapped his fingers on the mug absently.

“He meant a lot to you, didn’t he?” Morena had asked, gently. “Whoever it is you’re grieving.”

“He meant the world, mum.” Tears had welled then. “But I don’t know… I don’t know how to cope with never seeing him again.”

Morena had reached across the table and placed her hands over Gale’s. She had squeezed, gently, trying to anchor the wizard in place. “You might see him again,” she had murmured, softly.

Gale had blinked at her. “How?” he had asked, voice cracking.

A small smile on Morena’s lips and gentle circles were drawn on Gale’s hands with his mother’s soft thumbs. “After,” she had said, as if it made all the sense in the world.

“After?” He had repeated.

“After.” Morena had nodded. “If he loves you as much as you loved him, then he’ll wait.”

“He wasn’t himself in the end.” Gale had looked out of the window of his mother’s cottage on the outskirts of Waterdeep. Snow had been gently falling, dusting the world outside in white, with peaks of green peaking out from beneath the soft blanket. Grey clouds covered the sky, looking like soft sheep’s wool.

“His soul will be himself.”

“How can you know?” Gale had felt the temptation to laugh. “I don’t even know whether he had a soul. He was… he was undead…” His voice had trailed off, his dark eyes still unfocused looking out of the window.

Morena had shrugged. “We can hope,” she had said. “We can always hope. And besides, what would he want you to do?”

“He hated me at the end. He wouldn’t want me to do anything.”

“What about what he was like when you loved him? What would that version of him want you to do?”

Gale had thought for a moment. “He’d have wanted me to live.”

Morena had nodded.

“He wouldn’t have wanted me to wallow,” Gale had whispered. “He always said…he always said that it was important that I…” Move on… The words went unsaid.

“He seems like a good man.”

“The best.”

There had been a soothing silence for a while. Morena had made more tea and forced Gale to eat homecooked stew. It had warmed Gale’s core.

“Do you think…” Gale had begun, drinking his fourth cup of tea, “Do you really think that he’ll wait for me?”

“Even if he isn’t, what’s the harm in hoping?”

Hope. Hope had always been a fickle thing for Gale. But for this, maybe he could allow himself a glimmer of hope.

“Yeah,” he had said. “What is the harm?”

He hadn't truly believed it.

So that’s why Gale found himself at a small clearing next to a river, above a small grave with a small grey headstone, surrounded by his friends. Closure, he thought. A nice idea. .

The others waited for Gale to begin. He did not say anything; all the words he could say had already been said, after all. Instead, he knelt by the small hole and laid the fallen funeral shroud across the bottom of it. His fingers traced the fabric. He hadn’t told the others, but he had kept a small portion for himself. He kept some in a locket that he wore around his neck, some pressed in a frame in his study at Blackstaff, some sewed into the blanket that Astarion had embroidered for him and kept under his pillow. He would always keep some part of Astarion with him and that was fine. It was healthy, his mother had said. Kept the hope alive.

Lae’zel came forward next, placing two daggers on top of the shroud, crossed elegantly. She had found them whilst searching the ruins of the Szarr Palace. They had looked untouched, but they were definitely Astarion’s daggers, the one he had taken from Orin’s body which used to hold her netherstone and the one he had taken from the assassin Dolor. Lae’zel had sadly said that she hadn’t managed to find Astarion’s trusty bow, the one he had lovingly named ‘The Dead Shot.’ Gale absently wondered where it had gone.

Shadowheart contributed a white shirt they had found, the collar ruffled in Astarion’s style. Gold embroidery had been started on the cuffs, and it was stained in places. Gale could not help but reach out and touch it with his fingertips, just to remind himself of what it had felt like when Astarion had held him whilst wearing it. He smiled to himself.

The cleric moved away and was replaced by Wyll and Karlach. Karlach knelt down, her warmth blanketing Gale in comfort. They were so close to finding a solution for her heart, Wyll had said, but Karlach refused to even contemplate not coming to this little ceremony in the middle of nowhere. She had a little owlbear plush that she had found that she occasionally would ‘lose’ on the journey, only to have it end up in Astarion’s ‘nest’ in his tent. “Keep him company Fangs,” she whispered. She leant into Wyll, horns touching.

The former warlock placed a novel in the grave, one that Astarion had constantly read whilst on their journey. It was a classic tale of hope and dashing chivalry, where true love conquered all evil. Tucked inside the cover was a letter from Duke Ravengard. The charm on Wyll’s father relinquished its hold as soon as the vampire had fled the palace. His letter told of his great sorrow about how he had been a fool to trust Szarr and how he failed so many people, including Astarion, letting them suffer in Szarr’s clutches. Wyll had been reluctant to add it to the grave, but had added his own addendum to the note:

The druids and Minsc approached next. Jaheira laid a Harper pin down and whispered something in elvish that Gale couldn’t quite hear. She pressed her index finger to her lips, kissed it, and then touched the Harper pin. Minsc looked more solemn than Gale had ever thought him capable of and gently placed a bottle of wine into the grave. “From Boo, too,” he said.

Gale nodded.

The large wood elf gazed into the grave with tears in his eyes. “My heart,” he murmured. “Oh, my heart.” He rested a large hand on Gale’s shoulder. “My soul is shattered,” the druid said. “But I know it must only be half the pain you’re feeling my friend.”

Gale didn’t reply.

Halsin reached into his pocket and took out a wooden model. It was a bat, wings outstretched. Halsin traced his fingers over the carvings before bending down and placing it on the funeral shroud. “Goodbye, my heart.”

Gale sat down on his rear, legs crossed. He turned to the gravestone as the others joined him sat around the edge of the little grave.

The wizard had given a lot of thought about what would appear on the stone. Halsin had entrusted the grave’s care to the Druids of the Emerald Grove, and they had sworn that it would be forever protected and loved. So, Gale had had to think of an epitaph that was true and worthy of Astarion.

Astarion had had two epitaphs already, two graves already. One was empty, coffin torn from when Astarion had pulled himself through the earth and began his torment all those centuries ago. It had been unremarkable, a mere name and date, uncared for in a cemetery in the Upper City. The second had been the tomb in Cazador’s crypt in the Underdark. A lie had been engraved on that one and Astarion described as a mere dog at Szarr’s feet.

Gale wanted this one to be different and he wanted it to be perfect.

He thought about Astarion had lived many lives. Magistrate, elf, vampire spawn, slave, hero, lover.

From Ancunín to Szarr.

Different death days, different lifespans.

But throughout it all was one constant.

So, Gale had chosen just to write:

Beneath his name was the date of his birth according to his first grave, and then the day given as his death was the day he defeated the Netherbrain. Maybe not historically accurate, but it was the day that Gale felt suited Astarion's death. Now the elf could be a martyr and a hero. He deserved that.

Hero as he was, Astarion was receiving a statute in Baldur’s Gate too, and Ravengard had agreed to keep the name and dates Gale had chosen. The statue was in front of the Blushing Mermaid, a position the companions thought fitting for the rogue; pride of place in the city but its proximity to a pub allowed those who knew Astarion’s passion for debauchery laugh. Gale had approved the plans and the design of it – a model of Astarion wearing his leather armour, a cheeky grin on his face and stormy eyes, bow on his back and daggers at his hips, looking out towards the sea and the setting sun, ready for the next adventure.

Gale had chosen the same epitaph on the statue as was on this little gravestone in the wilds. He had thought long and hard on it, going through many drafts. In the end, he had written and had engraved:

He felt it fitting, as the sun began to set and the dirt piled on top of the grave. Jaheira and Halsin had planted red flowers to mark the spot and used magic to grow them quickly. Gale had vetoed roses, as Astarion always found them cliché. The friends drank and shared memories, but Gale was silent. He rested his head against the rock and looked up at the sky that was darkening, a couple of stars glinting into view.

I’ll live, he promised. And I’ll kill Cazador.

He closed his eyes and if he thought really hard, Gale could smell the bergamot and brandy, he could hear the purring laugh, and feel soft hands massage his shoulders. He smiled.

Maybe there was some hope worth holding onto.

"For you my dear," whispered Gale. "Consider it most enthuisastically done."

Chapter Text

He wasn’t floating. That much he was sure about, and he wasn’t sure about anything else. He was definitely resting on something .

It was hard?

No, that wasn’t the right word… firm?

He didn’t know. It was hard to think, he didn’t know the words. He didn’t even know what words were.

All he knew was that he was not floating.

He had…

He had… something ?

Squidgy, slightly damp… was that… was that him ? Light downy hair feeling slightly soft.

Soft… Soft…

He decided he liked soft and so he kept feeling it. He wondered whether there was anything else soft around him. He didn’t know how to ascertain this.

What was he using to feel? Could he use them to do something else?

He wasn’t floating on something soft; he could feel the firmness. Hang on, on top of the firmness… Was that soft?

A different sort of soft.

Could things be different sorts of soft?

He moved the things that he used to feel the first soft. There seemed to be a lot of this soft but if he pressed the soft too hard it kind of hurt?

Hurt? What’s that?

He pressed the soft again.

He didn’t like that. It did hurt, he decided. He wouldn’t do that again.

Chapter Text

Astarion opened his eyes. He immediately shut them again. He could feel himself panic. He forced himself to stay calm. Whatever this was, he told himself, sternly, he could cope with it.

After all, two centuries living as a vampiric spawn living off rotten rats hadn’t killed him. Not permanently anyway. So, whatever this was, Astarion could cope.

Though he did think he was going mad.

Because he was sure that he saw…

Astarion peeked an eye open and then slammed it shut.

Yep, I’ve gone mad, he decided. Cazador has finally broken me. Because there is no way that I’m sane whilst lying in the sun.

He opened the other eye in case the first eye was playing tricks on him. The sun still shone brightly above in a sky so blue it took Astarion’s breath away. He opened both eyes.

If I’m mad, dreaming about the sun, I’m going to enjoy it. Cazador can punish me afterwards.

He pushed himself to his feet, slightly wobbly as he regained his balance. Astarion looked around him. He was on the shore of a sea or a river; he couldn’t quite tell. Astarion had never been that much good at geography anyway.

“Running water,” he mused to himself. “Running water normally burns like acid.” He walked a couple of steps towards it and pushed his finger into the water. “But now – who knows?” It didn’t burn, not like when Godey would shove his head under a fountain when the usual punishments didn’t fit the bill. It was cold, a shock to Astarion’s system certainly, but it didn’t burn. Dreams were weird.

Astarion decided that he better wander around a bit. See if he could encounter another part of this strange dream. He wanted to avoid the strange flesh ship thing that had seemingly crash landed nearby. Had he been on that thing?

He climbed a hill to the west of the squid ship and looked out over the cliffs. It smelt fresher here than it ever did in Baldur’s Gate. He could smell prey, too. Boar if he wasn’t much mistaken. His stomach growled. Astarion couldn’t remember the last time he had eaten, it had been a week at least, and when he had eaten it had been the master’s pièce de résistance: a fetid rat with a fungal infection.

Or at least, Astarion had hoped it was a fungal infection.

Astarion sighed. He was weak, he knew it. His arms were trembling and his head killed. He hadn’t had a proper migraine since he was turned, but insane dream Astarion was having one now.

Astarion froze.

Footsteps crunching along the gravel path. Just one pair, he deduced, as he dove into the long ferns. Astarion peaked out from the green leaves and saw a small half elf, with long dark hair. She had a mace at on her back and seemed to be looking for something.

Only one type of person carried maces.

Damned clerics.

Astarion cursed his insane dream self, and the master for good measure. He couldn’t hide in the ferns all day, Astarion realised. The half elf cleric was coming closer towards him, black braid swinging behind her back.

Maybe this was a plot point in the crazy dream the master is making him have? Astarion couldn’t rule out the possibility. The more plot points meant the faster the dream would be over, right?

Might as well get the cleric torture over with.

Astarion stood up, straightened his back and called out, “er, hello! Can someone help me please?”

The cleric seemed taken aback by his sudden appearance out of the shrubbery. Something in Astarion’s mind recognised the cleric, a blurry shape hurrying past him somewhere, a mace hitting a brain on legs?

What the hells have you been drinking Astarion? Maybe it wasn't just a normal fungal infection...

“What do you need help with?” asked the cleric, somewhat cooly, as she approached.

“Er…”

Think you godsdamned idiot, think!

“I think there’s one of those brain things, over there?” He pointed towards where he had smelt boar. “There, in the grass. You can kill it can’t you? Like you killed the others.”

The cleric narrowed her eyes. “Kill it yourself. You look capable.” She folded her arms across her chest.

In what universe are you capable of anything? Astarion panicked and stepped backwards. A branch broke and boar’s squeal shocked Astarion as the wild porcine fled.

“Ah,” said Astarion.

“Ah,” said the cleric.

Astarion gave a nervous laugh. The cleric noticeably didn’t. She looked at him, eyes still narrowed, sizing him up. “You were on the ship?” she asked.

“Yes…” said Astarion, remembering the ship, suddenly. He massaged his forehead. “What did you and those squid things do to me?” He suddenly snapped, the pain becoming worse and worse as he remembered a large tentacled creature approaching him with some sort of… tadpole?

The cleric bristled. “I didn’t do anything,” she hissed. “I was a prisoner, same as you.”

Astarion snorted. “I saw you run past me on that ship, strutting about,” he accused.

“I was trying…”

The pair suddenly doubled over in pain. Astarion was looking through unfamiliar eyes searching for something strange on an alien ship. He panicked. “What the in the bloody hells was that?”

The cleric was looking at him curiously, rubbing her own temple. “The tadpole,” she said, slowly, “I think we’re connected.”

“Connected?”

The cleric nodded.

Oh great I'm connected to a fucking cleric. “A kindred spirit.”

The cleric gave a slight nod.

“What do these tadpoles do?” Astarion asked, not wanting to know the answer.

“Well,” said the cleric, “if we don’t find the way to remove them in seven days then… they’ll turn us into mindflayers.” She said it so matter of factly. As if it were obvious.

The elf couldn’t help the laugh that erupted from his throat. “Of course… of course they’ll turn me into a monster,” he said, the irony lost on the cleric. Thank Gods . “What else did I expect?”

“Who are you?” asked the cleric. She looked at him quizzically.

Astarion bowed. “The name’s Astarion. I was in Baldur’s Gate when those beasts snatched me. And you are?”

“Shadowheart,” replied the cleric.

Astarion raised an eyebrow. “A pleasure.” Edgy.

Shadowheart gave him a Look. “First things first,” she said, ignoring him. “We need to find a healer.”

“We?”

“We have the same goals. It makes sense.”

Astarion swallowed. It made sense, to stick with the cleric. But also, it was incredibly dangerous for a vampire to be making alliances with clerics. He glanced behind him in the direction that the boar had gone. He breathed. “You know, I was ready to go this alone. But maybe it is better to stick with a pack.”

“I hardly think one other person is a ‘pack’,” remarked Shadowheart, dryly.

Astarion tried to give his most charming smile.

“Just… follow me and don’t get in the way.”

Astarion bowed again. “I am a natural born follower.” Spawn, slave, puppet, follower, what’s the difference?

Astarion. Where are you?

Astarion was pulled out of his trance. He looked over to the fire. Shadowheart was still sleeping and the wizard they’d pulled out of a rock was snoring.

Astarion. Here. Now.

The spawn scrambled to his feet and dashed into the tree line. “Master?” he called. His voice was quiet and tentative.

Astarion.

His master’s voice was low and cold in his head. Astarion started to shiver. “Master?” he called again.

Have you forgotten your place, boy?

“Never, Master,” croaked Astarion. He kept turning in circles to see if he could see the Vampire Lord approach him. He shook, terrified. He kept swallowing but his throat was too dry, and his head hurt… “I can’t find you master!” Tears welled in Astarion’s eyes as he panicked.

He decided that his best option was to drop to the ground and grovel. He cried and cried, snot and phlegm pouring from his nose and mouth. He wailed and screamed, begging for forgiveness, begging to be allowed to come home.

The voice was silent.

Astarion pressed his forehead into the ground, wishing for the ground to swallow him up.

He closed his eyes and waited for the darkness to take him.

This isn’t a dream, is it?

He swallowed around the phlegm in his throat and dug his canines into the dirt.

He was terrified.

He thought about the two people sleeping in a camp not 100 yards away.

Safe… safe… you need to be safe…

Astarion pushed himself up onto his knees, wrists buckling. The fear fuelled his adrenaline as he turned his face back towards the camp. He would do anything to be safe. He closed his eyes and dedicated himself to being a perfect spawn.

Chapter Text

Gale sighed. “Nothing?”

Florrick nodded. “Nothing.”

“He’s a Vampire Ascendent, he can’t have gone far.”

Wyll raised an eyebrow. “I mean… He could have gone very far.”

Gale gave his friend a reproachful look, even though he knew it was unfair. Wyll didn’t want to be here, he wanted to be in Avernus with Karlach, but Gale needed to meet with Florrick and Ravengard, and Shadowheart had refused in case she said something that she later regretted. “Ok,” Gale conceded, “I mean he won’t have gone far. He’s a vampire, they’re notorious for being fixated on revenge.”’

“He’s playing the long game,” mused Wyll. “Trying to make us complacent. That’s when he’ll strike. When we least expect.”

The elder Ravengard snorted. He looked older than he had done before, tired and frail. The past six months being slowly squeezed under Szarr’s shoe had affected him greatly. “I see those lessons on tactics and strategy weren’t wasted,” he said, dryly, sneeringly, as if he weren’t talking to his only son but an errant juvenile deliquent.

Wyll, to his credit, did not rise to the bait that his father put out into the open. Instead, he drank from his pint slowly. He licked some froth from the corner of his mouth.

“What of the other spawn?” asked Gale, wanting to the disrupt the tension that was building. “Araya’s dead, but that leaves four.”

“Three,” corrected Florrick. “Well… three with whereabouts unknown. But a wood elf we highly suspect is a spawn arrived in Rivington three nights ago.”

Gale’s eyebrows twitched in surprise. “Which one?”

The counsellor shrugged. “The Harpers alerted us.” Her tone was cool and cold, as it always was when the authority in Baldur’s Gate was forced to acknowledge the Harpers’ existence. “They’re keeping an eye.”

The wizard made a mental note to go and talk to Jaheira. His summons to Baldur’s Gate had been a surprise. Gale hadn’t returned to city since the unveiling of Astarion’s statue. He had returned to his tower in Waterdeep and post as Professor of Illusion, whilst spending the rest of his time researching vampires and searching for any sign of Cazador. The companions’ working theory that Szarr was likely to strike at them as revenge for Astarion’s death and the ruining of the vampire lord’s plan for domination. Consequently, the group had gone their separate ways. Jaheira and Minsc remained in the city, continuing their work as Harpers and Rashemaar respectively. Wyll and Karlach had returned to Avernus, with Wyll making Gale swear that he stop doing things on his own and insisting on a daily check in. Shadowheart was travelling the sword coast as a cleric of Selûne, with Buttons the slightly larger wolf cub for company. She spent her time in the remote villages, healing diseases and rooting out Sharran influence. Halsin had returned to his position as ‘Daddy of Reithwin’ but had also made Gale promise to reach out. Halsin had impressed upon Gale their shared connections as “lovers of Astarion”, but Gale couldn’t help but be weirded out by the sentiment. He knew that what he and Astarion had shared was completely different from the relationship between Astarion and Halsin. The vampire spawn’s dalliance with Halsin had been the result of a panic attack when they had entered Wyrm’s Crossing and had happened across two of his siblings and Raphael in one afternoon. He had instantly sought protection, but Gale hadn’t been around, so Astarion had run into the arms of free loving Halsin. Gale hadn’t minded; trauma response was a fickle thing at the best of times. The wizard just resented the druid putting more weight on the relationship than it perhaps warranted.

Raphael, on the other hand, was a different kettle of fish. He hadn’t appeared to any of the companions since the disaster at the Crimson Palace. Gale knew that they hadn’t seen the last of him. They had signed the deal after all.

“So,” Wyll broke into Gale’s rumination. “Surely we question the spawn?”

“You’re not going to do anything though, are you?” snapped Ravengard, under his breath.

Wyll, again to his credit, did not flinch.

Florrick had started briefly, but she answered Wyll’s comment graciously. “Surely she won’t tell us the truth?” Florrick gesticulated. “Compulsion and all that.”

“There are certain ways around compulsion,” replied Gale. “You just have to ask the right questions.”

The house in Rivington was nondescript. It was on the outskirts of the little town, just beyond the clearing where the refugee camp sprawled. It didn’t look too dilapidated but nor was it highly sophisticated. It looked ordinary, and Gale supposed that that was the point.

Jaheira had accompanied the wizard to question the ‘suspected spawn’. The druid had rolled her eyes when Gale had told her of Florrick’s doubt. “Typical fist,” she had commented. “Couldn’t see their ass if it was in front of their own face.”

The wood elf that resided in the house was definitely a Vampire Spawn. She only left the premises at night, tracked by various Harper agents. Though she always took pains to cover her face, they had caught glimpses of red eyes and pale skin. That, Jaheira had said, eyes rolling, should have been enough to convince the Flaming Fist.

The pair approached the small house at sunset. Too bright for the spawn to venture out, but close enough to dark for the wood elf to be awake. It was silent as they climbed the hill to the house, the only sounds their gentle footfalls and the occasional twilight bird song and the flutter of moths’ wings. The Chionthar was amber in the distance and smoke rose from the refugee camp below them, coating the town of Rivington in a pleasant golden glow.

Gale glanced at Jaheira when they reached the front door. She nodded at him, and he stepped back to let her take the lead. He was under no illusion that Jaheira was best suited to the interrogation of a jumpy and skittish vampire spawn. To his surprise, Jaheira knocked on the door.

The pair waited, quietly. They could hear movement from within. It was subtle, but it was there. The creak of floorboards and soft shuffle of footsteps.

Jaheira knocked again.

The footsteps were not getting louder.

There was a soft slam and the footsteps disappeared.

Jaheira sighed. “Hiding.” She took out a lockpick from her cloak pocket. “I hate it when they do this. So much more effort.”

The High Harper worked quickly, and soon there was a light click, and the wooden door was able to be pushed open. They stepped inside and shut the door behind them. Gale coughed as he walked, dust spiralling into the air with every step.

The house screamed ‘vampire’ with its abandoned atmosphere. The small squeaks of rodents and the flapping of bats’ wings seemed to echo throughout the dark abode. Rotten floorboards bent under their weight as they walked, and all the windows were boarded shut. Cobwebs stretched out from every corner, their sticky strings silver in the dim light. Scant furniture was covered in rough cloth, and the smell of damp was prevalent in the air.

“This place has been abandoned for a while,” observed Gale.

Jaheira nodded. “Come on, let’s look for a hiding place.”

Once again, Gale let Jaheira take the lead. She tested floorboards for hidden trapped doors, looked behind empty bookcases for hidden passageways, before instructing the wizard to look upstairs for a way into an attic. when she got frustrated with him getting in her way. Gale wandered around, the dancing light cantrip glowing around him. He entered climbed a set of rickety stairs, the banister long broken away, dodging rotten and decaying steps. He endeavoured to keep his footsteps as soft and light as possible, to not alert the hiding spawn to his presence.

He entered what appeared to be a bedroom. A large double bed was pressed against a wall. Long, thick, dark curtains covered the windows, but the windows themselves were broken, allowing a gentle breeze to wave through the room. Cobwebs and dust covered small bedside tables, dotted with spots of wax from old candles. On one side was a mirror, attached to the wooden wall with fading red wallpaper.

Gale looked for any lose floorboards or anything that suggested hidden passage. There was nothing too suspicious here. Except…

That mirror.

It looked…

Too shiny?

Gale shook himself. But his feet forced the wizard over to the mirror and he inspected it carefully, pressing his fingertips to the glass. Unlike everything else in the room, the mirror was remarkably well kept and clean. In fact, it looked new. Gale narrowed his brown eyes and traced the edges of the mirror with his hands.

It seemed to be melded to the wall, with no gap between the mirror’s edge and the wallpaper behind it, as if it were filling a hole as opposed to being laid on top. Gale hummed to himself, his eyes trying to catch what the trick was. He was about to press down with his fingers when something caught his eye.

It might have been a trick of the light, but as Gale looked into the mirror he could see something move. A flicker of clothing, the subtle twitching of a body in tension. Gale cocked his head and felt his mouth twitch in the beginnings of a smirk.

“Gotcha,” he whispered and pressed down hard.

The mirror snapped back, and a flash of brown catapulted into Gale, sending him flying. “Jaheira!” he yelled, as the flash leapt over him and made a dash for the landing. Gale scrambled to standing and gave chase. The figure leapt down the stairs two at a time and twisted in the air to land in the entranceway as Jaheira emerged from a basement room.

“A ha!” cried the druid. She raised her arm to whisper a spell to entangle the spawn, but the wood elf got there first, hissing a “Silencio!” before Jaheira could get the words out. Jaheira choked on the words in her throat, gnashing her teeth.

Gale inhaled deeply and cast Flesh to Stone, crying “Mutatio Pulpa Petra!”, satisfied when the spawn’s muscles locked and the silence surrounding Jaheira cracked. He gave the druid time to catch her breath, before breaking his concentration and allowing Jaheira to entangle the creature with a “Irretio Vinea.”

The wood elf screwed up her face, trying to hide her eyes. She was gaunt, almost skeletal looking, her pale skin almost translucent. Her brown hair was ragged, tied back in a haphazard ponytail, and she had a long scar across her face. She had a tip missing from one of her ears, and she folded her arms around her as well as she could, refusing to acknowledge her captors.

Jaheira sighed as Gale came down the stairs, looking the spawn up and down, appraisingly. “Szarr doesn’t look after his things, does he?” she remarked.

The spawn flinched.

Gale smiled softly at her. “I’m Gale. What’s your name?”

The spawn still refused to look at them and clenched her mouth shut as well.

Jaheira laughed. “I assure you; we will treat you much better than your master if you work with us.”

The spawn shook her head.

“We have other ways of making you talk.” Jaheira produced a small hipflask and uncorked it. A waft of herbs hit Gale’s nose.

Klauthgrass.

The spawn wrinkled her nose and then sighed. She opened one eye and reluctantly looked at the pair. “I’m Siras,” she said, sullenly. She narrowed both eyes now, looking at the hipflask with unease. “I’m not sure that undoes compulsion.”

Jaheira smiled. “Maybe not. But we have ways round that.”

Siras snorted. “What do you want?” she snapped.

“We would like to know what you’re doing here.”

The wood elf spawn glared at them. She huffed, before snapping, “like I’m going to tell you.”

Jaheira twitched the hipflask, but Siras just rolled her eyes.

“Where’s your master?” asked Gale.

Another eye roll.

“We won’t hurt you.”

“You expect me to believe that?” Siras’s tone was dry and wary. “I’m a vampire.”

“Spawn,” supplied Gale, helpfully. “We know it’s not you.”

Siras’s eyes twitched slightly. She was still very tense and trembled slightly. “Spawn,” she conceded. She cocked her head onto one side. “I’ve seen you before,” she said.

Jaheira nodded. “We were… guests of your master.”

Siras laughed. It was a hacking laugh, borne from a throat not used to laughing at all. “Want a free ride?” she hissed.

Gale and Jaheira exchanged glances. Gale gently exhaled through his nose and padded forward, hands up non-threateningly. “I promise you,” he murmured, “nothing like that will happen to you. Not with us.” He was used to that response.

Siras flinched on Gale’s approach causing him to halt in place. She looked at him warily. “You’re the one who wanted Astarion,” she said.

Jaheira flinched but Gale nodded. “We were friends.”

Another snort from the wood elf. “Astarion had no friends,” she hissed. “He had the master and the master had him.” She glared at the floor. “And now the master has no one.” She bared her teeth. “It was you lot that took him, wasn’t it?”

Gale said nothing, just watching the reactions on her face. Her impression seemed to flit from fear to anger to disgust very quickly, not staying still for long. She twitched against the vines that wrapped around her lower body.

“How is Cazador?” asked Jaheira, almost pleasantly.

“What do you think? He’s making our lives a living hell.” The wood elf’s nose twitched again. “As he always does,” she added, darkly. “But it’s worse now.”

“Worse how?”

“Because Astarion isn’t around to distract him!” Siras was angry and upset, and the tears that welled in her eyes were furious. “I never thought I’d miss the bastard, but at least with him around the master was calm enough. Yeah, we’d still get tortured, but the master never really bothered with us.” Siras stared off into space behind Jaheira.

“We can help,” said Gale, gently.

“Why do you want to? You didn’t help Astarion!” snarled Siras.

Gale smiled sadly. “I wish we had,” he murmured. “But I promise, we won’t hurt you.”

Siras sighed. “Do I have a choice?”

Jaheira gave a cat like grin. “We’re not letting you go, if that’s the question. But we’ll treat you better if you help and we won’t kill you.”

“What about the compulsion?”

“There are ways around it,” explained Gale. “We can work out what your orders are based on your answers. We can just ask different questions.”

Siras swallowed. “Araya trusted you. And she’s dead now.”

“Killed by Astarion,” said Jaheira. “She fell in love with one of my men.”

Siras nodded. “I know that it was Astarion. It always bloody was.” She sighed again and Gale realised how unhealthy she looked, how sad and tired the spawn was. “I just… I just don’t want my friends to be hurt.”

“The other spawn?”

“Yes,” said Siras, quietly. “Kiara, Dryan, and Alain.”

“We will never purposefully put them in danger,” promised Gale. “That’s not what we do. We want to end Cazador, rescue the other spawn. Once that happens, you’ll be free to go.”

“Really?” Siras didn’t believe him.

“On certain conditions,” added Jaheira.

Another laugh. “Don’t eat people?”

“Something like that,” smiled Jaheira.

Siras chuckled to herself and paused. “Alright,” she nodded. “I’ll try. What’s the worst that can happen to me? The master kills me again?”

Chapter Text

It smelt warm . He had never smelt warm before and he found that he quite liked it. He could smell other things too, stone, the burning after scent of candles, roasting meat, rich red wine. He let the smells fill him and he could feel himself relaxing.

The return of ‘smell’ had been a slight shock to him. He hadn’t expected it. He wondered whether other senses would come back. He had touch and smell now, maybe sight or hearing would come back? He was excited at the prospect. But he was contented if he just had these two. He felt happy enough with them, it was all he really needed, he supposed. He had woken up this morning and suddenly his nose was twitching and itching. New life seemed to burst into his nostrils. He spent some time scenting the place he was in. He could feel hard walls and now smelt them. They smelt clean, with the slight hint of smoke. He couldn’t even smell dust. He could, however, smell himself and he wasn’t a fan. He smelt musty and could smell the dirt and blood caked on him.

He smelt when a new person entered the room.

The smell of fire intensified as he sniffed cautiously. He couldn’t tell where the someone was in the room, so he instinctively tried to hide away, crouching and scrabbling back towards a corner.

The person came nearer to him. He could feel the vibrations as strong footsteps strode towards him. He bared his teeth and pinned his ears back.

The person was close to him now and they held something just in front of his nose. He inhaled. It smelt good. It smelt really good . It smelt rich and bold, hitting his palate with glee. His hands brushed something metal as he brought them up to take the sweet smell. His hands were clasped by warm and gentle hands and held down lightly. Smooth fingertips rubbed soothing patterns in his skin. It felt nice, comforting.

Cold metal tapped his bottom lip. This was where the nice smell was coming from, he understood. His stomach contracted and he realised he felt hungry. The smell would satiate him. He opened his mouth and bit down, hard.

His teeth came into contact with metal. He began to gnaw on it, trying to eek the nice smell out of it. It hurt and it wasn’t working. His throat convulsed in frustration and he clenched his fists. The metal was raised slightly, and a warm liquid hit his teeth. He attempted to bite down and hold his prey still to get more of the ambrosia, but it didn’t seem to be working.

Warm hands again touched his forehead, petting him. The metal with the nice but evasive smell was removed further from his mouth. He tried to follow it, but the warm hands held back his head. He stopped and was rewarded by his ears being rubbed. He liked that but he wanted the liquid more, so began to creep forward.

A burning sensation on his neck as he was grabbed back by his nape, deposited back on the floor. He didn’t like that. .

He pouted and that earnt him a tap on the lips. He stopped moving forward. His hair was ruffled but he stayed where he was as the person, and the metal were removed from the room. He relaxed, letting go of some of the tension he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. He turned slightly to lie against the corner of the room, his cheek squished but head supported. Maybe when he woke up, he’d have another sense back.

Not another sense, but that lovely, juicy smell was back in the room. The person too had returned. He sniffed again but did not move. He wondered whether he would be petted again; it had been relaxing. He didn’t want the burning, so he didn’t move from his spot in the corner, even as the delicious smell became stronger.

It was accompanied this time by an outdoorsy smell. Air, wind and undergrowth hit his nose. The warm hands manoeuvred his own hands so they could hold something and deposited the source of the smell into outstretched palms. This new thing felt soft and furry. He clicked his tongue appreciatively. His hair was ruffled again. He clicked his tongue again and flexed his throat. The gentle hands of his mysterious fiery benefactor raised his hands and the new fluffy object to his nose.

He inhaled and was hit by the ambrosial scent. He felt himself salivate and he pressed the fur against his mouth, trying to find the strongest source of the scent. His teeth ached until he found a particular spot, then latched into the fur, piercing into flesh. Hot liquid rushed into his mouth. It didn’t taste of anything in particular, it was just instinct that drove him to get more of it into his system.

The hands moved around his body, rubbing and petting. He found himself leaning into it as arms reached around him in a hug. After the smell had gone, he dropped the source, and leant his head forward, clicking his tongue again. His forehead was met by the warm shoulder of his carer who stroked his back, comfortingly.

His stomach no longer hurt. He was now full, warm, and comforted so fell happily back into sleep.

Chapter Text

“Ugh!” Astarion followed Wyll, Karlach, and Shadowheart through the swamp. The boggy ground clung to his threadbare boots, and he felt his dead flesh become even colder than he thought were possible. The wizard was wading behind him, trying to avoid dragging his robe through the water.

“I concur,” Gale muttered.

Astarion grumbled his discontent at the woman who had dragged them here. He did have to admit, however, that his discontent was mainly aimed at Wyll and Karlach, whose bleeding hearts were, in Astarion’s view, directly responsible for him trudging through a swamp looking for a hag.

A Hag! Could this become any more ridiculous?

The vampire spawn had wanted to grumble about Wyll and Karlach’s combined determination to look for a girl who had willingly gone to seek a deal with a hag. Astarion thought that the girl deserved it. He hadn’t voiced any of this, however, for this was the first time Astarion had been out of camp since The Reveal had been revealed.

Astarion capitalised The Reveal in his head, though he conceded it was probably making it harder to deal with. He was on edge around the companions, jumpy and paranoid. Gale was the nicest to him, so the elf stuck to him like a leech (pun intended, self-described by Astarion), convinced that only the wizard stood between him and a well-known monster hunter stabbing him in the chest with a sharpened stake. Knowing Wyll, he probably kept stakes on his person.

As for the others, Astarion had a scale from “avoid at all costs” to “vaguely optimistic.” Shadowheart, for example, was on the “terrifying” end of the spectrum. Clerics were not known for their tolerance of the undead, and Shadowheart was epitomising that stereotype. Shadowheart and Wyll were the most likely to turn on him, even though Astarion was convinced that Shadowheart had a dark secret she was hiding and Wyll literally consorted with devils. How was willingly consorting with a devil any better than being enslaved by a necrotic psychopath?

But then Wyll had saved Karlach, though Astarion wondered how noble saving someone from yourself really was, and suddenly it was “Oh Wyll, you sacrificed your soul and now you’ve given your life helping people!” Astarion huffed as he thought about it. Wyll was a prick.

Karlach was nicer, and she didn’t attempt to touch Astarion which he greatly appreciated. She had a more accepting personality but was still wary of him biting other people, even though she was completely safe from his fangs (by virtue of being on fire). Astarion’s selfish streak didn’t do much to endear him to the giant, literally on fire, tiefling so he decided to avoid her as much as possible.

Lae’zel was the most tolerable outside of Gale. That was because she genuinely did not seem to care that he was a vampire. As long as his fangs didn’t go anywhere near her blood, she didn’t really mind. She was also frustrated with the group as a whole ( Cough, Cough, Wyll, Cough, Cough ) deciding to help every single person they came across as opposed to heading directly to the githyanki creche that Lae’zel was adamant would save their lives. In discussions, Astarion would often support the githyanki, if he decided to talk at all. He was quiet and morose in camp, only speaking to Gale willingly. Astarion hoped, however, that his vocal support of the githyanki would secure some modicum of protection.

But Wyll seemed to be the person in charge, and that is why the group were traipsing up to their knees in marsh. They had spied a cottage in the distance that they assumed must be the hag’s lair, or at least the illusionary cover for it. It was their target, and Astarion, with his ears pinned back against the wind, would follow like a good and obedient, vampire spawn.

Of course, it had been the hag’s lair. And, of course, they had followed the hag deeper into the lair once it became very apparent that Mayrina ( the idiot who had tried to make a deal with the hag in the first place ) was an idiot and didn’t fully understand the consequences of her actions.

Astarion was walking through yet more mud, feeling very sorry for himself, acting as the group’s scout as always. He hopped over a small stream, sneezing at the pollen that filled the air. The ground gave way before him, and he peered over the edge of the cliff. There was a way down, he ascertained, but they would need a feather fall and he bet that those orange flowers weren’t there just to be pretty. There was also a strange green gas that suggested malevolence.

He whistled, and the others crept towards him and joined him on the edge. Astarion pointed to where he thought they should go, he could just see a clearing that he reckoned would tell them more about where to go.

Gale nodded at him.

Astarion couldn’t help a smile. Lae’zel was important to keep on side, but one word from Gale would see him out of the pack quicker than you could say “But I haven’t bitten anyone”.

Wyll used a scroll of feather fall around all the companions. Astarion hung back from the edge as Lae’zel leapt down, unbothered by the obvious traps. A hand at the small of his back from Wyll pressed him forward.

At the bottom of the cliff, Astarion spied a wooden cage suspended over a chasm. He pointed it out to Gale who nodded again, and nudged Shadowheart.

Once again, Astarion hung back, unwilling to get involved with the conversation with the hag. Wyll, the charismatic one, was much better at conversing with people and Astarion didn’t think that he had anything to contribute to the situation. They were going to fight the hag anyway and Astarion was busy scoping out whether there was any high ground he could use to gain an advantage for his ranged attack.

As Wyll talked and the hag, for lack of a better term, bitched like a grandma, Astarion snuck past and climbed onto a ledge. It wasn’t great, still very much in range and in sight of the hag. It was something, however, and Astarion perched, ready for Wyll’s signal to attack.

Having fun being a hero, boy?

Astarion shook himself.

Not now, he hissed to himself and to his master’s voice in his head.

Can’t shut me out, sneered his master’s voice, I own you, boy.

Shut up, shut up, shut up! Astarion passed his weight nervously from one foot to the other, keeping his eyes fixed on Wyll and the idiot girl in the cage.

Thou art mine hissed his master’s voice. It sent chills down Astarion’s neck, and he swallowed.

“Deep down you enjoy being leashed, don’t you?”

Astarion froze and scrambled for purchase on his mossy ledge. His head pounded like it was being split open with a hammer. He dropped his bow, pressing the heel of his palms to his eyes, clenching his jaw shut to prevent the scream.

“Is there still rat in your teeth, slave?”

Leave me alone! begged Astarion.

“Astarion!” a grunted yell and someone grabbed his shoulder. “You’re alright, you’re alright. Come on, let’s get up now.”

Astarion let himself be pulled to his feet and turned to see Gale panting. “Thanks.”

Gale looked over Astarion, a flash of worry on his face before it disappeared just as quickly. “Don’t mention it.” Gale ducked as an eldritch blast zapped past him and an illusion of the hag dissipated behind them.

“Great,” muttered Astarion, “I’m being attacked by illusions.”

Gale elbowed him. “Come on, we need your bow. You got distracted, so she targeted you.”

Astarion sighed. Of course, the master had captured his attention, leaving him vulnerable. He was a liability and he couldn’t afford to be a liability...

“You good?”

Astarion shook himself and forced a roguish grin upon his face. “Of course, darling,” he purred, “all the better for you being my shining knight come to rescue me.” He let his eyes flit over Gale flirtily.

He was rewarded by a blustered Gale. He was so easy to fluster and that’s where Astarion would shore up his support from the archmage. Gale blushed and muttered something about wearing robes, not armour. Astarion laughed and turned his attention back to the fight.

For the most part, his arrows were straight and true. He began to feel a little more confident though he had the feeling that two pairs of eyes kept following his movements: the hag and the wizard. He didn’t know which one he felt most concerned about. Both set him on edge.

Wyll, of course, saved the girl. Heroically as always and pretending to ignore the lustful eyes that Karlach sent his way. Astarion rolled his eyes but dutifully followed the companions through the inner part of the hag’s lair, looting jewels and potions as he did so, before emerging out at the bag of the run-down cottage. Wyll convinced Mayrina to return to Baldur’s Gate, a zombified Connor (the husband apparently) in tow. It was still light, so they (excluding Astarion who remained quiet) decided to explore the area just to the north.

Astarion twitched his nose. An overpowering scent coated his tongue, and he spat saliva on the ground in a desperation to clear it.

Wyll inhaled deeply. “Ironvine,” he mused.

“What’s that?” asked Karlach.

“Monster hunters use it to prevent monsters from getting too close and grabbing a bite to eat,” explained Wyll.

Astarion scowled. There was that word again. Monster.

Shadowheart noticed and sighed, exasperatedly. “Don’t get your knickers in a twist, Astarion. I’m sure this hunter is after the hag.”

“I don’t think Ironvine would prevent a hag,” commented Gale, wryly.

“Is that meant to make me feel better?” asked the elf, bitterly. Astarion curled his lip as the stench became stronger.

They approached a clearing and Astarion’s stomach clenched.

Gur.

Long, ragged hair, scraggly beard that had never seen fresh water in its depressing life, rough features and dark eyes. Larger than Astarion (not that that was hard), wearing simple leather garb, crossbow draped across his shoulders and a simple shortsword on his belt.

“Hail, friends.” The gur gestured to them.

Wyll nodded back. Astarion was tense and didn’t hear what the warlock replied. He could feel his nerves firing and his muscles bunch as he struggled to control his hackles. He let out some choice words about Gur , the majority of which were ignored with Wyll glaring at him with a Hard Stare and Shadowheart disparaging that he was a racist.

The mood soured when the gur, Gandrel, mentioned the name of his target.

“The vampire spawn, Astarion.”

If Astarion’s blood could run any colder, it would have done. He glanced around at the companions.

They’ll sell you out, how could you be so stupid to believe that heroes would ever look out for you, you stupid idiot…

Blood rushed through Astarion’s ears. The fox he had eaten last night running again through his veins. The world around him was muted. It throbbed and pulsed. Astarion felt that the world was spinning around him, and he needed to do something…

The dagger in his hand felt natural. He knew that anyone who looked at him would have seen his pupils dilate, black holes with a tiny sliver of red around them. His hackles raised, he gripped the dagger’s hilt, and he surged forward.

“Astarion!”

Astarion growled as the dagger hit its mark in the gur’s eye. The gur had a slight moment of lucidity, reaching out to grab Astarion’s wrist, knees buckling to the ground.

You’ve killed someone… you’ve killed someone who they didn’t want killed… you’re dead…

The vampire spawn turned on his heels and ran into the swamp.

Nettles and thorns grabbed at his armour and clothing. He ignored the ripping and stinging, desperate to put as much distance between him and them . The bog slowed his pace down and he howled with frustration, heading deeper into the swamp.

The sun began to set, and Astarion still ran. He found a group of redcaps who startled and jumped up, jeering and brandishing hammers and other crude weaponry. Astarion skidded to a halt, snarling and hissing. He extended his fangs and claws, raising his hackles to look bigger.

The redcaps began to charge towards him and Astarion, forgetting all sense of pretending to be normal by using weapons, leapt in teeth first. He gnashed and snapped, hacked and slashed. The redcaps managed to get a few hits in, but they were no match for a furious vampire leaning into his more animalistic side.

Kill… kill…

Astarion hissed. He relished in his teeth meeting in spinal cords and the feel of his claws tearing flesh and sinew.

Look at you. Practically feral.

The spawn howled as he sent a redcap flying to his back. He jumped forward to pushed it deeper into the boggy water, bent down and tore out the creature’s throat, whilst digging huge scores down its chest.

Does this make you feel better? Knowing that you’ll have killed some little creatures before you're killed by your heroes?

Astarion span around. Blood dripped into his eyes, but he smelt the lone survivor and slit the tendons in its knees before gnawing at its neck, settling down into the bog.

“Astarion?”

The elf lifted his head and sniffed. The blood of the redcaps was overpowering. He took another mouthful.

“Astarion?” the voice called again, soft and kind.

Astarion’s ears twitched.

“It’s only me, Astarion.”

Astarion glanced up in the direction he himself had run from. A soft growl in his throat, warning anyone not to come any closer. He narrowed his eyes as a human appeared, brown haired and brown eyed, dressed in blue and purples robes. The human sat down on the edge of the bog, several feet away from the spawn. Astarion growled louder.

“I promise I’m not coming any closer,” promised the human.

Astarion eyed him warily. He took another mouthful of redcap blood when he was sure that the intruder was not coming any closer.

“You did well with those redcaps,” commented the human.

The vampire spawn ignored him, deciding to focus on enjoying his victory meal.

“We don’t blame you for running,” said the human, quietly.

The comment received a hiss. Astarion turned around so his back was facing the human. He was convinced that this human would not attack him, and if he did, Astarion was positive that he had the reaction time and speed to get away easily.

“The others… they will want to talk about this.” The human sounded hesitant.

Astarion didn’t understand why the human kept talking to him. He wiped the blood from his forehead. He took the redcap’s corpse onto his crossed legs and began to drink, occasionally chewing on gristle when the mood took him.

“I understand that you were compelled,” the human continued, either not caring that Astarion was ignoring him or not being aware of it. “The others… don’t understand as well as I do. They’re focused on the children…”

Astarion nearly finished his meal. It was growing properly dark now and he instantly felt more confident and comfortable in his surroundings. He rolled his shoulders back and stretched. He felt tired, he probably should go and find a den to sleep in.

“Are you going to talk to me?” asked the human. He sounded almost hurt.

Astarion snorted. Why would he talk to this guy? He stood and turned around to look at the human, quizzically.

The human looked up at him. He didn’t look scared. In fact, he extended his hand.

Astarion furrowed his eyebrows. That was a strange reaction to a vampire turning and looking at you.

“Hey,” said the human. “You’re alright.”

The vampire cocked his head.

“You’re doing well,” cooed the human. “Want to scent?”

Astarion took a step closer to the human. He curled his lip, but the human seemed unfazed. He didn’t even startle when Astarion snarled at him. Instead, he looked at Astarion almost placidly, as if the idea of Astarion harming him was the most impossible thing in the universe. The elf looked at the human curiously. He decided to humour him and inhaled near him. The scent of books and lightning and parchment and wine filled his nostrils. Astarion blinked a couple of times.

“Are you back?” asked Gale.

Astarion shook himself. “Er… yeah… yeah…” He looked around himself and the bodies of the redcaps. He looked down and saw him dripping with blood and guts. He sheathed his fangs and claws and crossed his arms drawing himself tall and thin. “I… I think so.”

Gale hummed. He stood up, brushing his robes down as he did so. “Good, I’m glad.”

Astarion didn’t look him in the eyes. “I’m sorry.”

Gale shrugged and reached forward to grasp Astarion’s shoulder. He squeezed. “It’s okay. I understand.” He smiled at Astarion kindly. “Let’s go back to camp. They’ll want…”

“I’ll just go…”

Gale looked horrified. “No, Astarion… no one wants you to go.”

“But… but I’m a monster,” said Astarion, quietly.

“You were forced to do those things,” said Gale, firmly. “If you had the option not to have kidnapped those kids, would you?”

Astarion shook his head. “I wouldn’t,” he murmured, sullenly, still not looking Gale in the eye.

“Exactly.” Gale’s smile was soft. “Come on, let’s get some…” He paused. “I was going to say food, but I think you’ve already eaten enough.”

The elf took in his blood-stained armour and the blood sticking to his skin. “I could do with a bath.”

“Let’s get you a bath then.” Gale grinned and offered Astarion a hand, which he gladly took.

Though the water was cold, Astarion gladly sank into the little stream that encircled the camp, out of view from the rest of the companions who were eating around the campfire. He scrubbed his face and skin, watching the red wash away into the water. He rubbed until his skin was raw, almost looking like he had a healthy glow about him. He sighed. He stretched out his limbs before working on cleaning the gunk from under his nails.

Astarion knew he couldn’t stay in the water forever. He shook himself off, grabbed a towel and changed into his camp clothes. He padded over to the fire where the others were gathered. Gale sat on the log and shifted over to give him a place to sit. Astarion looked gratefully at him. Gale passed him a bottle of wine. He took it and drank a small sip.

“So,” Wyll began.

Of course it would be bloody Wyll.

Astarion looked down at the floor. There was a stick and he began shuffling it around with one of his feet.

“ Tsk’va! ” snapped Lae’zel. “We’ve been over this. The vampire stays.”

The vampire in question started slightly. Maybe the sucking up to Lae’zel had been worth it…

“Children, Lae’zel, children,” snapped Shadowheart.

Like Shadowheart cares about children, thought Astarion, sulkily. He didn’t say anything though, just stared at the ground and the stick. He barely heard Gale’s reply.

“He was compelled,” the wizard explained, calmly.

Shadowheart snorted.

“I’m sure your relationship with Shar was all sunshine and rainbows,” said Gale, cooly.

Astarion looked up. Shadowheart pursed her lips but didn’t reply.

“Maybe we should hear what Astarion has to say.” Wyll seemed calm. He gazed at the vampire spawn, his singular red eye boring into his soul.

Astarion shifted uncomfortably. “I…” He felt Gale’s hand at his back and closed his eyes briefly. “I can barely remember,” he confessed. “There were a lot… a lot of bad things.” His voice was quiet.

Karlach had been quiet, but she looked at Astarion with something akin to sympathy in her eyes. “How long were you enslaved for?”

“About 200 years,” replied Astarion.

Karlach nodded. “No wonder you can’t remember.” She exchanged a glance with Wyll.

Gale’s warm hand was still supporting Astarion’s back. Wyll sighed and nodded. Astarion didn’t respond to much of the conversation, he didn’t even hear it. He focused on the circles that Gale was rubbing into his back. Wyll’s voice washed over him and Astarion closed his eyes.

He didn’t know how long he had stayed there, but soon Gale’s voice murmured in his ear, “are you okay, Astarion?”

Astarion nodded. “I’m fine.” He opened his eyes. “Do I have to go?”

Gale twitched slightly as if he wanted to put an arm around him. “No,” he said. “You’re not going anywhere.”

Astarion smiled. “Thanks Gale.”

Gale smiled back. “Don’t worry about it. I need my thief to keep stealing magic objects for me,” he teased, good naturedly. He stood, patted Astarion on the shoulder and moved towards his tent.

Astarion looked at the fire, sighing again. He was staring at the flames, unwilling to leave the warmth and retreat to his tent again. In front of the fire he could escape his thoughts just for one more moment.

He didn’t hear Lae’zel approach.

“I smell your sweat.”

Astarion jumped up.

Lae’zel looked at him approvingly. “I mean to taste it.”

The elf swallowed. “Are you… are you asking for…?”

“Yes,” said Lae’zel. “When you lie down for the night, I will come. And I will take what is mine.”

Astarion nodded. He inhaled deeply. You wanted protection, Astarion told himself. Lae’zel surely is protection.

Lae’zel took Astarion to the abandoned chapel a little way from their camp. It was definitely a ‘take’ as well, Astarion had no doubts about what he was here for. He knew his role well. He would do what he was told, Lae’zel would enjoy and hopefully prevent one of the others from stabbing him in the heart with a sharpened stick.

“Gith train relentlessly. We know our bodies inside and out.” Lae’zel’s bedroom talk was sultry, but Astarion couldn’t help the stench of fear that he was sure was flooding off him in waves.

“Let me show you. Close your eyes – and submit.”

Astarion swallowed. If there was one thing Astarion could do, it was submit.

Chapter Text

Jaheira narrowed her eyes at the sight before her. Gale shuffled uncomfortably under her intense gaze. Siras was huddled in a cage in the Harper safehouse, knees drawn up to her chest, eyes closed, blanket around her. Minsc was nursing his arm, wincing as he took in the deep scratches that had been scored in the fleshy part of his forearm.

“Feeding went well then?” asked Jaheira, dryly.

Another shuffle from Gale. “I did tell him it was better to get an animal…”

“Minsc has fed Astarion many times. It should not be so different,” grumbled the Rashemaar. Boo squeaked indignantly on his shoulder. “And Boo thinks it better to drink human than innocent animal.”

Jaheira raised her eyebrows at that remark. She sighed. There was no point in reprimanding Minsc. There was never any point in reprimanding Minsc. She looked at the spawn in the cage and grimaced. “It didn’t go down well.”

Gale shook his head. “No. She kind of spasmed.”

“Kind of went mad!” Minsc gesticulated wildly.

Again, Jaheira ignored him. “No attempt to feed her human blood then.”

It was Gale’s turn to sigh. “I think you’ll find that I said that from the off,” he grunted.

“But pale elf…”

Gale cut Minsc off before he could finish his platitude. “Astarion had managed to break through his compulsion because of the tadpole,” he snapped. “Completely different. And besides, Astarion preferred not to drink thinking people’s blood anyway. He only did it as a last resort.”

Jaheira rolled her eyes again.

There was a snort from the formerly catatonic spawn in the corner. Siras had been quiet since she had agreed to try and help. She had resisted being put in the cage, nevermind how much Gale tried to explain that it was for her own good, just in case Szarr tried to compel her back to his side. The explanation had been met with a snarl to rival Astarion’s, and a hissed “Easy for you to say, you’re outside the cage.”

“Something to say, cub?” Jaheira was attempting to be nice, but the spawn merely opened a singular red eye and glared. Jaheira held the glare until Siras looked away.

“There’s no way Astarion of all people would turn down thinking being’s blood,” Siras grumbled. “It’s bloody liquid gold.”

Gale tapped his knee with his fingers. He was sat cross legged against the wooden wall, shifting occasionally to avoid pins and needles as well as the splinters that threatened to dig into his skin from the unkept décor. “He was always reluctant.”

Siras snorted again. “If he could drink thinking creatures’ blood, he would. We all would.”

“Maybe Astarion has a firmer grip of morals than you,” suggested Jaheira.

That commented received a raised eyebrow. “Astarion? Morality? We are talking about the same elf, aren’t we?”

Gale looked at the spawn. Her demeanour had changed rapidly over the past few hours. On her journey to the safehouse under Danthelon’s Dancing Axe, she had been quiet, meek almost. Upon arriving and seeing the cage she had become a definite flight risk, growling and hissing at them like a feral cat. In the cage she had become withdrawn but had opened up again at the promise of food but then had lashed out at Minsc when he had offered her his radial artery. Now she was wary, sure, but Gale saw an undercurrent of amusement in her tone and facial expressions. No, not amusement, more like disbelief, he thought. He stood up, about to retort.

He didn’t hear Jaheira approach but felt the soft touch of her hand on his arm. That didn’t stop him from commenting quietly, “Astarion free from compulsion is very different from the Astarion you know.”

Siras huffed. She leant back against the iron bars of the cage. “Astarion hasn’t been compelled since he got back.”

Gale laughed. “Of course he has.”

The wood elf shook her head. “Makes a big song and dance of it, does the master.” She put on a whiny voice that echoed of Szarr. “ Look at Astarion, he doesn’t need to be forced to do anything, why can’t you be more like Astarion? Give me a fuckin’ break.”

Gale exchanged a glance with Jaheira. The druid squinted slightly, but her voice remained calm and collected as she asked, “What was Astarion like, then?”

Siras laughed. “Sycophantic, toadying, arse-licking, arse-wiping, bootlicking, creeping, crawling parasite to the master .” She spat out each word with a venom that didn’t match her laugh. Her emphasis on ‘Master’ was particularly lethal, an extended ‘ar’ sound that went on for hours. “Supercilious, pompous, arrogant, pontifical, hoity-toity, lofty, stuck-up, imperious brat to the rest of us mere spawn.”

"Nice use of a thesaurus," muttered Jaheira.

Gale tried not to be overly emotional. He could see Astarion in every adjective, but it wasn’t the man he fell in love with. So, he gritted his teeth and spoke with as a calm a voice he could muster. “Surely he could have lied about the compulsion?”

The spawn rolled her eyes. “You’re infatuated with the prick, aren’t you? Sorry that the Astarion you think you know isn’t the one I actually know.” She curled her lip at them. “That man plucked my eye out of its socket. He treated us like dirt beneath his shoes, overseeing our torture, delivering us personally to Godey, whilst pretending to be better than us. When we all knew what he was, just a slut that the master liked to keep around cos it was convenient to keep his cockwarmer close by. He murdered Araya without a second thought. He’s led hundreds, if not thousands, to their deaths and then taught us lot how to do the same. He was the master’s personal lackey, who never was tortured, only ever punished by the master and never for long. He feasted on pigs, on cows, on horses, whilst the rest of us schmucks had to make do with the occasional fetid rat that he kept in a cage for us.” Siras was snarling now, her voice shaking with fury. “He could have helped us. Instead, he made us feel like shit.”

Gale and Jaheira just stared at the spawn. Gale noticed that he was trembling, the adrenaline coursing through his veins like lightning in a storm, desperate to strike and burn something to the ground.

The wood elf struck one of the iron bars with a clenched fist. “I am sorry that the Astarion you knew for six months wasn’t the real deal. I am even sorry if you thought you fell in love with the bastard. He pretended with you, acted innocent, even traumatised I bet!” Another snarling laugh, a cackle with teeth and fangs. “He acted. He has always acted.”

Silence fell over the room. Even Minsc had no response, and Boo hid under his collar. Jaheira was breathing heavily, and Gale cautiously wetted his lips, trying to keep stable.

“I know compulsion,” Siras said finally. Her voice became quiet and depressed. “I’ve felt compulsion. I’ve seen compulsion on others.” She drew her knees back up to her chest and rested her dirty chin on them. “Astarion was never compelled.”

Gale turned on his heel, misty stepped over to the ladder, and left.

The problem with Wyrm’s Crossing, Gale always thought, was the lack of bars that were not brothels. He wanted alcohol and he didn’t want to be propositioned whilst he was drinking whisky and vodka and gin and whatever other spirits he could get his shaking hands on. He had decided against Sharess Caress. At least Fraygo’s Flophouse pretended not to be a focal point for prostitutes and their clients and Gale reckoned that he could hide away in a corner, with a pissed off facial expression on his face, and not be bothered by anyone. Sharess Caress, on the other hand, had too fancy clientele and bolder employees. Additionally, the chances of Gale bumping into someone he knew was substantially higher in Sharess than Fraygo, even if the wizard found himself to be rubbing shoulders with those that he never thought he would as he gave up on individual shots and just bought the entire bottle of spiced rum. Not that Gale had any problem with prostitutes. He just didn’t like them anywhere near him.

He debated about whether using the shot glass at all when he got back at his table in the dingy far corner. The glass would classier, but more rum would get into his system more quickly if he just started necking the bottle. After all, he thought, nothing says alcoholism like efficient drinking! He didn’t even like rum that much, but it seemed to be the most cost-effective way of completely numbing his brain. And even drunk, depressed, alcoholic Gale could appreciate good economy.

His eyes flashed upwards whenever the main doors opened. He didn’t know who he was particularly worried about seeing. Jaheira maybe? Though the harper always tended to give him space when he was in these moods, her skills not exactly tailored to soothing whatever was going on in Gale’s mind. Minsc would just join in, which would be disastrous in and of itself. Halsin was a worry, the large archdruid would rumble something sympathetic and then remind Gale that he too had shagged Astarion and therefore knew exactly what was going on in the wizard’s heart. But even then, Gale knew that he could ignore Halsin and his overbearing niceness and ‘advice’ about not drinking so much. It was Tara that he was worried about.

Gods, what would Tara say?

“Shit,” mumbled Gale, as he grabbed the neck of the bottle and poured some amber liquid unceremoniously down his throat. It was cheap stuff and Gale reckoned it could have been used as lubricant on old Gortash’s Steel Watchers.

Regardless of the quality of liquor, Gale knew that Tara would be furious. She had already spent many times other the past few years (more like decades) haranguing Gale about the quantity of alcohol he drank and that perhaps going outside and drinking water might be overall better for his mental stability. Tara would be devastated if she saw him now, a complete failure of a wizard drinking himself to death in a den of iniquity. Especially when he had been doing relatively well recently.

And he had been doing well! He had talked about his trauma about Astarion’s death with his mother and started to process things in a healthy way. He had gone back to work. He had responded to correspondence with a speed not seen from him in many years. But now look at him, arguably worse than before, drinking himself to an early grave because a vampire spawn had told him somethings about his former (now dead) lover.

Gale ran through the exposition in his head. “Gods I’m pathetic.”

“You’re learning this now?”

Gale raised his eyes to a blurred face. He blinked a few times. “Oh,” he said, slurringly. “Hullo.”

Jaheira sat down in front of him and snatched the bottle of rum. She poured herself a shot into Gale’s abandoned glass, downed it, and then deliberately placed the rum on the floor next to her feet. “Hullo to you too.”

“I was drinking that!” protested Gale, somewhat weakly.

“Believe me, that was obvious to everyone within a five-mile radius.”

Gale lay his heads on his hands on the table. He grumbled unintelligibly.

Jaheira peered at him with her sharp eyes. Gale shifted uncomfortably. “You need to get a grip,” she said, finally.

“A grip on what? Reality?” Gale snorted. “Siras has given me the reality check of a lifetime.”

“So that’s it? You’re just going to believe her?” Jaheira didn’t blink.

The wizard shrugged. “Looks like it,” he said. “Why, don’t you?”

“I continued talking to her after you left.” The druid flagged down the barkeep and asked for a goblet of wine. Tellingly, she was gifted it ‘on the house’. Gale suspected it was because she was taking ownership of the Flophouse’s biggest current problem. Which was definitely him.

“What more could she possibly have to say?” snorted Gale. “I didn’t think Astarion has any character left to disparage.”

“The truth is, Gale,” Jaheira sighed, almost kindly. “The truth is that Astarion isn’t relevant anymore. He’s dead. He will remain dead. Therefore, asking questions about him isn’t worth anything. It just winds people up.”

Gale grunted again.

Jaheira ignored him. “So, I asked her about Szarr.”

Another grunt.

Jaheira rolled her eyes. “She is adamant that Szarr is focused on a project far from Baldur’s Gate. Nothing to do with us.”

“So why was she in Rivington?”

“Apparently just to keep an eye on things.” Jaheira shrugged.

“And you believe her?”

“As much as I believe anyone else,” said Jaheira, wryly. “Anyway, Siras says that Szarr is working for Mephistopheles.”

“Doing what?” Gale’s natural curiosity somehow overcame his high percentage blood alcohol content.

“Searching for something.” Jaheira waited to see if Gale’s mind would work.

“You don’t think…”

Eyebrows raised and a slight smirk. “Siras didn’t confirm. She is adamant she doesn’t know.”

“It can’t be a coincidence,” murmured Gale. “The one thing that can kill Cazador Szarr turning up…”

“In the hands of a devil who is supposed to be dead . You killed him, in his house, in his layer of hell. He shouldn’t have been able to walk away from that with only a bruised ego.”

“So Szarr is searching for the ranseur. And Raphael by extension…”

“Which is why Raphael wanted the deal. He wants people in between him and Szarr. Between him and Mephistopheles.”

“And we’re stuck in the middle…”

Jaheira grinned. “Isn’t it great?”

Gale groaned. “I need to contact Wyll and Karlach.”

Chapter Text

The next time he opened his eyes, he could see. He blinked a few times, just to check. Just to see if this wasn’t a dream. It didn’t feel like a dream. He hated his dreams, they always made him wake up jumpy and on edge, like he was waiting for the curtain to fall and capitulate into darkness. But this time, it seemed like real life. And he could see.

There was light and there were colours, and he took it all in wide-eyed. It was blurry, and shapes blended into each other, but there was light and that’s all that mattered. He was still sat in his corner, but now he could see that he was bathed in a pleasant orange-pink glow. He stretched out his hands in front of him, blinking slowly. He flexed his fingers, astounded that he could actually see the movements. The lines weren’t defined, just vague pale pink, almost white, shapes. He didn’t care. He could feel the lines and he did so now, tracing his knuckles and bones on his left hand with a slightly shaking index finger of his right.

He felt his chest vibrate and looked down. The pale expanse of skin was gently rising up and down, almost indecipherably, but he could see it , and the feeling of pure joy made it move more. He looked around him, taking in his surroundings for the first time. The colours matched the smells. Reds of flames, blacks like night, greens from the deepest forest. Accents of brilliant gold filigree entwined with delicate silvers and rubies. It had smelt of power and it looked like power

He noticed there was a window to the left of his nesting corner. He scrabbled to push himself up to standing, almost stumbling in his eagerness to Look, to See. He wanted more colours, more light, more shadow, more shapes. To drink it all in. To consume it all and soothe his soul. There was definitely More of It, Outside. A huge expanse of autumnal hues rolled away from him. He thought he could see a hint of blue too, and it made him excited. He inhaled deeply, once again revelling in the noticeable rise of his chest.

The scent of his Benefactor hit his nose, and he span around, eager to see him. Instinctively, he dropped to his knees as his Hero walked towards him.

The smell of power fitted him too. Tall and graceful, though he couldn’t work out his features though he imagined him to be a handsome man. He took in the colours, for that was all he could really make out: black then red then white then blue then black again. The same hints of gold and silver that embellished the room accented his colours but in a way that fell in second place to his majesty. The Saviour kept walking towards him and on approach, he lowered his head, demurely, eyes to the lush green carpet on the floor.

Warm hands, soft yet brimming with fire, touched his chin and lifted it. He was led to look directly at the Angel. He felt warmth and power and protection. The warm fingers left his chin and danced lightly over the rest of his features. They skimmed his sharp cheekbones and rubbed his jawline. His eyebrows were brushed with the pad of a thumb, his ears fondled with deft, dextrous touches and he leant in, craving the touch, yearning for the warmth, desperate for the protection that those soft fiery hands promised him.

The Protector held out something in one hand, the other now massaging his scalp. He tentatively extended his arms as that beautiful aroma hit his nostrils. His hands gripped something furry, something warm, something moving. Saliva gathered in his mouth, and he drooled. He had never been given something warm here in this room before. Not something alive, wriggling and squirming. He itched to bite, itched to gnaw and to gnash. He wouldn’t though, not yet, not until Safety let him have it.

Eventually the warm hands left the brown and grey alive thing in his grip. He looked up again, tyring to convey his gratitude, his love, his loyalty. Relaxed fingers raced the tips of his ears, encouraging, and he finally bent his neck, inhaling the ambrosial scent. He found the creature’s pulse point and bit down.

With joy, he realised that taste had also returned to him. The gloriously red elixir danced over his tongue. He felt his body convulse, his throat throb. It was magic, it was fire, it was comfort and safe. He sucked and he drank, a true heavenly nectar flooding him and satiating.

He felt himself being lowered back down into his nesting corner, now noticing the blankets and cushions that had accumulated there. He was cocooned in warmth and safety. He was propped up by strong broad shoulders and rocked gently. He wanted to protest, he wanted more, he didn’t want to go back to the nightmares that plagued his sleep. He wanted more time with the Guardian. He tried to voice this but was wrapped in the arms of his paladin who softly stroked his flank and chest. He felt himself falling into his typically restless slumber.

Chapter Text

Dawn arrived too soon. The pink rays of light began to smother the dainty stars and illuminate the camp. Astarion instinctively shivered. He still wasn’t used to seeing the sun and each time it rose, it spooked him. That natural self-preservation that linked him to being a monster allowed him to believe that his minds had been playing tricks on him for the past few weeks and he would actually combust into cinders when the rays hit his pallid skin.

200 years of yearning for the sun, Astarion mused, squinting as the light grew, and now you’re terrified of it . He shook himself. That was conditioning for you. Point to Cazador. The Master always won the points, Astarion always had none. He stood up and stretched, his shoulders and spine clicking as he did. He wondered whether he was hungry and decided that he wasn’t. He felt as though he would vomit if he so much as smelled blood. Feeding came so much easier at night. Those bloody instincts.

The clattering of pans signalled Gale’s arrival at the fire and, most importantly, indicated that it was safe for Astarion to approach.

It will never be safe for you. The Master’s voice was a sneer. Not until you are home…

Home, thought Astarion, as he took up his customary perching spot. It was on the ledge of one of the large rocks in the centre of the campfire, just above the log where Gale sat cooking. Home was a strange concept to Astarion. What was home? Baldur’s Gate? The Crimson Palace? Neither of those options felt particular homey, not when he associated them with prostitution and torture respectively. He looked at the plume of steam rising above Gale’s head as he cooked and he wondered whether he would ever find home again.

His reverie was spoilt by Lae’zel’s characteristic stomp over from her tent to the campfire. She nodded to him, and he nodded back. No strings attached, highly submissive sex. Now that was something that Astarion could do. They didn’t even talk after. Lae’zel just kicked him out of the adjacent bedroll, and he slunk the walk of shame back to his tent. Perfect .

His scars itched and his skin crawled every time though. The shadows of fingers pressing down on him, of mouths and tongues tasting him, of nails on his throat, would rise every time. But that happened with sex in general. Astarion couldn’t exactly blame Lae’zel for that. Not for his inability to escape his own head and be good at the one thing he was meant to be good at.

Wyll and Karlach emerged next, chattering loudly, disrupting Astarion’s melancholy thoughts. Astarion reflected that it was the same pattern every day. Astarion always took the last watch before dawn due to his shorter trancing needs. He didn’t even complain, he liked sitting alone in the dark. Gale would wake exactly as the sun began to rise to start cooking for the group. Lae’zel would be next, acting as though she hadn’t just put Astarion’s literal corpse through the ringer. Then it would be Wyll and Karlach gossiping like old ladies at the bingo. Shadowheart was always last. Astarion didn’t know whether she was actually praying like she claimed to be, or whether she was just getting a few extra moments of shut eye.

The cleric eventually emerged from her tent, bleary eyed. She took Gale’s bowl of scrambled egg and oats (a culinary concept that confused Astarion) and began to shovel it down with the enthusiasm of a gnoll at a fine dining experience. Wyll looked around, and clapped, alerting the group that Discussion would begin Now. Wyll took his role as De Facto Leader, very seriously.

It made Astarion roll his eyes.

“Right!” the human announced. “Gobbo camp today. We scout out the leaders and try and find that archdruid.”

Simple, thought Astarion. Can’t find any risk of death and mutilation with this tiny, insignificant task. He always did appreciate the way Wyll said ‘Gobbo’ though, it didn’t fit with the rest of his demeanour.

The others mumbled their assent to Wyll’s Plan into their breakfast bowls.

“The question is, however, are we stealthing in, just breaking down the doors, or are we…” Wyll tapped his temple.

“We are not using the parasite,” snapped Lae’zel, with a ferocity normally left for Shadowheart’s existence. Well, Shadowheart and Mindflayers.

Astarion leaned forward. This should be good.

“It’s less bloody than murdering every goblin we come across,” countered Shadowheart, sharply.

Astarion couldn’t help a grin from his perch. He loved the drama when these two fought.

Lae’zel snorted. “Of course, you are keen to become ghaik,” she sneered.

Astarion saw Wyll and Karlach exchange a concerned glance. Wyll then looked at Gale whose facial expressions Astarion couldn’t see. But he did see Gale place a cautious yet restraining hand on Shadowheart’s knee.

The githyanki locked eyes with the cleric, daring her to start a fight.

Shadowheart raised her head. “Just because I am willing to look at other options than just base savagery,” she snarled.

“What do you think, Astarion?”

Gale’s interruption startled the elf. “I’m sorry, what?” he asked.

“What do you think?” repeated Gale.

Lae’zel rolled her eyes. “The vampire – “

- Astarion hoped that none of the others caught his flinch –

“will follow me.”

Astarion looked at the ground. He wondered whether there were any interesting sticks or bugs around. Lae’zel was using her dominance inside and outside of the tent now, and Astarion, despite not especially caring for it, didn’t know what he could do otherwise.

“I’d like to hear everyone’s opinion,” said Gale, calmly. He hadn’t even turned his head to look at Astarion.

The elf hesitated to look up, but no one was even giving him a second glance, all to fixated on Lae’zel’s silent war with Shadowheart and now Gale. Astarion took a breath. “Why don’t we pretend to be True Souls?” he asked, quietly. He didn’t dare look at Lae’zel; he was sure that he could feel the heat of her glare regardless.

What if you’ve lost her protection, you fool? Idiot

“But I’m happy to go with Lae’zel…”

Wyll interrupted. “They are gobbos,” he mused, thoughtfully. “Not renowned for being the cleverest buggers. It might work.”

“Hells yeah Fangs, I’m ace at acting.”

Astarion wasn’t really paying attention. He was just relieved that his idea wasn’t awful and amazed that the Blade of Bloody Frontiers had approved it. Maybe he could swap Lae’zel’s protection for Wyll’s? If he got Wyll, that guaranteed Karlach and kept him out of the ongoing conflict between Lae’zel and Shadowheart. But he doubted Wyll wanted to sleep with him, he seemed too bloody principled for that. And Karlach was literally on fire. That scuppered that plan.

Shadowheart had nodded her assent, just glad that the githyanki hadn’t got her way, whereas Lae’zel had kept glaring before snapping, “Fine. But I will not hesitate to act the moment this so-called plan falls through. My blade will taste goblin blood.” She rose and stalked back to her tent, muttering gith curses under breath as she did.

The others took this as their opportunity to leave. Astarion let his tension dissipate as they separated back to their tents to prepare for the day. Gale stood in front of him, cleaning his cooking equipment with a swift cantrip. The wizard turned to Astarion as the elf slipped down the rock from his perch and smiled at him. He squeezed the elf’s shoulder. “You did good,” he said, softly.

Astarion preened.

“Go on, Istik,” snapped Lae’zel. “You talk to them. It’s your plan after all.”

“Of course, darling.”

Astarion squared his shoulders and lifted his chin. He stalked across the remainder of the bridge to where there was a gaggle of goblins and worgs acting sentry. The elf channelled his inner Cazador Szarr and stared haughtily down at them. “Let us pass,” he drawled, snappishly.

The lead goblin looked at him. “Who are you?”

“Isn’t it obvious?”

The goblin looked at his companions. “Er, no?”

Astarion fixed his best Cazador stare impression at goblin. The benefit of red eyes, he thought, was that they always unnerved people when you didn’t blink at them. “Wrong answer.”

The goblin shuffled, uncomfortable. “Beggin’ yer pardon, sir, it’s my job to ask questions at the gate.”

Astarion looked behind the goblin. “It’s not much of a gate,” he remarked, cooly. “And your questions leave a lot to be decided. Maybe I should elect to tell my fellow True Souls,” he let his tongue dance along his canines as he enunciated the words ‘True Souls’ with spite and aplomb, “how much of a failure you are.”

“True Soul? Beggin’ yer pardon, sir, I didn’t know.” The goblin started panicking as did the Worg next to him. “Please don’t tell ‘em. We’ll get skinned.”

“Make it worth my while.” Astarion extended a pale hand and watched the goblin carefully.

The leader rapidly searched his pockets. He came out with a couple of pieces of gold, a small healing potion, and an arrow.

Astarion raised an eyebrow and tutted. “Attempting to bribe a True Soul? How outrageous. And with such pathetic offerings, too.” With his other hand he struck with his dagger, cleanly into the goblin’s throat. The goblin slumped to the floor, hand clasped around the wound, gurgling. Astarion leant down and wiped his blade on the goblin’s cloth armour. “Now then,” he said to the rest of the gathered and quaking goblins. “You are going to let me pass.”

There was a collection of squeaks that sounded vaguely like “Yes True Soul! Sorry True Soul!” and the pathetic excuse for a sentry line parted, allowing Astarion and the companions to waltz through. The others followed Astarion quietly until they were far enough away when there was a group exhale.

“Wow, Fangs!” said Karlach.

“Impressive acting,” murmured Gale.

Astarion gave a tittering laugh. “Oh darling, that was just Cazador Szarr.”

He ignored Gale’s flinch. He hardly talked about his sire. It had only really come up once since The Reveal (still capitalised) and Astarion didn’t really want to know what the others thought of him. He didn’t know whether ‘him’ was the master or himself.

It was easy to find the first True Soul. Astarion just followed the scent of burnt flesh. He recognised branding immediately and repressed a shiver. The cracked and worn stone tiles brought back memories of the Kennel and Astarion blinked rapidly, forcing his mind back to the present. He watched passively as foolish initiates eagerly extended their forearms for Priestess Gut’s branding iron. He instinctively moved around to the shadows, keeping out of sight, looking like he was scouting but in reality, he was just hiding.

Astarion watched as Wyll confidently strode up to the True Soul. He held his breath as they talked. He saw Gut beckon him away to a side chamber and his stomach tightened.

“Istik!” Lae’zel jabbed him in the side. He hadn’t seen her approach. “Follow. Let us find the drow.” Her eyes glittered. “The others will deal with the goblin.”

Astarion nodded and led the way to the upper level. He smelt blood and the acid tang of fear that accompanied it. Lae’zel had picked up on something and she diverted to the far end of the chamber, the opposite way from where they suspected the drow leader was. Obediently, Astarion followed, wrinkling his nose as the blood scent and the fear grew stronger.

There was a young human, blond and blue eyed, hanging miserably on a rack. A few goblins were gathered around occasionally beating him with sticks and asking questions. Astarion’s stomach twisted again. He glanced at Lae’zel. The githyanki was looking at the scene with a curiosity in her eyes that Astarion didn’t want to delve into. She cocked her head onto one side before approaching.

“Crude technique,” she commented.

Astarion looked at the floor. He kept two steps behind Lae’zel, hands nervously tracing the hilt of his daggers.

The lead goblin snapped his head around to look. His eyes widened in surprise, seeing a githyanki so close to him. “Crude technique?” he repeated. He shrugged. “If it works, it works.”

“Is it working?” asked Lae’zel, dryly.

The goblin’s lip curled aggressively and Astarion took a step backwards. The torturer’s eyes glanced at him. “You’ve got this one well behaved.”

Lae’zel was dismissive. “Of course. He’s well trained.”

Astarion instinctively tensed his muscles to stop the flinch. Well trained, well trained, well trained…

Runt. Useless. Pathetic little boy who never amounted to anything.

At this stage, Astarion couldn’t work out whether that was actually the master communicating with him through his compulsion connection, or whether it was just his own brain. It was the master’s voice though. That sneer, that overwhelming condescension.

“Hmm,” said the goblin. “You should show us your techniques.” He had a hint of a threat in the way he said techniques.

Lae’zel beckoned Astarion forward and placed a hand on his shoulder in an attempt to be soothing. “The trick is that they have to want to obey. They know their place and they thrive in it.”

Know your place, boy.

Know that master loves you and keeps you safe.

Know that thou art mine.

Lae’zel’s off-world accent was mixing into the master’s now. Her words becoming his, and Astarion breathed slowly to try and calm the adrenaline that decided to rush through his system. Lae’zel kept talking and the torturer kept responding. The master’s voice mixed the githyanki flooded Astarion’s senses.

Stop panicking! He hissed to his brain. You’ll only make it worse!

Then –

Silence.

Astarion jolted back to a reality as Torturer Spike’s head rolled past him, having been expertly removed from his body by Lae’zel. Two more goblins also lay dead, and Astarion saw two busted rat corpses for good measure. He furrowed his brows slightly and glanced upwards. Lae’zel shrugged and pointed at the blond human, “release him,” she ordered.

Astarion nodded.

Minthara the Drow was everything that Astarion thought she would be. Unbelievably terrifying, incredibly racist, and ridiculously sexist. Culture, Astarion thought, only got you so far when it came to societal expectations. Sometimes you just turn out to be a horrible person. Astarion did not consider his own less than admirable reactions towards gnomes and Gur.

She looked at Astarion with disappointment. “A faerie,” she hissed. “And a male one at that.” Minthara looked behind him and looked curiously at Lae’zel. “Well, I never. Has the Absolute blessed a githyanki?”

Lae’zel snorted.

“He’s yours, I take it?”

The githyanki nodded. “Of course.”

Again, Astarion repressed a shiver. He knew that Lae’zel was possessive, but he was confident that it didn’t go deep as actually her thinking that she owned him. This was just githyanki acting, right?

“Pretty enough, I guess,” commented Minthara. She took her icy gaze from Astarion to look properly at Lae’zel. “Have you come to join my hunt?”

“What prey are you hunting?”

“Blasphemers. Heretics. All who dare stand against the Absolute.” Minthara’s speech was confident but gave the sense of insanity, typical of cultists. She gestured at her map. “There is a druids’ grove nearby,” she said. “We are struggling to ascertain its positioning.”

Lae’zel hummed as she looked over the map. Astarion was glad that his role seemed to be ‘Stand Still and Keep Silent’. He was good at it. Lae’zel traced the path of the river with her finger. “A druids’ grove,” she murmured. “A potent enemy for the Absolute.”

Minthara nodded. “And they are harbouring tieflings.” She spat out the word tiefling as if it tasted unpleasantly bitter.

“Even more of a threat,” remarked Lae’zel.

“A faultless observation,” said Minthara, a little dryly. “Are all githyanki so quick to come to the essential point?”

Lae’zel smiled. Astarion tensed. He knew that smile. It was a smile that often accompanied a steel greatsword caving in someone’s chest cavity. “I have a hunt of my own,” she announced, to the almost empty room. Astarion placed his hand on one of his dagger’s hilts, feeling the grooves.

“Oh?” said Minthara. To her credit, there was a glimmer of wariness in her eyes. “And who is your prey?”

Astarion lightly stepped into the shadows and crept around the drow. Minthara’s eyes were fixated on Lae’zel, so Astarion was pretty confident he had gotten away with it and Lae’zel grinned, showing all of her teeth. “You,” snarled the githyanki. “Hta'zith!”

The githyanki swung her sword in a perfect arc to swipe the side of the drow’s chest whilst Astarion pounced from behind. He plunged one dagger into her spinal column and sank his teeth into the back of her neck. Minthara barely had time to think about grabbing her mace before she dropped to the floor. Astarion held onto her neck with his teeth as she convulsed, letting his tongue flicker over the blood that was spurting out.

“Stop. ” The order was firm and immediate. Astarion let go. He looked up at Lae’zel who towered over him. He instinctively cowered but he didn’t think Lae’zel noticed as the githyanki simply nodded at him and said, “Come. We must find the others. Let us hope that the cleric has not gotten them into trouble.”

She turned on her heel and walked off. Astarion paused a moment, spying a chest he wanted to look into. He wondered whether Lae’zel would punish him for not immediately following. But what if it had something magical for Gale in it? That decided it. He liked the wizard, and the wizard was kind to him, most of the time, and had even been bottling up blood for him in case he didn’t have a chance to hunt. He needed to keep the wizard on side, so he deftly opened the chest, shoved the contents into his bag of holding and then turned to hurry after Lae’zel.

“The drow is dead,” announced Lae’zel.

Wyll nodded. “As is the priestess.”

Gale smiled at Astarion who trotted to his side. He delved into his bag and drew out a pair of boots, smelling of magic. He held them out to the wizard.

“Thank you Astarion,” said Gale, putting the boots into his own pack. “Did you find anything for yourself?”

Astarion thought about it. “I quite liked the armour the drow was wearing. It would fit me with a few adjustments.” A whisper of a smile crept onto his lips as he added, “I am quite a small High Elf.”

Gale chuckled. “Did you take the amour then?” he asked, gesturing to the bag in Astarion’s hand.

The elf shook his head. “Lae’zel told me to hurry.”

Gale’s eyes briefly narrowed as if he were considering something. Astarion hoped it wasn’t him. “After we kill this last one,” the wizard said, finally, “we’ll go back for the armour.”

Astarion smiled properly this time. “Thank you, Gale.” He turned towards the rest of the pack and began to follow them, keeping to the shadows but he made sure he kept an eye on Gale at all times. He liked knowing where the wizard was and was always quick to notice when his Condition (again capitalised) was starting to affect him.

The companions walked through the Shattered Sanctum until they came to a huge room. At the back was a stage-like altar on which stood a large hobgoblin barbarian. At his feet was -

“Lie down at my feet, boy.”

Astarion, trembling, pressed his stomach to the floor, legs stretched out behind him. Laughs, hoots, and cackles sounded out behind him. He pushed his nose against the cold tile and closed his eyes.

“You’ve got him well trained, Lord Szarr.”

Without even needing to see it, Astarion could feel his master’s snide and sneering smirk. The master hummed. “He can be, occasionally. Sometimes he has the tendency to act out . Don’t you, Astarion?”

Screwing his eyes shut, Astarion let out a muffled squeak. “Yes master. Sorry master.”

More laughs.

“So, what can he do, then?”

“Anything you want,” said the master, easily.

“Hmm, pretty face.”

“Quite small for an elf?”

“He’s young,” explained the master. “39.”

A few wolf-whistles. More laughs.

“I bet he enjoys it though.”

“Yeah, he looks like the sort who’d know his place.”

More raucous laughter and howls.

“He thrives in knowing his place, don’t you boy?” asked the master.

Astarion hadn’t opened his eyes. “Yes master, master knows best.” He tried to stop his chest from heaving.

He flinched as a hand smacked his backside. It stung, but not as much as the grope on the bare flesh did after.

“Sensitive.”

More slaps, more prods. Every inch of skin that was on show was touched and defiled.

“Turn over.”

Astarion immediately flipped round so his chest was facing the ceiling. He felt his head being wrenched back so his neck was exposed and recognised the feeling of bare thighs nudging his legs apart. Fingers tapped his mouth, and he opened, obediently.

“What a good slut.”

The master hummed again. “An excellent cockwarmer I must say, gentlemen. One of my favourites. You never squirm, do you, Astarion?”

“No sir, never sir.”

Hands fondled his pathetic excuses for pectoral muscles and sharp nails dug into his nipples.

Don’t squirm, don’t squirm.

“Deep breath kid.”

The master cackled this time. “Don’t worry about preparing him. He can take it.”

The laughs were drowned out by the penis rapidly stuffed down his throat. He convulsed slightly but forced himself to remain pliant, obedient. There was a slap on his forehead as the owner of the appendage began to thrust harshly and brutishly. “Eyes open, faerie.”

Astarion opened his eyes and saw a mound of black pubic hair above him. Tears were welling in his eyes.

Pain ricocheted through him as someone forced through his arsehole, and he held down a yelp. He felt himself pass out, eagerly receding into the blackness…

No. Come back.

Astarion lurched back to consciousness with a splutter, the pain and liquid warmth ravaging his system more so than an illithid parasite ever could.

“Astarion! Astarion!”

Warm hands. Warm hands touching his cheeks? Odd.

“Hey, come back to us Fangs.”

That was hot. Almost ‘on fire’ hot. He flinched as it grazed his skin.

“Shit, sorry Fangs.”

“Maybe step back a bit, Karlach.”

“Easy does it, easy does it. You’re alright fella.”

Something cold and wet touched his lips. He flinched and tried to get away, but someone was holding his head still, forcing this thing in between his lips. He let out a near feral whine, high pitched and painful.

“I’ve never heard him make that sound before.”

“He needs to drink something! I know it’s bad, but just force it down, he’ll feel better.”

He wanted to snap with his fangs, but he couldn’t, the master would punish him if he even thought about doing that. Strong hands on his chin, gripping his jaw and prying his maw open. He recognised those hands; he’d felt them before in other places and he didn’t want them on him at all. He let out another whine, panicked and anguished, like an animal caught in a trap. He was tipped backwards, and he yelped again as liquid poured down his throat. He gagged, coughing and spluttering, not wanting any more of it inside him.

“Astarion, please!”

“Shadowheart, can you do something?”

“He’s disassociating, you can’t just heal that.”

“Make him sleep!”

“He’s an elf!”

“Someone open his eyes.”

Open your eyes, boy.

He felt the thumbs ghosting his eyelids and he snapped his eyes open. Astarion’s pupils were dilated, a thin sheen of red encircling them. His eyes were terrified, and they moved rapidly. His throat convulsed and he coughed up the water. Nausea gripped him and he could feel what was left of his stomach dissolving itself. He was shaking, seeing shadows and spectres everywhere.

A wrist was put before his nose.

“Smell.”

Astarion was breathing too chaotically to scent on purpose, but in between shuddering gasps he managed to find parchment, wine, books, and lightning.

“Gale,” gasped Astarion, reaching out for the wrist.

“Easy does it.” Gale’s face swam into focus in front of him. “You’re alright now, you’re doing well. Breathe with me. In… Out… In… And Out…”

In….

Out…

In…

And Out…

“Back with us?”

Astarion nodded. “Sorry.” He meant for it to be a low mutter, but it came out more like a whine. Stupid animal brain! he spat at himself and clenched his fists, wanting to scratch his skin and take out the beast within.

“Don’t worry about it, no harm done.” Wyll seemed relatively relaxed about the entire thing.

Astarion began to slowly calm down.

“Can I check you over little elf?”

The small elf in question flinched. Knelt before him was an absolute giant of a wood elf, with scars and tattoos on his face. He wore his brown hair down and straight. He was dressed in green, typical for a wood elf, with more muscles showing through his robe than every elf Astarion had ever seen combined.

“This is Halsin,” explained Wyll. “He’s the Archdruid of the Emerald Grove. He’s a healer.”

Astarion looked at him warily. “I’m fine,” he said.

“Your companions say you fell pretty badly when you collapsed. I just want to check your head.”

“No need.” Astarion scrabbled around him to try and get up. He felt crowded and hemmed in with all these people staring at him. “Nothing a little blood won’t fix.”

Halsin hummed. “Then you shall have some blood.” He extended his arm.

Astarion balked. The last thing he needed right now was for the master to remind him of his ever-reaching omnipotence by turning blood to acid in his mouth. “I don’t tend to drink thinking creatures’ blood,” he murmured. He tried to search out Gale for support.

“Very admirable.” Halsin nodded. “I applaud your sense of morality in what must be an incredibly hard situation for a spawn to be in. However, I do think, that on this occasion…”

“No, please, don’t make me.” Astarion started shaking again.

Halsin backed away. “Okay, okay, little one.” He put his forearm down and Astarion relaxed. “But I will insist that you eat a large creature on your return to the camp.”

Astarion nodded, wanting the conversation to be over. Lae’zel offered an arm to him, and he took it, wobbling slightly once he was upright. “So, Dror Ragzlin?”

“Very dead,” said Shadowheart. “Turns out, a fainting and screaming vampire spawn is a brilliant distraction. He didn’t see Wyll coming.”

Astarion did a mock bow. “Glad to serve.”

Gale put an arm around him and started guiding him towards the exit. “Come on, let’s go back to camp. Karlach went to grab that armour you wanted from that drow…”

Halsin had hunted a stag for him. He hadn’t been able to drink all of it and Halsin had raised his eyebrows at him, muttering something about vampire spawns being able to consume multiple times their body weight in blood per day. Astarion had shrugged at him and had padded over to Gale to get some bottles to store the excess blood.

Astarion liked having excess blood. He liked looking at all the bottles that Gale had very kindly put in stasis for him.

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11…

Astarion smacked his lips. 11 bottles. And he could still hunt out here in the wilds. He had never been so food secure since he had died.

He shook his head to rid him of the thought of death. There was a party going on, he should be enjoying it. He shook the rest of himself and went to try and find the one person he could actually enjoy being around: Gale.

The wizard was a little of to the sides of the gathering, wine glass in hand. He nodded as Astarion made his way over. “Astarion.”

Astarion dipped his head. “Gale,” he said, smoothly.

“Enjoying the party?”

“I can think of other things I’d rather be doing.” Astarion sighed.

Gale chuckled. “Like Lae’zel.”

Astarion pulled a face. “I wouldn’t have thought you so crass, wizard.”

“Crass? More like reading the room.”

Astarion snorted. “Anyway, I don’t feel like doing Lae’zel tonight either.” Especially since it felt more like Lae’zel was doing him.

“Sparks fizzled out, then?” asked Gale, sympathetically.

The elf shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t think there were ever sparks at all.”

Gale hummed, thoughtfully. The buzz of the crowd still found them here, but Astarion felt oddly removed from it as he focused on Gale’s facial expressions. He was jolted back to reality by Gale’s next question. “Did you want to have sex with her?”

Astarion covered his surprise by raising an eyebrow. “That’s all everyone wants, isn’t it? To get lost in someone else?”

Gale made a strange noise in his throat. “Maybe,” he said, “But I get the feeling that you don’t exactly class as ‘everyone’ in this scenario.”

Astarion purred, laughingly. “Of course not,” he simpered. “I am unique.” He felt uncomfortable with Gale’s line of questioning. He decided to revert back to his flirty rakish character.

“Astarion,” sighed Gale. “What happened earlier…”

The vampire flinched. “It was nothing.”

“It was obviously something,” pressed Gale. “I just…”

“Just what?”

“I just don’t want you to be pressured into doing anything you don’t want to do.”

“Bit late for that,” snorted Astarion. “Maybe put a good word in for me with both my master and the Mindflayers.”

Gale flinched this time. Astarion looked at the ground.

“Astarion,” sighed Gale. “Look, I’m sorry. You can make your own decisions. I just got worried, after earlier.”

Astarion waved his apology away with a careful hand. “No hard feelings, don’t worry, darling.”

The party eventually wound down. Couples tried to discreetly make their way into the woods that surrounded the clearing. Karlach and Wyll wandered by the river. Shadowheart found some tiefling with whom to let off some steam. Gale retired to his tent. Astarion stood alone, awkwardly.

“Come.”

Astarion turned and bowed towards Lae’zel. The githyanki turned in the direction of the little abandoned chapel and, as a good spawn always does, Astarion followed her.

Chapter Text

Gale thumped his head on the wooden desk. Several times. In a row. He groaned, ran his hand through his unkempt hair, scratched his beard, then groaned again. He turned around and looked at the wall. It looked inviting.

Do you think that wall could take a punch?

Gale stood. He punched the wall.

“Ow!”

“What do you expect, you melodramatic… thing?”

Gale closed his eyes. This day could not get any worse.

First, the bakery where he always bought his preferred breakfast pastries (cinnamon, preferably swirled) was shut because of a rat infestation. Second, it was raining considerably more than was reasonable for this time of year. He was from Waterdeep, godsdamnit it was meant to be frosty in Hammer, not slushy. Third, he found that he had a hole in his favourite (read only) pair of boots, and he was pretty sure that his big toe had frostbite. Or gout. Or something. Issues two and three may be related. And fourth, there was no mention, in any books or scrolls or tomes, of a Ranseur of Mephistopheles. Or at least, not a lost one. If he hadn’t seen the thing himself, Gale would be pretty sure that Raphael had been lying. But a signed contract was a signed contract. Raphael had to give them a Ranseur of Mephistopheles. But of course, at their opportunity to kill Cazador whilst he was grieving over Astarion, neither Raphael nor Ranseur turned up. And now Shadowheart, and Lae’zel, of all people were stood in his tiny attic room in Ramazith’s Tower, loaned out to him by Rolan who was grating on Gale’s nerves considerably.

Lae’zel coughed.

“Who let you in?” demanded Gale.

Lae’zel raised a dark eyebrow. “The tiefling.”

“I specifically said no visitors!”

Shadowheart hummed. “We’ve talked about the stages of grief,” she remarked, talking to Lae’zel more than Gale, “but the wizard seems to be in an unending cycle. He’s been in anger at least four times before.”

Lae’zel sighed.

“I’m not grieving!” snapped Gale.

“What do you call this then?” Shadowheart gestured around them.

Books, quills, inkpots, scrolls, pieces of parchment, and tomes filled every possible space in the tiny room that Gale called home. Piles of books taller than Halsin loomed over them and the walls were covered in scrabbly written notes. Quills and pieces of graphite lay abandoned everywhere, with new ones bought everyday when Gale couldn’t find one. The tiny bed that had been squeezed in was covered in ink blots from where Gale wrote and scribbled at night. The three individuals in the room could barely move and that wasn’t the room’s fault.

“It’s not grieving,” repeated Gale. He gesticulated around them. “It’s a hyperfixation.”

Shadowheart and Lae’zel exchanged a look. Lae’zel snorted something about Faerûn and its customs. Shadowheart rolled her eyes, a reply to Lae’zel that clearly said, ‘ No, this is just a Gale custom’.

“And have you got anywhere on this hyperfixation of yours?”

Gale growled in frustration. “No. It’s bloody maddening. Everywhere I turn there’s a dead end.”

“Maybe try looking for live ones.”

Shadowheart, as best she could, stood in between the wizard and the githyanki. She stumbled over a pile of books. “Gale, just sit down, please.”

Gale glowered at Lae’zel but did as he was told. He crossed his arms in front of his chest. “What do you two want, anyway?” he asked, gruffly.

“To check up on you,” replied Shadowheart.

“To make sure that you hadn’t done something foolish, Istik.”

Shadowheart sighed. Gale could imagine that the pair of them had had a conversation about who would do the most talking. Gale could also guess that the two of them had disagreed.

“I’m an archmage,” said Gale, cooly. “I don’t do foolish things.”

Shadowheart allowed herself a snort this time whilst Lae’zel looked disdainful. “The entire time we’ve known you, you have been obsessed with doing foolish things.”

Gale scowled. “I’m fine,” he said, through gritted teeth.

“Wizard, you punched a wall. That is not what fine people do.” Lae’zel’s voice was frustrated.

“First the alcohol, now this?” Shadowheart looked into her friend’s eyes. “You’re spiralling.”

“Am not.”

“Are too.”

“Am not.”

“Are too.”

“Am not, am not, am not!” Gale turned to face the window behind his desk. There wasn’t anyway to look out of it, the windowsill had been filled with books, allowing only for the brightest crack of bright sunlight to shine through.

“Juvenile,” muttered Lae’zel.

“Am not,” grunted Gale, stubbornly. “And in any case, even if I were spiralling, which I am not, may I hasten to remind you, it wouldn’t be the catastrophic spiralling down it would be an incredible spiralling up.”

“Sure.” Shadowheart sighed. “Gale, look. We just want to help.”

“Are you a book that can tell me about the ranseur of Mephistopheles? If not, you’re not going to help.”

“Then let’s find us someone who can help you find that book,” Shadowheart sounded like she was begging.

Gale sighed. “Like who?”

The Devil’s Fee was not very inconspicuous. From the demon head grotesques that embellished the classical architecture, to the aura of ‘Otherness’ that emanated from it, the whole place screamed "We deal with the Hells here". Gale scrunched up his nose at the large front door. “Are we sure about this?” he asked.

Shadowheart nodded. “Like you said, books aren’t getting you anywhere. You need someone who knows the Hells.”

“Fine, fine.”

Lae’zel led the way in. The façade hadn’t changed at all since their last visit. The enormous collection of skulls and hellish trophies littered the entry hall, the locked display cases daring for thieves to pick their locks, and beyond, stood at the desk, the gold dwarf, Helsik.

Helsik was a strange character. She was over the top, especially with the gold eyeshadow, and her condescending mannerisms made Gale want to be violently ill. She irritated Gale immensely.

She chuckled as she saw the three approach her. “Well, well, well,” she said. “I didn’t expect the killers of Raphael to turn up here again.” It was a voice with a veneer of ice-cold laughter.

“Helsik,” greeted Shadowheart.

“Heroes of Baldur’s Gate.” Helsik bowed, her head dipping below the level of her shop counter. “How can I help thee?”

Gale rolled his eyes.

“We’re looking for information,” said Shadowheart. She reached into her pocket and plucked out a coinpurse. “We will pay. Handsomely.”

Helsik weighed it in her hands. Her eyes narrowed slightly. “Indulge me, if you will.”

Shadowheart nodded for the diabolist to continue.

“What possible interactions with the Hells would three Heroes need me for?”

Shadowheart gestured to the coinpurse. “Information,” she said, almost sweetly.

The diabolist sighed and thought about it for a moment. She squeezed the coinpurse in her hand and then pushed a strand of dark hair behind her ear. “Go on then. Ask your questions.”

“Mephistopheles,” began Shadowheart.

Helsik’s eyes narrowed again, further this time. “I have been burnt with metaphorical hellfire before when giving information about Mephistopheles.”

“Particularly his ranseur.”

“Which one? He’s got three.” Helsik shrugged. “Fire, Ice, Lightning.”

“And there’s not a lost one?” asked Shadowheart.

“Not as far as I know,” said Helsik.

I told them this would be a useless waste of time, thought Gale, listlessly.

Helsik looked as if she knew what Gale was thinking. “Look, there is precious little information coming out of the hells right now. The Blood War is even more of a stalemate than it usually is, warlocks are being … fussy with the information they give out. My contacts are in hiding or dead. It’s chaos. Devils are fighting devils, it’s tantamount to civil war except no one knows whose side is which.”

“Why now?” asked Shadowheart.

“Mephistopheles,” said Helsik, quietly. She drummed her fingers lightly on the dark wooden counter.

“What about him?”

“The Lord of the Eight has,” the diabolist hesitated again, “for lack of a better term, gone mad.”

Shadowheart, Gale, and Lae’zel exchanged a look.

“Mad?”

Helsik nodded. “Anger.” She looked around her and lowered her voice. “Rumour is, it kicked off just after you murdered Raphael. Cania got a sudden influx of souls, and I’m talking thousands. Pissed Mammon right off.”

The Rite of Profane Ascension, thought Gale.

“But, the rumours also say that this sudden influx came from one single source and that it wasn’t the full amount. So, a second deal was made.”

“Mephistopheles let someone change a deal?”

Helsik nodded.

Gale furrowed his brow, confused. “That doesn’t seem…”

“Normal? Correct? Right?” Helsik snorted. “The entire Hells are in uproar about it. And then add in the power vacuum that Raphael left…” She sighed. “So, let’s count it up. Number 1, we had a cambion who had more power than he should have done, but that’s by the by, and that cambion gets murdered by a bunch of mortals. Number 2, there is now a huge power vacuum in Avernus due to the death of said cambion by a bunch of mortals. Number 3 said cambion is the son of Mephistopheles who just so happens to have changed a contract in the debtor’s favour. And Number 4, Cania gets an influx of 7000 souls all at once, completely ruining the balance of power in Baator.” She counted the numbers on her fingers, her golden nail polish glinting in the lamp light.

“I wouldn’t have thought 7000 was a lot for a lord of Baator,” commented Shadowheart.

“Over millennia, maybe not. On one night, it’s the equivalent of Ravengard’s safe multiplying by 10.” The diabolist rubbed her temples. “The inflation rate has gone mad.”

“You say there’s a power vacuum because of Raphael?” Gale thought about this. Raphael was, in fact, alive but clearly the cambion was keeping his survival under wraps.

Helsik nodded. “Well,” she glanced around her as if she was checking that there was no one else around. “There should be.”

Gale narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean ‘should’ be?”

Helsik gave the impression of someone who was in immense sinus pain. “His power has, for the lack of a better term, gone.”

“But power in the Hells is souls, right?” asked Shadowheart. “Like in soul coins? That can’t just disappear?”

“Look, I’ve already said too much,” said Helsik, through gritted teeth. “I’ll give you the gist. Devils and demons alike are scrambling trying to find Raphael’s power. But it can’t be found.”

“And Mephistopheles?”

Helsik snorted. “The mad scientist is in play,” she said, coyly.

Gale glanced at Shadowheart. Lae’zel was itching to fight something. Helsik saw the look between them. “I’m sorry,” she said, almost truthfully. “But there’s no information I can really give you, not about Mephistopheles, not at the moment. It’s too dangerous. None of my contacts are coming forward. Even Mammon is biding his time, being quiet. Everyone is just waiting for the hammer to fall.”

Shadowheart sighed. “How big is the fallout going to be?”

Helsik shrugged, but it didn’t shift the undercurrent of fear that was present in her eyes. “Who knows. Asmodeus isn’t involved just yet, but I bet you he’s interested. That said, even if he doesn’t, 8 out of 9 levels of Hell going to war for power isn’t going to be a small thing.”

Gale looked at Shadowheart. The cleric was pensive. She nodded at Helsik and reached into her cloak to pull out another coinpurse which she tossed to Helsik. “You look like you need a drink.”

Helsik again weighed the coinpurse in her hand. “You have no idea,” she said, darkly.

Shadowheart led the way out of the Devil’s Fee and into the rainy Hammer weather. Gale and Lae’zel followed quietly, not wanting to disturb her thoughts. The cleric was silent as they made their way to Sorcerous Sundries and through there to Ramazith’s Tower and to Gale’s mess of a room.

“Wyll and Karlach…”

“They replied to me yesterday, they’re fine,” offered Gale. “They’ve got the schematics for Karlach’s heart now, they’ll be back before you know it.”

Shadowheart nodded. She rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands. Lae’zel placed a soft hand on her arm. It was the most soothing and gentle Gale had ever seen the githyanki.

“I think,” began Lae’zel, slowly. “We must protect ourselves.”

“How do we do that?” asked Shadowheart, shaking herself.

Lae’zel gestured around her. “Information is good. But I advise that we don’t go rushing to find Szarr.” She sounded bitter, as if she didn’t want to take her own advice.

“If Szarr is involved in this…”

“If Szarr is involved in this, we are involved in this!” snapped Shadowheart, interrupting Gale.

Lae’zel looked at her with a level expression. “I am not saying that we are not. I am just saying that it might be wise to try and move to the sidelines. Szarr is a pawn for Mephistopheles, we should not make ourselves too obvious to an Archdevil.”

Shadowheart glanced upwards towards the githyanki. “I hate it when you’re right,” she pouted, quietly.

“I am always right,” affirmed Lae’zel.

Gale sighed. He looked at his papers and his books. “I’ll keep reading,” he said.

Lae’zel rolled her eyes. “I am loathe not to suggest a plan of action. Do not take it for granted, wizard.”

The wizard cracked a small smile. “Oh Lae’zel, I don’t take anything from you for granted.”

Chapter Text

He had no concept of time, not really. He knew he was fed, and fed often too, but had no way of measuring the time between feedings. Sometimes the Benefactor came in with a live creature, sometimes already dead, or sometimes he would try and feed with a goblet or ceramic mug. He didn’t like the latter; it felt strange on his fangs not to bite down on something. When he refused to feed via the cups, he would get a soft slap on his rear. It made him frown. His Protector, who’s facial features were becoming clearer and clearer with each feeding, would raise dark eyebrows at him and smile. He would then try again, drinking a little without using his fangs. He would chatter his teeth after, trying to rid himself of the strange sensation. It was then when the Guardian would produce a live creature, something he could sink his fangs into. It seemed to be some sort of reward for doing what the Angel wanted. He supposed he would live with it. He liked the rewards.

He spent more and more time awake, these days. He still became tired easily, but he saw more of the world outside his window, still transfixed by the colours. Occasionally, the Carer would bring in things for him to look at. Images of places, of people, of creatures. Sometimes it was a cushion, or a book that he couldn’t read, or a quill. When it was a quill, he remembered he spent most of the time feeling the feather with his fingertips, liking the texture. Safety had looked at him, an odd expression on his face. But he had noticed – the eyes had been soft, and the hands too as the Saviour had stroked his hair and patted his stomach.

On this particular time, the Hero had arrived as usual, carrying three objects. He placed the three on the carpeted floor and gestured for him to approach. He crept along to them and sat cross-legged about a foot away. There was a long, wooden staff. It had an unfamiliar energy to it that set his teeth on edge. He narrowed his eyes at it. The second object was a huge silver sword, with rubies in its hilt and gold along its blade. It felt cold when he looked at it, and he shivered. The final object was an ebony mace, with bright golden spikes. It made his skin prickle when he looked at it and he grimaced.

The Rescuer laughed.

He startled.

Sound?

The Defender gazed at him with dark eyes. He moved a couple of steps forward and crouched so they were at the same eye level. “Hear me?” he asked.

He nodded, happily. Sound, sound, sound!

The Champion chuckled. “Good boy,” he said.

He felt his chest fill with glee.

“Can you speak?”

He cocked his head onto one side. He twisted his tongue a few times in his mouth. He smacked his lips and felt his throat convulse. It wasn’t words that came out, more of a chirping sound, but that was fine. Maybe he wasn’t meant to use words.

The Sentinel nodded. He pointed at himself. “Master,” he said, clearly.

He nodded. Master, master, master. He felt it in his brain. It soothed an itch that he hadn’t realised he had.

Master then pointed at him. “Star.”

He chirped happily. Name, name, name! Star, star, star!

Master chuckled again. “Good boy, Star.” He reached out and patted Star’s head. Star eagerly leant into the touch, purring as he did so. He was surprised that he could hear the purr, not just feel the vibrations in his chest. Star chirped again.

Master gestured to the three objects on the floor. “Do you like?” he asked, simply.

Star shook his head. He bared his teeth and hissed at them.

“Why not?” Master looked at him, his eyes observing everything.

Star thought about this a moment. He wondered how to express his answer. He pinned his ears back and crouched lower, tucking his limbs in under his body, head down.

“Scared?”

Star nodded.

“Good boy, Star,” praised Master again. He stroked Star’s ears now, eliciting a pleased groan from Star, which made him chuckle again. “It’s important you tell me how you’re feeling, alright?”

Star cocked his head. He didn’t understand that one. He made a confused noise in his throat, halfway between a chirp and a whine.

Master looked at him and scratched Star’s chin. “Don’t worry,” he soothed. “We’ll try and keep things a bit simpler, then.”

Star instantly relaxed. He trilled. He could deal with simple.

Master properly laughed at the noise Star made. “Right then,” he said, after a few moments petting Star. He waved his hand and the three objects vanished into thin air. Star’s eyes widened. Master smiled. “Who am I?”

Star grinned and bounded over the short distance between him and Master. He rubbed himself against Master’s legs.

Safe, safe, he thought. Master safe. Master look after.

More ear rubs and Star grumbled happily under Master’s attentions.

“Good boy, Star,” Master whispered. “What a good boy.”

Chapter Text

Astarion, much to his surprise, had been becoming more comfortable with the entire situation that he had found himself in. Since the Debacle at the Goblin Camp (a further capitalisation) the others had become more… well he didn’t know whether empathetic was the correct word to use, but certainly more aware. Wyll had been less domineering and suspicious. The warlock had even gone so far as to give him a clap on the back after the rogue had figured out how to escape Crèche Y'llek, finding the Blood of Lathander in the process. Shadowheart had mentioned something about ‘baring pain well’ and ‘not hiding from the darkness’. Astarion had taken it as a complement. He found himself hoping that it was meant as one. Karlach had been openly soppy with the elf. She had noticed how Astarion prized comfort and hoarded rich pillows, blankets, and cushions in his tent. So, the flaming tiefling endeavoured to find as much ‘comfort’ as she possibly could and surreptitiously dumping it in Astarion’s burgundy tent. Astarion appreciated this, he genuinely did.

Even Lae’zel had been less, well, less Lae’zel . Astarion suspected that Gale had had a word with her about the whole ‘Astarion not really wanting to have sex, thank you very much’ thing, for Lae’zel hadn’t approached him about it since the tiefling party. She looked out for him, in her way, and Astarion guessed that her constant jibing about his lack of finesse when it came to fighting was her way of showing it. He did notice that when in scenarios where Astarion was unable to use his stealth, the githyanki always positioned herself somewhere where she could keep an eye on him, protect him, even. He supposed that this was her way of showing ‘affection’.

Halsin’s presence had been welcomed, much to Astarion’s surprise. It had taken him a while to warm up to the wood elf. The archdruid was overbearing in some ways, always making sure he ate enough, calling him ‘little elf’ and other diminutives. Astarion didn’t hate it as much as he thought he should do. He still never ate enough, according to Halsin at least. Astarion felt fuller than he had done since he’d died, despite Halsin's adamant concerns that he was surviving on considerably less than he should. When Astarion came back to camp having exsanguinated a fox or a hare, Halsin would grunt and wildshape into his ursine form. He’d pad off into the woods and return with a deer grasped in his jaws, drop it at Astarion’s feet, and return to his elfin form. He’d narrow his eyes at Astarion. “Eat, dear heart,” he’d say, kindly enough but not allowing for insubordination. He’d stare at Astarion until the small elf gave in and drank a few gulps. “Not enough,” he’d grumble, but would dutifully store the rest in the stasis bottles that Gale seemed to be able to conjure up from nowhere. Astarion now had twenty bottles. It filled him with glee to watch his collection growing.

Gale, for his part, treated Astarion normally. He had always been the kindest to Astarion anyway, and the elf was glad that his Debacle hadn’t changed Gale’s attitude to him. He was still the one that Astarion gravitated to, and the elf began to regard the wizard as a friend, as opposed to a ‘Companion on this Hell Journey to Get Rid of the Tadpole in Our Brains’. He had voiced this to Gale one night, after the Crèche. They sat around the campfire, looking to where Lae’zel meditated below, her mind warring with itself over her being named Hshar'lak and the story Voss had told her. Shadowheart sat near her, watching over the githyanki. It was a tender moment, one that Astarion had never expected to see between the two women.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Astarion had murmured, suddenly.

Gale had smiled warmly at him. “I’m glad you’re here too.” He had poked at the fire, making the embers fizz. “It would be far lonelier without you.”

That made Astarion feel warm and fuzzy inside. “Gale,” he began. He struggled with what to say. Gale didn’t put him under any pressure, instead the wizard had just kept smiling at him. “Are we friends?” the elf had asked, rather finally and suddenly.

The wizard had broken into a grin. “I would be delighted if you considered me as one,” he had said. “For I certainly consider you to be my friend.”

Astarion had nodded and smiled back. “I can’t remember having friends before,” he said, absently, turning his head to look at the quiet meditation of Lae’zel and Shadowheart below. "I don't know if I'll be any good at it."

Gale had reached out with a hand and squeezed Astarion’s gently. “You are doing an excellent job at being a friend.”

Astarion had laughed, softly. “I am excellent at everything I do, darling.”

“You certainly are.”

“I’ve had an infinite parade of lovers,” Astarion didn’t know what had possessed him to say this to Gale, not now at any rate. “But a friend?”

“You’ve got me for as long as you’ll have me,” Gale had said, quietly.

Astarion had squeezed Gale’s hand back. “Thank you.”

The two of them hadn’t said anymore on the subject since.

The journey into the Underdark filled Astarion with dread, however. He had only just become used to the sunlight and now he was being sent into the dark again. He distracted himself by listening to Gale’s ramblings about the various flora and fauna. Halsin too had waxed lyrically about the beauty of the place, but there had been a certain glint in his eye that Astarion hadn’t been quite able to translate. Upon arrival, Astarion did have to admit that the environment had a certain charm to it, but it did put him on edge.

The ’edge’ aside, however, the Underdark did have its advantages. His natural stealth and rogue skills were a huge advantage to the team, and he enjoyed being ‘useful’. He was less a ‘scout’ and more of a leader, here. Even Lae’zel and Wyll followed his advice about which paths to take. For the first time that he could remember, he felt like he had a place, even if it was on a ‘Hell Journey to Get Rid of the Tadpole in Our Brains’.

The Myconids had confused him, but he enjoyed talking to the Hobgoblin, Blurg. Blurg was interested in everything and happily explained to Astarion what the hells was going on. Telepathic spores that allowed him to talk to his companions (though the tadpole could let them do that anyway, Astarion supposed it was pretty neat) and the spores that made him feel fast and light. After killing some duergar – that Halsin had encouraged him to drink from and he did tentatively, feeling no ill effects which surprised him greatly – he had found a handy drow hood that allowed him to sneak better in a ‘Rewards Grotto’. He smiled to himself as he put it on, feeling the arcane power wash through him. “You’re not eating this one, wizard!” he drawled.

Gale laughed. “Wouldn’t dream of it, my sneaky friend.”

The killing of the duergar and consequent blood drinking experiment led Astarion to believe that this whole ‘thinking creatures’ blood’ wasn’t as clear cut as the Master had made it out to be. He wondered whether if followers of the Absolute forfeited their right to be thinking creatures, as they were all clearly fools. More experimentation was needed.

They had their next target, and they sailed across a dark lake in a duergar craft to find him. The target was Nere, and the myconids wanted his head. Preferably removed from his body rather violently. The no longer poisoned deep gnome the myconids were looking after also wanted him dead. It was a no brainer for the bleeding heart companions and Halsin was convinced that this True Soul Nere would bring them closer to their goal of Moonrise Towers anyway.

The Absolute had taken over part of a ruined Temple of Shar. It stank of sulphur, but even Astarion had to admit that it probably had been a grand and imposing structure back in its day. Shadowheart, predictably, was rambling about the Dark Justiciars that she kept seeing signs of everywhere, but she had quietened down when Astarion had found her a statuette of Shar, even thanking him, which Astarion saw as a sure win.

The treatment of the Deep Gnome slaves didn’t sit right with Astarion. He shifted uncomfortably as he looked down on them, digging relentlessly to free Nere from the rockfall.

“You alright?”

Astarion narrowed his eyes as he gestured down to the gnomish slaves below. Wyll stiffened next to him.

The warlock placed a comforting hand on Astarion’s shoulder. “Don’t worry,” he murmured, “we’ll get them out.”

Astarion nodded as the banshee screams of whips caterwauled through his mind. He shook himself, before following Wyll. He was careful not to look any of the duergar in the eyes, keeping them lowered almost deferentially. He hated himself; it made him look pathetic, weak.

A Master always recognises a slave…

The master’s icy drawl added to the noises of torture in his head. He swallowed, nervously. What if they take him away, if they know he’s a slave then he has no rights they’ll just take him…. What if the others realise that he’s useless and just sell him on… What if they decide to keep him but treat him like these gnomes…

‘Astarion.’

Astarion flinched.

‘Breathe Astarion. It’s alright.’

Gale.

Astarion felt the presence of the wizard next to him. Gale’s eyes were fixed on Wyll’s parlay with the duergar sergeant.

‘Don’t panic. Whatever you’re thinking, it is not going to happen.’

Astarion made himself relax his shoulders. Gale was using the parasite, calming his thoughts as he did so, quieting the cacophony in his head. The elf inhaled and exhaled. Gale was here. Gale wouldn’t let anything bad happen to him, Gale looked after Astarion, Gale was a … friend . Astarion made himself trust. He closed his eyes and opened them when a loud boom erupted and rocks and stones began flying everywhere.

Nere was tall for a drow, but characteristically uppity. Though, Astarion reflected, he must have abandoned his kind (and rampant misandry) for the apparent equality of the Absolute. Or rather, Nere’s form of equality, which was apparently a society built on gnomes enslaved due to their race, having a clear hierachy and throwing those gnomes into lava. Very egalitarian. Very drow.

Astarion growled, a low rumble in his throat.

Nere glanced at him, appraising him up and down. He smiled an icy smile, showing his teeth. “Well, well. Greetings True Soul,” his eyes glinted at him.

Astarion’s lip twitched. He fought down the urge to curl his lip in an animalistic snarl.

“Ah, I always liked the quiet types,” Nere drawled. “Though I wonder…” The drow stepped closer. Astarion flinched and reflexively lowered his eyes. “A ha.” Nere reached out a hand and gripped Astarion’s chin.

The hold was harsh and cold. Astarion flinched again as his skin remembered claws digging into his jaw and ripping his skin…

“Hello, spawn.”

Astarion said nothing.

Nere laughed again. Cold and harsh, a typical villain’s laugh that denoted psychopathy and a lack of genuine friends growing up. Nere was probably the sort to drown kittens, the thought flashed through the small part of Astarion’s brain that was still the snarky Astarion. His stomach clenched. He liked kittens.

“How peculiar, for the Absolute to choose you,” mused Nere, as much to himself as to Astarion.

Believe you me, I’ve been wondering the exact same thing, thought the Snark.

“Though I expect a Spawn’s propensity for following orders to the letter may be useful. You will come with me.” Nere clicked his fingers and pointed an index finger to a spot just behind him. “The rest of you True Souls will make your way to Moonrise…”

“Astarion comes with us,” said Wyll, strongly.

Nere jolted slightly, as if he hadn’t really noticed that the others were present. He took in the warlock, a devilled human with a glowing red eye; Wyll had an amazing ability to just look threatening and imposing when in reality his personality was far removed from it. Nere took a few moments to compose himself. “You will follow orders, True Soul.” He glanced at Astarion and clicked his fingers again. “Spawn, here.”

Astarion flinched. He felt a hand pinching the leather on his arms, holding him in place. Shadowheart? He was grateful for it and used it as an anchor, as some part of his brain urged him to Nere's side. The parasite, maybe? Or was it just the slave Astarion constantly tried to hide...

Nere watched the cleric through narrowed eyes. “Interesting,” he mused, “though I would advise you to learn not to get to attached to slaves, they never last as long as you want them to.”

Wanna bet? The Snark thought, dryly.

“He is not a kept revrykal,” snapped Lae’zel. “He is ra'stil.”

Astarion had no idea what she meant, but the hint of almost-concern touched him. He kept his eyes lowered to the ground but began to have a glimmer of hope. That hope was snatched when he felt strange tendrils wrap themselves around him. Not physical tethers around his body, more like strange tentacles that tug on his mind and soul.

He gasped, falling to the floor.

Always end up on your knees, don’t you?

‘To me, spawn.’

Nere’s voice was lightning in his head. It burnt and seared his mind, detonating his thoughts like runepowder. He screeched through gritted teeth as his jaw froze shut, muscles spasming causing him to writhe on the floor. He felt himself lurching forward, wrenched forward by some unknown force. He twisted and ended up on his side, growling and whimpering, unable to truly stop himself from kneeling at Nere’s feet. A foot clamped on his shoulder, causing him to whine.

‘Silence.’

Astarion fell silent. He scrunched up his eyes. He didn’t want to see the disappointment on his companions’ faces, he had just started to earn their respect, and now it would be gone, all gone, gone, gone…

“Fancy magic,” said Shadowheart’s voice, dryly.

“He knows his place,” replied Nere.

Lae’zel snorted, somewhere above him, her voice loud enough to make Astarion flinch instinctively. “Kainyank,” she hissed. “The vampire has a stronger will than you know. Whatever your psychic magic does to him, he will survive. Longer than you will."

Nere raised an eyebrow. He pressed harder with his foot down into Astarion's shoulder. "Are you sure about that?"

Lae'zel growled. "hta'zith! ”

Astarion heard the metal of Lae'zel's armour and sword as she lunged forward over him, knocking Nere off his body. Hands dragged Astarion backwards. The pain ebbed away, and he was able to open his eyes and unclench his jaw. Shadowheart was in his field of vision, muttering a ‘Te curo under her breath as she checked him over.

Astarion coughed. “Thanks,” he spluttered.

“No problem,” said the cleric. She pushed her dark fringe out of her eyes. “Can you fight?”

Astarion mentally check himself over. He flexed his limbs and shook himself. “I’m good,” he said, looking up at Shadowheart. She offered a hand, and he took it, gladly. He pulled himself up with Shadowheart’s help and unsheathed his dagger and the new shortsword he had bought at the Githyanki crèche. He twisted his wrist, feeling the balance. “Let’s go.”

Shadowheart grinned and Astarion leapt into the fray. Lae’zel was doing an excellent job against Nere. The drow stood no chance against her superior fighting skill. He had resorted to taunting her about being a githyanki which Lae’zel resolutely ignored and focused on separating his organs from his body. Wyll, Karlach, and Gale were battling duergar Absolutists and Shadowheart joined them. Astarion looked around him and saw an enlarged duergar approaching the few gnomes that had decided to fight back. Among them, Astarion recognised Barcus, the deep gnome that they had rescued from the windmill back in the Blighted Village. Astarion sprang forward, deflecting the axe that was about to swing down on Barcus’s head. The duergar looked momentarily surprised to see him, but then gritted his teeth in a snarl. “Trying to defend worthless slaves?” he sneered. “Aren’t you just pathetic?”

“You’re the one,” spat Astarion, poking and slicing with his blades and then dodging gracefully out of the way, “who decided that, instead of going for the warlock,” he hit the duergar’s shoulder, “the Sharran cleric,” a deep stab in the liver, “the tiefling on fire,” a slash at the tendons on the back of the duergar’s knees, “and the wizard you went for weapon less gnome slaves.” He stabbed deeply into the duergar’s throat as he hit the ground. “I’d argue that you’re the pathetic one in this situation.” He glanced upwards at Barcus. “Get to the shadows,” he hissed and he span around, not even bothering to check whether Barcus and the other gnomes were following his instructions.

Lae’zel had successfully managed to kill Nere, his guts bleeding out pleasingly on the dark rocky floor. The lava gave Lae’zel an orange glow as if she were the one made out of flame, not Karlach. She severed the drow’s head from his neck, easily. The others had successfully defeated the other duergar; Wyll was cleaning his sword as Shadowheart and Gale stripped the bodies of any valuables, with Karlach gathering the rest of the gnomes to one side.

Astarion made his way over to Karlach.

“Thank you, elf,” called Barcus as he saw Astarion approach.

Astarion dipped his head. “No problem,” he murmured.

“You alright, Fangs?” asked Karlach.

Astarion sighed, exhaling deeply through his nose. “I’ll be fine,” he said. “I’ll be fine.” As long as you don’t treat me any differently…

Chapter Text

The months passed uneventfully. Gale was resigned to teaching somewhat normally. Blackstaff Academy had lost its allure as a place of work soon after the wizard had returned to Waterdeep, but it kept him busy, and he was thankful for that. His mind would always eventually flit back to Cazador Szarr when he wasn’t working. It wasn’t useful for anyone for him to be so obsessed with the Vampire, nor the mythical ‘Lost Ranseur’ that no tomes or diabolist seemed to know about. He wondered occasionally whether Raphael had lied.

Winter disappeared into Spring which turned into Summer. The longer days warmed the northern city, allowing Gale more opportunity to read out on his balcony in his tower, Tara beside him, occasionally making apt commentary on whatever they were both studying. His mother visited often, though she never brought up Astarion. Gale knew that she spoke to Tara about it a few times, a mental check up via tressym, he supposed. It was to be expected. Over the past few years his mental stability hadn’t been exactly the safest topic to discuss personally with Gale. As long as the food kept coming, Gale didn’t really care anymore about what Morena and Tara discussed.

On reflection, Gale would consider himself to be sad but not depressed. He felt absence and felt it keenly. Astarion’s absence of course, but there was an accompanying sense of finality and that the elf was at peace, confirmed not to have been used in a ritual, confirmed not to have been sentenced to eternal torment at the whims of the Lord of Hellfire. The absence he felt most harshly was that of his friends. Shadowheart hadn’t sold the farm buildings, just the land. She spent her time with Buttons the wolf, being a travelling cleric of Selûne. She wrote intermittently, her letters describing the sights she had seen and people she had met. She never mentioned Lae’zel, but Gale never dwelled on it. Shadowheart never mentioned her feelings either, and he assumed the marked absence of that knowledge was in the same category as Lae’zel. Jaheira wrote to him the most, aside from Rolan. The Harper gave him updates on what was happening in Baldur’s Gate. It was never too interesting, but it gave Gale something to think other than work. It also fooled him into a false sense of security that suggested he could go back to the city at any time if he wanted to. That he would be welcomed.

Gale had voiced that opinion to his mother, suggesting he move there once Morena had died. Morena had raised her eyebrow at him and asked him to predict how many years she had left. Gale had stumbled and stuttered, remembering that talking about the future, especially a future that didn’t involve her, was a bad move to make when talking to a Seer.

For the most part, he marked and studied various aspects of illusion. He tutored students, set detentions, wrote reports and suffered insufferable parents desperate to know how their Little Elminster Junior was doing. It was a job at the end of the day, and it kept him occupied. Volo sporadically wrote to him, asking questions about various aspects of their journey to defeat the Absolute. Gale reflected that it would probably be the most researched thing Volo had ever written. Perhaps the wizard was more infested in this history, as he was more directly linked to it, but Gale still had to dissuade him from writing about silver dragons defending the adamantine forge (Grym had been difficult enough) and the apparent ten score mindflayers that they fought in the mindflayer colony at Moonrise (there had been four in total).

Volo’s ruminations aside, however, Gale didn’t think much about his journey. It felt more like a dream now than something that had actually happened to him. That was compounded by the fact that he did dream about it. About Moonrise Towers, the Underdark, Crèche Yllek, the Last Light Inn, the House of Hope, Bhaal’s Temple and the fight against the Netherbrain. He dreamt of the campsite and the stories that his friends told.

Gale always woke up with a headache where the parasite had been, and a gaping hole in his heart.

“Professor Dekarios?”

“Hullo Tara.”

The tressym stretched her wings. Gale yawned.

“How’s the marking going?”

Gale snorted. “As well as you’d expect an essay on the morality of using ‘Hold Person’ to be going, really.”

“Philosophical,” commented Tara.

“Yes,” said Gale, absently. “Something about how we have to ensure that the students understand the implications of magic. Back in my day we’d just say, ‘Don’t kill any good people!’ and that was that.”

“It did used to be simpler,” meowed Tara.

“I swear my professors never did this much work.”

“Bureaucracy and accountability is everywhere, I suppose,” said Tara, dryly.

“Indeed.” Gale let out a snort again. “Look at the pair of us. Sounding so old.”

Tara purred, amused. “Anyway, a letter has just arrived for you.”

Gale gave a dismissive wave of the hand. “What is it this time? Another complaint that Colour Spray is too advanced for my first years?”

Tara shook her head and the letter appeared on Gale’s desk. It looked official, from the postmark to the address. “Bloody hells,” moaned Gale. “It’s Ravengard, isn’t it?”

“I expect so, yes.”

Gale thought about the implications. “Damn it,” he said, after a few moments. “It’ll be 12 months soon, won’t it?”

“Unfortunately, it seems that way, yes.”

“You’d think he’d have learnt his lesson about having anniversaries,” groaned Gale. “After Cazador the last thing that city needs is a festival.” He took the letter and tossed it to one side, unopened.

Tara pointedly said nothing.

“I’ll read it later,” explained Gale, defensively. “I’ll need something funny to cheer myself up after these pieces of crap.” He picked up the essays in question and dropped them softly again.

Tara murmured something about leaving him to it and left Gale to read through the rest of his papers.

‘Hold Person’ is an imprisoning spell that is broken only by distracting the caster or by the prisoner using their inherent wisdom to break the spell from within. This is cruel, because most people aren’t wise.’

Gale groaned again. “Idiot child,” he muttered. He flicked through the papers. Some had to be better than this drivel by Rurus Illinth, a moody teenager who didn’t even try to pay attention in class and was only there because his mother was on the board of governors. He picked up another paper and felt a glimmer of hope as he read the name. Heather Olirrey, a bright spark in his class of complete imbeciles.

‘Morality as a concept in spellcasting is one that has not been thought about much in academic study. Attitudes of previous generations has been one of ‘magic for magic’s sake’, i.e. the study and practice of magic is inherently more valuable than the human or moral cost of that magic. Thus, it is difficult to measure moral values of spells as we come from a society where magic is explicitly free from the moral constraints of the rest of society. When it comes to the magic a magic user decides to use, it may be best to have moral constraints upon the individual, instead of the spells deliberately chosen. In the example of Hold Person, an imprisoning spell, the person choosing to use it must be made aware of its implications – the fact that the spell allows for more critical damage to hit a target, weakening that target to a point where it cannot fight back. It is simplistic to think of this as immoral due to the nature of the spell. However, it cannot be denied that it has to be used in certain situations, if for example the captured person is attempting to murder someone or is a convicted, escaped felon. For instance, in Baldur’s Gate, the Flaming Fist frequently employ the use of Hold Person to mitigate the damage that criminals could inflict on others.’

Gale sighed. “At least someone has been paying attention.” He marked a few more before it became too dark.

He leant back in his chair, relaxing, craving a glass of red wine. He was trying to be good, these days. Only alcohol on weekends. He looked out towards the sea, his eyes passing over Ravengard’s letter. Rolling his eyes, he picked it up and opened it.

Shadowheart had missed travelling the wilds, as much as she did not want to admit it to herself. Buttons was good company as she travelled the Sword Coast, from shrine to shrine, temple to temple, village to village. She employed her skills as a healer liberally and soon began to create a stock of potions she could give away. Nothing dramatic, healing potions mostly, but others too that she saved for the very remote places where magic users were scarce.

She had met up with Isobel, once or twice, and thus with Dame Aaylin. The cleric and the daughter of Selûne had taught her much and gave her a lot of advice but Shadowheart felt an itch to go beyond the enclaves of Selûnite worship that Isobel restricted herself to. Not that she blamed the cleric, she supposed that Isobel must be craving some sense of stability after the tumultuous life she had had. Plus, Isobel did go and help Halsin, often popping into Reithwin from her main base at Moonrise Towers, so Shadowheart felt she had to give her some credit.

Shadowheart, on the other hand, avoided the central thoroughfares of Selûnite worship. They were too crowded, too focused on the war with Shar for her tastes. That’s not to say that the cleric began to have an aversion to violence, far from it. She had fought more Sharran hideouts in six months than a Selûnite cleric could hope to do in a lifetime of service to the Moonmaiden. Shadowheart had a nose for the Sharrans, after all. Or, it was probably more accurate to say that she attracted the Sharrans to her, her heretical ways in full view of the entire religious order.

Buttons howled.

“I know, I know,” comforted Shadowheart. “You’re not a fan. I’m not either.” She pursed her lips and scrunched up her nose as she stripped the bodies of the Sharran enclave she had found to the west of the Emerald Grove. They had a few healing ingredients on them, some gold, some weapons she could easily sell on her way back to the Grove where she was staying. She was based there for a few weeks, after the druids had sent word of a few Sharran outposts intent on revenge due to the Grove’s connection with the clearing of the Shadow Curse. Shadowheart had thought about enlisting Halsin in her quest but she ultimately decided that ‘Daddy Mt Halsin’ had enough on his plate as it is.

Buttons grumbled next to her, butting his head against her thigh. The wolf was not exactly a cub now, a definite teenager with long, gangly legs. His paws and ears still looked too big for him. It gave him a comedic look as the pair of them fought, hiked, and healed their way around the Wilds. Shadowheart gave him a scritch behind one of his ears. “Be patient, boyo,” she murmured, “we’ll be back at the grove before you know it.” Buttons grumbled in response again.

The trek to the grove was peaceful. Shadowheart was tempted to go past it and go to the campsite where Astarion’s grave was but ultimately decided that she pay her respects tomorrow. Buttons looked dead on his paws, and she too felt tiredness dog her bones. The ivy-covered portcullis was a welcome sight, quickly raised when she waved her hands. She entered and made her way down to the central area around the Idol of Silvanus. Francesca, the archdruid, was praying, head bowed but she turned when she heard Shadowheart’s footsteps.

“Shadowheart,” she greeted. “Was tonight a success?”

The cleric nodded. “They shouldn’t bother you now.”

Francesca sighed in relief. “Thank Silvanus.” She gestured to the stone covered entrance to her quarters and beckoned the cleric to accompany her for a nightcap.

Buttons was relieved to be inside. Silver, an older wolf, snuffled him as he lolloped down the muddy stairs. Buttons nuzzled him back and followed him to a den like area where the two wolves flopped down together. Shadowheart followed Francesca and sat on a stone bench. The druid pressed a goblet of sweet mead into her hand.

“Made by our own bees,” Francesca said.

“I expect nothing less.”

Francesca smiled. “We appreciate you coming here. We know you normally like to…” The druid hesitated.

Shadowheart gave a wry smile. “Avoid civilisation?” She took a sip of mead. It was thick and sweet, the honey taste soothing her throat and warming her core.

The wizened wood elf smiled. “Precisely,” she said.

Shadowheart laughed. “Not many people would call the Emerald Grove a place of civilisation,” she remarked.

“Indeed,” conceded Francesca. “But I suspect the number of people here outnumbers most of your recent social outings.”

The cleric nodded. “I suppose so,” she said.

“And now about payment,” began the druid.

Shadowheart waved her away. “None needed. It is my duty to rid the world of Sharrans wherever I find them. Plus, you do me a service already by looking after Astarion.”

Francesca acknowledged this with a nod. “It is an honour,” she murmured, “to care for him here.”

Shadowheart gave a brief nod, not wishing to dwell on it. She took another sip. There had been spices added to the mead, she wondered which ones.

Francesca stood and walked over to her desk. She picked up an envelope and handed it to Shadowheart. “This came for you, this morning.”

Shadowheart turned the envelope over in her hands. The official postmark gave it away immediately. “Ravengard,” she sighed, bitterly.

“Not what you wanted to receive?” asked Francesca, wryly.

“Not exactly.” Shadowheart tapped her fingers on the side of her glass. “I suspect this is a summons to Baldur’s Gate. It’s been 12 months, more or less, you know since…”

The archdruid let the sentence vanish into thin air. She sat down again opposite Shadowheart and took a sip of her own drink. “It must feel like a lifetime ago now,” she commented.

“Feels like a mere dream,” said Shadowheart. She thought a moment. “Though to be honest, my whole life before now feels like a dream.”

Francesca nodded, slowly. “And how do you feel about that?”

Shadowheart laughed again. “I am grateful for your attention, but I am not here for a therapy session.”

“Perhaps not,” smiled the archdruid, “but I suspect you haven’t talked about this with anyone.”

“You think it will come back to haunt me?” Shadowheart narrowed her eyes.

“No,” sighed Francesca, “I know it will. You have lived a rather full life for one so young. You have been through so much and I myself only know the slightest hints of it. I would hate for it to break your brain.”

“If I consider it a dream, then it can’t break me.” Shadowheart looked past the druid, gazing at where Buttons and Silver slept, tails tucked over their snouts. “I will not be broken by a dream.”

Francesca didn’t press, but Shadowheart could feel the disagreement coming off her in waves. Shadowheart took a larger gup of mead, finishing the glass. She placed the glass down onto the side and stood. “Many thanks for your hospitality,” she said, rather stiffly, “but I must retire for the evening.”

The archdruid dipped her head in acknowledgement. “Sweet dreams,” she said, almost a whisper.

Shadowheart made her way towards her temporary chambers. As she saw the large, empty bed her mind flitted to Lae’zel, as it always did. She shook herself. There was no need to linger on past dreams.

Siras had to be let go. Jaheira knew that she had made the right decision but each time a cow was found exsanguinated she felt a pang of guilt. She would have preferred it if Minsc, the only other person who knew that they had caught Siras apart from Gale, had actively disagreed with her but as always, the Rashemaar had simply grinned and replied that Jaheira knew best.

A positive, however, was that there had been no ‘odd’ disappearances in Baldur’s Gate. And by odd, she meant none that could be reasonably attributed to vampiric activity. She was glad about that, but it made it harder to justify worrying about them. Jaheira was a mother. It made her strong and gave her an ability to love almost anyone. She would tell anyone that her mismatched family (and she included Minsc in this) was the source of her strength. But it also made her worry when she placed the same worries on Shadowheart that she would on Rion, the same fears she had for Jord she had for Gale. She couldn’t deny that her family had expanded over the past eighteen months. She also couldn’t deny that her parental worry had increased proportionally to the number of ‘children’ she had adopted.

The mountain of paperwork, was, as always ginormous. A parchment Mt Speartop. She signed invoices and training records, search warrants and reports for the Fist. Most of her admin work was done to dress the Harpers in a vague image of legality, to keep the Flaming Fist off her back. It helped that she just had to add ‘Hero of Baldur’s Gate’ underneath her signature whenever the authorities were being too uppity with her. She hated the title out of principle, but she enjoyed the subtle benefits of it that she could use for her organisation’s advantage.

“Mama.” Fig poked her head around the door.

“Yes, cub?”

“There’s a Fist Woman here to see you.”

Jaheira groaned internally. Florrick. The High Harper of Baldur’s Gate would be overjoyed when the First Counsellor finally retired. The elven lifespan made it unlikely to happen for a number of centuries though. “See her through, Fig.”

Fig pushed the door to Jaheira’s office wider, and Florrick walked through the entrance. She was dressed rather plainly for her, breeches and shirt with red blazer as opposed to the full-length dress Jaheira was used to seeing her in.

Jaheira did not stand up when Fig closed the door. “Counsellor Florrick,” she said, politely, “how nice to see you. How can I help?”

Florrick sat in the chair opposite Jaheira. “High Harper,” she greeted. “I hope you’re not too busy.”

Jaheira’s eyes flickered to the never-ending pile of paperwork. “Administration,” she said, leaning back in her chair. “You know how it is. If you never stopped, you’d still never finish.”

“Indeed,” said Florrick, curtly. She reached into her blazer pocket and produced an envelope. She placed it neatly on the mahogany desk.

Jaheira’s eyebrows twitched.

“An invitation,” explained Florrick. “To the celebration of the defeat of the Cult of the Absolute.”

“How wonderful,” replied Jaheira, dryly. “I hope there’s cake.”

A whisper of a smile appeared on Florrick’s lips. “Grand Duke Ravengard hopes that you would do him the honour of appearing as a guest of honour.”

“Let me guess,” Jaheira let one eyebrow rise, “this would be me as so-called Hero of Baldur’s Gate as opposed to my official position.”

Florrick’s cheek twitched. “Yes,” she said, shortly. “All the Heroes of Baldur’s Gate are invited.”

“Really?” Jaheira’s voice was dry and dripping with sarcasm. “Even devilish ones?”

To give her credit, Florrick didn’t flinch. “All the ones we could contact.”

“Ah, no postal service to Avernus, I see.” Jaheira opened her top draw and rooted around until she produced a sending stone that she held up to Florrick. “I can contact them if you wish.”

Florrick’s eyes glittered. “The Grand Duke would prefer that…”

“Ravengard would prefer his disappointment of a son stay away, huh?”

Florrick’s eyes flashed in anger. She gave herself a moment to steady herself. “It is likely that young Master Ravengard and…”

“Karlach,” supplied Jaheira, helpfully.

“Karlach will be on dangerous business bounty hunting in the Hells.” Florrick tried to be flippant. “It would be unwise to take them away from their tasks, no?”

Jaheira shrugged. “All I’m saying is that Ravengard will regret sending his son away. But what would I know, I’m only a mother of five with a difficult relationship to her children at best.”

Florrick desperately tried to change the subject. “Will you come?”

The High Harper sighed. “Do I really have a choice?”

The counsellor smiled. “The illusion of a choice, perhaps.”

Jaheira grunted. “I guess so then.” She opened the letter and quickly scanned the details. “12 months,” she commented. “Feels like yesterday. Or years ago.”

Florrick nodded her agreement. “I get that feeling.”

“Feels like a dream sometimes. Sometimes I forget it happened at all. Then I see the scars on the city…”

“And it all comes flooding back? Yeah, I get the feeling.” Florrick paused. She looked at Jaheira with sincerity. “I am sorry, you know? About Wyll. I never imagined that the Grand Duke would be so fickle about it.”

“Wyll sacrificed his soul for Baldur’s Gate. He’s risked more in 8 years than most do in a lifetime.” Jaheira looked at Florrick, critically. “Ravengard should see that, surely?”

Florrick shrugged. “I think he just feels betrayal.”

Jaheira snorted. “Betrayal? Wyll has never betrayed anyone. That kid is the dictionary definition of ‘loyal’.”

“I think the Grand Duke thinks he betrayed Wyll. But he’s too damn stubborn to go back on his word.”

“Men.”

“Men indeed.”

Chapter Text

“You alright, soldier?”

A waterskin landed with a thump in Wyll’s lap. He picked it up gratefully and gulped down the lukewarm water.

“Hey, hey, don’t drink it all!” Karlach flopped down beside him and wrestled the waterskin from him. “Greedy guts.”

Wyll snorted. “I thought you would have been clever and filled multiple waterskins,” he teased.

Karlach hit him with the now empty one. “I did, idiot. But it’s called rationing. Just because I filled four waterskins doesn’t mean you get to drink them all now.”

“Only four?” pouted Wyll.

Karlach grimaced. “Fucking imps jumped me, didn’t they.”

“You good?”

“It’d take more than four imps to take me down, Wyllyam.” Karlach snorted and punched him good naturedly on the shoulder.

“How’s your chest?”

Karlach hit the offending metal contraption. “Ticking on nicely, I think. Would be nice to test it topside.”

“Soon, I’m sure.”

It had been about six months since either of them had returned ‘topside’. And it hadn’t been a cause for celebration either. Astarion’s funeral and confirmation from Dammon that he just didn’t have the tools to fix Karlach’s heart in Baldur’s Gate, despite them now having the blueprints. They had to find an infernal blacksmith. Which would mean that they had to traverse the lava riddled and mountainous hellscape to a city. The Bronze Citadel to be precise, a monstrous fortress that acted as Zariel’s base of operations.

The Bronze Citadel was constantly being attacked by the thousands of demons who sailed the River Styx to fight in the Blood War. It meant that entire city was incredibly heavily defended, with 12 large walls encircling the city that itself was hundreds of square miles across. The fortifications were constantly being rebuilt and being added to, under heavy guard from Zariel’s forces.

There was an upside to this, however. The constant building works and fighting meant that infernal blacksmiths were dotted close to the wall, every mile or so. Wyll and Karlach had soon surveyed the southern outer wall and pinpointed ten possible blacksmiths for them to sneak into and bully some lower order cambion to fix Karlach’s heart. In the end, they hadn’t had to bully anyone. Wyll had just fluttered his eyelashes and the cambion had rushed to do the job for them. There had been, admittedly, a fight on the way out when the cambion blacksmith hadn’t wanted Wyll to leave his smithy, but the two of them had managed to get away relatively easily and unburnt.

Karlach grunted. She looked around them. It was quiet enough; all she could hear was the howling winds that blew the smoking air of Avernus and the caterwauls of fighting in the distance. It was safe for a snuggle. So, she grabbed Wyll and plonked him in the crook of her arm.

Wyll sighed exasperatedly, but he still relaxed into her side and turned in slightly. He extended his arms to hug her chest. Karlach kissed each of his horns. He reached up and bopped her single horn. These moments were few and far between in Avernus, so the couple took them where they could. The wind shrieked around them around them, but the pair were used to the generally frightening level of chaos that living and hunting in Avernus brought them. Wyll clicked his wrist and yawned. “Come on,” he said. He stood up and offered Karlach a hand. “Let’s keep moving.”

Karlach groaned but she allowed herself to be pulled to standing. She shouldered her pack and grimaced. “Where next soldier?”

Wyll peered at their map that they had liberated from an outpost. He pointed at a large grey smudge. “Here. Probably about a three-day hike from here.”

“What’s there?”

Wyll grinned. “Dunno.”

“Hells yes. Scared devils?”

“Abso-fucking-lutely.” Wyll laughed at himself. Karlach was such a bad influence on him. Whatever would his father say if he saw him now?

For Karlach, Avernus was a monotony of basalt rock and carved lava rivers. Admittedly, it had once been dynamic and exciting, but the thrill had worn off in the first six months of being Zariel’s pet. It still amused Karlach to no end, however, that Wyll found the entire experience exhilarating, pointing out geographical features that had already occurred a thousand times on their trek through the hellish landscape. He oohed and aahed at the lightning storms, he was astounded at the constant eruptions from the thousands of volcanoes that littered the landscape, and gasped in excitement whenever he came across lava features. And every time he did, it made Karlach love him a little bit more.

The tiefling loved it when the two of them just set out in a direction, with the only goal of “let’s find out and fuck shit up!” They had spent their time since the repairing of Karlach’s engine stealing maps and information that devil officers had carelessly strewn about in their camps. This time they were heading for a place that a devil had suspiciously marked “DO NOT ENTER” and scribbled out grey on his hand drawn map. Any place that devils were scared of had to be good. It was at the far edge of a mountain range, hundreds of miles from any devilish civilisation.

The mountains towered above them, angry and black jagged teeth set against a night sky. It was always night in Avernus but there was always a reddish hue to the inky blackness; whether an omnipresent glow of the lava and magma or the result of the red dust that filled the air, Karlach did not know. They found a hollow lined with spiky orange gorse in which to hide away for a few hours, curled up against each other like the other was one’s shield against the terrors of their lives. The two of them had plans, and that reassured Karlach. Plans to kill Mizora and fully scout out the entirety of the first layer of Baator, master Avernus and return to the material plan its master. The more devils they killed here, the better it was for Faerûn. They both knew that, though they also both knew that they sometimes craved the safety of the material world.

After a few hours, Karlach nudged a lightly sleeping Wyll. They drank more of their rationed water and ate stale crackers before shouldering their packs and beginning their ascent. The mountains of Avernus were usually harsh, and these were no different. The ash coated their tongues and the wind whipped round them, forcing them to crawl and clamber on their hands and knees at certain points. They saw no signs of life, hellish or otherwise. Karlach was thankful that there were no signs of abyssal presence; something that she had silently worried about.

They reached their first peak, covered in shining red volcanic glass. Around them the jet mountains carried on for leagues and leagues, their barren sides pockmarked with craters and dried up lava rivers. There was no foliage to be seen, no evidence of life anywhere. Karlach wrinkled her nose. The sulphuric stench was overwhelming here as they paused on the edge of a dormant caldera. She wiped the dust out of her eyes when Wyll nudged her.

The ranger pointed slightly downwards, where the solidified ash and pyroclastic flow from many volcanoes merged together. Following the line of Wyll’s gloved hand, Karlach narrowed her eyes. Amongst the darkness was a flicker of light. It wasn’t the light of lava or flame, the usual light seen in Avernus. It was brighter and more yellow than that. Karlach pressed her clothed mouth next to Wyll’s hooded ear and said, as loud as she could: “Radiant?”

Wyll nodded and shrugged.

Radiant power, of any kind, should not exist in Avernus. Even the clerics of Tiamat were few and far between and their fiery captive Goddess was not one generally associated with guiding light. As the pair watched, it was apparent that the golden glow was not static. It ebbed and flowed, crested and tumbled, swelled and plunged. It was a wave of light, its colour distinguishing it from the natural flames that the two were used to. It was alive.

Karlach pushed forward, signalling to Wyll to follow her. The basalt was unstable, and she was often up to her knees in dust and ash as she trekked down the side of the volcano. She was aware of Wyll slipping behind her, pushing his feet and lowering his centre of gravity to maintain balance. As they moved lower, the landscape shimmered with volcanic glass, the shades of black and grey morphing into each other. It took hours for them to descend, their muscles fatiguing and they collapsed in a heap at the bottom, covered in a thick layer of ash and dust.

From the bottom, the radiant glow wasn’t as obviously seen. Wyll was as good a tracker here as he had been on the Sword Coast, however, so Karlach let him take the lead, hiking through the monotonous environment. The tiefling grumbled to herself about wanting hiking sticks when Wyll suddenly stopped. Karlach stumbled into his back.

Wyll lowered the mask covering his mouth, eyes narrowed. Karlach turned to look where he was and felt her mouth drop open.

Trees.

Huge pine trees with green needles and brown trunks, a huge forest of them spreading out before them. If it hadn’t been for the heat and the unending night sky, Karlach would have thought they had made it back to the material world. The ground was covered in grass with muddy patches. Mud was unnatural in Avernus, only the devil made mires and bogs that lined the banks of the Styx existed because to create real mud, you needed water. It never rained in Avernus.

Wyll took a step forward. He laughed, gaspingly, as his foot plunged into the mud. “It’s real, Karlach!”

Karlach grinned. “Rain!”

Wyll nodded. “Or a river, or something. Come on, let’s keep going.”

With a sudden burst of energy, Karlach and Wyll sprang forward, amazed at the forest around them. They noticed the sporadic shimmers of radiant magic here too. Wyll theorised that the radiant magic was keeping the devils out of this part of the mountain range and enabling the environment to grow as it did. It was tempting to be overly optimistic, but as they walked, they realised something. Something peculiar.

“Wyll,” said Karlach, tentatively. “Do these trees seem odd to you?”

Wyll frowned. He looked around him, taking in the details of the pine trees. He observed the bark and the needles, their gnarled roots, the oranges of the dead pine needles that littered the forest floor. “Odder that there are trees in Avernus?”

“Yeah…” Karlach felt on edge. “Don’t you think that these trees are identical?”

“They’re all pine trees,” said Wyll, frowning more. “They’re going to be similar.”

The tiefling grabbed his arm to stop him from moving forward. “Look at the bark,” she ordered. “The patterns.”

Wyll looked at the lenticels and cracks that covered the tall brown trunks of the trees. He took in the pattern on one, mainly vertical lines with the odd circle, and then looked at another tree. Karlach was correct. They were identical.

“This isn’t natural,” said Wyll, slowly. “Someone created this. Who would create an artificial forest in the volcanoes of Avernus?”

“I don’t know,” replied Karlach. She adjusted her battleaxe on her back. Her eyes kept flitting around her, keeping watch for any threats. “Let’s see if we can find out, soldier.”

The ranger nodded and again took the lead. He was slower now, less enthusiastic, stopping every so often to watch for predators. Karlach, who never normally stopped talking on their adventures, was silent, occasionally pointing out features that she thought that Wyll hadn’t seen, such as the repeating holly bushes and the textbook perfect river that meandered slowly around them.

They could have been walking for hours, for days, or five minutes. Time did not seem to exist in this space, carved out by the strange, radiant magic. Eventually, the pine forest thinned out. Wyll ducked down and Karlach followed, the two instinctively pressing together as before them was a sight neither of them expected.

A huge castle, made out of sparkling black basalt and marble, turrets tall and proud. It was several stories high, with large windows that suggested that the castle’s occupants used it for leisure as opposed to using it merely as a defensive outpost. Aside from the colour, it looked like a castle from the fairytales Karlach’s mum had used to read to her when she was younger, high walls and even a moat and drawbridge. The drawbridge was lowered, with no portcullis to be seen. There were no guards either, the place looked empty, apart from the fact that firelight could be seen glowing in certain rooms through the windows.

Wyll took out his map and frowned at it. “Keep out,” he mused.

Karlach grinned. “We’re going in, right?”

“Abso-fucking-lutely.”

Chapter Text

Star yawned. He shifted his body, wanting to melt into the cushions at his back, and he pressed his forehead against the glass pane of the window. This was his spot in the Master’s castle, a decadent window seat in the library. The seat was more of a bench, made out of white marble, and covered in blankets and cushions. Star loved the library, and the Master encouraged his reading, always asking him questions about what he had discovered when the Master came to feed him. He had just finished his latest book, a novel about society in Cormyr. It had been pleasant enough, Star supposed but had been focused more on exposition and character monologues as opposed to actual story-driven plot. He wondered how he was meant to answer questions on it.

Can’t have everything, Star thought, as he closed the book. The Master would appreciate him trying. And Star always tried when the Master was concerned. The connection he felt towards the Master was overwhelming at times. Love, adoration, awe... Star just wanted to be the best at what the Master wanted him to be.

He shook himself and stood up to return the book back to its rightful place. This was one of the Master’s rules: all books must be returned to their correct place immediately upon finishing. Star had once not done this, and he would never make the same mistake twice. The History of Menzoberranzan, interesting though it had been, was not worth the whipping and the branding that had happened when Star had accidentally placed it in the ‘Underdark: Geography’ section instead of ‘Underdark: History’. Star’s back twitched just thinking about it.

His stomach grumbled as he pushed the book into the bookcase. He decided it was time to go and find the Master and see whether there was anything for him to eat. Star stretched, shoulders cracking under his black tunic as he did so. He yawned again. Star made his way out of the library.

Star was allowed everywhere in the Master’s castle, unless there was a locked door. Locked doors meant "No Star". The Master had impressed upon him that breaking this rule would have consequences much more severe than whipping and branding, so Star had never pressed his boundaries here. Star understood that some boundaries were there for his safety as opposed to his Master’s often banal and controlling personality. For instance, Star could look outside the windows, but never leave the castle’s interior spaces even though Star was desperate to run and explore the pine forest that was to the south. He wanted to dunk his bare feet in the river and climb the mountains. Master had refused, on multiple occasions, saying that it was only safe for Star inside. Star had pouted and whinged, but even an overly affectionate blow job hadn’t changed the Master’s mind, though it hadn't been a worthless endeavour; the post-sex cuddles were more than welcomed by Star.

The Master consistently said that Star wasn’t ready; he wasn’t strong enough to cope with the world outside the castle. Star begrudgingly accepted this. It was true, after all. He still couldn’t speak words, instead communicating with animalistic sounds, and occasionally he would revert into a more feral state, snapping and snarling. He couldn’t even read when he was in that state and he never remembered what he ended up doing during them. If it was really bad, Star would revert to that ‘pet-like’ state that he had been in when he had first gained his hearing back. Star knew he wasn’t ready for outside. These varying states of being seemed to stem from Star's mental stability. For he still suffered from nightmares that caused him to wake up terrified, making him scramble to his Master’s chambers, whimpering and crying. His Master would pet him and soothe him and read him stories to calm him down.

Star’s mind was foggy too. He read because he was able to read, but often he didn’t really understand what the words were saying. He suspected that this was really the reason for the Master’s comprehension questions. Star sighed as he padded towards the office. The Master clearly wanted Star to get better and be stronger, but it didn’t seem to be happening.

He knocked on the door.

“Come in, Star.”

Star pushed the door open with his shoulder and went to his customary kneeling position by his Master’s chair. The cushion beneath his knees was fluffy and comfortable, easing his joints nicely. Warm hands ruffled his hair and stroked his ears as usual, and Star grumbled in his throat, appreciatively.

“What’s the matter Star?” asked the Master, having not taken his eyes of his paperwork that littered his desk.

Star grumbled again, pushing his head into the Master’s thigh. His stomach gurgled, audibly.

The Master chuckled. “Hungry, little mouse?”

Star mouthed his Master’s leg, grumbling, nodding as he did so.

“Can you say ‘hungry’?” asked the Master, still scribbling away.

Star sighed internally. He flexed his throat and moved his lips to make a ‘huh’ sound. His tongue chirped and clicked in his mouth before a Hng noise spluttered out.

The Master reached down to pet him again. “Good boy, you are getting better.”

Star wanted to scowl but he knew that it would come across as him scowling at the Master, when in fact Star was scowling at Star. Instead, he whined. He didn’t feel like he was getting any better. He thought that this was as good as it was going to get and if anything, he was getting gradually worse. The nightmares still plagued him, and the brain fog still clouded his thoughts. He tired easily and spooked quickly. He frustrated easily too because on his clearer days it felt obvious to Star that he could do More, but it was an immovable rock that he kept crashing into.

“Patience, little mouse.” The Master gripped Star’s silver curls firmly and pulled. “I just need to finish this and then we can go get you some food.”

Star chuffed but settled down, plonking his rear onto his cushion beside his Master’s chair. He nibbled at his fingers thinking about why he couldn’t speak. In his dreams he could speak. He spoke a lot in his dreams and Star wondered sometimes if his vocal cords were just too tired to do it when he was awake because of his incessant nattering whilst asleep. It was like there was a barricade between his brain and speech. The Master had once said that Star’s brain was subliminally protecting him from something, but Star didn’t know what it could be protecting him from. Star also didn’t know what ‘subliminally’ meant. All he knew, was that his brain wasn’t protecting him from the nightmares that plagued him, and they were arguably Star’s biggest problem right now. His brain had left him without a protector in that regard.

Today, Star realised, with growing dread, was a ‘Thinking Day’. Star had, occasionally, a few days of clarity where he could think and almost have a normal personality. This seemed like a good thing, but the issue with them was that they were immediately followed by weeks of ferality and then pet-like domesticity. Star picked the hem of his tunic, absently, whilst also thinking that the ability to think probably gave him the idea to put the tunic on in the first place. Thinking Star did things like that, not wanting to be naked. Feral Star and Pet Star didn’t recognise clothing as a concept. Thr Master often had to chase him with clothes or sometimes he would just magic them on. Sometimes, though, the Master would leave him naked. Star didn't know why. It added to the frustration of his general ineptitude.

Star chuffed again, angrily. He only realised that his Master was watching when he went to punch himself in the forehead and a warm reddish hand grabbed his wrist.

“No,” scolded the Master.

Star folded inwards.

“We do not hurt ourselves, do we, Star?”

Star shook his head meekly, his wrist ironically hurting from the fingers gripping it harshly. The Master let go with a flourish, causing Star to fall backwards with a flump. The Master sighed and gazed down at Star who was now splayed on his back, belly up. The Master placed his quill back next to his inkpot and pushed his chair backwards. “Come on then,” he said, rising to a stand, “let’s get you some food.”

Star scrambled to his feet, hopping nervously from foot to the other. The Master chuckled at him again and led the way out of his office. The candles were extinguished with a flick of his wrist and the door locked behind the pair of them. The Master sauntered with purpose down the corridor, Star a couple of paces behind him. Star liked doing this, following the Master like this. It felt right, it felt natural, as if Star had been born to walk two paces behind someone with power.

To Star’s surprise, the Master did not follow the normal route to the kitchen on the ground floor, nor did he go up one of the spiral staircases to Star’s bedroom. Instead, he pushed open a black iron door that had always been previously locked and descended into an inky blackness.

Star hesitated. He peeked down the stairs into the dark.

“Come, little mouse. Don’t test my patience. You will like this, I promise.”

The Master had hurt Star in the past, but only when Star went directly against his instructions. Star deliberated for a second but came to the conclusion that it was better to follow the Master into the scary place when the Master Could and Would protect him from the potential of danger as opposed to refusing to follow instructions and definitely getting whipped, an actual danger. He scurried down the stairs.

He blinked a few times and realised that eventually his eyes were getting used to the dark. He hadn’t seen dark like this since his sight had returned to him, but Star learnt that he wasn’t truly blind down here. He could see the outline of the Master walking ahead of him. There were boxes and chests piled up on one side of the wall and Star could tell that eventually the stairs widened out and there was the glimmer of firelight at the bottom. He padded softly onwards.

At the base of the stairs was a stone antechamber, made out of the same black rock that the outer walls of the castle were built with. Sconces were lit on the wall and the corridor seem to stretch out for miles before him. Every few metres or so, there were cast iron doors, bolted and shuttered, with strange patterns and symbols inscribed in white on them. The Master’s footsteps echoed as he led Star to one of them. Above the large door was a large red 5 that seemed to glow with an arcane aura. The Master waved his hand across the door and the bolts clanged open, and Star could hear the internal mechanisms of the lock turning.

Star felt his heart in his chest, and he started breathing rapidly.

The Master looked back at him. “Calm yourself, little one,” he said in his rumbling low tone. “I am not leaving you here. In fact, this is a reward for doing so well recently.”

Star cocked his head onto one side, curious. Reward? He felt the word run around his mind.

The door in front of the pair swung open with a satisfying creak. The air inside the cell was hot and damp. The Master entered, Star on his heels. The cell was small, barely tall enough for the Master to stand in without his hair brushing the ceiling. There were no windows and the sconce on the wall only flickered into life when the Master willed it to be so with a click of his fingers.

At the furthest end to the door was a humanoid, a half-orc, Star guessed, hanging from his wrists in tight chains that seemed to glow with a devilish flame. The half-orc grunted at the intruders in his cell and lifted his head defiantly. His eyes were tired and weak, his figure gaunt and scrawny – so unlike a half-orc – and his naked body was littered with welts and cuts.

“Honuusk,” greeted the Master, dipping his head. Star copied.

The half-orc, Honuusk, grunted and weakly bared his teeth in some semblance of a snarl.

“Now, now,” chided the Master, “I come bearing good news. A solution to our little problem.”

Honuusk snorted. “I doubt that, devil.” His voice was raspy and, despite the venom he tried to inject into it, sounded wavering and frail.

The Master chuckled deeply. He turned to Star and gestured him forwards. Star crept to his Master’s side, placing his bare feet down on the stone carefully. The Master put a hand on Star’s shoulder. “Now Star,” began the Master, turning his gaze to look at Honuusk. “Honuusk here defaulted on a deal. What do you think about that?”

Star growled. He had heard his Master talk about deals and contracts before. Star knew they were very important to the Master.

The Master nodded. “Exactly Star, it is a naughty thing to do. Especially when, dear Star, the contract was as favourable to Honuusk as it was.”

“Liar,” spat Honuusk. Blood trickled out of his mouth. Star’s eyes snapped to the red stream of it immediately.

“Come now, Honuusk. I would have given you riches and power. All I wanted was information. Information that you sold to someone else.”

“It wasn’t the same information!” mewled Honuusk, pathetically.

Star stared at the blood.

The Master hummed. “I wanted information about the person you sold your information to. You sold information about me.” The Master’s lips flickered into a snarl. "You understand why I cannot let that slide?"

Star began to shift his weight from one foot to another. He growled, lips curling, showing sharp canines. Honuusk’s eyes grew wider at the sight of them. Star hadn’t moved his concentrated stare from the blood on the half-orc’s chin.

“So not only did you not deliver you end of the bargain,” continued the Master, “but you rendered the contract null and void. And I don’t like that happening to deals I make.” The Master turned to Star. “So, little mouse, what do you think happens to someone like Honuusk, eh?”

Star snapped his maw, gnashing his jaws and snarling louder. It Hurt Master, punish, punish, punish! His mind became single-tracked, and he felt himself slipping into his feral state of being. His claws extended and he hissed.

“I totally agree, Star.” The Master stood to one side and looked at his nails. “Feed,” he ordered. “Don’t fully kill.” He smirked. “Not yet anyway.”

Star lunged forward.

Honuusk screamed.

Teeth met in Honuusk’s femoral artery. The rich taste of live, humanoid blood sent sparks zipping through Star’s body. Yes, yes, yes! He was gleeful, an apex predator destroying his Master’s enemies. He felt sure of himself, surer of himself than he had been since he had woken up in this strange place. He knew what his role was:

To Make the Master’s Enemies Hurt.

He eased off after a few minutes, leaving Honuusk alive but barely aware. He turned to his Master, who stepped forward and wiped some of the arterial blood of off Star’s chin. “Good boy,” he praised. “Now tell me, what did you think about that book?”

Chapter Text

The rockface is damp and cold on his cheeks. It hems him in. Traps him. He can't turn, he has to follow the path of the labyrinth that he's scraping through.

His footsteps are too loud, someone will hear him but surely he is on his own?

He's always on his own, after all.

Too loud...

Too Loud

Too Loud                                                                                                                                  

Someone will hear him

Someone Will Hear Him

His skin is moist and clammy. It's cold like the tunnels themselves.

The Tunnels

    The tunnelS                   the TunneLs

The tunnels                                      The tunNels

The TUnnels                                                     The tUNels

TuNnEls                                               eHt tUnNeLs

Eht TunnelsTunnels             TheTHetunNEls

The Tunnels

Drip

Drip

Drip

Drip

Cold Empty Silent

He pushes his way through. The rock cuts at his skin. So many fissures. It twists and turns. The dirt clumps under his toenails

Cold

        Empty

                     Silent

No

Not Empty

Not Silent

He hurries. His barefeet SlaP SlaP on the rock. It echoes. He tries to hear.

To listen...

                               To hope...?

No.

No                                                 H                                         O                                        P                                                             E

Hope doesn't exist for men like him. He pauses for breath.

A fork in the path ahead of him.

Two                                                   Options

One West                                   One East

    The Illusion of Choice                         An Illusion of Freedom

    The Path Splits                  His Head Splits

       His Heart Splits        Choices, Choices

He Chooses Wrong

It won't matter anyway

Illusion

Hope

It gets narrower.

                His throat

                                  The Tunnel

Everything

Nothing

Then

Sky                                 Sky

Fir                           The

Pines              Worth

Air          Not

Fresh     You're

Worthless

Footsteps behind him.

Monster?

Hands grasp for him

Tugging

Pulling

Reaching

Thou

Art

Mine

FIRE

Flames, Heat, The Sun, The Sun

The Sun

It burns Burns his skin. It flakes and crisps. Sheds. Turns to ash.

He can't...

                He can't...

                                   He can't...

He survives the tunnels, only to die now? His throat convulses, breaths hitch. He survives so much to die in the sun.

Maybe it is better to burn in the light than drown in the dark?

Someone approaches.

No.

Not 'Someone'

                                                    Some...

                                                                                    Seven?

Hands in his hair

On his neck

His legs                                                                                                                                                                                                               He wants them closed He fights

He burns

He                                       F

                                              A

                                                  L

                                                       L

                                                            S

He opens his eyes.

                Harsh hands, calloused hands

                             Manipulated, manouevered

Chapter Text

The Shadow Cursed Lands were exactly that. Shadowed and Cursed. For a supposed cursed creature of the night, Astarion didn’t feel as comfortable as he had expected he would be. He wasn’t protected from the curse either, unlike how Shadowheart was. Astarion thought that they should at least have a discussion about the whole ‘Our cleric isn’t suffering from an ostensibly evil curse’ thing. He had voiced this opinion to Gale – albeit very quietly so that Shadowheart didn’t overhear – the cleric was now sleeping with the Githyanki and Astarion did not want either of them to be antagonistic towards him. He did wonder what the sex was like though. He guessed it was akin to all out war with massive casualty numbers on both sides. Hot.

Anyway, Gale had said that now was not the time to bring up morally bankrupt Goddesses with ulterior motives. Astarion had to admit that Gale had a point, nevermind that the word ‘hypocrisy’ raised its ugly head whenever it came to that particular topic and the wizard. It had been only a day since the cheese-mad Elminster had brought the news that Mystra wanted (or commanded, ordered, instructed, only promised salvation if) Gale to combust in order to take out the Absolute once and for all. Astarion thought that this was a waste of a perfectly good Gale. He hadn’t known the wizard for that long, but he was very fond of him. And Elminster, the madman with cracker crumbs in his unkempt facial hair, had no basis on which to dissuade Astarion otherwise. Astarion had wanted to stab Elminster for his even suggesting that Gale kill himself (Mystra preferred the word sacrifice or martyr because of course she did). He would have done it too if Halsin hadn’t tackled the vampire to the ground.

It wasn’t as if Selûne seemed to be much better either. Inept at best and completely apathetic at worst. She seemed to be losing this sororicidal war (much to Shadowheart’s really loud glee). The only evidence to the contrary, the only evidence that suggested She had a foothold here was the Last Light Inn. Even the name was pessimistic. The cleric there, Isobel, made Astarion’s eyes roll harder than they had ever done before, though he did quite like the nifty blessing that allowed him to go outside. Isobel was incessantly foolishly optimistic, even after being nearly kidnapped by the half-man, half mangy crow aberration, Marcus. Astarion wondered what sort of man it took to go to an omnipotent God and say “hey, what I really want is crow’s wings, but make them shit”. Still, with regards to Isobel, Astarion did admire her for managing to incense Shadowheart with her existence. Though, she did personally annoy him when she aggravated the cat. Astarion ended up stealing the cream for His Majesty, giving Isobel a metaphorical middle finger (Wyll disliked literal ones and had threatened to cut off Astarion’s finger after too many gestures at Gale). Last bastion of lunar salvation Isobel may be, but if you promise to give a cat cream, you give the cat cream. Vampire Spawn 1, Cleric of Selûne 0.

Astarion joined the rest of his companions at the bar. He plonked down between Gale and Karlach. The tiefling, for lack of a better word, was buzzing.

“Fangs!” she shouted, “guess what?”

“You’ve gone deaf?”

“What?”

“I said, have you gone deaf?”

Karlach’s face wrinkled in confusion. “What? No, why?”

“Because you’re shouting at me despite me being less than a foot away, darling.”

“Shit, sorry.”

Astarion laughed. He gestured for her to restart.

Karlach grinned and spoke in a dramatic stage whisper. “Fangs! Guess what?”

The elf matched her tone and volume. “What?”

“Dammon’s here!”

Ah yes, the cute tiefling blacksmith with really nice blue eyes…

Karlach slapped her hand on the table to jolt Astarion out of his daydreams. The elf nodded to confirm that he actually was paying attention. She poked her chest. “And, he says if we can get another couple pieces of infernal iron then he’ll be able to give Old Sparky here an upgrade! I’ll be able to touch people!”

No one used as many exclamation marks in speech as Karlach did. She was the equivalent of a 6foot4 puppy. If that puppy had a penchant for great axes and was literally on fire. Regardless, it was impossible for even Astarion to be resistant to being infected by her relentless enthusiasm for life.

Astarion grinned. “How wonderful darling!”

“I’ll be able to finally warm you up!”

The vampire spawn winked. “I look forward to it,” he purred, sultrily.

Karlach grinned and pushed off the bar to stand up. “You’ll make me blush, Fangs.” She mock fanned herself.

“I can do more than that,” rumbled Astarion, cheekily. Karlach blew him a kiss and turned to find someone else to tell her news to. The wizard next to the elf snorted derisively. Astarion nudged him with an elbow. “What’s up with you then?”

“Nothing,” muttered Gale, far too quickly.

“Now that’s a lie if I ever heard one.”

Gale didn’t reply for a few moments. It was clear that he was having an argument in his own head.

Astarion was happy to wait.

“It’s nothing.”

Astarion rolled his eyes and raised a silver eyebrow, accusingly.

The wizard sighed. “It’s just that…” he glanced at Karlach’s retreating form (she was now accosting Rolan) and then his eyes flickered back to Astarion.

The eyebrow stayed in place.

“Do you want to have sex with Karlach?” Gale blurted out, rather suddenly. He turned bright red and looked down at the bar, apparently finding the stickiness of the chipped wood fascinating.

Astarion shrugged. “She deserves to be able to blow off some steam.” He knew it sounded non-committal, but he didn’t want to start this debate now.

“It doesn’t have to be with you though,” snapped Gale. “Not unless you want it to be.” The wizard’s tone was sullen and grumpy.

Astarion shifted uncomfortably on his bar stool. He hated these types of conversations. They always became too introspective, and he didn’t particularly want a deep dive into his soul and psyche before they went to infiltrate Moonrise Towers. And especially not with Gale… they would stray into territory that Astarion was not comfortable facing. He decided to be antagonistic, to shorten the conversation entirely. “Sounds like you’re just jealous,” he growled. He knew it was unfair but Gale was clearly overreacting! Astarion was flirting with Karlach. It was what Astarion did. Besides, everyone knew that Wyll was the one that Karlach was going to sleep with. Not Astarion. Who would want a scrawny cold vampire prostitute next to literal Blade of Frontiers? It would take Wyll saying No (and Astarion had seen the 'Come to bed eyes' the warlock gave Karlach) for Astarion to even be able to get close to Karlach carnally.

Gale snorted. “Of having sex with you against your will? Yeah, I’m definitely jealous of that.”

“It’s not against my will…”

“I’d much rather you be a willing participant as opposed to some passive fuck toy!”

“Gale. Dekarios.” Astarion was astounded. The elf wasn’t shocked by much, but the phrase “passive fuck toy” coming from the Wizard of Waterdeep passed muster. “My, my. I had no idea you were so concerned with my sexual activity.”

“I am not concerned with your sexual activity, I just don’t want you to feel like you’re forced to do it.”

“You sure talk a lot about it for someone not interested,” commented Astarion, wryly. “But I will remind you, that the relationship between me and the wonderous active full-throttled sex that I am capable of having and plan on having with Karlach if the opportunity arises, is of absolutely no concern to you.” Astarion rose to leave. “If you’re jealous and want a shag, just say it. No one wants a white knight claiming to save our virginities from the evil tieflings.”

“Astarion…”

The elf turned and stalked off. He was bristling. He needed to either cool down or flirt intensively with as many people as possible and guarantee a night of sex. As he placed himself at Karlach’s side, he reasoned that the latter would help the former. He looked around the inn to see if he could find any willing participants.

To see Raphael playing Lanceboard with a child was unsettling to say the least. Mol was quick and clever, admittedly, but Astarion doubted that she could outwit a devil like Raphael when it came to fiendish contracts. A few sleight of hand tricks weighted the board in her favour, and Astarion grinned as the young tiefling decimated Raphael’s position, Calimsham rules be damned.

“You enjoy helping young rogues, don’t you?” Raphael hadn’t taken his eyes off Mol, as the young tiefling scampered off to scare Rolan away from bullying Umi.

Astarion shrugged. “Nothing wrong with teaching the next generation.”

“Will there be one, I wonder?”

Astarion squinted but said nothing.

“Oh, come now Astarion. Indulge in my hypotheticals for once.” The devil set his steely gaze on the elf now, who shifted uncomfortably.

“Hypotheticals aren’t really my forte,” replied Astarion, after a few moments of being stared down. Especially with devils, he thought. Theoretical hypotheticals aside, engaging with devils at any time was never a Clever Idea in Astarion’s view.

“What is your forte then?” Raphael’s words sounded interested, but the way his voice rumbled set Astarion’s teeth on edge.

The elf remained silent.

“Not for polite society, eh?”

Astarion flinched.

“Oh, have I touched a nerve?” Raphael smirked; his lips curled in a smile like that of a Cheshire cat that had just found a lifetime’s supply of cream. He seemed to be appraising Astarion, like one might do a prized pedigree hound at a dog show. Raphael leant back in his chair. “So, little vampling,” he said, with far too many teeth for Astarion’s liking, “how does it feel to be on a quest for your own demise?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” snapped Astarion. The elf looked around for his friends, wanting back up, but they all seemed to be focused on whatever was happening with the inebriated Rolan at the bar.

“Of course you do. You’re not stupid.”

It didn’t sound like a compliment.

Raphael gestured with a hand to the populace of the Last Light Inn. “Everyone here is united in one goal. To destroy the Absolute and the destroy the tadpoles.” Raphael brought his finger to his temple dramatically, as if he were performing a dance. “To them, that represents freedom, the light, happiness and hope.” Raphael slowly rose to his feet and stalked closer to Astarion. He took the index finger that was on his temple and pressed it onto Astarion’s. “For you, however…”

Astarion wanted to look away, but he was hypnotised by Raphael’s voice and the softness of his touch. The lilting, poetic, caramel tone that washed over his brain.

“The destruction of the Absolute and the end of these little tadpoles means a return to the dark, does it not? I’m sure Lord Szarr will be most pleased to have his prized runaway back.”

Astarion dragged his head away from Raphael’s finger. He gritted his teeth. “I don’t have much choice in the matter.”

“Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong, little vampling. You always have a choice.” Raphael’s gaze flitted to where the others stood.

Astarion wished that at least one of them would look in their direction.

“Maybe you find it easier to not have a choice.”

The elf did not reply. He felt the aura of Raphael’s smirk widen.

“Will that belief make it easier, when all this is done and you willingly go back to him?”

Astarion clenched his fists. He closed his eyes. “There’s no other way,” he said, quietly, after a brief moment’s hesitation.

“Oh, there’s always another way, little mouse.” Raphael almost sounded sympathetic. He placed his hand delicately on Astarion’s shoulder. “After all, your master is currently finding another way.”

“Another way for what?”

“Get someone to look at your back, then come and talk to me.” He vanished with a slight blur in the air around the pair. Astarion was left staring at the empty space. His eyes were narrowed. He reached around with his hand and traced the patterns of the scar tissue through his white shirt.

“Fangs, you good?” Karlach’s voice jolted him out of his mind.

He quickly pulled his hand down back by his side. “All the better for seeing you, darling.”

Much to everyone’s surprise, Astarion voted to find some infernal iron for Karlach’s engine as their first port of call. He argued that exploring the ruins of Reithwin would get them closer to Moonrise Tower anyway, and scouting the area first would be better than just rushing straight forward blindly. Wyll and Karlach fully accepted and agreed with him – Karlach because she wanted her engine fixed sooner rather than later, and Wyll because he was genuinely pleased to see Astarion put someone else’s needs before his own. If only he knew.

Karlach would be, out of the group, the one most likely to see him without his shirt on. Astarion would be able to hide it from Wyll, he was convinced. A flirty return from bathing making sure that the tiefling caught his master's poetry... Astarion shook himself. It was disingenuous and unfair to Karlach (and Wyll) but the vampire just needed someone to look at his back.

Jaheira had also agreed and gave them a map of the town from before the curse. Reithwin had been a small settlement, with Moonrise Towers being the main focal point. It had an Inn, a Tollhouse across the river, a House of Healing and a Mason’s Guild that were still mainly whole. The Mason’s Guild was closest to the river and was reasoned to be the spot that was most likely to hold infernal iron out of everywhere else. The companions split into two groups. Astarion led Shadowheart and Gale to the Mason’s Guild to search for the iron whilst Wyll led the rest to ambush the Absolute convoy with a group of Harpers.

Gale had not said a word to Astarion since their argument at the bar. Astarion tried not to let it bother him, but Shadowheart was glancing awkwardly between the pair as they walked quietly through the ruined battlefield and across the bridge.

“You fallen out with the wizard?” the cleric asked, softly.

Astarion shrugged. “Who knows. He’s got a stick up his arse about something.”

“The prospect of martyrdom?”

The elf couldn’t help the flinch. “He knows that I disagree with him on that,” he hissed. “Gods don’t help us mortals enough to warrant sacrificing for.”

Shadowheart didn’t reply and her silence spoke volumes.

Astarion pointedly ignored her and led the way to the Mason’s Guild house. Carved stone lay everywhere with no rhyme or reasons and the stench of death and sulphur lingered. Astarion wrinkled his nose. “They were clearly artists,” he commented, trying to make light of everything, “you can tell because it’s a mess in here.”

Neither Gale nor Shadowheart responded, instead deigning to look for the piece of infernal iron that would upgrade Karlach’s heart. Astarion rolled his eyes as an instinctive reaction and began his own search, which was decidedly more tactile than the others’. He clambered around the deserted workshop, pulling rotten wood off the walls and clearing old workbenches of their tools. He didn’t really know what infernal metal looked like, and at this point he was too afraid to ask.

“Found some!” A call from Shadowheart dragged the trio back together. Shadowheart held a thick piece of dark grey metal with thick ridges in her hand. “It’s warm,” she commented.

“That’ll be the infernal aspect of it darling,” replied Astarion, quickly.

Shadowheart rolled her eyes.

Astarion wished he had seen the pixie. He had never seen one in real life, and he held the little silver bell in his palm, curiously.

“You look a cat with that trinket,” a voice remarked from behind him. The warlock sat down opposite Astarion, a pint of ale in his hand. Astarion reached out with his palm and Wyll took the pixie bell in two fingers. “What a quaint little thing.”

Astarion murmured agreement.

A shriek of joy sounded from outside.

“Look’s like Dammon got that metal working,” said Wyll, approvingly.

“That’s good,” said Astarion, absently. “Karlach will be happy.”

“Yeah. Yeah, she will be.” Wyll sounded tired and a little nervous.

Astarion cocked his head slightly, eyebrows furrowing as he looked at the human. “Are… are you alright? I'd thought you'd be excited.”

Wyll allowed himself a little smile. “Are you alright? I don’t think I’ve ever heard you ask after anyone, ever.”

“What can I say? Full of surprises.” Astarion shrugged. His red gaze kept focused on Wyll. “Go on. Spill.”

Wyll sighed. “It’s… it’s about Karlach. And… you.”

Astarion raised an eyebrow. “Karlach and me?”

Shit. He hadn't time to enact his flirty topless plan. Had Wyll already noticed the flirting? But Astarion flirted with everyone, surely Wyll wouldn't go ballistic?

Wyll nodded. “I like Karlach, I really do, but…”

Astarion cocked his head slightly more. But?

“I’m just… oh Gods this sounds so stupid saying this to you of all people, you’ll think me a right prude.”

“I already do.” Astarion grinned wickedly.

The pint in Wyll’s hand was going down fast. “I’m more of a woo-er than a…”

Astarion squinted. “Than a fucker?” he supplied, somewhat helpfully.

“I wouldn’t have put it like that myself, but…”

“Yeah, you’d say ‘have intercourse’ or ‘coitus’ or something academic,” sniffed Astarion. “But there’s nothing proper about shagging, young Wyllyam.”

Wyll flinched. “It’s Wyll,” he gritted out.

Astarion smiled mockingly. “Whatever you want to say Wyllyam, it’ll be much easier on both of us if you just come out and say it.”

“I can’t have sex with Karlach.”

Well that was blunt. Astarion had assumed that he was going to be Karlach’s ‘warm up’ (literally) act before she left him for the main event that would be the dashingly handsome and sexy Wyll Ravengard.

“Oh…kay…”

“It’s not that I don’t want to,” Wyll hastened to add. “It’s just that, I can’t. Not right now. I can’t do one-night stands.”

“She really likes you though?” Astarion was confused. “Why would you be a one-night stand?”

“Because of… you know…” Wyll looked more like a child than the Blade of Frontiers. He looked down.

“No, I really don’t.”

“Mizora… she changed some things…”

“Wyll Ravengard. Do you have devil prongs?” Astarion pretended to be aghast with shock.

“Shuddup.”

Astarion laughed. “She’s a tiefling you idiot. A tiefling who lived in literal hell with literal devils for ten years. I doubt that whatever Mizora’s done to your dick will be a turn off for her. She wants a fuck and she wants you to fuck her. Or her to fuck you. I don't know what she's into."

“Astarion!” hissed Wyll, covering his shame with his hand. “Anyway, I just can’t. Ok?”

Astarion shrugged, still giggling. “Fine,” he said. “I don’t really know why you’re talking to me about this.”

Wyll sighed again. “I want her to be happy,” he said, carefully. “She deserves to be.”

Astarion nodded in agreement.

“So, if she asks you…” Wyll took a deep breath. “If she asks you whether you want to sleep with her… I don’t mind, ok? Consider yourself having my blessing.”

Astarion raised an eyebrow. “This is quite possibly the strangest conversation I’ve had in two hundred years,” he remarked, dryly.

“It’s the most embarrassing one I’ve had in 28,” muttered Wyll.

The elf laughed again. “Don’t worry Wyll. You take your time. Woo her and all the stuff you want to do with her. She can take out her ten years of pent-up sexual frustration on me, don’t you worry.”

Wyll allowed himself a smile. “Thanks, Astarion,” he said, softly. “I can’t take it away from her. But I’m not ready.” He paused. "And I know you don't see her romatically."

Astarion shrugged. “Don’t worry about it. People get there at different speeds.”

And this is my job, after all…

Karlach, as it turned out, ‘got there’ at a very rapid pace. Her hands were all over Astarion, the slight burning sensation strange in contrast to his deathly cold skin.

“How are you so soft?” the tiefling squeaked.

“I don’t age, darling. Permanently youthful skin this,” teased Astarion, letting a hand drape over her shoulder.

The warm touches were doing nothing for Astarion personally, but he made the correct noises and sounds. It seemed like Karlach was enjoying herself and that’s what mattered. Astarion deliberately avoided Gale’s eye over dinner.

Soon the pair were alone in Karlach’s tent.

“Is this alright?” asked Karlach.

Astarion began to mouth over her neck and shoulders. “Is what alright, darling?” he murmured.

“Y’know. This?”

Astarion focused on his fingers making patterns on the red skin below him. “This?” he repeated, softly.

“Yeah, it’s just that Gale mentioned…”

Astarion glanced upwards sharply. “Gale doesn’t know anything,” he snapped, perhaps harsher than he intended.

Karlach flinched.

“I’m sorry,” Astarion said, immediately. “It’s just… Gale assumes things when he doesn’t understand them.”

“Must be a wizard thing.”

“I think it’s a snob thing.”

They laughed like lovers are meant to do. Karlach took Astarion into her arms and held him. “If, you’re sure?”

Astarion tilted his chin upwards and kissed along her jawline. “Of course, I’m sure. I’ve never been surer of anything,” he whispered.

How else can I have someone to look at my back?

How else can I be useful?

Don’t abandon me…

Even the night sky in the Shadow Cursed Lands were thus. Dark, foreboding cloud cover swallowed the stars, allowing no glimmer of hope or light to shine through. The air was damp; the threat of storms ever present. The wind rattled through their tents and chilled their bones. The pathetic fallacy of it all was not lost on Astarion. Karlach’s body was warm next to him, but it didn’t hide his chilled soul.

Astarion knew that Cazador Szarr was sadistic. That had always been explanation enough for him. It explained the tortures, the mind games, the way of life that Astarion had been forced to lead for the past two centuries. What he did not expect, however, was for any form of Szarr’s sadism to have a purpose. The scars on his back were poetry. A symbolism that said that Astarion was nothing, he was but a canvas to his master’s artistry. Astarion always assumed that the poetry was merely an extension of the prolonged dehumanisation process all the spawn went through. After all, the other six spawn had similar markings on their back. Even little Yousen; Astarion had always assumed that piece of writing was more a limerick than an epic poem.

But then Karlach, Karlach of all people, had revealed that the markings were infernal and reminiscent of devilish contracts. Because of course, there had to be a deeper meaning to the master’s depravity. It wouldn’t do for it to be merely skin deep.

Astarion found himself waiting for Raphael. He sat at the Lanceboard set, a Cyric piece juggling between his long fingers. It was nearly dawn, not that you could tell in a place like this.

“Hello, little mouse.”

Astarion lifted his head. “What do they say?”

“Aw, no pre contract banter? I’m disappointed in you.”

“What makes you think I’ll agree to a contract with you?”

Raphael smirked. He was sat in the opposite chair to Astarion, posture perfect while Astarion slumped. “You look terrible.”

Astarion blinked slowly. He waved a hand to disregard the comment. “Comes with being a vampire, darling. We don’t tend to look alive.”

“That may be,” said Raphael, quietly. “But I have seen you look better.”

“Are you trying to flirt with me?” Astarion’s brow furrowed.

The devil chuckled. He paused for a moment before ignoring Astarion’s question entirely. “I can tell you about your scars, for they are interesting. Peculiar, one could say.” He spoke like he was sampling a particularly delicious and expensive apéritif.

“At least they’re interesting,” commented Astarion, dryly, “I would hate my pain to be dull.”

Raphael’s smile grew wider. “You are anything but dull, my dear.”

The elf hummed, absently. “You haven’t answered my question.”

“Which one?”

“Either.”

Raphael snorted slightly. “You will agree to my contract because otherwise you will return to Baldur’s Gate knowing nothing. And if you know nothing, you will die.”

Astarion whistled softly. “And you will give me that little tidbit for free?”

Raphael waved his hand derisively. “Call it an incentive. And know that I will capitalise upon it in full later. Whether you take the tidbit or not.” His eyes were fixed on the vampire spawn, unblinking.

Astarion leant back in his chair and stretched out his legs. “Knowing anything about the Master’s plans has never helped me before,” he shrugged. “Why should it now?”

There was a glint in Raphael’s eyes, almost as if he was impressed with the elf’s laissez faire attitude. “It means more, this time.”

“Why?”

Raphael sighed. “I’ve grown quite fond of you, little vampling.” He looked out the window, towards where the companions had set up their tents. “More than the rest of your little troupe. You’re different.”

Astarion snorted. “I know grooming where I see it, Raphael.”

“I would hope you do.” Raphael turned his attention back to Astarion, finger now tracing over a pawn. “It is true, I won’t lie to you. I can see myself using you in the future.”

“I don’t like being used,” said Astarion, through gritted teeth.

“Really? You’re used all the time though?”

“Is that meant to be a joke?” snapped the elf.

Raphael shook his head. “Not a joke, no. More an observation.”

Astarion glared at him.

“Your anger just proves that I am correct,” pointed out the devil. “You are a slave who has managed to free himself. But instead of taking that freedom and running with it, you are instead following other people who are determined to take that freedom away.”

Astarion chewed on the inside of his lip.

“You are used all the time. By thousands and hundreds of people I expect. Some who would pride themselves on having a bloated sense of morality.” Raphael hadn’t blinked. “What makes my offer any different? At least I’m honest.”

“Honesty and Devil tongues don’t often mix.”

“Oh contraire,” countered Raphael. “They belong side by side, for honesty is often more damaging than lying. I will use you, Astarion. But I will treat you better than your current Master. But besides, that’s a later contract, for when you survive your return to Baldur’s Gate.”

Astarion sighed. “What happens if I don’t find out about my scars?”

“For you? Enslavement by your sire. For everyone else,” Raphael pondered this for a moment. “The destruction of the world as we know it.”

“And if I know?”

“Still enslavement. But everyone else has a chance to save the world,” said Raphael, quietly. “And I can promise you that I will do my best to…”

“Use me?” quoted Astarion.

Raphael smirked again. “This is why I like you.”

Astarion rolled his eyes. He sighed. “Enslavement or enslavement,” he said, bitterly. “What a choice.”

Raphael made a non-committal noise. “Do we have an agreement?”

Astarion watched out of the corner of his eye as his companions entered the inn. He saw that Karlach clocked him and the devil straight away; she was hurrying over to them, Wyll and Shadowheart hot on her heels. Astarion rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Fine,” he said.

“Excellent. Now your little friends…” Raphael followed Astarion’s eyeline. “They cannot know about this, not yet.”

A pang of anxiety sparked in Astarion’s gut. Instead of voicing it though, he just nodded. There’s no point, never bloody is…

“So, play along.”

Astarion nodded again.

“Astarion! Are you okay?”

“Ah, young Master Ravengard, Miss Cliffgate. Astarion and I have just been having a most gratifying discussion…”

Chapter Text

Gale pinched the bridge of his nose. His nemesis. The one thing he hated above all others.

Last time he had drunk champagne he had called Astarion a whore. Now here he was faced with a tiefling waitress offering twenty glasses of the liquid based societal bombshells on a tray.

“You don’t have to drink them, you know.” Shadowheart, always the voice of reason, eyeing the evil glare that Gale was giving the drinks. “Besides, you’re terrifying the living daylights out of that poor girl.”

The wizard took a flute and the tiefling scurried off.

Shadowheart sighed. “This isn’t a good idea, is it?”

“Should have brought him a hipflask,” commented Jaheira, dryly.

“Should’ve just given him water,” countered Halsin, the actual voice of reason in the group.

Lae’zel rolled her eyes. Minsc spoke to Boo who was hidden in his collar. Gale took a sip. Cheap, mass-produced sparkling wine. His lip curled instinctively in disgust. If there was one thing that Gale could say for Szarr, it was that the vampire did not skimp on the drinks. You could taste the gold at that party.

Here, at Ravengard’s ‘Defeat of the Absolute’ celebration, however, it was clearly about façade as opposed to legitimacy when it came to the wealth. There were reasons for this, and Gale knew it. Cazador Szarr did not keep his assets in the Counting House, after all, much to the chagrin of Ravengard's treasury. He had kept some there, to keep up pretences – a heavy crossbow and some jewellery – but the vast majority of his wealth had clearly been kept elsewhere. As a result, Ravengard had been unable to complete his plans for a glorious celebration; Szarr’s estate would no longer be the financial backer.

The newly rebuilt High Hall was the locale for this particular event. The Heroes of Baldur’s Gate were ‘distinguished and honoured guests.’ Gale felt more like a show dog or perhaps a zoo animal than a guest. He could feel people oohing and pointing at him and his friends as they politely walked the corridors. Lae’zel had already told several other guests to “fuck off”. Her development of colloquial Faerûn speech was a delight to witness. Astarion would have been proud.

The elf was mentioned of course. Ravengard himself, in his attempts to distance himself from the disgraced Szarr, was constantly pushing the story that Astarion had sacrificed himself to land the last strike on the Netherbrain and had drowned beneath it when it had plummeted in the Chionthar. Gale could barely remember who had the final blow, but he had an inkling that it had been Karlach.

Not that Grand Duke Ravengard entertained the possibility of Karlach existing, nevermind the one who landed the killing blow.

“Is there anything fun to do here?” whined Gale.

Shadowheart gave him a Look. Halsin furrowed his brow. “Apparently there is meant to be entertainment,” he said, in his gruff manner. Gale could hear the italics in his tone.

“Let me guess,” Jaheira rolled her eyes. “Scantily clad dancers young enough to make me vomit? Interesting new musical commissions to celebrate the history of Baldur’s Gate with no actual tune or decent chord progressions. And maybe someone has written a play about the defeat of the Absolute given entirely via soliloquys and the cast is all male humans?”

“Got it in one.” Halsin scrunched up the leaflet he had been given on arrival.

“Why all male humans?” asked Lae’zel. “Only one of us is a male human. Or is the play only about Gale? Did Gale write it?” Her voice became slightly more serious. “Did Volo write it?”

“Good Gods no,” said Gale. “I absolutely did not write a thing. My writing is purely academic.”

“And male humans have a tendency to be…” Shadowheart paused to think of the correct phrasing. “Self-aggrandising. They won't consider anyone else has the merit to be involved.”

Lae’zel looked at Gale. “That seems accurate.”

Gale rolled his eyes as Shadowheart laughed. “Could be worse. Could be written by elves. If its elvish then we’ll all be representatives of mortal fallacies and the seven deadly sins,” he grumbled, good-naturedly.

“Ooh, that’s a possibility!” said Shadowheart, excitedly. “What do we reckon then? Karlach can be gluttony cos she likes eating.”

“Makes sense,” nodded Lae’zel.

“I don’t think she’d let people starve though,” Halsin pointed out. “Isn’t the point of gluttony that you’d let other people starve even though you have plenty?”

Shadowheart thought about this for a moment. “Good point. Maybe Gale can be pride? Do you remember that whole, I’m Gale of Waterdeep, chosen of Mystra, most powerful archmage ever schtick?”

Gale rolled his eyes again. “I prefer the term ambition.”

“That’s a positive quality. We are thinking of negative ones.” Lae’zel was leaving no room to argue. “Astarion would be lust I think.”

“What? No!” Gale had to put his foot down on this. “He didn’t actually want to have sex with anyone, he just thought he had to!”

“You slept with him too!”

“I know I did,” snapped Gale. “But so did Halsin, Karlach, and you Lae’zel. And I stopped once we had had 'the talk'. In fact, Lae’zel , how many people did you shag on our journey? I think it was more than Astarion ever did.” He narrowed his gaze accusingly but endeavoured to keep his tone light.

The githyanki looked at him quizzically. “Shag?” she repeated.

“Fuck,” supplied Shadowheart, helpfully.

“Ah.” Lae’zel furrowed her brow. “Astarion, Karlach, Halsin, Shadowheart…”

“You propositioned Wyll as well,” added Shadowheart. “That’s basically a full-blown shag when it comes to Ravengard.”

“The warlock was strange,” Lae’zel frowned. “He kept talking about wanting to get to know me first. Why would he need to get to know me?”

Shadowheart giggled. “Wow, Lae. You really know how to sweep a guy off their feet.”

“My tactics worked with you.”

“I think I’d be lust,” Halsin interrupted.

Lae’zel nodded again as Shadowheart was left with her mouth agape. “I agree. The bear is lust.”

Don’t remind me, Gale thought. He was still bitter.

“What have we got left?” asked Shadowheart.

“Anger, Laziness, Gluttony, Greed, and Envy.”

“Ooh,” Shadowheart was getting really into this. “And we’ve got me, Lae, Astarion, Jaheira, Minsc, Wyll, and Karlach to match.”

“There are more people than sins. We may have to resort to other faults.”

The cleric snorted.

Gale took another sip of champagne. Minsc seemed to be thinking rather hard about the whole concept whilst Jaheira looked amused. The alcohol had given the elder druid a red tinge to her cheeks. It suited her. It suited everyone, Gale realised. They hadn’t looked so carefree in months.

“Okay, okay. Anger?” asked Shadowheart. “Who’s the angriest out of all of us?”

Lae’zel was about to open her mouth when Minsc declared it was Jaheira, causing the half elf to choke on her drink. “Me? Angry?”

Minsc nodded. “It can be terrifying. I thought you’d never stop shouting at Minsc. It is constant.”

“I’ll stop shouting at you when you stop being an idiot.”

Minsc grinned. “There you are then. Jaheira is Anger.” The others seemed to agree with this assessment. Jaheira rolled her eyes and clicked her fingers at a passing waiter for another glass.

“Laziness?” suggested Shadowheart.

“I think you’ll find that the term used is ‘Sloth’,” corrected Gale.

“I stand corrected. Can we change you from pride to snob, please?” Shadowheart deadpanned.

Gale gave her the middle finger. Shadowheart laughed and stuck her tongue out at him.

“Is over-excitement a moral failing?” wondered Lae’zel.

“I don’t think we can count enthusiasm against Karlach,” returned Halsin. “If we hadn’t given Anger to Jaheira, that’s what I would have suggested for her. Do you remember her against Gortash?” Halsin visibly shuddered.

“Oh, Gods yeah,” remembered Shadowheart.

“I don’t mind sharing,” volunteered Jaheira.

“How considerate of you.”

Jaheira flashed a grin. “Sharing is caring, especially when sins are involved.”

“What about you, Shads?” asked Gale, as the group laughed at Jaheira's insinuation, apart from Lae'zel who did not comprehend the joke and just frowned slightly.

The cleric thought about it for a moment. “I’m egotistical and don’t like being told I’m wrong. Is Narcissism a character flaw?”

Gale thought about Sharran Shadowheart and her cold exterior, her one-tracked mind, and her determination to find more about Shar and fulfil her mission in returning the artefact to Baldur’s Gate. “Not a sin, but a definite character flaw,” he answered. “And one that suits you well.” He dodged a playful punch to the arm. “Not that you haven’t vastly improved since then.”

“It’s the lack of fringe,” observed Lae’zel. "The fringe was the ego."

“It was a powerful fringe,” agreed Gale. “Deadly.”

“I remember,” said Lae’zel, seriously. “She tried to stab me.”

“Well, yeah, you deserved it.”

“Sure.”

“What about you, Lae? What’s your biggest character flaw?” asked Shadowheart, changing the subject, but unable to hide the rose tint that was rising in her face.

Gods they were flirting. Again. Gale took a too-big sip of the champagne, draining the rest of it, flinching when the bubbles irritated his throat and nose. He grimaced. Oh to the Hells, with these bubbles… he thought, when he suddenly felt himself being launched backwards.

The force of the blast rippled through the large corridor. Gale landed awkwardly, pain lancing down his shoulder blade as it took the brunt of the fall. Dust and rubble crumbled from the ceiling. Gale covered his face with his arm as he lurched around on the floor, trying to gain semblance of bodily function.

Shards of glass from the window covered their bodies. Gale’s hand was on fire; he had broken the champagne flute he had been holding and now his hand was cut to shreds. He pushed himself up to a standing position, head reeling and ears ringing. There was screaming and wailing around them.

A huge boom ricocheted off the crumbling stone walls around them. Gale heard another window shatter. The screams were becoming louder and louder, and Gale found himself grabbing onto Lae’zel, hauling her upwards as she winced from the glass that had embedded itself into her leg.

“Tsk’va,” hissed the gith. She looked furious.

“What’s going on?” Gale coughed and spluttered, his throat coated in dust from stone and glass.

Lae’zel growled. “We seem to be under attack. Get the others up. We must find the attackers.”

Minsc was already up, his arm wrapped around Jaheira, supporting the High Harper. Jaheira shook him off and wildshaped into her panther form, hissing and snarling. Halsin too was in his wildshape, his large bear growling as he shifted rocks off Shadowheart. Lae’zel gave an observatory glance at all of them before ordering them to follow her down the hallway.

The attack had not died down. Gale recognised the sound of walls being forced to crumble, sending plumes of dust and ash into the air, making them all cough. Lae’zel limped forward, not deviating from her task for a second. Jaheira prowled on her heels, jet black tail lashing from side to side. The combined ferocity of those two served to clear the path in their way. Jaheira jumped easily over the fallen rubble and Lae’zel’s sheer determination carved her way.

The main hall was where Grand Duke Ravengard had been receiving his guests. Gale had never seen it before, both times the wizard had managed to be at the High Hall it had been a collapsing pile of rubble. The doors to the hall had been ripped off their hinges. Smoke billowed from the centre of the hall, and the companions were pushing against a tide of party goers who were stampeding in their effort to escape.

The stench hit Gale’s nose as soon as he crossed the threshold. The pungent odour of rotting flesh turned his stomach contents to bile.

“What the Hells?” gasped Shadowheart, somewhere behind him.

Coming from the very centre of the hall was a grinding sound from within a ball of blackish-green smoke. It sounded like bone being dragged over bone without the benefit of cartilage. It was accompanied by low groans, rasping rattles as air rushed through voices boxes with no muscles to control them.

Gale’s eyes widened. He gathered his strength and bellowed, “Incendē!” Radiant light burst from his hands directed into the epicentre of the smoke.

Thank Gods I took the time to learn a radiant spell, Gale thought, as the smell of burning flesh hit his senses. He looked around to his companions. They were at a disadvantage; it had been a weapons-free event. Gale and the two druids were fine, relying on magic and wildshaping respectively. Even Shadowheart could cope relatively well without her mace, shown by her flinging bursting sinew cantrips into the quagmire. Lae’zel and Minsc however, had no such option. Minsc had flung himself happily into the fray and Gale watched in awe as he crushed the vertebrae of a corpse's neck between his fingers. Lae’zel was more of a worry; the githyanki had seemed to have taken more of a direct hit from the original blast. Her left leg was riddled with shards of glass and blood covered the left side of her body.

“Shadowheart!” shouted Gale, beginning to struggle with keeping the power of Sunbeam active.

Shadowheart sent a guiding bolt into a corpse that was crawling towards Gale, beneath the beam of yellow light, in response.

“You need to get Lae’zel out!”

The smoke was gradually dissipating thanks to their combined efforts. The Duke and his guards, some of the very few that were actually armed, were slicing and stabbing. Gale heard a Fist cry out, “How can they just keep coming?”

Gale pushed himself forward towards the eye of this necrotic storm. The ground was uneven, and he stumbled. His break in concentration caused the sunbeam to die out. He panted, clutching his chest to where the orb had been more out of habit than necessity due to pain. He tried to weave his way in between spawning corpses and realised that there was some sort of crater, as though there had been a volcanic eruption or even a meteor crash. The smoke became heavier here. The stench nearly overwhelmed the wizard, but he pushed forward. He noticed that as he moved closer to the epicentre, his skin tingled, and he could feel arcane energy pulse around him. It didn’t feel like normal arcane energy though. It felt wrong, as though it had been corrupted. It was more similar to the Netherese power of the orb than the usual phenomenon of the Weave.

Gale gritted his teeth. His senses and instincts were telling him to flee, that this place, this situation, this magic was unnatural and inherently evil. Eventually, aided by his companions managing to overwhelm the horde so they were killing slightly more than were spawning, he saw his goal. A spiral plume of smoke and ash, that tinge of green he associated with necromantic arts, spinning like a tornado. He focused his magic, hissing another sunbeam with all the strength that he had left. The radiant magic pierced the smoke causing it to falter.

It seemed to stumble.

Like someone had tripped over their feet or the end of a cloak.

In fact, as Gale looked at this tornado in more detail, it didn’t look like a spiral at all. It was vaguely…

Humanoid.

It was a shadow, and Gale could tell that it was in pain.

It seemed to be crying out to anyone and everyone who would listen to stop the pain, end it, destroy it…

There was a high-pitched shriek.

The remaining windows at the far end of the hall shattered and splintered.

A force of energy, hot air, and smoke pulsed out like a shockwave. Gale flew backwards, trying to keep his eye on the shadowy figure. It raised its head up to the sky, stretched out their arms, and faded into nothingness.

The rest of the smoke and smell ebbed away, the remaining living corpses easily dispatched.

Gale pushed himself vertical. He limped over to where the shadowy figure had been.

His stomach did backflips.

At his feet were two bodies. One was a human male. Blond hair, muscular. A vampire spawn.

Gale knew this because the spawn’s teeth were buried into Councillor Florrick’s neck.

Chapter Text

“Really, Astarion?” Karlach’s voice was pleading. Astarion ignored it. “A deal with him? We could have found someone else who could read infernal.”

“Raphael is dangerous,” Wyll added. “And now we have to kill an old enemy of his? An orthon no less?”

It had been the same conversation for hours, just those few sentences repeated by different people with different tones of disdain. Astarion bit his tongue to prevent himself from snarking a reply. He had tried to be quiet and keep to the back of the group as they crossed the river and into the ruins of Reithwin, but his sudden and steady silence was apparently fuel to his companions’ fire about Astarion’s apparent mistakes. He kept his head down, ignoring the chiding tones.

“They’re right, you know.”

Astarion raised an eyebrow at Gale’s voice but did not turn to look at the wizard. His latent anger was bubbling to the fore. “Typical,” he snarled, “that the first words you say to me in days are you telling me I’m wrong. What do you want me to do, Gale? Accept meekly whatever you lot say, yes sir, no sir? Do you want me to be your adoring little pet, walking at your heels and sitting nicely at your feet?” He stopped walking, suddenly, dropping back into the shadows behind the group. Astarion felt the prickling of the shadow curse at his skin, but ignored it, preferring the darkness to snide companionship.

He didn’t hear whether Gale replied. He kept his eyes fixated on the ground, relying on his other senses to not drop far behind. His fingers messed with the straps of his pack, frowning as he loosened and tightened it over and over. Astarion’s nose twitched. Reithwin smelt dark, rotten almost, but a second scent brushed past his sensitive nose. Sulphur. Astarion narrowed his eyes. He dipped from the road into the ruins of an old schoolhouse, following the scent.

“Ah, Raphael said you were clever.”

A dwarven woman was lounged lazily on a rocking chair. Black curly hair framed her face and hunting brown eyes peered at Astarion from her perch. The elf sniffed. She was definitely the source of the sulphur.

“Keeping tabs on me?” asked Astarion, coldly.

The warlock shrugged. “Don’t take it personally. You’re a valuable asset.”

Astarion sighed. “He loves the dehumanising thing, doesn’t he?”

“I’d take it as a compliment.”

Astarion hummed in reply.

The warlock watched him carefully. “Master Raphael just wants to keep an eye on you. You could look upon it as a safety mechanism, in a way.”

“Oh really?” Astarion narrowed his eyes. “Being followed by a devil’s warlock is not going to be easy to sell to my companions.”

A thin smile etched on her face. “Then don’t tell them about me. I’ll be more…conspicuous… next time.”

Astarion snorted. “Wonderful.”

“The name’s Korilla.”

“Astarion.”

“I know.”

Astarion growled.

Korilla grinned. “Don’t worry about it. You won’t even know I’m here. Unless you’re in really big trouble. Then I’ll come and get you out of it.”

The elf rolled his eyes and turned on his heel. He slipped out of the ruined schoolhouse; ears pricked for the sounds of his companions. He padded quietly between the wreckage of buildings, keeping to the shadows. It took him a few minutes before Astarion located his companions. They were stood by a large stone bridge, beyond which the darkness seemed to grow. If Astarion squinted, he could just about see a shape looming in the distance: Moonrise Towers.

Astarion approached the group, silently, keeping to the shadows. They weren’t paying attention to their surroundings, more focused on adjusting their packs and going over their plans. It made it easy for Astarion to creep over to them before positioning himself a metre or so away, pretending he had always been there.

“Where have you been?” asked Gale, accusingly. The wizard stormed over to him, but his voice was low, not matching his general demeanour.

Astarion shrugged. “Nowhere,” he said, cooly.

“Do you not have any self-preservation instincts at all?” hissed Gale.

The elf ignored him. As if a wizard could lecture a vampire on self-preservation. It was laughable.

Fortunately for Astarion, Wyll chose that moment to set off across the bridge. Astarion sidestepped around Gale, placing himself at the rear of the group as usual. He heard Gale huff in frustration and watched as the wizard walked next to Shadowheart, muttering something. Astarion purposefully made his face blank as the cleric glanced back towards him briefly.

Moonrise Towers itself was in dire need of restoration and better lighting. It was dark and dingy, water dripping everywhere. Huddles of absolute cultists were gathered about; shoulders hunched against the cold. Acolytes and Zealots waved the group through to a main audience chamber where Ketheric Thorm held court.

Thorm, Astarion considered, was an interesting character. The Chosen was tall and broad shouldered, a build that reminisced of centuries as a soldier. His beard was long and scraggly, and Astarion considered him to have some non-elf in him as a result. He looked beaten by time and anguish, but his dark eyes and ever-present scowl denoted him as a force to be reckoned with. His armour was skeletal and Astarion could smell the whiff of necromancy coming from him. As Astarion watched, something stirred in Ketheric’s face, and those brown eyes flashed towards the spawn.

Ketheric left Z’rell, a dreadlocked half orc, to speak to the True Souls gathered below his throne. She obviously tried to be intimidating but Astarion had the impression that she relied solely on Ketheric for any inch of authority she had. She was nervous and trying to hide it.

“True Souls,” she grumbled. She spoke with careful words, and her parasite pushed the borders of the companions’ minds, searching for danger and betrayal. She found none, finding only Karlach’s lust for Wyll as a notable feeling. Her green eyes flickered to Astarion who still stood at the back of the group.

“A spawn,” she murmured. Astarion lifted his head. “Chosen by the Absolute. How… unprecedented?”

The spawn in question instinctively lowered his eyes.

“Proof,” continued Z’rell, “that She can change everything. The laws of nature themselves are nothing compared to Her.” She beckoned Astarion closer. “What’s your name, spawn?”

“Astarion,” answered Astarion, quietly. He wished he had pockets to plunge his hands into.

Z’rell appraised him with knowing eyes. “How old were you when you were turned, Astarion?” She savoured the syllables in his name.

“Er… about 39?” Astarion couldn’t help the flinch. He hunched his shoulders in and pushed a strand of silver hair behind his ear. He didn’t like thinking about how little of his life he had actually led. That he was basically an undead child…

“Young,” commented Z’rell. “And how long have you been a spawn, young Astarion?”

The emphasis on ‘young’ made Astarion shiver. “200 years,” he whispered.

Z’rell hummed appreciatively to his answer. “And your sire?”

“Away,” Astarion murmured. “Baldur’s Gate.” His scars prickled on his back. His fingers twitched by his sides.

“And the Absolute freed you?”

Astarion opened his mouth to answer but for some reason Wyll jumped in first. “He’s bonded to me,” said the warlock, firmly. “The first person he saw after the Absolute freed him from his sire.”

“On purpose?” Z’rell raised an eyebrow at Wyll, as if Wyll was dangerously approaching admitting that he’d gone against the Absolute’s wishes.

Fortunately, Wyll shook his head. “No. We only realised a few days after the fact. He has mostly free will, it is only under extreme situations where he needs deliberate instructions.”

“Extreme situations?” repeated Z’rell, somewhat incredulously.

Wyll nodded. “If we’re attacked or something. I try not to give him orders unless absolutely necessary. I suspect his full gift from the Absolute will be full freedom.”

Yeah right, thought Astarion, maudlin.

“Does he have any rules?”

Astarion adored it when people spoke about him like he wasn’t there. It felt like home and Astarion could feel himself bubbling up with anger as he even recognised the familiarity.

Wyll smiled coyly. “He only bites when he's told to.”

Z’rell hummed again. “We have a blood scientist here,” she told him. “I suspect she would be interested in seeing him.”

Wyll bowed. “As you wish.”

Z’rell continued talking about a mission they were to go on, but Astarion wasn’t really paying attention. He hated the whole situation. From being singled out as a spawn to Wyll jumping in and acting like the human was in charge him. It made his teeth ache. Better a slave than a free-thinking pair of fangs? he thought to himself, sullenly. He growled instinctively as Wyll pushed him towards the door.

“No need to thank me,” said the warlock, cheerfully.

Astarion looked around, confused. The others were standing there, praising Wyll like he had done something great. Even Lae’zel seemed impressed with his actions. Astarion’s eyebrows furrowed, a frown creasing his forehead. “Thank… you?”

“As I said… there’s no reason to,” said Wyll.

“That’s what I mean,” said Astarion, quietly. “Why would we thank you?”

Wyll blinked at him a couple of times. Shadowheart exchanged a glance with Gale and Lae’zel before explaining, gently, “We didn’t want them to think that you were feral.”

“But I’m not feral,” pointed out Astarion.

Wyll shrugged. “It’s assumed that every spawn without a sire’s influence will be. They would have killed you.”

Astarion’s lip twitched. “They could tell that I wasn’t feral.” He spoke quietly, with an edge that he rarely he had. “They assumed that the Absolute had freed me.” He stared icily at Wyll. “Now they think I’m a pet.” Astarion saw Gale flinch in his peripheral vision.

“That was not my intention, Astarion.” Wyll started to look slightly wary. “I did it to keep you safe.”

“That’s not your decision to make.” Astarion dragged down his shoulders, lifted his chin defiantly, and stalked away from the group, needing space. He wandered around the outside of the tower, making friends with a cat as he did so. He tried not to notice the stares and whispers around him as he sat on the edge of the wall, looking down into the black water that surrounded the stone keep. The cat sat next to him, washing her whiskers.

“I bet they underestimate you too.” Astarion looked at the cat. The cat looked back, knowingly. Astarion sighed. “I thought I was doing better,” he whined quietly. “I thought… I thought…”

“You the spawn?” The tone harsh, derisive and condescending.

Astarion glanced backwards. It was a female drow, matching the tone. She wore classic drow armour, and her entire demeanour coordinated her supposed superiority. Astarion brought his gaze back to the water. “I won’t bite you,” he growled. “I’m not feral.” He nearly gagged at the pungent odour coming off her. He definitely wouldn’t bite. He probably would get food poisoning.

“Yes, I heard you had a pseudo-sire. Where is he?”

Astarion shrugged. Pseudo-sire… where do they come up with these terms? “Dunno.”

“Your sire needs to teach you some manners.”

“Does he now? I’ll be sure to pass on your feedback to him.” Astarion raised his eyebrows. He swore that the cat next to him gave a little chuckle.

“Astarion?”

Fucking Gale.

The elf pointed a hand in Gale’s direction; the wizard just having walked of the same door that the drow did. “Talk to him,” he grumbled.

“Araj Oblodra,” the drow introduced herself.

“Gale,” said Gale. He sounded curious yet trepidatious. “What do you want with Astarion?”

“A deal. I am a scientist, you see.”

Deals and scientists weren’t normally associated together.

Gale made a non-committal noise. Astarion imagined his eyebrows knitting together like the joining of two hairy caterpillars.

“I am alchemist by trade,” continued the drow. “Blood is my expertise. With a few drops of your blood, I can brew a potion that is all of your best qualities in a bottle. Useful, no?”

“If I didn’t already have access to my best qualities, perhaps,” remarked Gale, dryly.

The drow was not perturbed. “But when it comes to your fanged friend… ever since I was a little girl, I dreamt of being bitten by a vampire.”

Astarion blinked rapidly. His eyebrows alternated between rising and furrowing in confusion.

She’s one of those… he thought. She should go to Baldur’s Gate; I bet Master would do it for her…

“Right…” said Gale, sounding as confused as Astarion felt. “I don’t think it’s pleasant,” he said, slowly.

“Oh, but to be on the edge of life and death… feeling your life fade away…”

If I hear the words ‘orgasm’ and ‘little death’ one more time I will throw myself off this wall, thought Astarion, fiercely.

“I can give you a potion that will forever increase the strength of the person who drinks it.” The drow obviously thought that her voice had a whimsical, ethereal quality to it. It didn’t. It set Astarion’s teeth on edge. “It’s yours… in return for a single bite.”

Astarion’s throat quivered impulsively.

“Astarion?” asked Gale, quietly.

The elf frowned. He shook his head.

Oblodra snorted. “You need to teach him some manners. This is a once in a lifetime opportunity. Will you really let a mere spawn squander it for you?” Astarion could hear the sneering.

“A mere spawn?” repeated Gale. “He’s his own person!”

“I’m sure he really believes that.”

Astarion bristled. His muscles were tense. His fingers were gripped tightly onto the stone edges of the wall.

“He’s his own person.” Gale’s voice was thundery yet quiet, a mere rumble on the horizon, a threat of bad weather to come. “If he does not want to bite you, then he does not have to bite you.”

Oblodra snorted again and Astarion heard her approach him. He scrambled to his feet and instinctively lurched towards Gale. He stared at the drow with wide eyes. The stench was causing bile to rise in his throat, and it was making it hard to think.

“Oh, come now,” said the drow again, gazing at Astarion like a prized cut of meat. “Just think of the alchemical power I can grant you and your friends. For just one bite.” She laughed. “You must be used to having a spawn around. They’re meant to blindly do what they’re told. By giving it choice, you’re making it live unnaturally. It won’t cope.”

Astarion glanced at Gale, eyes widening. But Gale, at least on the surface, was calm and authoritative. “He is a he, not an it.” He reached out with a hand and put it gently on Astarion’s shoulder, present enough to give comfort but light enough so that Astarion could easily shrug it away if he wanted to.

Astarion didn’t want to.

“I believe our business is done?” Gale continued, icily.

The drow snorted. “It,” she emphasised the word causing it to drip with ice and venom, “seems so.” She turned on her heel and left the pair outside on the wall.

Astarion exhaled the large amount of air that he hadn’t realised that he had been holding. He panted for a few moments. Gale just stood still and silent, hand still on Astarion’s shoulder.

“Thanks…” Astarion managed to cough out. “Thanks for that.”

“It’s no problem,” said Gale, calmly. He hummed quietly whilst Astarion tried to grasp onto logical thought. “You’ve had a rough day. We’re thinking about heading back to camp. You wanna get a head start?”

Astarion nodded slowly. “Come with me?”

Gale smiled. “Of course, my friend.”

Friend, friend. I’m not being abandoned…

The Thorm family mausoleum was in disarray. Astarion had been in his fair share of crypts in his time, and this one was not ranked in his top five. He curled his lip distastefully as he observed the broken and dilapidated gravestones.

“It is disrespectful,” agreed Wyll as Astarion made his displeasure none through various tuts, tsks, and clicks.

Astarion shook his head. “Waste of a good resting place.” He snorted. “I was buried underground in a hastily made pine coffin because my parents didn’t bother to come to the funeral. I had to dig my way through six feet of dirt and mud. It would have been much better on my nails if I’d had a crypt.”

Wyll looked as if he was going to ask a question, but he obviously thought better of it.

The Gauntlet of Shar, on the other hand, was much grander and well put together. Time had weakened its overall aesthetic, but the purple grandeur was still palpable in the air. The rats were nervous but not overly plague ridden either, which Astarion appreciated. The group, unwillingly, had decided to deal with Raphael’s orthon first before camping for the night in one of the disused chambers. They followed the scent of sulphur down into the depths.

Astarion did not tell them that the sulphur came from a dwarven warlock, not an orthon. He decided that would cause more issues than he wanted to deal with.

The orthon himself, a huge lump of red lard named Yurgir, was an odd character. They discovered through Lae’zel’s inclination to randomly taste things that he was using succubus spittle on insect organs to charm a displacer beast. They also learned, through Yurgir himself, that Raphael had trapped him into a particularly annoying musical contract. He was also surrounded by halberd-wielding merragons, Astarion’s least favourite type. And lastly, Yurgir had a penchant for using invisibility. For the first time, Astarion regretted not taking up Volo’s offer of an eye that could see invisibility.

The fight was long, but not particularly arduous. Karlach had a knack for killing demons and she merrily caught and tossed his bombs back at Yurgir. Shadowheart and Wyll took care of most of the merragons in melee range, dipping and diving out of halberd reach. Astarion took up his preferred spot: high up above the battlefield, hiding in the shadows as he fired arrow upon arrow down at his targets. Gale and Lae’zel aided Karlach in bringing Yurgir down to size but the kindly allowed Astarion to have the killing blow. Karlach remarked, somewhat angrily, that she expected Raphael to quibble the terms of his deal if Astarion hadn’t killed Yurgir himself. Astarion had smiled and thanked her kindly trying hard to hide the fact that killing Yurgir, apart from Shadowheart finding a Sharran umbral gem, had been a complete waste of time.

Dinner that night was tense. Shadowheart abandoned Lae’zel to pray and the githyanki was clearly annoyed by it but had learnt her lesson about Astarion by being threatened by Gale. Karlach and Wyll, the most experienced with the Hells, were nervous about Raphael’s impending arrival. They kept glancing over their shoulder and then staring at Astarion as the vampire attempted to drink one of his stockpiled blood bottles. It put him right off his cow blood. And Gale? Well Gale was focused solely on the fire, making a point of not looking in Astarion’s direction.

The elf leaned his head against the stone wall. He was outside of his tent; he did not want Raphael to pop into existence among his underwear. The campfire glowed beyond Astarion’s eyelids, and he knew for a fact that Gale was still there, focused on the embers. Wyll and Karlach too were still nearby, cuddling into each other, as if that would protect them from devils.

“Little mouse?”

Astarion opened one eye. Raphael loomed over him, a smirking grin on half of his face. Astarion groaned. He pushed himself off the wall and into a standing position. Raphael gestured him to follow out of sight of the others. Astarion sighed.

Raphael stopped walking when outside the chamber and further along the corridor. He stopped Astarion from saying anything by laying a hand across the elf’s mouth. “You did well with Yurgir,” he commented.

“Group effort,” said Astarion, dismissively, from underneath Raphael’s palm.

The cambion made a non-committed noise before removing his hand from Astarion’s face. The two were stood very close together, not even a foot away. It felt strangely intimate and Astarion hated the sensation. Raphael chuckled. “Indeed, and what a feisty group you are. But now, I think I owe you some information, do I not?”

“I never really got given the terms of the deal,” said Astarion. He had intended for his words to be sharper, but it sounded whiny more than anything else. He cursed himself and tried to sound and act stronger than he felt he was.

Another chuckle from Raphael and the cambion rolled his shoulders. “It’s simple. I give you information that allows your friends to save the world. I get to…”

“Use me,” Astarion despairingly filled in the gaps. “For how long? I’m expecting enslavement on my arrival back to Baldur’s Gate. I’m not too sure how you long you can use me for.”

Raphael’s smile widened. “Time is immaterial.”

“I don’t want to be used by you in perpetuity,” said Astarion, quickly.

“You made that deal before.”

Astarion hummed. “Yeah. I’d like to go back on that deal as well.”

Raphael laughed. “Okay, let’s not say until the world burns or forever. Let’s say… until you can persuade me otherwise.”

Astarion rolled his eyes. “I’ll add a caveat. Other people are allowed to help persuade you.”

“Agreed, but they’re not allowed to prevent me from using you.”

“Do I want to know what ‘using’ me, means?” Astarion asked as he rolled his eyes.

There were more teeth in Raphael’s wolfish grin now. “Probably not.”

Astarion snorted. “Fine. I’ll sign. I’m going to live forever as a vampiric slave anyway; I might as well have a devilish one as well.”

A flick of Raphael’s wrist and a contract and quill hovered in front of Astarion’s face. The text glinted and glow with firelight as Astarion read. He was surprised to note that Raphael had placed more conditions on himself. He wasn’t allowed to kill Astarion or torture him unnecessarily nor hurt his loved ones in order to get to Astarion. Most interestingly, however, was the line that heavily implied that Raphael had a duty of care to rescue Astarion from his master’s hold. Astarion took the quill and signed with a flourish. “Ancunín or Szarr?”

Raphael shrugged. “Whichever or none at all.”

Astarion went with neither. “Go on then. What about these scars?”

Raphael held up an index finger to gesture for patience. “They are… more devilish than I had anticipated,” he had admitted.

Astarion raised an eyebrow.

“The look is justified,” said Raphael. “Your master has enacted a deal with the Archdevil Mephistopheles where he sacrifices a number of souls to be granted the knowledge and power of a truly terrifying rite. Those souls are bound to seven spawn that must be sacrificed in hellfire so that Szarr becomes a new type of Vampire: the Vampire Ascendent. He will have all of the strengths of a vampire, but none of the weaknesses. Sunlight will merely bathe his skin in light, and he will be able to satiate his hunger with ordinary food. His vampiric powers will also grow; he will be able to command the weather, summon wolves, manipulate the minds of many, and his necrotic power will be nigh unstoppable. And you, dear Astarion are the key. Without you being present, Cazador Szarr can not perform the Rite of Profane Ascension.”

Astarion closed his eyes. “I love being the means to an end,” he murmured.

“There is time to stop him,” urged Raphael. “On your return to Baldur’s Gate you can stop him. You must find a way.”

Astarion exhaled lightly through his nose in a slight huff. “And to think,” he said, carelessly, “I thought it was poetry.”

“As a devil, I am inclined to think of contracts as a form of poetry.”

“You should read proper literature.”

“Should I?”

Raphael seemed to be pressing closer and closer to him. His breath was warm on Astarion’s face and fingers now gripping his chin, turning it towards Raphael’s mouth…

The devil’s tongue was hot. It seared Astarion’s mouth like a branding iron, but he quickly realised that he could not pull away from the kiss that Raphael was dictating in his mouth. Astarion relaxed and let Raphael plunder, nibble and bruise.

“I could get used to that,” said Raphael, breathlessly, as he pulled away. He took a few steps backward. “I will see you soon, little mouse.” He vanished.

Astarion was stood still. His bones were frozen in place, and his mouth was still slightly agape, his lips bruised and plump from Raphael’s attentions. He shivered. He felt dirty and corrupted. He needed…

He turned back to the main campfire and let his feet carry him to where he needed to be.

He needed comfort. He needed support. He needed a shoulder to cry on.

Gale.

He needed Gale.

He plunged down next to the wizard, burying his head in the crook of Gale’s neck. Tears poured down his face.

“Hey, hey, Astarion?” soothed Gale, rubbing the elf’s sides. “What’s happened?”

“I’m tired of being used.” Astarion didn’t move his face from Gale’s robe. It was getting snotty and damp, but Gale was warm underneath and that is what mattered.

“Who’s using you?”

Astarion gestured around him flippantly. “Raphael. That drow. Cazador.”

“What did Raphael say?”

“The master… he’s going to sacrifice me and the other spawn. So, he can ascend and become this all powerful creature.” The tears were threatening to turn into sobs at this point. “He didn’t even turn me because he wanted me…” Astarion’s voice shook. “He turned me to sacrifice at the end. A pig raised for slaughter.”

Gale wrapped his arms around the elf and placed his chin on top of Astarion’s head. “We’ll stop him,” promised the wizard. “I promise.”

“I don’t want to be used again,” sniffled Astarion.

“You won’t.” Gale’s voice was firm, but the warmth still flowed out of him relentlessly. The pair sat there alone in silence for a while whilst Astarion’s tears subsided.

“Gale?” he asked, weakly.

Gale hummed to show that he was listening.

“Thanks for saving me with that awful drow. For a moment… for a moment I thought you were going to tell me to bite her.”

“Oh, Astarion.” Gale gripped him harder. “You make your own choices. For better or for worse.”

Astarion nodded into his robe. He pressed his ear against Gale’s chest, relaxing as he heard the familiar thud of his heartbeat. He still felt dirty from the kiss and so when he drew away from Gale he put on a soft expression. “Gale,” he said, quietly.

Another hum.

“Kiss me.”

Chapter Text

The black castle had remained unchanging. Lights flickered on and off as the inhabitants moved from room to room but that was the only real suggestion that someone lived there. No one walked the parapets, the drawbridge remained down, the portcullis remained up. No footsteps crossed the courtyard and the complete silence that the castle was rendered in frustrated Wyll. It was as if the place was taunting Wyll and Karlach as they watched from the tree line, their inability to glean any scrap of information about the inhabitants frustrating them. They had taken to just staring at it, trying to work out whether there was a pattern to the lights.

One, on the eastern side, seemed to be used a lot. A room at the top of a western parapet seem to be frequently occupied too. Wyll theorised that it was a bedroom and maybe an office? But what sort of devil needed an office in a castle like this? And that’s if it was, in fact, a devil. The map that they had found from one of Zariel’s officers made it clear that this place was a no-go zone. The radiant haze that surrounded them like a fine, golden mist also suggested that the infernal didn’t make their way here. So, who, or what, could it be?

“I think we just go for it,” said Karlach, suddenly, after about three days of watching and studying. “We’re clearly not finding out anything by sitting here.”

“What? Just walk up across the drawbridge?”

“I mean,” the tiefling shrugged, “I suppose we could be more subtle. Climb a wall or something.”

“We don’t know if they can see us,” Wyll pointed out.

Karlach snorted. “They could be seeing us now,” she grumbled. “This light thing… it could be a ward spell or a detection spell.”

“So, you suggest that because of that we just say, ‘fuck it. Let’s walk in’?” Wyll was exasperated.

“Walking in is better than staring at it,” reasoned Karlach. “Besides, if this place is a no devil zone, they might be potential allies.”

This had been Karlach’s argument since part way through the second day of their watch. The idea had an appeal, of course. A potential ally would do the pair wonders as they continued their journeys through Avernus, something they intended to do after going ‘topside’ for a period of time. Wyll couldn’t quite make himself believe it, however. Firstly, it seemed too simple a solution and if there’s one thing that Wyll Ravengard had learnt through his life experiences, it was that nothing was ever simple. Second, the concept of a benevolent ally living in a black castle in the mountains of Avernus seemed too far-fetched abstract. Wyll may not have read any literature for a while (good bookshops were hard to come by in Avernus), but a black stone castle nestled amongst dark mountains in literal Hell seemed to be too much of an indicator of malevolence as opposed to being a sign that proudly read Hero Lives Here. Finally, the idea that the higher ups in Zariel’s army were wary enough not to set foot within a hundred miles of the place did not soothe Wyll in the same way that it soothed Karlach’s worries. If anything, it just made Wyll think of the prospect of monsters so terrible that literal devils were frightened of them. He suspected that a bad thing for devils was also a bad thing for them.

It could not be denied, however, that Karlach was correct in the statement that they were learning nothing sitting here under manufactured pine trees. They had two options, Wyll considered.

Option 1: Leave and never come back
and
Option 2: Go in and see what’s what.

Neither option particularly filled Wyll Ravengard with glee. He knew that Karlach was more inclined to the second option, a plan she would describe as “Fuck Around and Find Out”. Wyll was more cautious than the tiefling by nature, but even he couldn’t ignore the prickling in his gut urging him to explore. He looked into Karlach’s dark yellow eyes and almost winced at the fiery passion that he saw there. He pretended to sigh, melodramatically, and then grinned, “Fuck it. Let’s see what’s what.”

“Hells yes, soldier!”

After all, if it did go badly, Wyll reckoned that him and Karlach had a pretty good chance of escaping. They had killed a Netherbrain together. Defeated illithid hordes. It couldn’t be that bad in this castle.

Despite Karlach’s protestations, Wyll elected for a subtle approach. On one of his walk rounds of the place, the ranger had spotted a grate in the outer wall. The moat ebbed and flowed at this entrance, and Wyll guessed that it either led to an internal well or the castle had some sort of internal plumbing system. If it was the former, they could climb up the well. And if it was the latter, well, internal plumbing meant sewage system which meant tunnels. This grate was on the southwest side of the castle, so the pair waited until the light in the western turret flickered out before making their move. Wyll crept forward first, his natural stealthiness superior to Karlach’s but the open ground made his skin prickle.

He moved forward onto his belly, suddenly thinking that if anyone watching them then this approach looked incredibly stupid. Wyll tried not to think about that as he crawled towards the moat. The moat was suspiciously blue, as if it had been dyed that way by someone who had a vague idea of what ‘normal water’ looked like. It was a couple of metres across, with gentle waves across the banks. The grate was on the other side and from what Wyll could tell it looked like normal cast iron.

“Dolor!” he hissed, and the red blast flew from his fingertips, hitting the iron grating perfectly, smashing it apart. He glanced behind him towards Karlach and nodded, before slipping into the moat.

The water was freezing, a sensation that Wyll hadn’t felt since coming to Avernus and one that Karlach hadn’t experienced since being sold to Zariel. The tiefling let out a little squeak of shock as she entered. “What the fuck!” she hissed, quietly. “How can water be this cold in this fucking place?”

“No idea,” whispered back Wyll. “Whoever this guy is who lives here, they have a lot of power.” He pushed off the bank, surprised to feel shingle shift under his booted feet and began to swim the couple of metres to the grate opening.

The hole left by the broken grate was a semicircle, about half a metre tall and the same width. Even as Wyll swam closer, he couldn’t see anything coming from it, just a gentle, steady stream of water. Judging by the water levels, they wouldn’t have to swim through the tunnel, but they would definitely be crawling on their bellies. Wyll felt Karlach grimace beside him.

“Let’s get this over with,” the tiefling muttered.

Wyll nodded again and hauled himself into the tunnel. It was pitch black inside and Wyll stretched out his hands in front of him, feeling basalt gravel and water. The darkness felt magical, and Wyll whispered his darkvision spell to no effect. Karlach glowed behind him, but the light didn’t travel far enough, smothered by the inky dark. Wyll pushed and pulled himself along, feeling the tunnel become narrower. Rock soon touched his horns, making him crick his neck unnaturally. He steadied his breathing and continued.

They didn’t know how long they had travelled in this tunnel for, but it suddenly widened and deepened out into a large underground pool. Wyll noticed that their tunnel was actually slightly higher than this pool, causing the water to gently ebb away as opposed to cascading down into the moat outside. Small mercies, he thought as he propelled himself to the side, clambering out onto a thin path of crumbling basalt. Karlach shook herself like a wet dog when she followed him.

The ranger looked around them. As he suspected, there were a number of pipes feeding into this small pool. “This must be where wastewater is collected,” he mused, out loud.

“You should’ve been a plumber,” commented Karlach, as she brushed past him to take the lead, spying a stone staircase leading upwards on the opposite side of the pool.

Wyll grinned. “Do you reckon Dad would’ve been proud of me if I was?” he asked, jokingly, as he followed her.

Karlach thought for a moment. “My folks always said that if you’re a plumber you’ll never be out of work. Everyone has to shit.”

“You are so eloquent.”

Karlach flashed a grin. “Ya love me though.”

Wyll snorted. “Indeed, I do.”

The stone steps led to a wooden trap door. Karlach easily brute forced her way through, pulling Wyll up through the wreckage afterwards. They were in some sort of cellar, a long narrow one. There was a wooden staircase going up, towards the main part of the castle, Wyll guessed, and there was one going down too. It looked normal enough. Barrels and crates and boxes lined the walls, covered in dust and cobwebs.

Wyll pointed towards the downstairs steps. Karlach nodded and made her way down, her mechanical heart emitting a soothing familiar glow that bounced light off the black walls. They arrived in a long stone antechamber, lined with unlit sconces. “Fiat lux,” whispered Wyll, illuminating one of the rings he wore on his fingers. The white light was stark in contrast to the dark walls, and they could make out a series of thick doors, bolted shut and inscribed with glyphs and runes in white. Wyll was suddenly very aware of his own breathing.

“A prison,” Karlach whispered what Wyll was thinking. Her yellow eyes were wide as the pair walked softly down the corridor. It was eerily silent.

“Do you reckon anyone is kept in here?” murmured Wyll.

“Seems like an awful lot of effort to go to if there isn’t,” replied Karlach.

Above each number was a carved number. The number 5 glowed above one in a devilish sanguine colour whereas the others were faded into the rock. Karlach nodded towards cell number five.

Wyll tentatively put his hand to a small flap about three quarters up the height of the black door. It felt cool to touch. He lightly gripped the rod that controlled the flap and lifted it, putting his glowing ring to the newly revealed gap so he could see inside it.

“Hells Karlach,” he hissed. “What have we gotten ourselves into?”

Karlach pushed closer so that she could see. Her breath hitched.

It was a small cell. Damp covered the walls and cobwebs spread from corner to corner. At the opposite end to them, a large body was hanging from chains. A surprisingly scrawny half-orc, limp and lifeless.

“Look at their legs,” whispered Karlach.

Wyll looked. He swallowed. The legs of the orc looked like they had been savaged by a feral beast, torn and broken. Muscle and tissue, rotting and gangrenous, poured out of gaping wounds. Pus bubbled and trickled, making Wyll feel sick.

“We need to get away.” Wyll grabbed the tiefling before she could refuse and ran back towards where they had come from. They were panting heavily now, more in panic than in general exertion. Wyll’s heart leapt when he saw the top of the stairs but skidded to a halt when he looked for the trapdoor that they had come through.

“Karlach,” he said, swallowing. “I’m not being an idiot, am I?”

Karlach was breathing heavier now. She looked around the cellar in a panic. “Shit,” she gasped. “Shit, shit, shit!”

The trapdoor was gone. In its place, written in what Wyll did not have to guess was blood, were the words:

Chapter Text

“Shit,” said Jaheira. She came up on Gale’s right-hand side.

“Tsk’va,” hissed Lae’zel, who limped up on Gale’s left-hand side.

The three of them gazed into the small crater that had appeared in the centre of the ballroom of the High Hall in the Upper City.

“Shit,” repeated Gale, somewhat dumbstruck by the sight in front of him. They hadn’t done anything with the bodies yet. He could sense that the Fist were itching around him, crawling with nervous energy and desperate to move their commanding officer’s body to a more respectful location. And, of course, to remove the teeth making their home in her neck.

The spawn was vaguely recognisable, according to Jaheira. Her Harpers had seen him around the city. Nothing special, the High Harper had shrugged. They didn’t know his name. Blond hair, muscular frame, and Gale would bet his tower that his eyes, when alive, had been blue.

“We should make a poster or something,” muttered Gale, to no one in particular. “See if anyone recognises him.”

Jaheira sighed. “Szarr doesn’t turn recognisable people into spawn.”

“Astarion was a magistrate,” argued Gale, somewhat lamely.

Jaheira raised her eyebrow. “Yes, and Szarr arranged his brutal murder so no one would come looking for him.”

Gale grunted, somewhat acceptingly. “I wonder if this guy’s parents came to the funeral,” he said, absently.

Neither Jaheira nor Lae’zel said anything. Gale imagined they exchanged a look behind his shoulders. It’s what normally happened. He was feeling sort of blank, empty almost, as if someone needed to write all over him to give him some sort of direction or purpose. He felt slightly dizzy, and he couldn’t tell whether he tasted bile or blood in the back of his throat. A very small, yet rational, part of his subconscious recognised that he was going through a textbook trauma response to a dramatic event. Shock, his brain helpfully supplied. He felt himself being nudged away and followed the pressing until he was sat on a chair next to a despairing Shadowheart.

“I told you not to move,” she growled at Lae’zel. She reached out with a hand, grabbed Lae’zel’s collar and, with surprising strength, pulled the githyanki into a seat next to her.

“I needed to see,” explained Lae’zel, calmly, as if she was in no way bothered by Shadowheart’s tetchiness.

“That’s always your problem,” grumbled Shadowheart, as she started to check over Gale, looking to his eyes and yanking on his jaw so the wizard opened his mouth, “you always need to do things. Your prioritising skills need some work.” Her tone was curt.

“I’ve had no complaints.”

Shadowheart snorted. “You just choose not to listen.” She whacked Gale’s knee. The wizard knew she was checking his reflexes but was sure he didn’t need to be hit that hard.

Lae’zel said nothing. She reclined in the chair and closed her eyes, the closest thing to peaceful that Gale had ever seen on her face.

The cleric rolled her eyes. “Were you hit?” she asked Gale.

The wizard shook his head. “Not that I noticed. Bit grazed from the first blow but my padding took most of the hit,” he chuckled.

Shadowheart gave him a knowing smile. “Maybe all that alcohol fat has done you some good,” she teased.

“Hey, I was referring to my robe!” protested Gale.

“Sure, you were, buddy.”

Gale grinned.

“I am glad that I chose to come here,” announced Lae’zel, still not opening her eyes. “It is clear that this business with Cazador is not over. I will send to Voss, tell him that I am otherwise engaged until this matter is resolved.”

Gale glanced at Shadowheart. The cleric was gritting her teeth, her jaw tense. He knew that Lae’zel wasn’t intentionally being, well being Lae’zel, but Gale recognised the anguish in Shadowheart’s usually fluid movements as she healed the bruises on Gale’s body. Gale knew that Shadowheart was thinking about Xan. Gale knew that Shadowheart was grieving and that perhaps a little part of her had expected her (former? It had never been quite clear where the pair stood) lover to have saved the day, the dashing champion that she was. Realistically, Shadowheart (and Gale) knew that Lae’zel couldn’t have saved Shadowheart’s parents, and probably not Xan either, but Shadowheart’s grief for her family churned with her grief for Lae’zel’s absence, and bitter anger was all that remained in the wake. For Lae’zel to so blazingly declare that she would remain with them until the matter was resolved then she would disappear again was, albeit expected, a shard of ice to chest for Shadowheart.

Shadowheart swallowed. “Yeah,” she muttered. “Gotta be a hero now.”

Gale flinched. Halsin, who Gale hadn’t realised was there, jolted slightly. The large wood elf tried to guide Shadowheart towards other patients in an effort to diffuse the situation, but the cleric was having none of it.

It didn’t help that Lae’zel either just didn’t understand, or refused to understand. Gale didn’t know whether either was intentional or was again, just Lae’zel being Lae’zel. Instead, the githyanki seemed to consider Shadowheart’s words and recognised none of the sentiment. “Sometimes we must force ourselves to be a hero, even if our hearts are not yet in it,” she said.

Gale guessed that Lae’zel thought she was being soothing. Or, at least, as close to soothing as the githyanki ever was. It didn’t help matters though. Shadowheart lifted her head, eyes glistening with furious tears. “And you’ve decided now is to be that point?” she snarled.

Lae’zel was rather taken aback by the aggression. She furrowed her thin brows in confusion.

“Not when my parents were taken? Or when the Harpers were threatened? Or when children died of a putrid disease where they literally rotted away? Or when the entirety of Baldur’s Gate was under threat of becoming a vampiric lair?” Shadowheart hissed, trembling with rage. “Or when Xan was taken?”

“Shadowheart…”

“You refused to help when we had a chance to help Astarion,” Shadowheart was furious. It was clear that this had been building up for a while, now. “Then, then you…then you killed him.”

“We agreed that Astarion was to be killed if there was no other option,” explained Lae’zel, quietly. She remained stoic in the face of Shadowheart’s ire. It was impressive. Gale could have appreciated it if it didn’t feel like he was being stabbed in the gut when Astarion was mentioned.

“Was there no other option?” snapped Shadowheart.

“No,” replied Lae’zel, firmly. “He was about to kill Gale.”

“You could have stopped him. You could have knocked him out or something.”

“I was not willing to risk that against an angry vampire.” Lae’zel was trying to keep her voice cool, but Gale could tell that there was a definite edge to it now as the githyanki surged to control her own anger.

The cleric snorted. “Face it Lae’zel,” she spat. “You didn’t care about him. That’s why you didn’t come back for him and why you were happy enough to kill him.”

“That’s not true,” rumbled the githyanki.

“Isn’t it? You haven’t cared for him since Gale told you to stop raping him.”

There was silence. Gale held his breath. He did not like how he had been brought up in this conversation. He also didn’t like how Astarion was being used. Shadowheart was devastated and having a shock reaction herself, Gale knew this, but it didn’t stop his heart twisting when Astarion was being weaponised.

Lae’zel inhaled deeply. “That is not true,” she repeated. In any other scenario, Gale would have admired her skill to keep her voice steady. “Astarion and I’s relationship changed admittedly, but I never stopped… caring for him.”

Shadowheart snorted. “You’ve never cared for anyone in your life, Lae’zel.”

The githyanki stopped. “That is definitely not true.”

Shadowheart said nothing.

“Shadowheart,” Halsin began, softly and tentatively. “It’s alright.”

The cleric’s silver brows twitched.

“You’re grieving. You’re allowed to be angry. But maybe,” Halsin hesitated. He kept his voice quiet and gentle. “But maybe you need to think about what you’re actually angry about.”

Shadowheart stood. Her lip twitched. A single tear fell down her face. She turned to face the broken window, looking out across the city. She watched the smoking chimneys, the lights of the inns glowing in the evening light, the thin white sails of ships floating gently on the river.

“You’re not angry about Lae’zel.”

“I am,” muttered Shadowheart.

“Maybe,” conceded Halsin, “but not in the way you’re lashing out.”

Shadowheart exhaled. “In what way am I angry, then, druid?” she asked, bitterly.

“You know,” murmured Halsin. “I will not explain your own feelings to you, but you need to address them. Or you’ll drive your greatest fears to become a reality.”

The cleric’s breath hitched slightly.

“Lae’zel is not responsible for Astarion’s death. You know this. We all wish we could have saved him. Lae’zel made an impossible choice, and she saved Gale whilst doing it. If it hadn’t been for Lae’zel…” Halsin’s voice trailed off slightly. “We could be grieving two friends, instead of just one.”

Gale hadn’t thought about like that. He could tell by the slight twitch in her shoulders that Shadowheart hadn’t considered it either. The emotions of that night in the Crimson Palace had banished all recognition of Gale needing to be saved. It was almost like he had become a mere bystander to the event, as opposed to a main character. Even in Gale’s own head. In Gale’s own memories.

Lae’zel took a deep breath. “I cared deeply for Astarion,” she said. “But not as much as I care for you, Shadowheart. I’ve never felt anything like the feeling I feel for you.”

Shadowheart turned slowly.

“You are my first and only concern. You are my strength.”

“Then why did you leave?”

Gale saw the depth of sadness in Shadowheart’s gaze. Lae’zel had to have seen it too, for she rose to her feet, her left leg useless, and limped over to Shadowheart. She clasped her hands around Shadowheart’s, green around white. She dipped her head and kissed Shadowheart’s wrist, chastely.

“I left because I needed to.” She raised her head and looked Shadowheart directly in the eye. “Not because I wanted to.”

“You still left.” Shadowheart’s voice was small.

Lae’zel sighed. “Yes. Yes, I did. And I regret it.”

Shadowheart’s eyebrows twitched in slight confusion. “You… you regret it?”

The githyanki nodded. “More and more with each passing day.”

“So why did you go?”

“My people needed me.”

“I needed you. Xan… Xan needed you.”

“You are so strong, Shadowheart. The strongest person I ever met.” Lae’zel moved her hands to Shadowheart’s shoulders. “My love, my life, my strength, my ferocity, my heart, my sword. You are all those things. You did not need me. You had a task. To look after your parents. To look after Xan.”

“I failed.” Shadowheart’s voice was so quiet, so unlike the strong woman that Gale was used to.

Lae’zel shook her head. “Not because of anything you did.”

“If you had been there…”

“If I had been there these horrible things would have still happened.” Lae’zel interrupted her. “I would not have been able to save Astarion from Szarr. I would not have been able to save your parents, nor would I have found Xan quicker.” She pressed her forehead against Shadowheart’s. “I also wouldn’t have worked out what Szarr was doing. I wouldn’t have worked out where Xan was. I would have been impulsive and would have marched into that palace on my own. I would be dead. You’re not. You didn’t. You thought about it.”

“I thought…”

Lae’zel kissed Shadowheart’s forehead.

“I thought you didn’t love me anymore.”

Lae’zel’s eyebrows furrowed slightly. “Oh, my love,” she murmured. “How could I ever stop loving you?”

It was, of course, Duke Ravengard who decided that Florrick’s body should be moved. Gale had never been particularly fond of the counsellor, but his heart and stomach clenched when he saw the immense grief that the duke was allowing himself to show in public. Gale knew from conversations with Wyll that the duke was reluctant to show any emotion in public. According to Wyll, his father didn’t show any emotion when banishing him from Baldur’s Gate eight years ago. Gale found it surprisingly difficult to reconcile the two images of the man he had in his head.

The spawn’s body was dumped rather unceremoniously. Florrick’s was carried with more care and rested on a red satin cloth. Gale found himself walking over to the spawn and kneeling down beside it.

He was dressed rather plainly. Brown shirt, brown trousers, brown boots. Nothing to show any sign of individuality or personality at all. His blond hair was cut in a cropped fashion, shaved at the sides, slightly longer on top. He looked relatively young; Gale would guess that he had been turned by Cazador whilst in his early thirties. Gale started checking his pockets. In his right trouser pocket, Gale came across a small scroll, the seal broken. Gale unwrapped it.

Gale’s eyes narrowed.

“What have you found, cub?”

Gale handed the small parchment to Jaheira. “A ritual?”

“Seems that way,” the wizard replied. “I don’t recognise it though, I –“ Gale was stopped from finishing his sentence by a whiff of sulphur. By the expression on Jaheira’s face, she smelt it too.

“Raphael,” the druid growled.

“Let’s find him,” Gale turned on his heel. He wished he had Astarion’s nose. The odour wasn’t exactly stable. It ebbed and flowed as the pair of them walked down the corridor, stepping delicately over rubble. The smell became more concentrated the further they went.

The trail led them to a small office, probably that of a lesser bureaucrat. Inside, as Gale suspected, was Raphael. He was dressed impeccably as normal, but lounged around, feet up on the mahogany desk, fingertips pressed together, looking absently out of the window. He clearly heard their entry, for his eyebrows furrowed and he steeled his face. Gale, however, could not help but notice that Raphael was trying to hide two very distinct emotions: fury and exhaustion.

“Well, well,” the devil said. “We meet again.”

Gale and Jaheira exchanged a Look.

The druid took the lead, a fact that Gale was eternally grateful for. She cocked her head to the side slightly. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

Raphael’s eyes were not as focused as Gale had seen before but they still held intent as the devil surveyed the pair. “This magic,” he waved a hand around derisively, “it is of a… potent nature.”

Jaheira narrowed her eyes. “I assume you mean it is from Mephistopheles?”

Raphael smiled. The corners of his lips twitched slightly. “Indeed.” He looked out of the window again. “It’s caused quite a stir. Creating undead from one single soul? Powerful stuff.”

Gale coughed and held out the parchment he had found in the spawn’s pocket. Raphael eyed it warily. “What’s this?” he asked, taking it carefully with two fingers as if it would burn him.

“We were hoping you’d know,” replied Jaheira, dryly. “Gale found it on the spawn.”

“Did he now?” Raphael unrolled the parchment. He read it quickly, his eyes flicking over the words. Occasionally his eyebrows would twitch as if he wanted to frown. “Interesting,” he said, finally.

“What does it mean?” Gale was watching him closely.

Raphael exhaled through his nose. He looked at the parchment again. “Confirms the rumours around Avernus at least. Proves that I'm right." He smiled, before taking a deep breath, "Take into shadow, force into night. Blood into blood, heart into heart. Believe in one soul, allow many to be. When blood is spilt, the horde shall rise, Endless as night.” He finished speaking and the parchment burst into flames. Raphael gazed at it, curiously, as if it doing so surprised him. “Poetic really.” He closed his eyes and lifted his chin. When he opened his eyes again, he felt and acted more like the Raphael that Gale was used to.

“As you will know, wizard, powerful magic often requires a conduit. In this case it required two blood sacrifices. One, a straightforward murder victim – this Counsellor Florrick. Chosen, no doubt, for her closeness to Grand Duke Ravengard. The second is undoubtedly more interesting.” Raphael’s tone was lyrical as if he were discussing the finer points of literature.

“The spawn?” asked Gale.

Raphael nodded. “The spawn indeed. For this particular rite to work, the caster has to sacrifice someone bound by blood to him. And who is more bound to Cazador by blood than a created spawn? And as we know, Cazador is no stranger to sacrificing his spawn for his own gain.” His voice hardened slightly, as if it had grown teeth. “But there’s more to it than that. For the second sacrifice has to murder the first, but the first cannot be a stranger to the second. No, they must share… something along the lines of love.”

Jaheira narrowed her eyes. “Florrick was in love with this spawn?”

“No, no. Nothing as deep as that. I expect a casual relationship where the spawn was used to… let’s say… be used.” Raphael smiled slightly. “I must say, it fits Cazador’s modus operandi perfectly.”

Gale thought about this for a moment. He hated it. “This has been planned for a while, then?”

“I imagine so, yes. Enough for this Florrick and this spawn to come to a frequent arrangement.”

“You have such a way with words, Raphael,” remarked Jaheira.

Raphael grinned. He dipped his head. “I have been told.” The devil whipped his legs off from the desk and stood in a fluid movement. “Now, I have other matters to attend to,” he said briskly.

“Wait.” Gale was surprised at his own interruption.

The devil raised an eyebrow.

“The ranseur. Why didn’t it appear to us at the Crimson Palace that night?”

Raphael frowned. He combed a hand through his dark hair and narrowed his eyes. “I will fulfil our contract, little wizard. Though any other devil would have forfeited it on account of your actions that night.”

Gale took a step backwards. He bumped into Jaheira who had done the same thing.

“You could have ruined everything,” the devil growled. He seemed to grow taller, and Gale could have sworn that he saw the shadows of wings behind him. “Running into the Crimson Palace was a mistake. You drove Szarr out. We now have no idea where he is. He has completely gone to ground.” His tone was as harsh as fire and ice. His teeth were sharp, and his eyes were amber flints. “You are lucky, that very few people died that night. You had no real plan, and you unleashed a monster. Cazador Szarr is furious, and he will not rest until Baldur’s Gate is a pile of ash.”

“Why is he so angry?” asked Jaheira.

Why are you so angry? Gale added in his head.

Raphael laughed. It was a deep, unnerving cackle that sent shivers cascading down Gale’s spine. “You took his most precious thing. Proof that he could have everything he wanted.” He stared at them. “His dear…little Star…” He spat out the words.

“Astarion?” Gale was confused.

“Astarion, Astarion, Astarion.” Raphael sang the name as if it meant everything and nothing simultaneously. “Szarr had achieved the ultimate goal of vampiric kind. You might think, oh well, he can make other spawn, why was Astarion so special? Astarion was a brat, a pathetic spawn who never amounted to anything. Useless. Awful at being a spawn by all accounts.”

Gale clenched his fists.

“Oh, don’t get angry with me, little wizard. You’re the one who signed his death warrant!”

Gale flinched.

“Szarr was perfectly happy sacrificing all seven of his original spawn. But then Astarion, the least capable of all of them, the one he punished the most, he managed to escape. He managed some semblance of freedom. He showed Cazador that he was capable just by his absence. And Szarr has never liked it when he can’t get what he wants, and he wanted Astarion back. So, he obsessed over him. Each day he was away, Szarr would fantasise about what he would do with him before sacrificing him. He wanted Astarion crushed.” Raphael paused, surveying his audience before continuing.

“But then, the Lord of the Eighth, in all his benevolence, allowed Szarr to ascend without Astarion’s soul. By that point, whispers of a spawn who had killed the Chosen of Myrkul and lifted a Sharran curse had begun to spread. Now Astarion wasn’t an errant child who had run away from a school master and needed to be punished. No, Astarion had proved himself to be strong. Szarr began to obsess over Astarion as a prized spawn. If Szarr could control Astarion then he would have proof that he was stronger than the heroes who defeated the Netherbrain. In short, it would secure his position at the top of the food chain, dominating Astarion.”

Raphael chuckled. “I also suspect, that in this case, absence truly made the heart grow fonder. Szarr has convinced himself that he loved Astarion. Loved the way he screamed and cried and begged. And when Astarion did return, Astarion did something that Szarr did not expect.”

“What?” asked Jaheira.

“He didn’t confront Cazador,” said Raphael, simply. “Szarr knew that someone will have mentioned his scars to him. He predicted that the way Astarion would make himself be useful would be to sleep with people and one of them” - Raphael continued over Gale’s spluttered protests – “would tell him that it was a contract. Szarr was convinced that Astarion would come and confront him. Try and usurp the ritual. But he didn’t.” He looked Gale straight in the eye.

“He couldn’t,” murmured Jaheira.

“Indeed, he had other priorities.” Raphael pulled a strand of hair that fallen out due to his wild gesticulation back behind his ear. “So Szarr took this as Astarion actually being loyal to him. It fed his fantasies. His prodigal son. The Hero of Baldur’s Gate, loyal vampiric spawn. And after the Rite of Profane Ascension was complete and the tadpole gone from Astarion’s brain… well. Two hundred years of conditioning will turn you into what Astarion became.” Raphael sounded positively flippant.

“In killing Astarion we… did what? Upset him?” Jaheira sounded dumbfounded.

The devil laughed again. “Equivalent of killing a child or a lover or both, I imagine. And Astarion was certainly completely loyal to Szarr at the end. His mind was broken. The tadpole was the last vestige of free will that he had. Without its protection…” Raphael clicked his fingers to illustrate his point. “The ideal spawn.”

There was silence.

“I feel I have gone beyond my original point.” Raphael drew himself up to his full height. “Szarr now wants revenge alongside doing Mephistopheles’s bidding. He is dangerous and unpredictable. We knew that the only thing we could rely on was that Szarr would protect Astarion. That failsafe is gone.”

Gale swallowed, nervously. “What do we do now?”

Raphael shrugged. “Keep a weather eye out. Try not to die. A storm is coming and it will not just be Faerûn who suffers for it.”

Chapter Text

Star’s body was raw and aching. He screwed up his eyes and opened them one at a time. He was in Master’s bed. He sniffed the air, cautiously. The Master’s scent was slightly stale. He had left a while ago, Star realised, and he stretched. His shoulders and hips popped, his elbows and knuckles cracked, and he yawned, relishing in the stretch. He rubbed his eyes. He was sticky all over and his hair greasy. His skin was stuck to the rich bed clothes and he peeled his way off them.

Bath, thought Star, managing to push his way of the bed. He yawned again. He wondered how long he had been out for. The previous night’s session, as Star politely termed it for his own sanity, had lasted a long time. The Master had returned from working outside the castle and he had returned pissed.

Not pissed at Star, thankfully. Though the Master had become surprisingly clingy. He had hand fed Star his evening blood with a goblet, with the small elf on his lap. He had then bathed Star, massaging his muscles and rubbing his skin with delightfully smelling oils. Then he had nestled Star in his lap again in front of the fire and read to him, before he had picked Star up bridal style and carried him to the Master’s bedchamber.

Star wondered, not for the first time, whether his Master’s attitude had had something to with him, just that it made the Master more protective, needing to be near him more. He tried not to let it worry him, but the Master was never clingy. Star was the clingy one, especially when he was in certain headspaces. The Master was the serious one, only doling out physical affection (aside from kisses and sex) out of his own initiative rarely. Star was the one who normally had to ask for cuddles.

But last night, the Master had come home, temper flaring and covered in sweat. He had knelt in front of a reading Star and had asked, ever so sweetly and tenderly, “Can I hold you?”

Star, of course, practically fell into his arms, immediately snuggling his head in the crook of Master’s neck, purring. The Master was always warm, even when slightly sweaty, and Star always cold. In one of his clearer days, he had once joked that Master was his own personal furnace. The Master had replied that Star was his own personal ice cube.

The elf padded to the bathroom. Well, he assumed it was a bathroom. There was a bath-like thing in it, he supposed, and toilets and showers. He had never seen anyone use the showers though. He suspected that Master regarded it as morethan a bathroom, however. Not that that mattered to Star at this moment. He eyed the pool with joy.

The pool was large and deep enough to swim in. A bench ran around the outside, deep enough for two people to sit front to back on without leaving the water. It was always the perfect temperature, and the furthest side was covered in bottles full of oils, shampoos, soaps, and conditioners. Star slipped in, sighing as he did so, allowing his frigid body to acclimatised to the warm sensation. This will never get old, Star sighed to himself, relaxing his muscles as he rested on the bench, his head on the side of the pool, resting on a fluffy white towel.

He let the rest of his body float, gently sculling with his hands, feet splayed out. He’d wash eventually but for now it was nice to just float, to just exist in the warm water. He felt like he was floating in nothingness. He liked the feeling or, rather, the absence of feeling. His head was empty, his muscles were perfectly relaxed, and his fingers made little waves in the water. He felt loved.

Star pushed off from the side, eventually. He proceeded to wash all of the sticky residue from his body – trying hard not to think about what the residue actually was. Star dunked his head under the water. He ruffled his hair with his hands before breaking through the surface. He ungracefully paddled towards the collection of bottles – swimming was not Star’s strong suit. It made the Master laugh to see him ungainly splash about in the water. He spent a good deal of time smelling the different products and choosing which ones he preferred. Star found himself drawn to fresher smells, a bitter citrus, maybe slightly herbal, a sharp tang here or there.

The Master made his presence known by his soft footsteps and the scent of fire. He slipped delicately into the water, resting on the shelf. He said nothing. He sat watching Star wash his hair, a comfortable and easy companionable silence enveloping the pair. Once he had finished, Star turned towards his master and started to lightly tread water, watching. The Master stretched his head and neck and shifted his shoulders back, and Star eagerly swum over, taking care not to overly splash about though he could tell he was amusing his Master.

Star pushed himself onto the ledge next to the Master, waiting. The Master smiled at him, opening his arms, inviting a hug. Star did not need to be asked twice. He immediately curled up on his Master’s lap, head resting on a broad chest, arms wrapped around a warm torso. The Master gently rested his arms around the small elf, bring him closer. He placed his chin on Star’s silver head. Star purred.

“Hello, my darling little mouse,” murmured the Master. He inhaled deeply, as if he was trying to absorb all of Star’s scent.

“Hi,” said Star, shyly. He wriggled closer to his master, squishing his pointed ear against his chest, listening to the reassuring thump of his master’s heartbeat.

The Master started to play with the wet strands of Star’s hair, gently squeezing the water out of them. He worked methodically through the silver strands, manoeuvring them to where he wanted them to be. Soothed by the soft ministrations, Star yawned, and his purr became deeper and more rumbling. The Master gave a light chuckle. He twisted his neck slightly, bending his head to plant a kiss on Star’s forehead. “You are the most precious thing. I am never letting you go.”

Star nuzzled his Master’s neck in response. He kissed along the sharp collarbones, nudging and nestling all the while.

“I love you like this,” the Master continued, softly. His hands softly petted Star’s back. “So affectionate, so loving.” He scratched up and down Star’s spine, eliciting a soft moan. The Master chuckled again. He continued in this manner for a while, occasionally reaching to kiss different parts of Star. “Do you love this too, my star?” There was a slight undercurrent of seriousness that made Star slightly tense.

Star pressed his face into the crook of his Master’s neck, breathing in the smoky scent of power, listening to the steady drumbeat of the heart and the gentle rise and fall of his lungs. “I love this too,” Star whispered, his voice muffled.

The arms around him tightened. “I’m glad.” The Master leant back and lifted Star’s chin, so they were looking each other in the eyes, crimson into amber, gold into blood. “I also love the predator you,” he said, thoughtfully. “The fierce beast, the sharp fangs. It’s like there’s two of you – little mouse and little hawk. And they’re both perfect.”

Star smiled. He liked both of those nicknames.

The Master’s gaze turned serious. “There may be a time soon where we need more of the little hawk than the little mouse.” He sighed. “You know I’ll do all I can to protect you. But that may mean I have to go far away from you.”

Star’s protests were hushed away with another kiss. Tears started welling in his eyes.

“I’ll always come back,” the Master murmured.

Star looked up at him, lip wobbling. “Promise?” the elf croaked.

“I swear it. I’ll sign a contract even.”

Star relaxed slightly. If the Master was prepared to sign a contract about coming back, Star knew for certain that he would. Star didn’t know much about what his Master did, but he knew that contracts played a crucial part of it. Contracts were stronger than any promise or oath, his Master had explained a while ago. That was because of what the Master called “Enforceable Consequences”. Star had nodded. After all, he was often the ‘Enforceable Consequence’. He regularly made the trip down to what he called the ‘Under Cellar’, and drinking blood from those who had defaulted or broken his Master’s contracts. Star liked the blood, but never the individuals. They were always rude, claiming that they didn’t deserve it. If even Star understood that if you broke contracts you were punished, then these people should definitely know. He huffed slightly.

“What are you thinking about, little hawk?” The Master pressed another kiss to Star’s head.

“Enforceable Consequences,” replied Star.

The Master laughed fully this time. “And what will be my Enforceable Consequences if I break this contract, then?” he teased.

Star began to think about it.

“No hugs? No cuddles?” suggested the Master, amusement clear in his face.

“No!” squeaked Star, burrowing himself into his Master, just in case the hugs and cuddles were revoked there and then. “That would punish me, not you!”

“Ah okay, okay.” The Master pretended to think. “No kisses?”

Star sat up. He had decided. “No sex.”

The Master’s eyes widened, and he groaned in faux horror. “What? I think that would literally kill me. You wouldn’t!”

Star gave him a cheeky grin as the Master began to tickle him mercilessly. “Then you best not break the contract then!” he teased.

“I’d rather die than break it,” growled the Master as he devoured him in a kiss.

Star purred. So much for washing himself.

Chapter Text

Astarion had told Gale everything then. They had spooned in Gale’s blue tent, Astarion sprawled so he was simultaneously on top of and below Gale, the air smelling of sex and satisfaction. It had taken Astarion an hour to convince Gale to have sex with him in the first place. He had originally been touched with how clearly Gale knew that sex was a prickly subject and that Astarion had clear issues surrounding consent. Astarion had ended up slightly frustrated that Gale kept asking the same question about whether Astarion wanted to do this or felt socially compelled to do it. Astarion had replied that as someone with an expertise in compulsion, this was not it. Eventually Astarion had become tired of Gale’s checking and had enthusiastically pulled down Gale’s trousers and started sucking his cock. Gale had accepted the enthusiastic consent then. Astarion felt like he proved it with the Aftercare (capitalised) too. Normally Astarion was one to withdraw after sex, but not this time. This time he wanted something real. The incident with Raphael had scared him, though he wasn’t about to admit that. He was seeking comfort, and he found it nestled in a human wizard from the north. So Astarion had spoken about his life, about Cazador, about turning, the scars, the torture, the deaths he had caused. Gale had listened and hugged Astarion tightly when the memories became too much.

Well, he didn’t tell Gale everything. He omitted the part about the deal with Raphael and the kiss that followed; he didn’t think that Gale would take that very well. Well, what the wizard didn’t know, couldn’t hurt him. Besides Gale had enough to worry about. He didn’t need to worry more about his suddenly very clingy vampiric lover. Especially not now.

Gale was a worry for Astarion, however. Now that he realised that he both wanted and had the wizard, Astarion grasped with horror that he was very close to losing him. The elf easily recognised the latent suicidal ideation that swept through his wizard’s mind on occasion. He also recognised that Gale had now been given a method, a time, a place, and a justification to do it, courtesy of that bitch. Mystra, in Astarion’s opinion, had a lot to answer for.

The Gauntlet of Shar had been traumatic for all involved, for different reasons. Shadowheart’s entire worldview was shattered when tasked with murdering an Aasimar that turned out to be the key to Ketheric Thorm’s weakness. Lae’zel clearly wanted to kill something but quickly ascertained that she couldn’t, in fact, murder Shar, so resorted to carrying Shadowheart bridal style to the Last Light Inn to the care of Isobel. And Astarion, at Gale’s urging, had told the group about his scars. Even Wyll and Karlach, individuals who were neither as emotionally or as directly tied with either Astarion or Shadowheart were shaken by the experience. Facing the goddess of Darkness’s realm left no one emotionally unscathed. To Astarion’s surprise, learning that your companion was being tortured for two hundreds by a power-crazy vampire lord also creates some strong feelings. They were all determined to help face Szarr upon their return to Baldur’s Gate.

Emotional turmoil could not detract from their main mission, however. Moonrise Towers loomed metaphorically, and later literally, over them, a vestige to Shar’s diminishing power as Halsin successfully freed Thaniel. They were stood a little way away from the main keep. Jaheira’s Harpers lined up with them as they watched the Nightsong’s silver trail blaze across the night sky above. Astarion made sure, for the twelfth time, that his bow was firmly attached to his back. He glanced at Gale. The wizard’s mage armour shimmered around him, giving him an almost ethereal glow.

“We ready?” whispered Wyll, through the tadpole connection.

A chorus of determined assents flew through Astarion’s mind.

“Alright. Astarion – you’re up. Good luck.”

Gale reached out with a hand as Astarion slipped past, gently brushing his side. It was comforting and the elf nodded in thanks, smiling softly.

“Be safe,” echoed the human’s voice in his brain.

“You too, darling.” Astarion drew his cloak hood over his head and looked towards his destination before slipping into the shadows.

The large oak doors to the Moonrise Towers keep had been, for some reason, left open. It was either due to sheer idiocy or there was a large force of weaponed cultists just inside with all of their eyes fixed upon the entrance. Astarion was willing to bet rather a lot of money on it being the latter. He pulled the drow hood further down his face. He hoped that magic held long enough to allow him to climb the wooden supports within the keep.

He kept close to the wall, avoiding the patches of moonlight that fell through the open door. Astarion observed the goings on in the keep for the moment. He recognised Z’rell in the centre, jaw set angrily, among a host of cultists – human, goblin, dwarven, even some elven. Astarion thought it was manageable, even more so when he recognised the three gnolls that he had freed from that horrible dwarf on a previous scouting mission. The others had been shocked by his emotional outburst, but the sight of a dead slaver was always pleasant. Astarion was sure that these gnolls would turn against the cult when the opportunity arose. Astarion opened his parasitic link to the others and allowed them to see through his eyes as he slowly dragged his gaze across the small battalion Z’rell had gathered.

He sneaked towards the southern wall, hiding behind boxes and crates. He waited for a moment, but there was no suggestion that anyone had spotted him. Astarion deftly climbed the ladder that led to the support beams that spanned across the width of the room. There were four cultists, all small in stature, crouched and in position as lookouts. Astarion smiled to himself as he delicately stepped towards each cultist, killing them silently. He was careful to make sure that no body made a sound as he slit their throats. It was a cowardly way to fight, Astarion admitted to himself. It was a very Cazador way of fighting. He felt a light chuckle as he pondered what his sire would say if the vampire lord saw him now. He hadn’t heard the Master’s voice for a while; not since they had entered the Shadow Cursed Lands. He wondered whether Cazador had given up. That was a thought.

Astarion shook himself. There were more important things to do and think about. He opened the connection to Wyll. “In position, child.”

“Didn’t you die as a literal elven child?”

“Only culturally speaking. And I was in Baldur’s Gate, so it doesn’t count. So, you’re still definitely the child even if we disregard the literal two centuries I have on you. And don’t forget those two centuries.”

“Only culturally? Tell that to your maturity levels.”

“Stop bickering you two.” Lae’zel’s voice interrupted. “ Vampire, if you’re in position, do your job.”

“Aye, aye, Captain darling.”

“The correct terminology would be Kith’rak Darling.”

“Aye, aye, Kith’rak darling.”

“Astarion, just bomb them.” Wyll’s exasperation faded in Astarion’s mind as he pulled out both the smokepowder satchel and the Brilliant Retort that Barcus had given them. He held one in each hand, weighing them both. He was only really meant to use one, but Astarion had never been a man to do things by halves. He made a split-second decision and chucked them both downwards towards the fighters below, followed by a quickly hissed “Ignis!” to light the satchel on fire.

His claws extended as the shockwave threatened to knock Astarion off his perch on the support beams. The blast wave shook the keep. “That was a big boom, ” commented Astarion, through the tadpole.

There was no reply, but Astarion heard the caterwaul that sounded as the others rushed in. He notched an arrow to his bow and began firing rapidly as the smoke below began to clear.

What became very clear to Astarion, very quickly, was that no enemy below thought to look up. This gave the elf a superior advantage as he continued peppering the battlefield with his arrows. It also allowed him to watch for his companions.

Lae’zel, as per usual, was fighting right in the middle, doing her best to ignore the tactically brilliant move of Wyll’s to cast a Hunger of Hadar over their enemies. The githyanki was fighting with a fury Astarion hadn’t seen her have since the battle at the Crèche, six weeks before hand. Her greatsword moved with a fluidity that defied its weight, it danced in Lae’zel’s grip. Simultaneously, she was clearly keeping an eye on Shadowheart, the cleric delightedly killing enemies with necrotic and radiant magic that she was adamant now came from Selûne.

Wyll’s warlock prowess allowed barely any of the cultists to move forward. He dared enemies to come forward and duel him, ever honourable, but he dispatched each one with ease. He was small and lithe compared to the dominating figure of Karlach who’s great axe carved her way through enemies like they were made out of paper. Astarion always enjoyed it when she just picked one up and threw them.

Gale was towards the back of the group. He was casting cantrips as it had been agreed that he wouldn’t put any real effort in until they reached Ketheric. Simple magic aside, Astarion’s eyes widened in admiration (and a fair chunk of lust) as the wizard burnt enemies to a crisp with a cantrip that Astarion could only use to light very small fires.

Z’rell went down easily, a combination of Gale’s magic missiles, an arrow to the neck from Astarion and an Eldritch Blast from Wyll for good measure. The other cultists put up a good fight but were ultimately no match for the companions and their harper allies. Astarion hopped down from the rafters to join them in searching for loot. Karlach found a particularly nice halberd on a bugbear and Astarion picked up more arrows. Gale’s nose wrinkled in disgust as he watched them manoeuvre bodies like it was nothing.

“Bit squeamish, magic man?” teased Karlach.

“Actually seeing them dead actually makes me think about the morality of it all,” sighed Gale.

“To be fair, they did want to kill you.” Astarion tiptoed behind the wizard and rested his chin on Gale’s shoulder. “What’s the morality of sleeping with me?” he whispered, teasingly. “Technically I’m dead. Does that make you a necrophiliac?”

“Oh Gods.” Gale’s face paled.

“Don’t take it seriously,” pouted Astarion, quickly. He wrapped his arms around Gale and squeezed.

“You didn’t feel dead.”

Astarion hummed in the wizard’s ear and kissed his lobe. “Do I feel dead now?”

Gale took the arms that were wrapped around him in his hands. He leant back against Astarion and closed his eyes. “You’ve never felt dead,” he murmured. He was slightly taller than Astarion meaning that he had to crouch his knees to relax against the elf’s shoulders. “I think you’re the most alive out of all of us.”

The wizard’s last sentence could have been a compliment, but Astarion knew a throwaway line about depression when he saw one and he wasn’t having it. He squeezed harder. “Not as alive as you are,” he rumbled firmly into Gale’s ear. “And you’re going to keep being alive.” It turned into a slightly possessive growl.

Gale gave a small snort. “Is that an order?” he asked, lightly.

Astarion nibbled Gale’s ear. “Do you want it to be?”

He could feel Gale’s skin getting warmer as the wizard blushed. Astarion purred out a chuckle. “Well now we’ve got something to try…”

“Oi! You two, stop flirting and come on!”

Astarion pressed a kiss into the back of Gale’s neck. “Oh I’m coming, darling!” He laughed as Gale glared at him and he trotted after the others.

Ketheric had picked a good arena for the fight. Astarion was impressed. High on top of the tower, skulls painted into the tiles, lit with candles, neat rows of necromites… Astarion was pretty sure that he had been to soirees like this before. The companions were in a semi-circle facing the Chosen of Myrkul. He looked furious.

“You will kneel.” The gruff voice of the half-elf was loud and brash.

“Sorry,” called out Astarion in a sing-song voice. “I only kneel recreationally now.” He didn’t know where his confidence had come from. Probably that between enslavement by Cazador and enslavement by Raphael, death by Ketheric didn’t seem like too bad an outcome anymore. He giggled.

“Spawn,” hissed Ketheric.

Astarion gave a little flirtatious mock bow. “That’s me.”

“I told Z’rell that she should have kept you. Forced you to bond with someone else,” Ketheric growled.

“That’s not how that works!” taunted Astarion. “I’m completely feral!”

A glimmer of something passed across Ketheric’s eyes. Whatever it was, it wasn’t good. “Feral, eh?” the paladin repeated. A smile flickered on his face, nearly hidden by the beard.

Pain wracked through his head. It felt like his tadpole was suddenly on fire or was sending bolts of electricity and ripping his brain matter to shreds. Astarion’s jaw clenched and he doubled over, landing face down on the floor. His locked jaw caused his fangs to extend reactively, and venom poured out of his glands dripping their numbing toxin down his face. On the floor his claws flashed out uncontrollably and his muscles spasmed.

He could vaguely hear noises around him. His brain faltered as it tried to comprehend what Astarion’s senses were telling him. There were figures around him… Were they causing the pain? He tried to let out a threatening growl and he lashed out with his clawed hand when one of the figures approached him. Astarion howled. He screwed his eyes shut and curled inwards.

The pain, have to stop the pain… make it stop… please make it stop…

He’d felt this pain before, a small part of him remembered it. It was so long ago though, he couldn’t remember how he had stopped it. Or had someone else stopped it for him?

Astarion managed to open his eyes, squinting at the large figure in front of him. He spluttered out a whine.

“Listen.”

Astarion listened. His ears twitched rapidly.

“ I can stop the pain. ”

Pain… stop… stop the pain…

“I can make it all go away. You just have to listen to me.”

Listen… listen… pain… stop…

There was a flash of light.

Astarion rolled away from it. He was shaking but the pain in his head started to recede. He took deep breaths. His chin and neck were numb from where his venom had dripped down, as were his lips and tongue. He managed to force his fangs and claws to retract as the pain ebbed away and Astarion succeeded in gaining some semblance of control over his spasming muscles.

“Astarion?” A soft voice but brimming with power.

The elf turned his neck tensely and immediately relaxed. Gale.

Gale uncorked a healing potion and held it out to Astarion. The spawn took it gingerly, his hands shaking, so Gale instead kept a grip on the bottle and held it up to Astarion’s lips. Astarion used his hands to manipulate his lips open, and Gale tipped the potion down his throat.

“Thank you,” croaked Astarion, once the potion had emptied.

The wizard put a firm hand on Astarion’s shoulder and squeezed. “No problem,” he smiled. “How are you feeling?”

Astarion thought about this for a moment. “Honestly?” he asked. “Hungry.” He felt starving, as if he hadn’t fed in weeks.

Gale laughed, throwing his head back as he did so. “Bloody typical. Well you’re just going to have to wait till this is over.”

Astarion only dimly remembered that they were here on the top of a tower for an actual reason. He looked past Gale and blinked a few times before he clearly took the scene in. It looked as though most of the necromites were dead, judging by the small piles of bones dotted around the place. The Absolutist Necromancer was hanging on by a thread; she was desperately trying to cast spells to slow Karlach down as the tiefling picked her up and threw her off the top of the tower.

That left Ketheric and a strange skeletal undead dog. Astarion shook himself and used the wall behind him to push upwards.

“Woah, easy there.”

Astarion glared at Gale. “I’m not a horse.”

Gale looked at him, somewhat appraisingly. “You’re standing like a foal. You know how they’re all wobbly when they’re first born?”

“Oh, Shuddup. Let’s get this over with.”

“Gladly.”

Astarion gritted his teeth. His muscles ached but the potion had taken most of the pain; he just felt as if he had done 10 rounds with a heavyweight boxer. He pulled his bow into his hand and looked around the battlefield for somewhere to hide.

Ketheric was not going down without a fight. The undead paladin was a strong warrior, and even Lae’zel was struggling to land an effective hit on him. Astarion managed to land a few lucky sneak attacks with his bow, but they served to mostly only distract the half-elf so that Lae’zel, Karlach, and Wyll could more heavily hit him. Shadowheart was constantly healing the three central fighters, along with Jaheira trying to desperately entangle and slow Ketheric down. Gale was forced to abandon his normally very effective area spells in fear of catching the companions in the ensuing inferno. Instead he doggedly sent wave after wave of magic missile at Ketheric.

Astarion managed to dispatch the undead dog that the rest of them were ignoring in a nifty dagger move that he was quite proud of and a little disappointed that no one saw. The Nightsong, who’s presence Astarion only lately registered, managed to push Ketheric to the floor. Astarion looked over to see the moment of glory, only to see it snatched away from them by a giant tentacle.

“What the hells was that?” he moaned, approaching the rest of the group.

“That,” said Jaheira, grimly, “was the Absolute.”

Fucking hells.

A bottle was pressed into his hand. He uncorked it and the aroma of deer wafted through the air. He downed the bottle. “Thank you, darling.”

“You okay Astarion?” Wyll looked tired.

Astarion nodded. “Do we know what…what happened?” He tapped his temple with a finger.

Wyll exchanged a glance with Jaheira. “I suspect,” began the druid, “that Ketheric wished to take advantage of your nature as a spawn.”

Astarion narrowed his eyes. “My nature as a spawn?”

Jaheira nodded. “He was threatening to get rid of your tadpole.”

“Oh…kay…”

“In which case,” Wyll continued, “you would have either become completely feral allowing someone of Ketheric’s powers to completely dominate you or…”

“I’d be back as a Cazador puppet.”

Wyll nodded. “And you would have been…”

“Absolutely fucking useless. If I was lucky, he would order me to join the fight anyway but fighting everyone and so get torn apart.” Astarion sighed. “Wonderful.”

“The prism stopped it,” supplied Shadowheart. “It kinda put this glowing light around you.”

“Still hurt though,” muttered Astarion.

Shadowheart looked sympathetically. “It looked like it was making you go rabid.”

Astarion sighed again. “I imagine that it felt like I was going rabid too, darling.” He thought for a moment, allowing the memory of what happened going through his mind. “I hit someone?”

“Yeah, Gale got a bit too close.”

“Oh.” Astarion turned to look for the wizard who seemed to be in deep discussion with Lae’zel and Karlach. The elf studied him for a moment, trying to ascertain the depth of any injury. He looked at the offending hand that had caused the injury and sniffed. There was a hint of acid there, the telltale burning sign that said that he had hurt Gale. He sighed yet again and moved towards the wizard.

“You feeling alright, ‘Starion?”

Astarion pushed his head against Gale’s shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“Hey, it’s not your fault,” murmured Gale, softly.

“I hurt you.”

“Barely a scratch. Look.” Gale rolled up his sleeve on his arm. There were three scratches down his forearm. They were long, red, and angry looking but they didn’t look too deep. “Correction, three scratches. Didn’t even get your whole hand on. You have ruined this robe though.”

“I’ll mend it,” said Astarion, softly. “Do you… do you…”

“Deep breaths.”

Astarion did as he was instructed. “Do you want me to close those up?” He nodded towards the scratches.

“You don’t have to. I know I don’t taste particularly pleasant.”

The vampire shrugged. “Least I can do.”

Gale looked at him closely. “Only if you’re sure. It would take Shadowheart a second to heal these up.”

“She needs her strength.”

The wizard seemed to think for a moment. “Okay ‘Starion,” he breathed. He moved his arm closer to Astarion’s face whilst wrapping his other arm around the elf’s skinny frame.

Astarion gave a little smile. He already knew that he liked it when Gale called him ‘Starion. He didn’t know why, but it pleased his gut when the wizard said it. It also pleased him that Gale was allowing him to do this, to try and make amends. He lightly drew his tongue over his venom glands, pressing his canines out slightly. He took Gale’s arm in his hands and breathed in the magic scent of Gale. The wizard rested his chin on Astarion’s shoulder and held him. It felt good. It felt safe. Astarion wasn’t used to feeling safe, but he found that he liked it.

He pressed his tongue to the scratches and gently licked. He felt Gale originally stiffen and then relax as Astarion’s numbing venom began its work. Gale stroked Astarion’s shoulders and gracefully lowered the pair of them to the floor, where Astarion sat, curled up, in Gale’s lap, purring, like an overgrown cat.

The peace was soon disrupted by the need to descend ever further into the darkness.

“Lovely décor,” commented Astarion, as the group waded through the Mindflayer colony, up to their knees in guts and Gods’ knows else what.

“You would say that,” grumbled Shadowheart, her nose wrinkled in disgust as she struggled through a particularly deep patch, blood splattering her dark armour. “You’d probably like to make a home of it.”

“Let’s see… No daylight – check. Easy access to blood – check check. Lots of winding corners and shadowy places in which to do nefarious deeds – check check check. Looks perfect. I’ll just check in with Cazador and I’ll pick up the keys next week,” Astarion laughed. No one else did. “Gods, I’m just trying to lighten the mood.”

“Well don’t,” snapped Shadowheart. “We’ve got a job to do and I for one want to get in and get out. No time for you to be licking or humping the walls.”

“I am not humping the walls!”

Shadowheart ignored him. “Let’s just kill Ketheric and get out, alright?”

There was general agreement from the group, before Wyll added, “We need to find Zariel’s asset down here too. Don’t forget.”

Karlach rolled her eyes. “Like you’d let us forget,” she rumbled. “Out to save the world but don’t forget guys! We still have to run around for Zariel.”

Wyll shot her a hurt glance. Karlach pretended not to notice.

Gods, thought Astarion, things really are tense.

The group fell into an uneasy silence. It felt like they hadn’t truly been a cohesive group since before the Gauntlet of Shar. It was as if the breaking of Shadowheart’s once indestructible and infallible faith had been the catalyst to the others realising their own tenuous holds on the fragile links to their own personal quests. Karlach wasn’t quite as optimistic about finding a long-term fix for her heart. Lae’zel was being hunted by her own kind, physical proof that she was now considered Hshar’lak and confirmation that her entire life view was built on lies. Gale felt betrayed – torn between ill founded loyalty to his goddess and the realisation that he might just want to live. Wyll was understanding more and more that his decisions, though envisioned well, were often either morally wrong or led to disaster; the roads to the Hells being paved with good intentions becoming his life story.

Astarion, for the first time in his undead life, supposed that he was doing the best out of all of them. A novel sentiment to be sure. Not because his future was looking great; it was looking decidedly grim, but because it was certain. Though bleak his outcomes were, he was sure of them – there was no hidden question and no possibility of a solution. Death or Enslavement. What a choice. A choice of Masters though – the Absolute, Cazador, or Raphael. The first was a non-starter. He’d already lived as one monster; he didn’t intend to become another. Though the benefit with this one is that as a mindflayer slave to a hivemind he probably wouldn’t remember much about his life beforehand. The second – Cazador – was at least familiar to him. He knew exactly what would happen and that certainty was considered a plus. He was not fond, however, of the idea of spending eternity being tortured in Cania after being sacrificed. That left Raphael – the unknown quantity. Astarion didn’t know what the devil wanted with him or what he wanted him for. It unnerved him. After two centuries of knowing exactly what his place and purpose was, he didn’t like not knowing. Raphael being a devil, Astarion’s prospects didn’t look great, but he couldn’t be directly compared with Cazador. And then there was that… that kiss… He couldn’t get it out of his head. It was predatory yet tender and lingering. It spooked him. Astarion decided he definitely needed to kiss Gale more so he could squash Raphael’s kiss out of his memory. A true hardship.

Astarion shook himself. Now was not the time to be thinking of such things. He loyally followed the group onwards through the colony, trying not to think of how subservient he acted in freedom.

Zariel’s asset, it turned out, was Mizora. Seeing her trapped in a pod was excellent entertainment for Astarion, though Wyll didn’t seem to see the funny side of it. Astarion did manage to use his old ‘Lawyer Skills’ (also capitalised) to wrangle a decent sword upgrade for Wyll. It was almost like being in court, except for the fact that the lawyers weren’t usually the ones trapped.

Zevlor too was saved. Astarion thought that the tiefling paladin was over-apologetic when he hadn’t done anything wrong to them specifically. He received the impression that Karlach appreciated the apology on ‘Behalf of All Tieflings’ (another capitalisation) but she did also request that he apologise to the tieflings at the Last Light Inn. Zevlor agreed, refused to come with them to face Ketheric, and left. Astarion wondered how on earth he was going to get out of the colony considering they had had to jump in.

The companions headed further into the colony. Their tadpoles were reacting to something, and the deeper they descended the louder they seemed to be in their heads. This far down, the red guts became green, as if everything were rotten and mouldy. Astarion held his breath to avoid the worst of the associated stench.

Eventually, their adversaries revealed themselves. Three standing figures – one of whom was Ketheric – one kneeling, and to, Astarion’s surprise, a ginormous, floating, crown-wearing brain. Astarion heard Wyll’s breath hitch next to him. Down the line, Karlach let out a “that fucking bastard” and Lae’zel spat out a host of githyanki expletives, with “ghaik” being the only one that Astarion could actually hear.

Astarion grabbed onto Gale as the wizard tried to make his way forward. “Don’t you fucking dare,” he growled.

“Let go, Astarion.” Gale tried to pull away, but Astarion had dug his claws into the already ruined robes.

“Nope.” Astarion emphasised the ‘p’ sound.

“Astarion, I have to do this.”

“No you don’t.”

“But Mystra…”

“Don’t ‘but Mystra’ me,” snapped Astarion. “What has she ever done for you that requires you to kill yourself in exchange?”

“I’m her chosen!”

Astarion heard the phrase ‘I was groomed by her’ instead of Gale’s actual words. He huffed. “If you meant that much to her, she wouldn’t be asking you to do this. You do not tell your lovers to kill themselves.”

“It’s to atone for my sins, and you know it.” Gale looked at him, miserably.

Astarion snorted. “What sins? Wanting to return a part of the Weave to her? Giving her a present?”

“It was foolish.”

“You don’t deserve to die because you did one foolish thing. Otherwise the world be extinct.”

Gale turned back towards the brain floated. His eyes were wide and mournful. “But I could destroy the Absolute.”

“There will be another way.” Astarion was adamant.

“I could end it now though! Everyone would be safe and happy.”

“I would be neither of those things,” replied Astarion, quietly, but firmly. “I’d be lost without you, Gale. Please, please don’t do this.”

The wizard looked to be close to tears. Astarion wondered what was going through his head. “But Mystra…”

“Please Gale…” Astarion looked at him with wide eyes. He hesitated a moment before deciding that, what the Hells, he might as well say it: “I… I love you.”

Gale seemed to stumble slightly in his own mind. “Wha… do… do you?”

Astarion nodded, as sincerely as he could. “After… after I spoke with Raphael, I was so frightened. And I realised that you were the one person who could make me feel safe again, even though you’d annoyed me and I hadn’t spoken to you in a while, I just… I just needed you. And I also knew that if I’m going to have a hope in hells of surviving this shit, then I need you.”

“That’s quite possibly the most selfish way of saying you love someone I’ve ever heard,” remarked Shadowheart.

“It’s so on the money for Fangs though, don’t you think?” Karlach replied.

Astarion ignored them. He just stared at Gale. The wizard closed his eyes and Astarion saw a tear fall.

“I need you too.”

Astarion swallowed and pulled on Gale’s arm to bring him closer. “Then don’t do this. We’ll find another way.”

“But Mystra…”

Astarion shook his head. “What can Mystra do if you don’t do this? You’ve got a bomb in your chest and a tadpole in your brain and a vampire for a lover. We’ve got options.”

A slight huff in response from Gale. “Okay,” whispered the wizard, “Okay. Let’s try it.”

“Good.” Astarion leant forward and kissed him on the cheek.

Gale drew himself up to his full height and rolled back his shoulders. “Alright. Let’s go kill Ketheric.”

Chapter Text

“Shit.” Wyll swallowed.

“Shit,” agreed Karlach. Karlach’s engine was sizzling with anxiety. Steam rushed from her and sparks flew. She stared at place where the trapdoor should have been. Where it had been. Instinctively, she started to reach for her axe that was strapped to her back.

Wyll pulled at his braids worriedly. His one red eye was panickily taking in the entire room, furtively searching for an escape. His skin was prickling and sweat beginning to drip from his forehead. There seemed to be only one option. One escape route and it probably wouldn’t be an escape.

“I guess we can’t go down.” Karlach had started to pace.

“If this guy is capable of removing a trapdoor, I don’t think they’d be so stupid to have an exit in their prison,” agreed Wyll, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. It did nothing; sweat beaded back immediately. “So, I suppose…” He glanced up towards the stone stairs. “I suppose the only way is up.”

Karlach closed her eyes. She nodded slightly, tension clear in the stiff way she held her jaw. “Okay,” she said, quietly, “into the dragon’s den we go.”

The tiefling pushed past Wyll to start to climb the stairs. They were elegantly crafted, the nose slightly curved, with intricate carvings on the tread and riser. The images were of tales from the Hells, Karlach noticed, stories of subjugation and terror, torture and suppression. With every step the pair took, their anxiety grew. They felt there was a growing pressure on their heads, that by the time they reached the apex their bones would be crushed under the strain.

Before them was a door. It was black, almost not a colour at all but rather just an absence of light. It was cold to the touch. Even Karlach hesitated when she pressed a few fingers to the iron.

“I don’t like this, soldier,” the barbarian muttered.

The ranger was trying to contain his breathing. For the first time he felt himself missing his warlock powers. Wyll had enjoyed reclassing himself, training himself up from scratch. But now, now he had a strange feeling that he might have needed a devilish patron. Mizora, for all her faults, did look out for Wyll, in her own hellish way. She at least might have told him not to come here. Wyll shook himself. This place frightened devils. Mizora would have been of no help at all. He girded his loins and pushed a shoulder into the door. To his surprise, it opened with little resistance and barely a creak, like it was a commonly used door. His gut turned to lead. A prison door that was commonly used was not one he wanted to think about.

Wyll’s surprised widened as the door swung open.

“What the hells?” Karlach poked her head out from behind him.

A kitchen. A perfectly normal kitchen. It would have been at home in Baldur’s Gate. There was a hearth with cooking pots hanging around it, herb collections placed around the room as if the occupier of this house was a competent chef or at least employed one. White, ceramic tiling covered the floor and tidy cupboards and shelves lined the walls. The cupboards had ceramic work surfaces with utensils organised tidily.

Its existence unnerved Wyll and Karlach.

They padded softly through the room, heading towards a set of dark walnut doors, the wood almost black. The doors had gold doorknobs decorated with swirling patterns that reminded Karlach of the way that flames danced in a campfire. She led the way out of the kitchen, and the two emerged at the base of another set of stairs.

“Looks like some sort of entrance room? Atrium?” Wyll gestured to the top of them.

Karlach shrugged. “You’d know better than I would, fancy boy.”

The pair instinctively crouched as they approached the top. It was an entrance hall of sorts. They were at the side of a grand hallway. To their right was a grand marble staircase, an elegant burgundy stair runner with gold trim decorating it. Silver was entwined around the bannisters and the marble itself seemed to sparkle. To their left and directly opposite were smaller hallways clearly leading to other parts of the castle. Opposite the stairs were ginormous doors that shimmered and shone in the flame light that illuminated the chamber from gilded candelabras.

“Let’s try the door,” hissed Karlach.

Wyll raised an eyebrow. “Be my guest,” he replied, “but I doubt that’s going to work.”

The tiefling scurried along the wooden floor and pressed on the door. As Wyll predicted, it was locked and didn’t budge.

What Wyll did not predict, however, was the blue burst of flame that caused Karlach to shriek and jump backwards.

“Okay, okay,” panted Karlach, “I’m alright, I’m alright.” She looked back at Wyll. “I’m willing to concede that you may have been right.”

The pair decided to scout out the other hallways. The place was clearly an ornate maze, full of riches and splendour. The designer of the castle clearly appreciated fine art; landscapes, portraits, and sculptures from all planes of existence lined the walls. Various doors to various rooms appeared as they searched for an exit, but all were locked, and even a knock spell scroll had no effect. It was strange, but the castle seemed strangely… unoccupied. There were no dust or dirt which contradicted the lack of any signs of life at all, however. If it hadn’t been for the flickering on and off of lights that the pair had witnessed from the outside, they would have been willing to pin the castle as empty.

There was also the feeling that they were being watched.

Wyll felt it every time they turned a corner. He was on edge. His heartbeat increased as if he were running for his life. Sweat still ran down his face and he found himself peering into every shadow, into trying every door to every random dresser and cabinet. Wyll looked into mirrors twice. He even studied portraits from different angles in case their eyes tracked them. He found nothing.

The pressure built.

There was no apparent exit. No doors, no windows, no grates, no anything that suggested a way out. They ended back in the grand entrance hall. They had scoped out a general shape and layout of the castle. It seemed to be fairly standard. Square with turrets on each corner yet they had seen nothing that suggested that the occupant was fairly standard.

Karlach reluctantly led the way up the marble staircase, up and away from the ground floor which they had been sure would have held the secret to their escape.

If escape were even possible.

The castle had three floors, with this staircase acting as a spine that connected them together, with the four turrets on the corners also being a point of access between the floors. They scouted the first floor and were greeted with more openness to the rooms. There was a huge dining room, with an ebony dining table that would have easily sat a hundred guests. There were multiple reception rooms, a room with an impressive organ and other musical instruments that Wyll vaguely recognised, a room filled with art that they guessed acted as a sort of gallery, and a room with doors locked with arcane knowledge. Static buzzed when Wyll pressed a hand to them.

Again, each room was empty. Candelabras flickered to life when they entered rooms. When they opened the door to the room with the instruments, they soared to life, playing an orchestral score suggesting majesty and brilliance. Once Wyll had recognised the magically locked doors, he noticed the signs of arcane power everywhere. The air seemed to hiss and spark with power, a sign if every there was one to “Keep Out”.

The second floor was the most modest, in a “I’m so rich I don’t need to show it” kind of vibe. It unnerved Wyll. He was sure that the place became quieter and that their footsteps suddenly started to echo along the corridors. There was one door in particular on their right-hand side that unnerved him. He froze when he saw it, causing Karlach to stumble into him.

Wyll’s heart stopped. He was keenly aware of his own breathing and that the fact it was definitely too loud.

The ornate door was nothing special to look at. It was the same style as the tens of other doors that they had passed on their exploration. Yet this door, this door was actually special.

This door was open.

Just a crack, just a few centimetres open, but open, nonetheless. Light filtered through the gap and occasionally flickered as a shadow was cast; something, or someone, was passing in front of a light source from inside the room. Wyll felt the heat of Karlach press up against his side. Whether the tiefling was seeking out comfort or creating comfort to give to Wyll, Wyll didn’t know, but he appreciated its existence all the same. Wyll reached out towards the door. His hand was trembling. He took a few steadying breaths.

Karlach was tense next to him. Wyll could hear the thrumming and whirring of her engine-heart as it worked overtime. Steam hissed from the valves in the tiefling’s shoulder. Wyll couldn’t help but look at her, begging for support, begging for succour, begging for the answer to the question of what was behind that door…

Karlach clearly understood Wyll’s panicked glance. She smiled. It was a tight-lipped smile, far from the easy grin that Wyll had come to expect, the grin he had come to crave. It was full of anxiety but there was a dogged determination there too. Wyll looked at Karlach and felt his chest burst with the overwhelming love that he felt for her. She was his strength, his backbone, his courage. As he gazed at her trying to build his own semblance of courage, Wyll realised that Karlach was a testament to the idea that you had to decide to live, to burn with a fire too hot to contain. Karlach had taken both of those tenants to heart.

And Wyll? Well, Wyll was her will to live, as she often liked to joke. Wyll had been the one to grasp her hand and jump through a portal to an unknown location in Avernus. Together, he realised, they could do anything.

Whatever was behind that door.

Wyll nodded. Karlach returned it. Wyll pushed open the door, and it unlocked the way without a sound.

The office before them was a rich person’s idea of an office. Books lined the walls, organised and impeccably placed. Wyll noticed a distinct lack of paperbacks. The lighting was soft, bathing the room in a soothing orange glow, like the smouldering of a hearth when you return from a hard day’s labour. It smelt of parchment and ink and a scent that Wyll could not quite place but ultimately was familiar. Plush red rugs covered varnished wooden floors and Wyll’s feet sank into them as he padded forward. There was a large window covered by thick, burgundy curtains, trimmed with gold, framing the focal point of the office.

The centrepiece was a large desk, made out of a glossy reddish wood. It was covered in scrolls and parchment and quills and inkpots in various states of emptiness. Wyll shuddered involuntarily as he stared at the desk’s belligerent occupier. His booted feet were on the desk, shiny leather that glinted uneasily. He was relaxing back in his high-backed chair, almost too much like a throne to be a mere office chair, oozing saccharine effortlessness and nonchalance. Dressed as elegantly as always, a lazy smirk on his face and a crystal goblet of wine in hand.

“Raphael,” said Wyll, stilted.

“Raphael,” growled Karlach, her tail beginning to slightly thrash.

Wyll understood her instinctive anger. Gale and the others hadn’t explicitly mentioned much about Raphael’s involvement in the scheme against Cazador, but Wyll understood the general gist: the devil had promised the ranseur but did not deliver.

Raphael, for his part, looked at the pair cooly, though Wyll bet that he could smell the tension and anger and fear that was coming from them in waves. Wyll could certainly feel it. Raphael swallowed a mouthful of wine. He placed the goblet down on his desk, every movement considered and deliberate, a man of cool calculation. He showed a hint of canine as he smirked, a subtle threat. “Master Ravengard. Miss Cliffgate. How wonderful to see you.” His tone was pleasant enough but he had the aura of a man taught to be overly polite to those he despised.

Wyll did not wish to be Raphael’s enemy. He suspected that it would be a very dangerous position to be in. And he was already in a highly dangerous position. So, he dipped his head with the politeness of a man trained in upper class schmoozing from a young age, ignoring the daggers in Karlach’s yellow eyes, and replied, “Likewise, saer.”

Raphael’s smirk twitched. His eyes slightly widened as if her were simultaneously pleased with and caught off guard by Wyll’s polite deference in societal norms. He clicked his fingers and two chairs appeared behind Wyll and Karlach. The chairs were lower and less elegant than Raphael’s own, as well as being oddly far from the desk. “Please, sit.” Raphael gestured with a hand.

Wyll did, slightly perturbed by the distance but grateful for it all the same. Karlach mirrored his actions; a quick sharp nod on the dangerous side of polite and then sat down, heavily.

“A drink?” asked Raphael, apparently determined to follow all of the banal social niceties.

“Many thanks,” replied Wyll, rather stiffly, and really wishing that he could just ignore the tension in the air. But, alas, the ranger was only human and thus it was impossible to do so.

“I find that iced wine is preferable in these parts,” Raphael told them as crystal goblets full of a dull pink liquid appeared on a side table in between the pair.

Wyll took a polite sip. The wine was sweet, pleasantly so, with a fruity finish.

“So,” said the devil. He hadn’t moved from his reclining position. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

The ranger paused a moment. Why were they here? Happenstance? Coincidence? Would Raphael ever believe him if Wyll told him the truth and said that it was just pure curiosity that led them here and now they would like to please leave, thank you very much?

In the end, Wyll did elect to go with the truth. “We found a map,” he began.

Raphael’s eyebrow twitched. It was the only indicator of emotion on his face, aside from the scripted smirk.

“It said, “Do Not Enter” on it,” continued Wyll. “Over this place.”

The devil let out a barking laugh. “How… fantastical…”

“Some officer of Zariel’s had it, so we thought we’d take a look,” Wyll finished. It was a lame story.

Raphael hummed in response. Intelligent amber eyes seemed to survey Wyll, and the human shifted uncomfortably under the intense gaze. “I’ve won a bet,” Raphael mused, thoughtfully, to no one in particular.

Wyll and Karlach said nothing.

“What are you going to do now that you’re here?” Raphael’s tone was inquisitive but there was a definite edge to it.

Karlach shot Wyll a glance. “We were hoping… hoping that we could just… go?” It was a tentative hope, sounding more like a suggestion of something that they could do if Raphael was okay with them doing it, as opposed to something they definitely wanted to do.

The devil hummed again. “Maybe,” he said. “Under certain conditions.”

Wyll felt Karlach’s temper flare up but couldn’t hold it back as the tiefling hissed, “like you’re in a position to give us conditions.”

Raphael’s expression was one of faint amusement, like if a dog had rolled over in front of him on command. “There’s the Karlach I know,” he drawled. “I was almost worried for a second that domestic bliss had crushed the spirit out of you.” He lifted his feet off the desk and straightened his posture in a fluid motion. “But to answer your… statement,” Raphael’s voice hinted of ice and fire, “Yes. I am in the position to give you conditions. A favourable position considering this is my castle and you are trespassing with merely curiosity as an excuse.”

Karlach snorted. “Physically maybe. Contractually no.”

“Karlach –“ Wyll tried to intervene but the tiefling was incensed. Raphael, by comparison, was the stalwart of stoicism. His amber eyes were passive, if not outright bored by Karlach’s outburst.

“How dare you?” snarled Karlach, flames building around her, “You broke a contract. Cazador Szarr is still alive because – “

Raphael held up a hand, a clear order to stop. Karlach’s furious tirade spluttered to a halt. Raphael’s eyebrows slightly furrowed. “You misunderstand, Miss Cliffgate. I see that your friends have given you only part of the story.” The way the devil said ‘friends’ sent shivers down Wyll’s spine. “I am not the reason that Lord Cazador Szarr still walks.” His voice was frozen. Wyll shivered. It was as if Raphael was channelling his father’s realm of Cania.

“Then who the hells’ fault was it?” spat Karlach. It was an attempt at being defiant, but Karlach’s quieter voice gave her trepidation away.

“Your friends, of course.” The devil was almost sweet like the iced wine as he tutted. Raphael took a sip of the wine in question. He placed his hands together carefully, fingertips touching lightly after placing the goblet back down on a coaster. “If it hadn’t been for their foolish and suicidal mission, after all, we wouldn’t be in this mess.”

“You promised…”

“I promised that I would produce the ranseur at the correct opportunity to kill Szarr,” interrupted Raphael, sharply. “I have one round to do so and will not reveal that particular card until I am sure that Szarr will be dead at the end of play.” He snorted derisively. “Besides, neither the wizard nor the gith were in the position to kill Szarr even if I had given one of them the weapon.” He looked angry now. It was the most emotive Raphael had been since they had entered the office.

Wyll thought for a moment, considering Raphael’s words. From what he knew of Gale he knew that Raphael was right, even though it painted his friend in a weak light. After all, Astarion had been about to kill him, and by all accounts (Gale’s included) the wizard had done nothing to prevent his death at all and was dumbstruck by the time Cazador turned up. Lae’zel was stronger, admittedly, but she had actually killed Astarion and was probably in the githyanki version of shock, so giving her the ranseur might not have worked either. Wyll shot what he hoped was a calming glance at Karlach.

The tiefling in question was clearly thinking. She didn’t want to absolve Raphael of all his sins, but Karlach was willing to concede that the devil may have a point. She huffed quietly, her tail stilling. “Is there any hope now?” she asked, softly.

Raphael’s eyes seemed to glitter with something. Ambition, or maybe spite? “Hope?” the devil repeated, almost dismissively. “There’s no such thing as hope,” he sneered. “Just opportunity and the ability to know what each hand is playing. To dance around the table and find the weak spot.” Raphael snorted. “There isn’t hope, my dear, just opportunity and the determination to take advantage of it.”

“What opportunities are those?” Wyll’s eyes narrowed.

“And wouldn’t you like to know, little mouse?” Raphael dressed his words in a sing-song tone, lightly lilting them with a rhythmic tilt. “But you invaded my home. Twice now. You don’t get to know.” His cantabile became a snarl.

“Our friend is dead because you gave our other friends hope.” Karlach was quieter now. She knew that angering Raphael was, by all means, a bad move, but she couldn’t resist giving voice to her ire.

“No,” Raphael corrected. “I said that there would be an opportunity. They misread that to mean that they could create that opportunity.” Raphael’s eyes narrowed and he drummed a pattern on the desk. “They read incorrectly.”

Karlach slammed her tail on the ground, slapping the carpet. “Give us something, Raphael, you owe us that much at least.”

Raphael chuckled. “I don’t owe you anything, my leaping minnows. You nearly killed me, after all.”

Karlach gritted her teeth. “We all want him dead,” she growled. “Why can’t we be on the same side for fucking once? Instead of you trying to play some meta-game whilst the rest of us are just trying to get on with our lives!”

The devil pushed a strand of dark hair behind his ear as he looked at Karlach thoughtfully. He smirked again and his eyes twitched as if he was thinking about something else. “Maybe I will tell you something.”

Wyll was surprised. Raphael seemed to be withdrawing his anger, and it was a sight to behold.

“There will be an opportunity to kill Cazador Szarr. I have the means to make it so.” Raphael paused. “What is crucial now is timing.”

“And how can you guarantee that?” Karlach demanded.

Raphael cocked his head. “Of course, I have no reason to tell you that. Allies or not.”

“You have no reason not to tell us either,” countered Karlach.

“Don’t I?” Raphael sighed.

Wyll took a moment to drink Raphael in. When Wyll was scared, the cambion looked intimidating. But when Wyll squashed down his fear of Raphael’s potential danger, he noticed that the devil didn’t look all that threatening. If anything, Raphael looked tired. No, more than that - exhausted. He had shadows underneath his eyes, his hair messy and the way he twitched revealed an underlying anxiety. Wyll’s curiosity peaked. Gale had mentioned that Raphael hadn’t been the same monster that they had killed all those months before. “How did you survive?” he asked, suddenly.

Raphael blinked a few times. He shrugged. He even attempted a smirk, but now Wyll could tell that it wasn’t a true, cocky, Raphael smirk but more a tired imitation. “Believe me,” said the devil, tightly, “I surprised even myself on that particular success. A little messy insurance ritual that turned out to be fairly useful.” He gazed absently, his vision focused on a spot above Wyll and Karlach’s heads.

“I don’t believe you.”

The devil smiled. “At least somebody learns,” he remarked, dryly.

“You’re plotting something.”

“I’m a devil,” Raphael deadpanned. “Plotting is in the job description.”

“You’re hiding from someone.” Wyll was thinking out loud. “You broke the rules and someone’s out for you. Looking for you. Why else would you be out here? With the fake forest and the fake moat… with anti-devil radiant magic? Or,” Wyll narrowed his eyes at Raphael. “You’re hiding something from someone.”

“The ranseur?” suggested Karlach.

Wyll shook his head. “No. Not the ranseur, is it, saer Raphael?”

Raphael gave him a long look. “No,” he said calmly. “It is not the ranseur.” He leant back in his throne as a bell rang. “I will show you.” He cocked his head again. “But you will not like it,” he warned.

Wyll had a sinking feeling in his gut. The lack of goading, the absence of a flat denial… It unnerved him to think that Raphael could be in any flappable or persuadable to reveal his secrets. It gave Wyll the impression that, whatever Raphael had to show them, he would regret seeing it for the rest of his life.

Chapter Text

Star knew that today would be a bad day. He just didn’t expect it to be this bad. It was clear from yesterday that today would be terrible. Why else would he have been able to handle trousers yesterday? Not that his brain could comprehend that today was terrible, of course. That was for Star to understand in about four days’ time when he would become slightly more lucid.

Instead, Star’s head had pounded yesterday and that’s all he could really comprehend. A vicious migraine behind his left eye that had felt like his brain was trying to split itself in half. Everything was too much for him – sound, light, even the slightest smell set him off rolling in waves of nausea. He hadn’t even been able to stomach blood that morning. His Master had sighed exasperatedly at him before holding him down with a grasp to the scruff and forcing him to bite down on the Master’s wrist.

Star shuddered. He hated drinking from the Master. The blood was hot lava, and it burnt his oesophagus. It did, however, have the miraculous effect of causing him to fall deeply asleep. That’s how he had found himself, huddled in a mess of blankets that were a pathetic excuse for a cave or a den or a roost or whatever the Hells the Master liked to call it. Star growled. He had snuffled deeper into his ‘Pile’. It was a shit pile and that’s all Star’s banging brain could comprehend.

The pain hadn't subsided. He had had a sudden urge to dunk his head into something cold. Star, eyes closed, had stumbled into the small adjoining bathroom. There was a small bath in there, a bucket compared to the one downstairs. He had filled it with cold water before plunging his head and neck under the surface, along with his wrists and ankles. It didn’t do much but had taken a slight edge off the pain. Star, ever thankful for his lack of need to breathe, had sat crouched in the tub until the water became lukewarm and he had returned to the Pile.

He managed to sleep for a while, burying his head under the blankets, depriving his senses of ‘anything’. It worked; when he awoke, he just felt sick and weak, but the headache was gone. Star chuffed to himself. He tested his limbs. They ached. He wondered how long he had been asleep for.

Probably a couple of days, his mind supplied. That’s what usually happens.

Star ignored his brain. It wasn’t helpful at the best of times, but occasionally it tried to suggest that there had been a Before (capitalised – that was important and again Star didn’t know why, it just was) and Star outright refused to believe so. He didn’t remember any of the Before and his brain hadn’t been proven to be a trustworthy source of information. His mind, Star understood, was responsible for his nightmares. It could not be trusted. Anyway, the Master hadn’t said anything about Before and he could be trusted.