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Chapter Text

Mirtul 1269

Boredom. The disease of the eternal. Manifesting in routines and repetitions, eating through days and dulling the mind. There was a reason many of the ancients tended to be just this side of sane. Luckily, Raphael had discovered the cure long ago. The ordinary. If you spent your existence being larger than life, there was nothing more thrilling than observing lesser beings. Them and their insignificant little perils. It was the main reason Raphael got into the whole contract business in the first place. He revelled in the countless different ways those little worms on the material plane created their problems, all with their own creative approach to suffering. It was a delight to get distressed pleas for things so entirely irrelevant that they had Raphael marvel at mortals' priorities. If only they knew how vanishingly inconsequential their lives were, much less a single worry in it. But luckily, they didn't. Luckily, they kept Raphael busy enough to keep from succumbing to boredom.

Or at least, they used to.

Lately, he’d been getting this strange sense of dissatisfaction. When he returned to Avernus with a new contract in hand and the knowledge that before long, he’d be adding another soul to his collection, there was a little sting he felt, a little something…

It all went the same way, in the end. Raphael always got what Raphael wanted. Almost like a routine. The thrill was wearing off. And worse, the fun was wearing off.

He stared down at the contract. Give me more power and influence so the nobles won't look down upon me anymore, had been the prompt. The same one Raphael had heard more times than he could count. Humans were so fucking dull. At least dwarves asked for amusing things, like finding the hottest flame to create the strongest weapons. It had been one of his better contracts, Raphael thought. The look on the dwarf’s face when Raphael had told him the strongest flame had been inside of him all along had been priceless. Fragments of that soul had been put to good use in the heating system of the boudoir. But that contract was ages ago, and had been followed by mostly the same old run-of-the-mill idiocy.

“What’s the matter?”

Raphael glanced over his shoulder towards the bed. Haarlep stretched languidly and propped himself up on an elbow. “You still look tense. Am I losing my edge? Or is something bothering you?”

Raphael stifled a sigh. Haarlep. He, too, had become dull. And he was so terribly overt about his probing. Even if Raphael weren't aware that the incubus had been sent as Mephistopheles' spy, he wouldn't have bought his atrocious act. Luckily, Haarlep was a narcissistic bastard - takes one to know one - who thought he had Raphael all figured out. And so the information forwarded to his dear father was well curated.

“There is a lot bothering me.” Raphael drawled.

“Oh?” Haarlep elegantly rolled off the bed, making a show of every small movement, and strolled leisurely towards the desk. Raphael did not appreciate him leaving the bed; he preferred the incubus limited to a single space, and even that was too much sometimes. But since he was in a particular mood, he overlooked the audacity.

“What’s the matter? Maybe I can help?”

Raphael regarded him. A perfect mirror and yet not, pleasurable to look at but lacking any and all substance. He almost regretted having the incubus take on his face. He wore it with such dilettantism. But it contributed to the image of harmless hedonist Raphael wanted to convey: if Mephistopheles didn't consider him a threat, he was left in peace. Haarlep leaned back when he noticed Raphael’s gaze, displaying the body he was given. It was a very good body. A very good face, one Raphael looked forward to ripping off of his undeserving skin one day, when the time was right. Which was, unfortunately, not yet. Toying with Haarlep had been fun in the beginning; Raphael had even enjoyed the sex the first time around. There was something oddly satisfying about sleeping with yourself. But things got very boring very fast. Routines dull the mind, indeed, and Raphael was in the mood for change.

“You can.” He turned back to the contract, added the name of the contractee and rolled up the parchment. Then he slowly got up. As he turned around, he manifested his clothes. Haarlep put on a pout.

“If I am to help, then this seems counterproductive.”

Raphael smiled sweetness and poison and cradled Haarlep’s cheek in his hand, pressing their lips together in a deceptively gentle kiss. “You can stay here like a good boy and be ready for whenever I return.”

Haarlep chuckled. “Oh, now I’m the good boy?”

Raphael’s gaze hardened and his hand slipped from the incubus' cheek to his throat and he squeezed. Hard. Haarlep’s eyes widened when he realised his mistake. Raphael dug his claws into the skin and drew blood. When the time is right, he reminded himself.

“I’m sorry. I- I was still caught up in- It won’t happen again. Not outside of bed,” Haarlep choked out.

For a few heatbeats longer, Raphael did not move. Then his smile returned and he dropped his hand. “Make sure to remember it.”

“Of course. May I- may I ask where you’re going?” Haarlep asked, undoubtedly to have at least some information to give to Mephistopheles.

Raphael strode towards the door, his thoughts already a few rooms further ahead. “I’m going to try out something new.”

Waterdeep was pretentious, Neverwinter dull. Baldur’s Gate, with all its rough edges, splendour here and desperation-steeped streets there, was just right.

-

Raphael knew the Gate well. More so, perhaps, than any other city in the realms, with all the distressed prayers that came to him because the gods were terrible listeners. Before, he had never seen it as anything other than a cramped pigsty to fatten up souls with misery. Now, strolling down a street pretending to belong, his view shifted. Oh, the city was still a pigsty and its residents still foolish beyond compare, but another feeling emerged. Curiosity. Not about the mortals, but about how they would approach him when he was masquerading as one of them. Raphael knew other devils who did this regularly, but he had never seen the allure of it – would a dragon enjoy pretending to be a lizard? – and his interactions had remained as those of debtor and collector. But maybe…maybe the others had been on to something. Instead of fear and respect, the eyes following Raphael were filled with admiration and wonder; unsurprisingly so, considering the human guise could still not mask his air of superiority. Raphael did not waste another glance on any of them, but feeling their interest as he walked past was enjoyable in the same way a pleasant wine was enjoyable.

He passed malnourished beggars and fat nobles, ignorant children and withering elders. He felt unhappiness and the wishes to change it, but for once did not pay them any mind. Today, he was not here to work. He was here to enjoy their suffering purely as a bystander. Maybe make a mental note of those whose pain was most likely to grow and fester until they could not bear it any longer – at least not without help.

The progression of time had always fascinated Raphael. Not just concerning mortal lives, but the things they left behind. The city changed with every visit; grew outward and upward, more buildings, more people, more dissatisfaction. Raphael leaned against a shaded wall as he observed a child arguing with its parents, absentmindedly tapping his foot on the ground. He wondered if it had grown downward as well. It had been some decades since he had last paid the catacombs of the undercity a visit, ever since that upstart vampire had taken over from Vellioth. Raphael pushed away from the wall and continued his tour towards the docks, his mood slightly soured. Vellioth had been – well, not good company, Raphael doubted there was anyone on this plane who could be called that, but he had been tolerable. His endeavours had driven many a soul into Raphael’s caring embrace. Then that little shit Cazador had taken over and allegedly allied with Raphael’s dearest father, of all devils. Raphael had considered actively getting rid of the bloodsucker, but it wasn’t like there was a shortage of family drama already. Just as there wasn’t a shortage of desperation, so he simply let vampires be vampires and turned to other means of getting souls.

Speaking of which…

As the sun was setting behind the city walls, music started to drift through the streets, and the bars and taverns filled with patrons. Inexhaustible wells of dramatics. Fuelled by alcohol and insomnia, rash decisions were made in front of countertops littered with empty glasses. Half of Raphael’s contracts had been signed with the unsteady hand of some fool who didn’t even read the large print, much less the fine. 

He smiled to himself, checked his reflection in a dark window – entirely human and yet still the most captivating face in this sea of ordinariness – and entered one of those establishments. Most of the tables were occupied, groups of workers ending their day with a merry get-together, as if that distracted them from the fact their tomorrow would go the exact same way their today had gone. Here and there a couple enjoyed each other’s company, as if they wouldn’t grow tired of it in a matter of months. Raphael approached a small table in a corner and the man sitting there hurriedly got up and left. One of the barmaids came over and brought the exact drink Raphael was in the mood for, put it down, bowed, smiled, and retreated. Ah, the benefits of being in a room full of puppets whose strings lay around waiting for someone with skill to pick them up.

It took a promising half an hour for the first theatrics to transpire; two friends accusing each other of stealing money, and Raphael was very tempted indeed to go against his plan of being just an observer. But he held back. He was the tempter, not the tempted. Of course, should there be an opportunity all but throwing itself at his feet, he could be convinced to act, but only if it didn’t require too much effort-

“Is this seat taken, darling?” asked a smooth voice next to him. Raphael looked up, a dismissal already on the tip of his tongue. Where it remained. A vampire spawn stood before him, all false seduction and real nervousness. His physical age looked to be around 40, but the spawn had been turned recently. Very recently. A few months ago, at most. His smile was plastered on, his eyes flickered with constant vigilance, his shoulders were taut. Not even the most imperceptive of mortals would have been fooled by the act. Raphael bit down his sardonic grin and instead showed a friendly one. Spontaneous change of plans due to an opportunity asking for a seat at his table.

“Feel free to claim it.”

The spawn sat like the chair was adorned with nails. He looked so entirely unrelaxed that Raphael couldn’t help but laugh. He was pathetic. He was promising.

“What's so funny?” There was a hint of irritation on the young spawn’s face, one he tried and failed to smooth over.

“Oh, nothing.” Raphael signalled the bar woman for a drink he knew the spawn wouldn’t touch, but it would be fun to see him squirm. “It’s just that you look a little tense, friend. Must have been a stressful day at work. How about a drink to loosen you up?”

“I- why, thank you. Not often that you see such generosity from a stranger,” the spawn said, clearly trying to appear casual. He couldn’t hold eye-contact; each time he met Raphael’s gaze he looked away immediately. The little fool was the exact kind of entertainment Raphael was hoping to get from this night. A vampire spawn in Baldur’s Gate – since Vellioth had been replaced as the city’s token undead lord, it wasn’t difficult to guess who his master was, and that made it all the more amusing.

“No worries, friend. I’m Raphael. A regular here. And I’m sure I would have remembered that face.” He leaned forward and regarded the man closely, mostly to make him even more uncomfortable. He was objectively attractive, pale skin and pale hair offset by red eyes, lean and angular and looking slightly malnourished. No surprise there. From what Raphael had learned from good old Vellioth, may his soul rest in eternal damnation, spawn weren’t exactly thriving on balanced diets. He wondered if this one had ever fed on a humanoid, and in a sudden bout of curiosity wondered how he would react to Raphael’s blood. He knew that devil's blood was a potent and sought after ingredient in both potions and rituals, but ingested by a vampire...might come with interesting effects.

“I’m…new to the city,” the spawn said. Reacted, more like, building his backstory on the foundation Raphael offered him. Quite amusing. “Just arrived a tenday ago. The name’s A-" A brief pause, a flick of his eyes, looking for inspiration for a fake name and finding none, a small cough. "Astarion.”

“Astarion,” Raphael repeated slowly and took a sip from his glass, savouring both the name and the wine. “What a pretty name. And what brought you here? Wait, let me guess. I do love a good puzzle.”

Astarion leaned back in his chair and his smile turned a little more natural as he invited Raphael to guess with a gesture of his hand. Raphael made a show of looking him up and down and pretended to consider. Not that there was anything to consider, really. Astarion might present himself as a complex grimoire, but he was a children’s book at best, easy to read and easier to interpret. His aura oozed desperation, his body insecurity. The look in his eyes was part haunted, part hunted, and the way his fingers couldn’t keep still spoke of constant alertness.

A vampire spawn who was still getting used to his condition, sent on his first mission. Vellioth had told Raphael about the rotation once. Find a victim, seduce it, lure it to the master. Succeed, and nothing happens. Fail, and be punished most severely. From what Raphael knew of Vellioth’s successor, Cazador treated his creations no different. Worse, probably, if those rumours that he was involved with Mephistopheles were to be believed. Which meant the little spawn had chosen Raphael as his chance to avoid suffering. It was hilarious.

“Your clothes are well-kept, your hands smooth, skin fair. Not a laborer, then. Your eyes are sharp. There is knowledge there. A scholar, perhaps? Someone who works with either words or numbers.” Raphael dropped his voice to a pleasant drawl and made sure to keep an intrigued expression on his face. It wasn’t as difficult as expected.

Astarion relaxed a little further now that he had his backstory created for him. Harmless little pup. Maybe Raphael would turn him into a hellhound. Or maybe he’d put him in a sack and drown him in the river. He was going to decide that one on a whim.

“Not bad. It’s the numbers. I work down at the Counting House.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, should I ever need financial advice.”

“And what about you, Raphael?” Ah, taking initiative. Raphael saw how Astarion physically braced himself for it. Delightful. “Well-dressed, well-spoken, good-looking. Entirely out of place among the common rabble. If I ventured a guess, I’d say you’re a noble trying out the ways of us simple folk.”

“Oh, my,” Raphael chuckled. “I didn’t think I was this easy to read. Do you have experience? Past conquests, perhaps? Or am I the first you’re complimenting like your life depends on it?”

Were he able to, Raphael was sure Astarion would redden. Like a feral cat used to feeling the boot, whatever small semblance of relaxation he had mustered fell away and he was back to vigilance. His voice was carefully neutral, the slight tone of seduction he tried for forced. “Would it bother you if you weren’t?”

“Not at all,” Raphael said generously. “I don’t care what came before. I do care what comes after. And I’m giving you a fair warning, pretty boy.” He allowed an edge to his smile as he leaned in and gazed straight into Astarion’s red-tinged eyes. “You’ll have difficulties moving on from me.”

To his credit, Astarion didn’t move back. Didn’t even avert his eyes this time. If anything, he clung to Raphael’s gaze as if it was the only thing preventing him from bolting out the door. “Is that an offer?”

Raphael deliberately let his eyes drop to Astarion’s mouth. The last time he'd had this much fun, he had listened to Hope’s screams as he had carved his name into her back. “I thought you were the one making the offers here. Didn’t you come to my table for that exact reason?”

There was a glint in Astarion’s eyes resembling determination. He had come to a decision. Unfortunately for him, every decision he could make here was wrong.

“I did. I must admit that you caught my eye the moment I entered.”

“I tend to have that effect on people. But.” Raphael pulled back and emptied his glass. “I must admit that you’re quite eye-catching yourself.” It wasn’t even a lie, though the most catching thing about Astarion was his heritage. If Cazador really was working with Mephistopheles, then it would be a waste of a good narrative for the devil's son to not take on the vampire's spawn. And Astarion here could be very useful indeed. Vampire spawn were ideal contractees, what with all the suffering they had to endure.

Astarion stood up. It was almost hasty, the prospect of snaring his prey making him excited, like he worried that if he waited too long, Raphael might vanish into thin air. “I have a house in-“

Raphael laughed. “So eager, suddenly? Shouldn’t we get to know each other more?”

The spawn bit his lip, torn between getting this over with as fast as possible and not wanting to scare Raphael away. Were Raphael anything less than a devil thriving on others’ agony, he might have considered taking mercy upon the poor fool. Alas.

“I mean, you sit down at my table, give a few compliments, and expect me to just come with you? Ah, romance is truly dead.” There. A free lesson in courtship for the boy. It went entirely unappreciated.

“If it’s romance you’re seeking, maybe my insight is worse than I thought.” Astarion said. Smart, if he wasn’t too busy being nervous to use this insight of his to determine whether or not his potential prey might be a more experienced hunter.

Raphael raised his hands in surrender and got up as well. “Very well, I see I cannot fool you. But I do insist on inviting you to my place.”

Astarion’s eyes flickered to the side. Clearly this was not according to plan. Raphael smiled and waited. Astarion was like a child learning how to make friends. His parents had told him how to go about it, but he had never actually tried. By now Raphael was certain he was the spawn’s very first conquest. Which made this all the more delicious.

“But my place is very discreet.”

“Oh, don’t worry your pretty head about that. I have no need for discretion.” Raphael stepped forward and took Astarion’s hand, giving it a reassuring pat. It was icy. He wondered if his own skin burned in turn. “And I promise you a night worth remembering if you come with me.”

Astarion looked from their hands up into Raphael’s eyes. Did he realise that he had become prey, or was he still convincing himself that he was the hunter in this scenario?

-

“Welcome to my humble abode.” Raphael pulled open the door to a random noble’s villa and revealed beyond the entrance hall of his House of Hope. A spontaneous little portal, worth it for the show. “I’m inviting you inside.”

Astarion halted for a fraction of a heartbeat, but his persisting nervousness let him dismiss the pointed remark as coincidence. He stepped inside, the little cat, not realising the sparrow he was stalking was a vulture. The glamered windows showed the nightly scenery of Baldur’s Gate and the room was illuminated by yellow candlelight. The trapped souls had been confined to the prison and the devilish imagery hidden behind illusions. Like this, the House of Hope could almost pass as just another comfortable mansion.

“I knew you must be wealthy, but this seems…excessive,” Astarion said and turned to Raphael with something akin to a challenge in his eyes. Some reservations had fallen away from him now that his plan was progressing; clearly he expected he would sooner or later get Raphael to the place his master had chosen.

“You haven’t seen half of it,” Raphael replied. “Excess is my normality.”

Astarion huffed. “You’re proud of that, huh? Sitting on a throne in your palace while others toil beneath you?” It was the most genuine he'd been all evening, and Raphael was keen to coax more from him, to shatter his poorly fitting mask and tattered composure and fully expose the pitiful creature beneath.

“Oh, it’s not quite a throne I’m sitting on, yet,” Raphael smirked.

“Yet?”

“Doesn’t every man have his aspirations? His desires? What about you, Astarion? What do you desire?” Raphael raised his hand and counted on his fingers. “Wealth, power, influence?”

“Freedom,” Astarion said, and immediately clamped his mouth shut as if the word had escaped without permission.

“Power, then. That is something I could give you.”

A small frown appeared between Astarion’s brows and his eyes flickered between Raphael’s in search of deception or ridicule. “What?”

“But we haven’t come here to discuss the future.” With one hand on the small of Astarion’s back, Raphael guided him to the chaise lounge and made him sit down. Astarion followed easily if a little stiffly. His desperation to succeed in his first task made him careless. “We’re here to enjoy the present. Can I offer you anything? Wine, water? Something else entirely?”

Raphael’s reminder of the present let the mask reappear and Astarion smiled up at him. “I think there’s been enough drinking for now, don’t you? How about we do…something else?”

Raphael sat down next to him. It was oh-so-easy to play along with Astarion’s game; a game whose rules the little spawn didn’t even understand while Raphael had already mastered them. 

“I can tell you have plans.” Raphael leaned back and deliberately tipped his head to the side, exposing his throat. He glanced at Astarion, whose hands were curled in fists atop his knees. Surely his master had explicitly forbidden him from sampling the prey. Raphael scratched his neck, extending a claw to draw blood. “I’m open to whatever you’re suggesting.”

Astarion’s eyes were transfixed on Raphael’s throat. His lips were parted, teeth glinting in the candlelight. He looked so wanting, so needy, that Raphael suddenly realised he needed no contract to bind this starving spawn to him. He was one of Cazador’s. Certainly he despised his master; hatred that played right into Raphael’s agenda. Weighing the benefits and considering the consequences, Raphael came to a spontaneous decision. Usually, those didn’t make him feel much – their every outcome was certain, ending without fail to Raphael’s advantage. But this decision. This decision made him feel something almost akin to excitement.

Slowly, he lifted the hand from his neck and put it against Astarion’s cheek, painting white with red. Then trailed it further back into soft curls. He gently pulled him forward, closer to where blood was seeping into his collar. Astarion’s breath caught and Raphael felt slight tremors running through him.

“Have you ever fed on a human, little spawn?”

Astarion didn’t react to the remark, already too mindless, enthralled. His nose brushed against Raphael’s neck and when he licked his lips, his tongue caught a droplet of blood.

And then he was gone.

Raphael felt teeth pierce the skin and heard Astarion’s low moan as he got his first proper taste of blood. He carded soothing fingers through Astarion’s hair as the young spawn clawed at his shoulders and all but climbed into his lap for better access to his neck. Raphael allowed it all, even moved his head to make things easier. Never say Raphael wasn’t a caring devil. He wondered how much of an effect his blood would have on the spawn’s physiology. He was certain it would have one on his psyche. The first taste of food after starvation. Astarion would never forget it. He would crave it. The very second he had tasted it, he had sealed his fate with something more binding than any contract. Given time and appropriate treatment, Raphael believed he could make Astarion genuinely loyal, no, devoted to him. And nothing was as useful as a being that bound itself to a devil through willingness rather than desperation.

But that had to wait.

First, there were the more bothersome things to deal with. Best to get it all out of the way at once. With his hunger subsiding and senses returning, Astarion slowly realised what he was doing. Gasping, he flinched back, stumbling and almost falling to the ground. With horror he stared at Raphael like he was seeing the devil himself. Well. Raphael crossed his legs and draped an arm over the backrest, the part that wasn’t yet occupied with the bulk of his wings.

“You-” Astarion’s face was a mess; mouth and chin covered in blood, red eyes almost turned black by his dilated pupils. He subconsciously licked hips lips, catching errant droplets of blood and he seemed to be, as they said, entirely out of it.

“What?” Raphael raised an eyebrow. “Is my true form not to your taste? I’m hurt. And after I fed you so generously. A hot meal, at that.”

Astarion blinked, licked his lips again, then resolutely wiped the back of his hand over his mouth and accomplished nothing except for now also smearing blood across his cheeks. “And what do you want for that?” His voice was hoarse, like there was something stuck in his throat. "Or did I already give something away the second I- Fuck!"

“Given away?” Raphael pretended confusion. “We didn’t make a contract, did we? I helped you out of the goodness of my heart.”

“Your kind does nothing for free.”

Raphael’s eyes flashed. “My kind? I don’t have a kind, little spawn. I’m one of a kind. One you really don’t want to make an enemy of.” Ah. Maybe that had been too much. Patience had never been one of his virtues, numerous as they were. Astarion was backing away and Raphael forced an amused little smile.

“I’m merely jesting, Astarion. No need for such wariness after the intimate moment we just shared, hm?” He uncrossed his legs and leaned forward, making himself take up less space. “It is true that I do not expect anything in return for this little treat. However, should you want another taste in the future, I might ask for a little something…”

He looked up at Astarion from beneath his lashes and gave a little wink. Astarion’s distrust softened into suspicion. “I don’t want anything else from you. So. Can I go?”

“Of course! You’re free to go whenever you please. However…” Raphael slowly got up. He let his wings droop, the tips hanging on the floor in an attempt to look his least menacing. Astarion still took a measured step backward. Wary, calculating. Cautious while trying to not appear frightened. Sharp instincts and heightened senses that had been lacking before. It seemed his blood was already affecting the hungry little spawn. “I think it would be a great pity if we ended this potential partnership before it had a chance to even begin.”

“Partnership?” Astarion laughed disbelievingly. Finally, there was no trace of a mask left on him. He stood there in his full glory, red eyes narrowed, teeth exposed, and the hand behind his back undoubtedly around the handle of a dagger. Cute.

“To prove my honesty, I’ll be upfront. No talking around things. I-”

“Upfront,” Astarion scoffed. Raphael raised an eyebrow. Had the little spawn just interrupted him? “A devil, upfront? As if your kind doesn’t talk in fine print all the time.”

Your kind again. He was either incredibly brave, or suicidal. Both qualities Raphael could make use of.

“I know who your master is, Astarion. Cazador Szarr, the backstabbing bastard. I know he treats you less than favourably. Has he ever allowed you to feed? On something other than vermin, I mean.”

Astarion was very still, his eyes hard, his jaw clenched. Raphael took a casual step towards him. “When he turned you, did he help you out of the grave? Did he explain to you what happened, what your new life would entail? Did he give you time to adjust?”

Astarion’s hand slowly sank to his side.

“I know how his own master treated Cazador back then, who he took inspiration from. And I know that whatever you’re experiencing now is merely the beginning.” Raphael took another step. He was much taller than Astarion, and not just because of the horns. Astarion started stubbornly ahead, eyes fixated on Raphael’s chin. “This is your first time on the hunt, isn’t it? Eventually, you’re going to fail. And then you’ll learn that hell-” Raphael gestured to the windows that now showed the red vista of Avernus. “-is not necessarily on another plane.”

Astarion’s eyes flickered to the side briefly. He tried to conceal his insecurity, his wavering, but Raphael’s proficiency in reading people was unparalleled. He gently placed a finger under Astarion’s chin and tilted it up. For a moment, Astarion allowed it. Then he jerked his head to the side and snarled.

“Are you done? If you think I’ll put on your leash together with Cazador’s so you can both jerk me in different directions, you’re a fool. If I wanted help, a devil is the last being I’d ask.”

Raphael nodded. “I see. Well, feel free to try the gods, I’ve heard some people get lucky with those. Or maybe the city watch, surely they’ll be happy to stand up for a vampire spawn.”

Astarion hissed. “You said I was free to go. I would like to do that now.”

“Go ahead. There’s the portal to Baldur’s Gate.  But, Astarion.”

Raphael’s voice turned serious. Astarion, already half turned around, paused. He glanced back over his shoulder. Raphael wasn’t smiling anymore. He took Astarion’s wrist and turned his palm up.

 “If you change your mind, I’ll wait for you one tenday.” Raising his other hand, he manifested an inconspicuous coin between two fingers. It had been a long, long time since he’d last wasted a thought on it. So long he had almost forgotten. It was a rather personal little bother, this coin. And Raphael didn’t do personal. But maybe, it had finally found its purpose. “Feel free to call on me. A touch and a whispered name, and I shall come to your side.” He let the coin fall on Astarion’s palm, feeling a strange jolt of excitement. Nothing like a good old calculated risk.

“I won’t,” Astarion said, but let the coin almost subconsciously slide into his pocket. Then he turned around and marched towards the door.

“A tenday, Astarion. Be it hunger or help, I offer my services.” Raphael called, then the door slammed shut. He chuckled to himself.

The seed had fallen on fertile soil. Cazador’s actions would provide ample water and sunlight for it to grow. Raphael gave him two days, the little spawn.

In the meantime, he would send his agents to find out more about what kind of deal, if any, Cazador had struck with his dearest father. And if everything else failed, there was still one final card he could play.

-

Raphael was frustrated. He had fired (literally) three useless informants, and confined another to prison for delivering news that only added to his frustration. They had found out nothing about the deal. And, even more annoyingly, it had been six days, and there was nothing. Neither plea for help nor food. Maybe Cazador had killed his spawn after Astarion had failed to deliver prey, or maybe he had been locked up and stripped of all possessions. Raphael clicked his tongue. Not being in total control of a situation was not quite as enjoyable as he’d thought. That he, as one of the most powerful and cunning devils in the nine hells, was left wondering what a little vampire spawn might be up to was entirely disproportionate. But… The opportunities that came with Astarion were simply too good to pass up, and Raphael hated nothing more than wasted opportunities.

He pinched the bridge of his nose and finished the final paragraph of an especially wordy contract that would ensure not only the signer's, but five subsequent generations' eternal doom. It did nothing to lift his spirits.

“Master Raphael.”

He slowly raised his head. Korrilla had wisely avoided him these days, but judging from her eager tone she had spent her time productively. 

“I have found the spawn’s grave.”

“Have you now?” Raphael asked, all boredom tinged with mild interest. Fucking finally. “And?”

“Astarion Ancunín, died aged 39 late last year, was turned shortly after. Allegedly killed by Gurs, but who knows. Parents were of the middling sort, he used to be a magistrate, presumably by their demand.”

Raphael didn’t care about his backstory, but knowledge was power. Who knew what it might be good for? His mood, as frigid as Stygia, warmed up a bit.

“Ancunín, hm?”

“Do you want me to find out more about his past?”

Raphael waved impatiently. “Find out if his parents yet live. If he had anyone important to him. That would be all.”

Korrilla remained, clearly preparing to use the service she’d just done to ask for something in return. She was learning his ways. As endearing as it was annoying.

“Master, did Hope…did she-”

“Your sister is still her stubborn old self,” Raphael said. Torturing her had been his only means of venting frustration, and unfortunately Hope had a tendency to make things worse. “If you want another talk with her, be my guest.”

Korrilla exhaled. “Thank you, master Raphael.”

“I do not need to repeat what might happen should your conscience and sisterly love suddenly get the better of you, do I?”

“Of course not.” She bowed deeply and vanished. She was firm in her loyalty, even though it was founded on fear. If at all possible, Raphael would rather avoid that with Astarion. For what he had planned for the young spawn, devotion would be a lot more useful.

And in the end, Raphael always got what Raphael wanted.

-

The sun had set on the eighth day when Raphael felt a rare sensation. He had almost forgotten what it felt like to get directly summoned. It was insistent, like a child tugging on its parent’s hand. But rather than getting annoyed, Raphael allowed himself a smile. He savoured the feeling of satisfaction, of having won. He was no stranger to victories, but this one tasted especially sweet. He waited a little longer. Wondered what dire situation little Astarion had found himself in that had driven him to this last resort. Hoped it was something dreadful. Agonising. Something that would make him oh-so-grateful for Raphael’s appearance. In that case, it was best to let him suffer a little more. Raphael stretched, dismissed his cambion form, straightened his clothes. He ran a hand through his hair, as always briefly startled by the lack of horns, then prepared to planeshift.

He emerged in a dark alley, surrounded by the stench of blood. So far, so promising. The ground was littered with corpses - no humanoid ones, disappointingly. And there, among the dead pets and pests, stood pressed against the wall Astarion, face and hands bloody, chest heaving with laboured breaths. Raphael had been prepared to gloat, but he reminded himself that he didn’t want Astarion’s fear, nor his reluctant cooperation for a lack of alternatives. He wanted devotion.

“Astarion?” he asked gently and took a step forwards. Astarion stared at him wide-eyed. He was muttering something, and only when Raphael got closer did he hear that it was his name. In Astarion’s fist clutched was the coin.

“I’m here. Quite surprised to get summoned after all. What is it you need? Help?” He looked around. “Food?”

All Astarion managed was a nod. He held himself strangely, possibly from torture-induced injuries, and was trembling. Looked like Cazador had made a good job of it. Raphael thanked him in silence and reached out for Astarion like he had seen humans reach out for feral cats they want to tame. Astarion kept still, but followed Raphael’s every movement with his eyes.

“Do you want to feed right here, or do you want me to take you to my house?”

Giving him the illusion of choice was a good approach, considering choice had been all but ripped away from him. In the end, all roads led to the House of Hope anyway.

“Here,” Astarion managed.

Raphael nodded compassionately - or as compassionately as he could manage, it had been a while since he’d needed to make use of that particular social construct. He could offer Astarion his wrist, but where would be the fun in that? Where the hint of intimacy that encouraged trust? When he reached for Astarion's shoulders and pulled him in, the spawn sagged bodily against him, as if his own weight was too much to carry. His head fell on Raphael’s shoulder, who felt Astarion’s heavy breaths against the side of his neck but not the sting of his fangs.

“What’s the matter little spawn?”

“I have nothing,” Astarion murmured. “I’m not even sure I have a soul to offer. Whatever you demand in return, I can't give you.”

Raphael smiled. It wasn’t a kind smile. But it was a real one. “Don’t worry about that. Just take what you need. Strengthen up. Everything else comes later.”

Chapter Text

Eleasis 1269

Raphael didn’t look up when the door opened. The soul was flimsy in his fingers, and it needed precision to form it in the exact way he wanted.

“Are you knitting a scarf?”

“Shush.”

Steps approached and Raphael felt a presence at his back, but there were no further words. A dog well trained, he thought as he twisted the resisting soul and ripped the essence from the product. The former was pure food for the soul pillars. The latter was tainted by the woman's life – it stored values, opinions, and memories and retained just enough consciousness to know exactly what was happening to it. Through Raphael's ministrations, it would now perform one single action for the rest of its existence. A happy fate - the woman loved dancing, after all.

“That doesn’t even remotely look like a scarf.”

Raphael glanced behind him. Astarion had lost some of his reservations over the last tendays. He was still vigilant, still distrustful more often than not, but he was also starting to drop his guard. It was an intriguing process, one Raphael would have never imagined tolerating. Curiously, most of the time Astarion was more entertainment than annoyance, even though (or maybe because) he dared to speak in a way no one else had ever spoken to Raphael. After all, he had yet to experience a devil’s wrath.

“I'm no expert on needlework, but I'm quite sure I did the opposite of knitting,” Raphael said easily and shoved the mutilated soul back into its vessel, where the measly remnants spread to start its eternal dance. "It's more of an…unravelling."

“A soul?”

Raphael hummed and put away his instruments. The woman was choking on laughter as she danced.

“What did she sign for?”

“She was a famous dancer who injured her leg. It was either never dancing again, or putting her name on a piece of paper. She made her decision. Now she can dance for all eternity.” With a snap of his fingers, he transported her to the House of Hope.

Astarion stared at the spot where she had just twirled around. “Why?”

Raphael paused. “Why?”

“Yes. Why are you making her dance? How does it benefit you?”

“Well, what benefits me is this.” He held up the piece of soul he had removed; the true essence. “I feed it to my soul pillars and can draw power from it, should I find the need.” 

“Then why bother and make the rest of her dance? Seems unnecessary.”

“Because it amuses me.” Raphael said and took a step closer to Astarion. “Because seeing her suffer from the very thing she wished for so desperately brings me great pleasure.” He raised his hand in front of Astarion’s face and squashed the true essence in his fist, absorbing its energy even though he didn’t need it. There was nothing like putting on a good show, after all.

"Lovely. You have such a way with words." Astarion stared at the thin wisps of soul smoke curling up from Raphael’s fist. Raphael smirked and blew them in his face, making him flinch minutely. Seeing that he had neither fled nor accused Raphael of being horrible, he noted it down as a win. Nothing would have made Raphael drop him quicker than Astarion turning out to be some dreadfully dull goody-two-shoes.

“How was the hunt?” Raphael asked as he tidied up the desk. “Who did he make you snatch this time?”

“Some second-rate noble,” Astarion said. His third victim. The third one he told Raphael about, at least. He kept quiet about his failures, as well as the consequences they brought. Raphael, of course, still knew. Ever since the start of his little spawn-shaped project, he had installed more eyes in the city to report on Astarion’s progress.

“That sounds like you didn’t enjoy it very much. Was it rough?” Raphael already knew the answer. He was very much aware of how uncomfortable Astarion was with his conquests, but he enjoyed rubbing salt in the wound.

Astarion pretended to be unaffected, bored – his go-to defence-mechanism. “At least rough would have been interesting. No, he was dull. Kept talking about his achievements. I don’t know why Cazador feeds on these idiots. Their blood must taste stale.”

“And you’re a connoisseur of blood?” Raphael sat down on their usual chaise lounge and gestured Astarion over. He looked almost petulant, but sat down nonetheless.

“Well, I do get warm premium meals every now and then.”

“In between the rats your master grants you, you mean.”

Astarion smiled poison-sweet. “Yes. In between rats.”

Astarion came to him three, sometimes four times a tenday. Not to the House of Hope, but the private room Raphael had rented (or rather occupied) in one of Baldur’s Gate more lavish taverns so Cazador wouldn’t get suspicious because his spawn regularly vanished off the face of the plane. Astarion didn’t need to feed that often to retain a reasonable amount of strength, but since the spawn had experienced how it was to be satiated, it was difficult to go back to starvation. And it was far from Raphael’s mind to deny him this; after all, it served to prove whether or not his blood would actually enhance the spawn’s abilities. So far, it looked promising. Astarion seemed more vigorous, stronger, eyes sharpened and mind cleared. And most of all, he was grateful, even though he never voiced it. Raphael was Astarion’s only source of real blood, and at least on that level, the spawn was already tied to him.

Astarion leaned over and Raphael tilted his head to bare his throat. The little spawn was still experimenting with his technique. This time around, he was almost gentle, cupping Raphael’s neck and licking across the skin before biting. And Raphael had to admit that it was not an unpleasant sensation. It was soothing, almost, allowed him to let his thoughts drift. He mused about the recent information Astarion had given him on his master; about the surprising number of victims Cazador made his spawns lure to him. Not even the most gluttonous vampire lord could possibly feed on so many people. Was he storing them for bad times? Or planning something else entirely?

Lost in thought, his fingers found their way into Astarion’s hair, idly running through the curls and mussing them up. Astarion all but purred against his throat and nestled closer. It would be much easier if he sat in Raphael’s lap, but whatever gave the spawn the illusion of being in control. And in control he was definitely not; Raphael still had to gently nudge him away because he couldn’t stop drinking. Astarion made a small, dissatisfied noise, but obediently detached himself from Raphael’s neck. He seemed entirely relaxed, sinking into the cushions next to Raphael with closed eyes and a slack body. Ironic, how the only time he allowed himself to be at ease was in the devil's room.

“You know…I wouldn’t mind returning to the Hells with you.” Astarion said suddenly.

“Understandable. I have a great sense of decor.”

He huffed a laugh, “Sure.” and didn’t elaborate on the actual reason. Astarion was like this; always vigilant with what he said. When given too much opportunity to consider his words, he didn’t say them at all. In the beginning, Raphael hadn’t pushed because he simply didn’t care. Now he knew that showing interest was a form of gaining trust. And Astarion was desperate for someone to be interested in him because once he did talk, he did so enthusiastically.

“So? Enlighten me.”

“That, pretty much. All the light.” He gestured to the windows. “Back there, it might be burning hellfire, but at least it’s natural lighting. There is nothing I miss more… Well, the taste of freshly baked bread maybe.”

“And here I thought you wanted to spend more time in my venerable company."

"Darling, if you promise me the sun I just might." Astarion said, eyes still on the night sky.

"I'm afraid you'll have to buy me dinner more than once until I do that. I’ve always wanted to ask. Do you remember anything of your human life?”

“No.”

He still hadn’t gotten better at lying, at least not when Raphael was concerned.  

“Well, it’s probably not worth remembering. One look at those mortals is enough.” Raphael made an all-encompassing gesture with his arm. “Miserable, the lot of them. Trying their damnedest to make their existence as difficult as possible, for themselves and others. Weak. Pathetic.”

Astarion straightened up and turned to look at Raphael. He was able to retain eye-contact now, though there was still a flicker, as if they were desperate to look around and make sure everything was all safe. “I’m not that far off from a mortal. When I first came to you, did you think I was weak as well? Or pathetic?”

“Oh, most certainly both. In fact, I still think so,” Raphael said easily. There was blood clinging to the corner of Astarion’s mouth and Raphael reached over, brushing it away with his thumb in a gesture of pure patronisation. “But that’s what I’m here for, isn’t it? To make you stronger. To give you power.” When he leaned forward, his wings slid over the backrest and one draped itself against Astarion’s back, making him flinch.

Astarion frowned. “And I’m still waiting for the catch. What, am I going to wake up one day and be cursed with eternal sunlight? Damned by the thing I want the most?”

Raphael stood up, dragging his wing slowly across Astarion’s back in the imitation of a gentle caress. “The future is the future. We should care about the present. Such as; did you manage to gain entry into Cazador’s study?”

That was the contract between them: Raphael fed Astarion blood, Astarion fed Raphael information. A contract unwritten and unwitnessed. It had been a quite strange experience for Raphael; the force of habit made him reach for paper and quill as soon as he so much as uttered the word deal. But since Astarion was his little experiment, he had refrained. And had been rewarded. Astarion did indeed agree to the terms. Unfortunately it proved difficult to get any relevant information from Cazador, even more so the particulars Raphael was interested in. He still wanted to find out which deal Mephistopheles and Cazador had struck.

“Well, it’s not like I can just barge in there,” Astarion said defensively. “Even if Cazador is not there, his trusted thralls are, and they’re especially keen on catching us spawn fucking up. They enjoy watching the torture. I need to wait for the right chance.”

Raphael hummed and turned his head to look down at the spawn sunken into the cushions. He looked small. Weak. And the only way to get rid of weakness was suffering. “Well. If you do get that chance, take it. Don’t hesitate, even if a little risk remains. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, and there are few things worse than a missed opportunity.”

Astarion glanced at him from the corner of his eyes. “Easy to say for an all-powerful devil. Do you ever have to deal with consequences?”

“Most of the time, I am the consequence.”

“That’s what I thought,” Astarion murmured.

Raphael turned fully, leaning forward slightly to intrude into Astarion’s personal space. “Still wary of me, hm, pet?”

To his credit, Astarion didn’t scoot back. Dared to glare at Raphael, even. “I’m not your pet. And if course I’m wary,” he hissed. Like a housecat. Running away from its owner to find a new, better one.

Raphael didn’t bother hiding his amusement. “Have I not treated you with nothing but kindness? Given you treats where your master only gave you scraps?”

“That’s what worries me. I know your kindness doesn’t come for free. I’m just waiting for the stake through my heart.”

Raphael chuckled and raised his hand, stroking Astarion’s cheek. “Eventually, you’ll see. I want only what’s best for you.”

“Is that so?”

“Well, I want what’s best for me. But those two things are more closely linked than you might think.”

-

Raphael rolled his neck. It was uncomfortable, the lack of weight his horns usually added. Just as uncomfortable as it was for his wings to be squeezed up in the disguise. He didn’t feel them right now, but as soon as he changed back, they cramped up. One of the reasons he didn’t spend more time in his human form. Another being the lack of dramatics and flair - he did his best to remain presentable, but humans were inherently dull-looking. Unfortunately, he had discovered that some contracts were indeed easier made in human form. The horns did scare some people away. Even now the gnome in front of him looked frightened, despite Raphael’s basic appearance. They sat in his private room in the tavern and the man had given his demand.

“A noble wish,” Raphael said with an insincere smile. “And one I am more than capable of fulfilling.”

A pathetic wish, more like. People these days used their souls to buy the most ridiculous things. Get his family away from the pirates that had captured and enslaved them? Sure, Raphael could do that. The woman was half-dead with disease and the son was full-dead, but if the gnome didn’t specify his demand, then that wasn’t Raphael’s problem.

The gnome swallowed heavily. “And the price will be…?”

“The exact thing they tell in the stories,” Raphael said sweetly. “Of course it is only your soul. Your family’s, I won’t touch.” Because one was already gone and the other barely hanging on.

“Then I agr-”

The door slammed open and the gnome startled so badly he almost fell off the chair. Raphael took a deep breath and turned around, ready to combust whoever dared to intrude on him.

Astarion was covered in dirt and blood. Raphael raised an eyebrow. He hadn’t seen the young spawn for a tenday, assuming he was busy with jobs from Cazador. Apparently, that had not been the case. The gnome seemed close to a heart-attack, which would be highly unfortunate considering the contract hadn’t been signed yet.

“Astarion. Can you wait for a bit? I'm in the middle of a nice conversation.”

Astarion nodded wordlessly and walked into the bedchamber, where he was hopefully taking a bath. Raphael turned back to the gnome.

“My apologies. That was very unprofessional. So, where were we?”

In the end, Astarion’s blood-soaked appearance might have played into Raphael’s hands as the gnome had suddenly become very eager to get out of the room. He had signed the contract, Raphael had teleported his wife and the corpse of his son to his home and would soon add one more soul to his collection.

Then there was the matter of an injured spawn to take care of. Astarion had looked positively dreadful. Very promising. Cazador must have been thorough.

Raphael didn’t bother to knock on his own bedroom door and strode in to find Astarion sitting in a bathtub filled with grimy water. He was staring down at the red-tinged surface.

“You might want to change the water,” Raphael noted. “What in the nine hells happened?”

“I took an opportunity,” Astarion spat.

“Hmm, and from the looks of it, the consequences as well.”

Astarion’s head snapped up. “I did what you told me to! Must be nice to sit here and have others suffer for your stupid ideas!”

Raphael let the disguise drip down his body like viscous blood and unfurled his wings. Not in a menacing way. Just to remind Astarion who he was talking to. Astarion averted his eyes and went back to glowering at the water. Raphael sighed and stepped forward.

“You’re sitting in filth. This is disgusting.” He made sure there were no scrying presences near because if anyone saw this, he might as well kill himself outright with all the respect he’d lose. The things he did to ensure the little spawn's devotion. But he had already invested too much to give it up now. With a snap of his fingers, the water turned clear and soapy foam formed on the surface while a flowery smell drifted through the room. Astarion blinked.

“You were gone for a tenday. Did you spend all of it in some torture chamber?” Raphael sat down on the rim of the bathtub and dipped his hand into the water, heating it up. Astarion was still glaring, but he also settled a little more comfortably.

“They only caught me messing with the lock. Let me get away with five days in the basement.” Astarion absentmindedly rubbed the scraped-over wounds on his arm.

“Are you hungry, pet?”

“No.” Instant reply, accompanied by dark glowering.

Raphael bit down a laugh. The little spawn was pouting like some child that had been wrongfully sent to its room. He got up and grabbed a sponge from the stand next to the tub.

“Do you want me to help clean yourself up?”

“No!” That was less pouty and more panicked.

“Oh? I didn’t take you as a shy one.”

Astarion, clearly regretting the outburst, rolled his eyes. “I’m not shy. Just not in the mood for questions.”

“Well, now I’m curious.”

Astarion snarled, baring his teeth, and Raphael expected another irritated insult. But then Astarion paused, mouth half-open and eyes unfocussed, seemingly in deep consideration. Raphael didn’t smile, didn’t glare, only looked back neutrally. He knew that in these cases, it was best to give Astarion the freedom of choice he craved. Or at least an illusion of it. Astarion bit his lip and closed his eyes. Then, without a word, he stood up and turned around.

And Raphael stared. And stared.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been genuinely surprised. Without meaning to, he reached out and trailed his fingers over Astarion's back. Over raised scars in a circular pattern. This time, Astarion didn't flinch at the contact. He didn't move at all, in fact. Stood perfectly still, fists clenched at his side, as he let Raphael retrace the words.

“Well, well,” Raphael hummed absently as he reached the middle of the circle. “Would you look at that.”

"It's a poem," Astarion said, spitting the word out like it was glass on his tongue. "Written for me, personally. Though he never told me what it said."

"Oh, this is personal alright," Raphael murmured and felt the urge to dig his fingers in and tear the skin off. There, carved into Astarion’s back, was an infernal contract. A part of one, at least. Familiar handwriting. Looks like he'd finally found the hints of the deal Cazador had struck.

 Mephistopheles. On my spawn.

“What?” Astarion turned around. There were deep gashes across his chest and an angry red burn mark marring ivory skin. "What does it say?"

"I'm not sure. I can tell you that it is not a poem.”

“What, is the great Lord Raphael illiterate?”

“Charming,” Raphael said dryly. “It's written in a very special kind of infernal. Asking me to read this is like asking you to read hamarfae. I can guess, but what exactly it means...I'll need a while to decipher it." It wasn't a lie. This was no normal contract. It was a ritualistic one, and those were especially convoluted. Ambiguous, metaphorical, and as needlessly complex as possible. To truly understand it, Raphael needed more information. More time.

"Can you do it?" Astarion asked breathlessly.

Raphael paused. Usually, this was the point where he should draw the line. No more free favours, no more coddling. He could sense that this was something Astarion would give up his soul for. Because he knew it was a piece of the key to freedom. And yet... Raphael had done so much work already. He could muster a little more patience. Devotion, he reminded himself. Not servitude.

He reached out and pressed his hand against the burn mark right over Astarion's heart. Astarion hissed in anticipation of pain that never came. Raphael dragged his hand across Astarion's chest, healing the wounds and leaving no trace of scars.

"I can do it. But I need a while."

Astarion stared at him. He looked genuinely surprised. "You'll do it? Just like that?"

"Well, I must admit that I’m quite interested in this myself. Why would there be infernal writing on your back? I’m sure the answer to it will benefit us both."

"I- well. That is- I mean, thank you. Raphael."

Raphael did enjoy it greatly when people thanked him for manipulating them. He patted Astarion's once-more smooth chest. "Look at that, the pet knows to be grateful."

His eyes fell to the mirror behind Astarion, but instead of the scarred back he saw- himself. "Right. Vampire."

"Huh?"

Raphael nodded towards the mirror. "No reflection."

Astarion turned around and locked eyes with Raphael in the glass. "Ah. That. Yes, I haven't seen myself since I was turned. Pity, I used to be a vision." He said with feigned arrogance that didn’t manage to cover up his insecurity.

"Would you like to?"

"To what?"

Raphael stepped closer and stretched out his wings. He placed his hands on Astarion's shoulders, ran them down his arms to grasp his wrists, then curled his wings forward and concealed Astarion's form from the mirror. "See yourself."

A simple illusion was all it took. When he drew back his wings, Astarion faced himself. His eyes widened.

"Still a vision, I'd say," Raphael smiled, resting his chin on Astarion’s shoulder.

"I-" Astarion’s voice was hoarse, and he fell quiet. He locked eyes with himself.

"And this is merely a fraction of what I can do, Astarion." He stepped back and the illusion in the mirror flickered, then vanished. "Just a little reminder that in the end, your current master might not be the most powerful one. That you taking a risk might have angered one, but greatly pleased another."

Astarion took a shuddering breath and hugged himself, fingers digging into his shoulders. "What do you want, Raphael?"

"All in due time." Raphael turned around. Another weight added. Not long, and Astarion would fully cave. Fully submit to him. "All in due time."

-

Astarion returned to Cazador with illusory injuries on his body. When he'd turned towards the door, he'd hesitated, glanced at Raphael, seemed to want to say something. In the end, he'd just nodded and left. Raphael was quite sure he didn't wholly trust him yet - well, would probably never, he was too smart for that - but at least he trusted in Raphael's power. And the little revelation of his poem had given Raphael the opportunity to increase it.

He had an appointment in his bedroom.

Haarlep had become more and more insufferable lately; an annoyance not even his face could salvage. He looked up when Raphael entered.

"A rare visitor. It's almost been a tenday. Did the contracts keep you busy?"

Raphael approached the bed and looked down. Haarlep smiled and reached out, but Raphael caught his wrist.

"Haarlep," he purred and sat down next to him, pulling the hand into his lap. "I think it is time I come clean about something that has had me quite preoccupied recently."

Haarlep's eyes widened imperceptibly and he nodded, anticipation obvious in his silence. Not even a lewd innuendo. He must be desperate for news to deliver to Mephistopheles.

"You see, I have a rather large problem, and I'm not sure how to deal with it."

"I'd be happy to offer advice."

"That's why I appreciate you so much." Raphael smiled and patted Haarlep's hand. "Well, my problem is, for the most part, you, darling."

The eagerness in Haarlep's face made way for confusion. "What-"

"You, and your frankly horrid acting. And I'm just not sure what to do about it. Do I kill you outright? Do I throw you into prison, give Nubaldin a new plaything?"

"Lord Raphael, I don't-"

"Or do I go to my dearest father and ask him why the everloving fuck he sent hell's most unskilled incubus to my doorstep?" 

Confusion turned to terror. Haarlep tried to stand, but Raphael kept his wrist in a tight grip. He felt bones grind against each other.

"So? What would be your advice? Just how am I to handle this?"

"I- I never meant to- I had no other choice! He's Mephistopheles! He-"

"And I'm Raphael." With a hiss, he lunged forward and pinned Haarlep to the bed, one hand around his wrist, one closed around his throat. "So many days in my company, so many nights in my bed, and still you chose my father to stay loyal to? Oh, I'm hurt." He leaned his entire weight on the hand around Haarlep’s throat.

"Lord Raphael, don't!” Haarlep choked out. “I- I can become your spy instead. I can tell you about Mephistopheles' plans, I can-"

Raphael barked a laugh. "Oh, this is grand. I knew you were narcissistic, but do you actually believe my father shared his relevant plans with you?"

"No! No, he didn't share, but I see things. He doesn't always hide them well, thinks no one dares to- to go against him!"

It was quite curious, to see fear on his own face. It looked even more out of place than Haarlep's obnoxious pout. Still, there was something about it...a novelty, intriguing and not at all unattractive. Haarlep took his momentary silence as an opportunity.

"I can tell you where he hides the Crown of Karsus!"

Raphael blinked, smiled. "I know where he keeps it. Now, if you were to break into his infernal vault in Cania and bring it to me, I might consider forgiveness."

Haarlep swallowed heavily and squirmed underneath Raphael. "That...I don't think I'm powerful enough for."

"Of course you aren't, you sweet little imbecile." Raphael’s smile turned sharp. "Which means, you have absolutely no value to me. Unless, of course..." He paused, letting the threat of impending death settle in. Then, he loosened his hand around the incubus’ throat minutely. "Unless you know about one very specific deal Mephistopheles made.”

Haarlep exhaled and nodded hastily. “I might. I have some informants, in Mephistopheles’ palace, people who can tell of things he wants no one to know. It can’t hurt to have…several irons in the fire, as they say.”

“You’re disgustingly opportunistic. I respect that.” With one fluid motion, Raphael got off of Haarlep and the bed. He idly adjusted the rings on his fingers and allowed himself an early moment of triumph. He hadn’t expected any difficulty concerning Haarlep; he knew the incubus too well and his self-preservatory tendencies were unparalleled. Still, taking his father’s weapon and reshaping it to plunge it into its owner’s heart did feel rather good.

When he turned, Haarlep was still in the exact same position, breath labored and hands clenched around the blankets. Raphael had to amend his prior statement – fear did not suit him at all.

“You get one single chance. What do you know of the deal struck with a vampire lord called Cazador Szarr?”

Relief spread over Haarlep’s face and a hysterical laugh tore from his throat. He sat up almost giddily. This was worse than the fear. “Fuck. I knew getting details on this one might come in handy one day. I know about the deal. I was there when it happened, when the vampire came striding in, announced he had come to a decision regarding the book.”

Raphael smiled. He pulled up a chair and leisurely sat down. “Well then. Do kiss and tell.”

In the end, Raphael always got what Raphael wanted.

-

Raphael turned the page, strangely intrigued. The Rite of Profane Ascension. A fittingly dramatic name for something meant to create an entirely new being. For a vampire to rise, others needed to fall. Elevation through stepping onto others. Power in exchange for power. But not just any power; that from which you were made, or that which you yourself made. And therein laid the cause for Astarion’s existence. Vellioth was already dead; for Cazador to become the Vampire Ascendant, he had to sap strength from those he’d sired. It explained why Astarion, despite having dared to break into his master’s personal quarters, had not been killed.

“Did you find what you were looking for?” Korrilla stood at a respectful distance from his table, kneading her hands. Raphael had almost forgotten she was there. 

“You should know the answer to that yourself,” he drawled and tapped his quill on the rosecork table. 

Korrilla’s fingers tightened around each other. “The book was not easy to procure, and then it also took a while to-”

“And I greatly appreciate your efforts. It’s quite the interesting read.” Raphael smiled and closed the tome. “Unfortunately, it is rather useless without the other thing I asked for. You remember, don’t you? About the matter I explicitly stated to be most crucial?”

“Of course, Lord Raphael. And I’ve arranged the transcription process, but the diabolist specialising in the Eighth Hell said due to the intricate nature of the contract it will take well over a tenday to-”

Raphael silenced her with a motion of his hand. That was why he despised having to rely on others; they were slow and unreliable. But there was little else he could have done in this case, considering how unfamiliar he was with his father’s way of formulating contracts.

“Don’t bother me with details.” Raphael pinched the bridge of his nose. “Just make sure that the diabolist doesn’t get distracted. Two tendays are the absolute maximum. I will not tolerate any further delays.” 

“Of course, Lord Raphael.” Korrilla bowed. “I will aid her in every way I can.” 

“Two tendays,” Raphael called when she opened the door. “Make sure to watch the clock. Any longer and I might have to relieve my anger on certain uncooperative prisoners. And don’t-”

He paused. Something urged him to stand up, and it was only his impeccable self-control that allowed him to resist. The coin. Astarion was calling him. And insistently.

“Lord Raphael?” 

“The clock,” Raphael hissed. When he got up, it was because he wanted to, not because the coin made him. “Tick-tock, Korrilla. Your sister won’t appreciate your dallying.” 

When Korrilla had left, Raphael considered. Whatever was happening, it was unlikely for Astarion to be in life-threatening danger. Cazador wouldn’t risk that. Unless Cazador had nothing to do with this and- 

Raphael clicked his tongue. He hadn’t expected the effect of the coin to be this strong. It was tugging him forward, urged him to hurry. And the little spawn was very insistent this time around. Raphael considered the hour. Almost dawn in Baldur’s Gate. Whatever peril Astarion was in, Raphael might profit from it. The reliable saviour. The devil you know and trust. 

He leisurely strolled towards the portal leading to Baldur’s Gate. Dawn was creeping closer and he strongly suspected that it had something to do with the ongoing urgency Astarion was calling him with. Raphael focussed on his coin and stepped through. He found himself in a plaza tinged pastel by the rising sun. Light was creeping along the cobblestones, pushing long shadows away. In one of them, cast by a tall building but slimming, cowered Astarion. He was pressed against the wall as the unrelenting light crept towards him. His legs were bent at a strange angle, his clothes bloody. Across the plaza, he made eye contact with Raphael. The look of pure dread on his face turned into all-encompassing relief, and in the light of the rising sun, Raphael saw the glint of a tear. 

What a beautiful scene. Brimming with potential. Opportunity. If he saved Astarion now, he would well and truly own him. No contract, no force, only Astarion’s infinite gratefulness to build loyalty on. Raphael would be the one he trusted. With life and soul. They held eye contact across the plaza as the sun ascended over the city’s rooftops. Astarion’s dark shield grew smaller and smaller. Slowly he raised a hand, almost as if to reach out.

Raphael didn’t remember the last time something like an instinct had stirred within him. He was control and calculation incarnate, something as basic and human as instinct was foreign to him. But at this very moment, he felt the need to step forward and grasp that hand. Just as he was about to give in to the urge, a shadow of black smoke manifested next to Astarion and made Raphael pause.

Too late. 

Too fucking late, the opportunity flickered and vanished like a mirage of dawn.

Astarion’s eyes widened when he saw Raphael take a step back instead of forward. The spawn would understand, eventually, even though right now his expression distorted in disbelieving horror and Raphael felt the desperate grip of shaking fingers around the coin. 

Ah, what a pity. What a bothersome, tedious pity. Raphael clenched his teeth. He couldn’t act. Not with Cazador right there, reaching for Astarion's arm and yanking him up to hiss into his ear. Astarion barely reacted, eyes vacant as he continued to stare at Raphael. Cazador grabbed his jaw and twisted his head, forcing his spawn to look at him. Astarion’s mouth moved and Raphael read the words from his lips.

“Of course, master.” 

Cazador sneered and moved his arm to the side minutely. Just as Astarion’s face was about to be cast in sunlight, they vanished. Raphael looked at the smoke left in their wake, dissipating just like the plans he’d made. A perfect opportunity, taken from him. And Raphael despised having things taken from him. He was the one who took, received, was given. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. 

There was nothing he could have done. Too much danger involved without knowing the details of the contract; without knowing if the scars on Astarion's back ran deeper than the surface. For now he couldn’t risk alerting Cazador to the fact that Astarion was also involved with a devil. 

The pot of flowers next to Raphael burst into flame. Causing carnage in the city was tempting, but there were more dignified ways of relieving frustration. Raphael was back to a pleasant smile when he pulled the door to Haarlep’s cell open. 

Eleint 1269

When Raphael returned to the House of Hope from his dealings with an annoying pit fiend – brutes, the lot of them, having traded the modicum of dignity their status would have allowed them for their war-mongering mentalities – he found Korrilla waiting for him in the dining hall. She was talking to the cook, some gnome who had sold his soul so many years ago that Raphael couldn’t be bothered to remember his name, and looked up when he entered. 

“Lord Raphael.” She bowed while the cook hurried away. He knew Raphael appreciated his skill but not his presence. 

“Whatever news you have, Korrilla, better be results rather than more problems. I am in a rather ill mood.”

“Yes, Lord Raphael, the diabolist finished transcribing the contract-“

Raphael stopped her with a motion of his hand, then transitioned into a gesture indicating for her to follow. Two more days and his ultimatum would have been exceeded. Pity, he’d been looking forward to finally having a proper means of relieving his frustration. As expected, the spawn hadn’t contacted him again, nor had desperation made him use the coin. By now, Raphael knew him well enough to know that Astarion’s pride-fuelled resentment outlasted any torment inflicted on him. But just because it was expected didn’t mean it wasn’t irritating that of all beings, Raphael had to deal with a bratty, pouty, annoying vampire spawn. He slammed the door to his study open with more force than necessary. Korrilla kept more distance than usual; not from respect but because Raphael’s rage was quite literally burning hot. He sat down behind his desk and held out a hand. Korrilla carefully dropped a scroll onto his palm. It didn’t catch on fire. Rosecork parchment. At least the diabolist knew what they were doing.

Raphael glanced up. Korrilla was still standing there uselessly, doing her best to rob him of what few nerves he had remaining. “You did your job. Feel free to visit your sister.”

She exhaled, bowed, and hurried out of the room. Raphael waited until she’d quietly closed the door, then he unrolled the scroll. The diabolist’s scrawl was almost artistic, as if the contract’s form had bled into her hand as she transcribed, but Raphael managed to decipher it. And when he was done, he felt vindicated. He’d been right to keep his distance, right to not alert Cazador and especially to not kill Cazador.

Should the contractee fail to deliver the 7000 souls promised to the contractor before he completes the Rite of Profane Ascension for any reason (death, refusal, lack of ability, or any reason of a similar kind) then his own soul, as well as those of his spawn and of all the until then collected will be instantly delivered to the contractor.  
In a similar vein, should any one of the branded spawn or collected sacrifices perish before the Rite of Profane Ascension has been completed, their souls will be instantly delivered to the contractor

Raphael almost crumpled the transcription when he curled his hand into a fist. Mephistopheles. Vile in his greed even for a devil. Seven thousand souls. It explained why Cazador had his spawn collect so many victims. Not to feed on but to store, to gift to the devil who had granted him the rite. Raphael slammed his fist onto the table. A black stain remained on the non-flammable rosecork. So Cazador mustn’t die until he collected and delivered seven thousand souls. And Astarion couldn’t leave him until then because no matter the contract Raphael could offer him, it would never be able to overwrite that of his dear father.

“Damn it!”

Raphael’s plan had just become a whole lot more time intensive. And not only that; it had become more labour intensive. He took a deep breath. Very well. Let his father get those worthless, weak seven thousand souls. He would never get Astarion. And when all of this was over, Raphael would use Astarion to get the Crown of Karsus out of his father’s vault, and Mephistopheles would regret.

Raphael slowly calmed down. There was much to do. First, he had to take care of the most obvious problem. Astarion and his annoying pride. Raphael’s eyes fell on the window where Avernus’ everburning light cast a red glow over everything.

He wouldn’t be the one to take the first step. He needed the little spawn to come to him. To realise that in the end, Raphael was the only one he could turn to, the only one not only powerful, but gracious enough to help him. 

Cazador had had the right idea, but he didn’t know how to truly make use of fear.

Chapter Text

Marpenoth 1269

It was generally seen as unethical to force a contract's fulfilment. Not in the sense of moral reprehension, but in that it was contrary to what was considered proper conduct among the infernal. The practice was employed by lesser devils, the impatient, the gluttonous. Those having some modicum of pride just didn’t do it. Raphael had never cared about the proper conduct, and he could easily discard pride in favour of efficiency. Adherence to norms and expectations was for the insecure, and Raphael was everything but.

He watched two hooded figures climb out of a window of the opulent building’s second floor, swallowed by the night as they vanished into an alley. Raphael snapped his fingers and manifested in the bedroom they had come out of. With another snap, the braziers along the wall caught fire, the crackle of flame joining the sound of rough breathing.

“Still alive?” Raphael smiled at the young elf in the bed. The sheets were stained red. “Very sloppy of them. Ah. But I suppose there isn’t much hope left anyway, hm?”

“Y-you?” the elf gasped, clutching at his stomach.

“Me. You didn’t forget our little deal, did you?” Raphael asked and manifested a contract in his hand. “I fulfilled my part. You became a patriar. Now I’ve come to collect payment.”

“But it’s- only been a- day,” the elf groaned in pain, squeezed his eyes shut as more blood pulsed out of his cut-open belly.

“Ah, the cruel whims of fate.” Raphael said dramatically. “It giveth and taketh away. Well.” He allowed a cruel smile to distort his expression. “I giveth and taketh away.”

He strolled around the bed, manifesting his cambion form as he went. With gleaming eyes, he looked down at the elf. Young. Smart enough to make the contract early on to get the most out of it. Could have had a long, easy life as a patriar, had he not fallen in with the wrong devil at the wrong time. “Don’t lament what you’ve lost, cherish what you’ve had. An entire day of riches. It was an unfortunate coincidence that those begrudging men found you so soon.”

The man opened his mouth, but only blood gushed out.

“Maybe it could have been prevented, if only that nosy woman in the tavern had talked a little more quietly about the secret entrance to the mansion. But alas.” He sighed wistfully and reached down, caressing the man’s cheek with a claw. Ivory skin, fair hair. Blue eyes, unbefitting of the rest. The elf stared up at him, expression contorting with desperation. Were he able to speak, he’d try and renegotiate. They were all the same. Raphael knelt down next to the bed and took the elf’s hand off his stomach.

“No reason to lose hope.”

He felt it before the hand slackened, before the poor fool breathed his last. The telltale feeling of a contract being fulfilled, of a soul entering his possession. Raphael wasted no time in drawing the flimsy little soul from the body. The elf had wished for a life in the light. I don’t want to be a dog any longer, for those nobles to order around as they please. I want to be one of them.

Raphael smiled. Of course he would heed the man’s wishes. He’d never been a dog person, after all.

-

“Lord Raphael, the Gur has- is that a cat?” Korrilla paused when she entered his study. The stark white cat looked up from the foot of the bed, but otherwise didn’t dare move.

“What was that about the Gur?” Raphael didn’t even bother looking up, he remained focussed on the blueprint of Zariel’s western fortress he had acquired by very kindly asking one of her servants. Said servant unfortunately ended up disintegrated by holy fire, which was not at all Raphael’s fault but that of the Paladin who had somehow gotten his hands on the fiend’s true name.

“The Gur,” Korrilla dragged her eyes away from the cat, “yes, the Gur.” She cleared her throat. “I did what you asked of me, they reacted as you predicted.”

“Of course they did.” Raphael looked at the outline of the armoury without really seeing it.

“Can I ask…why?” Korrilla said carefully, well aware that Raphael did not appreciate nosiness, but unable to quell her incorrigible curiosity. 

“You just did.” Silence. Raphael glanced at her. “Anything else?”

“No, Lord Raphael. How should I proceed with the Gur?”

“Continue to observe. Let me know when they take action.”

“Understood.” With a respectful bow and another look at the cat, she left.

Raphael leaned back in his chair. First the elf’s matter, now the dealing with the Gur. He’d been leaning towards the unconventional more and more recently. To blame was the looming boredom which, now that Raphael couldn’t amuse himself with the company of a certain little spawn, became more pronounced. He did the world a service, really, by busying himself with Astarion. Otherwise, who knew what kinds of vile deals he might strike?

-

Dark sky, a sliver of light on the horizon. Rain clouds moving on, reflected in puddles they had left on the ground. The steady sound of water dripping off leaves onto the wooden bars of the cage. A flicker, air distorted with a flare of heat, then the crunch of leaves under a heavy boot when Raphael stepped next to a tree and leaned against it, horn catching on a low-hanging twig and breaking it off. He brushed it off his shoulder and crossed his arms. He was here as a dramaturg today, checking on a play he’d devised. The actors were on their marks, the scene set.

“You thought you could get away with it, didn’t you?” Smug words concealed under a righteous tone.

There was no reply from the slumped man inside the cage, save for a glare that spoke volumes. Raphael observed from his concealed spot between the trees. They were a little ways outside the Gate, near an old sawmill. The grass wet, the brightening sky littered with fading stars. A picturesque setting for a rather unpleasant scene.

The captor had a crossbow raised, pointed between the wooden bars, and was clearly enjoying his current position. “Thought your kind could take and take and no one would notice?” 

“My kind?” Astarion raised his head, grin baring his fangs. “Darling, I don’t have a kind. I’m one of a kind.” 

Raphael raised an eyebrow, smile tugging on his lips. No matter how angry the little spawn was at him, it was apparently not quite enough to stop him from stealing lines. 

“Is that what you’re telling yourself? So you don’t have to face the fact that you’re one of many? Insignificant, a disposable thing, easy to replace? Your master doesn’t give a damn about you, spawn.”

Oh, if only he knew how wrong he was about that. 

“You’ll see how little he cares when he shows up here and rips your head off,” Astarion said, pronounced boredly, and regarded his nails. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” A good bluff. He was getting better.

The man laughed, crossbow shaking, and it would be a real bother if he shot Astarion by mistake. On second thought, maybe it would play right into Raphael’s hands.

“Do you think I’m an amateur, spawn? I took the necessary precautions to temporarily disrupt the connection between you and your master.” He pointed his crossbow to a rune circle around the cage. “Even if you’re right and he’s going to look for you, it’ll be too late.”

And that was why Raphael had hired a professional. Though hired might be too strong a word. The Gur people were quite keen on hunting monsters, so all he’d had to do was let Korrilla tip them off regarding a dangerous spawn abducting people and, well, here they were. The only regrettable thing being the Gur’s arrogance and tendency to spout self-righteous bullshit, but since Raphael had been training his patience recently, he had not yet let him go up in flames. After all, the Gur was still playing his part, and there were no premature exits allowed on Raphael’s stage. 

Astarion’s grin twitched. “If you want to believe it’s that easy, who am I to disillusion you?” 

“Well, I guess we’ll just have to wait and see. One of us is going to be proven right in about,” the Gur looked at the horizon, “twenty minutes?” 

Astarion’s eyes briefly flickered up as well. The sliver of sky visible between trees and sawmill was turning brighter. With satisfaction, Raphael saw worry pass over Astarion’s face. The spawn knew Cazador wouldn’t come, and knew that all the Gur had to do was to wait for the sun to take care of his spawn-problem. He also knew that there was only one way for him to get out of this alive. Oh, Raphael ever so enjoyed plans that worked out perfectly. Just as much as he enjoyed letting others do the work so he could sweep in at the very end and collect the spoils. He settled against the tree a little more comfortably and watched Astarion be the exact opposite. He sat up and glared at his captor.

“And why exactly are you doing this? What are you getting out of it?” 

The Gur laughed cruelly. “Getting out of it, of course. The likes of you always need to get something out of it. I’m doing this because it’s the right thing to do. Because you’ve been preying on innocent people. I’m doing the world a favour ridding it of you.”

“How noble. Of course having a defenceless being burn alive is the righteous thing to do,” Astarion scoffed.

“Save your words for something meaningful now that you don’t have many left.” The Gur kicked the cage, then turned away. The moment he thought himself unobserved, Astarion’s mask dropped and genuine fear showed on his face. He leaned forward, gazing up at the sky. He had little more than ten minutes remaining. Raphael would give a lot to be able to see into his head. Was he conflicted? Weighing his life against his pride? How long would it take for him to cave? And cave he would, that much Raphael was sure of. 

“And I assume I can’t change your mind?” Astarion drawled when purple had turned pink had turned orange. “Promise you some money or maidens?”

The Gur looked over his shoulder and raised an eyebrow. “I wonder if you know just how pathetic you are right now.” 

“Oh, when you serve under a vampire master, you lose all frame of reference for that. I’m not above telling you my tragic backstory, if there’s a chance that you’ll let me go.”

“Don’t bother. You can make amends in the afterlife. Maybe whatever god you vampires pray to is going to listen.” 

“I’d keep you updated, but I’m afraid I won’t get the opportunity.” Astarion’s voice was calm on the surface, but Raphael could hear panic seep through, turning his words faster, his tone higher. The horizon was brightening steadily and there weren’t any shadows reaching where his cage was. The only possible protection came from the Gur. Not exactly a reassuring prospect. It was a matter of mere minutes. Astarion was still staring up at the sky, motionless, eyes narrowed, jaw clenched. The Gur turned around. 

“Well then, spawn. Looks like I've won. Or do you see your master anywhere?” 

“He likes last-minute-rescues.” It sounded about as convinced as a contractee justifying their decision to themselves. 

“Delusional. Pathetic.” 

A flash of anger on Astarion’s face. He reached into his pocket and Raphael felt unadulterated satisfaction, more than any contract had ever given him. He could feel Astarion’s cold fingers grasp the coin, pads tracing over the crevices that had formed over time. He knew Astarion had lost. It had taken a while and some effort, but in the end, he was still just a helpless little spawn in need of a powerful protector. Raphael pushed himself away from the tree and prepared for the summoning.

“Your kind knows nothing but how to leech off of others. You have no individuality, no identity! You can only exist as an extension of your master. Don’t you realise I’m offering you the best way out?” The Gur was unfortunately not yet tired of the sound of his own voice. Raphael rolled his eyes at the obvious and quite pointless bait.

Astarion let go of the coin.

His fingers slid out of his pocket. His shoulders slumped, his brows drew together.

Raphael paused mid-step, unable to quell the surprise. Surely he wouldn’t-?

“You can spend your life in the shadows, acting on your master’s orders. You can continue to live this pathetic existence allowed by another. Or… you can take an opportunity. A way out. And hope your next life is going to be better, that you’ll have control over yourself.”

Astarion slowly raised his face. Pale skin illuminated by the rising sun. Faint blue cracks appeared on the half not covered by the Gur’s shadow.

Raphael’s hand clenched into a fist and he singed the tree next to him, heat smouldering in the wet bark. This fucking imbecile of a Gur.

“I’ll pray for you, spawn.” The Gur stepped to the side. Or attempted to, anyway. 

In a burst of hot air, Raphael appeared behind him and slammed a hand through his back, piercing his heart with claws. “You should have prayed for yourself, fool,” he hissed, yanked his hand out, threw the heart to the side and pushed the man into the muddy ground. He extended his wings, casting Astarion in red shadow.

“And you,” he snarled. His plan was foiled once again, his composure shattered. He was faintly aware of the crackling flames behind him, but he didn’t give a damn about any of this. There had never been any being as aggravating as Astarion.

“You give up this easily? Because of some holier-than-thou bullshit a random bastard was sprouting? I thought you smarter, Astarion.” At the mention of his name, Astarion flinched imperceptibly. Raphael ignored it. He whipped his tail against the lock of the cage, made it crack open. “I thought you stronger. But the Gur was right. You’re pathetic.” He reached inside, grabbed Astarion’s arm and forcefully pulled him out. Astarion hissed, be it because of Raphael’s grip or the sliver of sun that touched his exposed arm, but Raphael paid him no mind. Covering the spawn with his wing, he ripped a portal open and shoved Astarion through, straight into his bedroom in the House of Hope. What did it matter if he was out of Cazador’s reach for a while longer? What did any of this damn shit matter? Astarion stumbled and fell, grunting in pain when his hands hit the hard floor. He turned around and glared up at Raphael.

“What the fuck is your problem?”

“My problem?” Whatever experience in patience Raphael had gained was entirely forgotten, his rage burning hot. How dare he? How dare any of these scuttling ants ruin his plan? In a flash, Raphael was down on his knees next to Astarion and grabbed his jaw, digging his claws into the skin. His wings curved forward, caging him in, giving him no other choice but to look at Raphael.

“My problem, Astarion, is ungrateful people. My problem is unthinking idiots who take the easy way out. My problem, pet, is you.”

Astarion jerked his head, trying to get out of Raphael’s grip, but he was too weak. Raphael felt grim satisfaction when Astarion shrunk in on himself in an attempt to withdraw from his presence. But when he spoke, there was the same old defiance in his voice. “Why do you even fucking care? Huh? It seemed like you were quite happy to let me die some tendays ago! Or was it not enough? Do you want to see me suffer some more? The little spawn isn’t allowed to die before Lord Raphael says so!” 

Raphael leaned closer, smelled the blood and dirt covering Astarion, saw the small cracks in his skin that healed only slowly. “You’re so smart, aren’t you?” Raphael hissed, yellow eyes flicking between Astarion’s. “You know it all. Know perfectly well why I do what I do. No need to ask, no, Astarion has it all figured out.”

“It’s not difficult to figure out,” he replied, fangs bared. “You’re a devil. You use people for any purpose you see fit. In my case, entertainment.”

Raphael stared at him. It would be so easy to kill him. Rip of his head. Drive claws through his chest in lieu of a stake. Grab him and teleport right onto the sunlit square of Baldur’s Gate. Astarion looked away, lips closing over his fangs. Raphael pushed his face to the side and got up. 

“I fed you,” he said calmly, forcing his voice into obedience. “I gave you shelter. I helped you when you were in trouble. I did everything without asking for anything in return. And this is how you thank me? This?” The room flashed when all the candles flared up, blue flames licking at the ceiling.

Astarion scrambled to his feet, uncaring of the heat. “That’s exactly it! You did all those things, and for what? Out of the kindness of your heart? Because devils are just so benevolent? If not because you had fun raising my hopes only for me to fall even harder, then why?”

They stared at each other, Raphael towering over him, eyes blazing and tail swishing angrily, and Astarion bent like a cornered cat ready to flee. 

Raphael realised that the plan had failed. Astarion didn’t trust him one bit; he never would, and he certainly would never be loyal to him. His first failed plan in fucking millennia. Well, it happened to the best. He turned around, preparing to dismiss Astarion for good. Pity about all the time he already sunk into this, but some things couldn’t be fixed, only-

“Why, Raphael?”

He stilled. Astarion’s voice had broken against his name, desperation making it sound like…a plea. Like he was begging.

“Alright.” Raphael said. Slowly, reason seeped through his fury. The plan. Of course it didn't fail. Raphael never failed. He took opportunities as they came. And there was a wonderful one right here. Make Astarion regret. Make him crave forgiveness. He rolled his shoulders and smoothed down his wings. “I thought I had gained some semblance of trust after what I did for you. Thought I didn’t need to spell everything out for you to believe in my intentions. But very well. We’ll do it on your terms.” When he turned around, he found Astarion quickly averting his eyes. Raphael walked past him, so closely that his wing brushed Astarion’s shoulder and made him flinch. He sat down on his bed, crossing his legs and regarding Astarion expectantly. He didn’t react. If he was waiting for an invitation to sit, he’d be waiting for a long time. Raphael couldn’t be bothered with courtesy right now, having used all of it up in not ripping anyone’s organs out. Well. Only ripping one single organ out. 

“I saved you multiple times. I thought that had made it clear that I do not want you to come to harm. And I thought it would be enough for you to not immediately condemn me as the heartless devil I’m so easily perceived as. We’ve known each other for a while, after all, and I-”

“And I’ve seen how you treat the souls of those you consider beneath you,” Astarion muttered without looking at him.

Raphael clenched his jaw and took a deep breath through his nose. “Do not interrupt me right now, my dear. Unless, of course, you’re not interested at all in what your scars say?” 

Astarion’s head snapped up. “What?”

“In case you don’t remember – I offered to investigate where you were unable to. And was successful, right before that fateful morning.”

Astarion stared at him, anger forgotten. In the end, he was predictable. In the end, like the rest of them, he wanted.

“When I felt you calling me, I didn’t expect for the situation to be so dire. But I couldn’t act. Not without subjecting you to a fate so much worse than whatever Cazador could have done to you.” His lips twitched and he managed to turn a vindictive smile into a remorseful one. “I even considered apologising. Which would have been a first, but I am not above admitting regret.”

“What do they say?” Astarion asked. Raphael considered letting him hang, but the tension in Astarion’s shoulders, the tight curl of his fists, made him relent. In the end, telling him now would benefit Raphael the most. He sighed and looked at Astarion for a long moment.

“They spell damnation. Your soul is forfeit, Astarion. And had I saved you, all would have been lost.”

Astarion’s eyes widened and he took an involuntary step forward. “Tell me what they say, Raphael,” he said urgently, arm jerking as if he was about to reach out and grab Raphael’s shoulder, the demanding little spawn. Another flare of irritation threatened to set Raphael’s composure ablaze. He doused it and focussed on Astarion’s tone rather than his words; the slight tremor in his voice and the insecurity in his eyes. In one fluid motion, Raphael uncrossed his legs and leaned forwards, smiling up at Astarion.

"Tell you? I've done so much for you, Astarion. Cared for you when no one else did, helped you when it seemed impossible. Went through great pains to find out what those pretty patterns on your back mean. I did all those things without demanding anything in return, and how did you thank me? Hm? By trusting your master over me?”

“But you do want something.” Astarion said. “Have been wanting something all along. And now you finally have the means to force me into signing a contract. Tell me, then.” He glared down at Raphael, without any effect, of course. ”What do you want for telling me about my scars?”

Raphael felt the smile flake off his face like dried blood. He’d always considered himself to have impeccable self control, but this mere vampire spawn was determined to prove him wrong. Raphael was on his feet before he realised, towering over Astarion with his wings extended and tail whipping about. “Some gratitude would be nice, for a start,” he hissed through his teeth, trying to reign in his temper. “As you’ve so rightly pointed out, I’m a devil. Have you any idea how difficult it is for me to do all these things without being paid back? I’ve been going against my very nature for you.”

“Do you take me for a fool? I know you’re only playing with me until you have me desperate enough to give you my soul! Well, you’ve got me! So tell me what-”

“What use do I have for your soul?” Anger threatened to amplify his voice and Raphael had to physically restrain himself, “When it already belongs to another devil?”

Astarion opened his mouth on a rebuttal before realisation drowned out his determination to be difficult. His eyes widened. “You’re lying. I never signed a contract.”

“Oh, sweet pet,” Raphael said. Astarion’s shock soothed his fury and he managed to regain control of his temper. “You didn’t need to. You’re not your own person, after all.”

Astarion turned very still. The way his expression slowly fell as Raphael’s words sunk in was like a reward. Opportunity.

“Astarion. I admit that I do want something from you. But it has nothing to do with a contract, or your soul, or your very personhood. All I want is your loyalty. Your trust. That is the very reason I chose you. I know loyalty forced by contracts. I know loyalty born of fear. But with you, for the first time, I have the impression that it can originate from Something else. Mutual goals. Mutual understanding, even. Because even a devil needs someone to rely on who isn’t bound. My reasoning was selfish, but this selfishness is to your benefit.” Nothing like sprinkling in a bit of truth to strengthen a lie. Raphael sighed and ran a hand over his horn in a show of despondency. Astarion looked conflicted, like he was clinging to his anger while another part wanted to be meek to get what he wanted. He was definitely the most interesting project Raphael had ever taken on.

 “I’d be willing to do so much more for you, if you only let me.” He gave another little push. "I can grant you power. More than you can imagine. Enough for you to become your own master. Enough to walk in the sun again." 

Astarion dug a fang in his lower lip until a drop of blood welled up. He turned his face to the side, staring out of the window, but his expression was still like an open book to Raphael. Of course Astarion questioned his motives, still thought Raphael only wanted to use him. But that was fine. Rushed loyalty wasn’t worth anything. Devotion was only strengthened by a slow, natural progression.

"Fine,” Astarion said finally, “Fine. Alright. It’s not like I have any choice. I can’t promise you trust, but I can give you loyalty. For now.”

“And that’s all I ask,” Raphael said, the very epitome of benevolence. He shook out his wings, muscles strained from the tension, and smoothed them flat against his back. As he walked past Astarion, he briefly touched a hand to his shoulder, gently running claws down his back over the raised scars underneath the thin shirt. Then he sat down behind his desk and pulled up the transcription of the contract. Astarion slowly turned around, eyes immediately finding the paper.

“You will have to excuse my suspicion, but from what I’m hearing, you’re offering to help me for- what, my word? Without enforcing any…guarantees that I won’t betray you? You are going to trust me?” He pronounced the word in the exact same way Raphael liked to - with enough disdain to turn it into a curse. 

Raphael smiled. “There is not much I have to lose. And, spoken in all honesty, Astarion, I cannot deny that I’ve become invested. Those scars of yours are truly…diabolical.” He waved Astarion over, who hesitated for a heartbeat before approaching the table.

“So they’re a contract?”

“Do sit down, will you? You’re radiating nervous energy.”

“I just learned that my soul was sold without my knowledge,” Astarion said and almost managed to hit his usual sarcastic tone. He still sat down on the other side of the table.

“Technically, pawned off might be the more accurate term. Say,” Raphael drawled and leaned forward to cover the writing from Astarion’s curious eyes. He was going to savour this. “Have you ever wondered why Cazador made you and your siblings lure so many victims to him?”

“I assume it’s a mixture of megalomania and the enjoyment of seeing us suffer.”

“That’s certainly part of it. But both those things could be achieved in more efficient ways. No, there is another reason.” Raphael tapped a clawed finger onto the parchment.

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“Immensely.”

Astarion ground his teeth. “Pray tell, grand benefactor, what is his reason?”

Raphael bit down a smile. It would have been truly shameful to lose the delight that was Astarion because of a mere misjudgement on his part. “You’re aware that infernal contracts are paid in souls, hm? Usually that of the contractor. Sometimes one or two more, depending on the deal. I once made one involving 32. No need to get into details – although it was great fun, potentially a story for long evenings – but do you want to hazard a guess just how many souls your master signed away?”

“Just tell me!”

Raphael snatched a piece of paper from the table and used a claw to scorch a number into it. He held it up for Astarion to see. 

“You’ve got to be-”

“A ludicrous amount, isn’t it? That is because the devil he made the deal with is a horrible glutton. Does the name Mephistopheles mean anything to you?” Raphael couldn’t help but sneer at the mere mention of his father’s name.

“I’m not exactly an expert on devil-hierarchy.” Astarion was still staring at the number. Even as Raphael lowered the note, his eyes remained in the middle distance. Then he blinked and focussed on Raphael. “From how you said his name, I assume you’re not on the best terms? And since you haven’t dealt with him yet, I also assume he’s more powerful than you?”

Raphael bit down his irritation. Now was the time for restraint. And maybe also concession. “Well, while my power is not insignificant, I am afraid it cannot yet measure up to that of the archdevil of the eighth hell. Though I can promise, my fashion sense more than surpasses his.”

Astarion stared at him. “So…Cazador made a deal…with the archdevil of the eighth hell?”

“That is correct. And the archdevil of the eighth hell, infamous for his cruelty, is also who will be receiving your soul, should you try and act against your master. He is who I saved you from when I did not take action.” Raphael pushed the contract over to Astarion where he had marked a section.

Should the contractee fail to deliver the 7000 souls promised to the contractor before he completes the Rite of Profane Ascension for any reason (death, refusal, lack of ability, or any reason of a similar kind) then his own soul, as well as those of his spawn and of all the until then collected will be instantly delivered to the contractor. 
In a similar vein, should any one of the branded spawn or collected sacrifices perish before the Rite of Profane Ascension has been completed, their souls will be instantly delivered to the contractor.

Astarion’s eyes flew over the words again and again as if he had trouble grasping their meaning. “Rite of-? Branded spawn? We…we’re going to be used in a ritual?”

“A ritual most ingenious. It’s going to turn your master into the Vampire Ascendant.” He made a small pause, but Astarion was too stunned to play along. “A supreme being unbound by the usual restrictions a vampire is subjected to. Sunlight, food, running water, he’ll be able to enjoy it all without having to give up any of his vampiric power. All for the small sacrifice of his spawn. Well, and those many, many souls my-Mephistopheles demands in exchange for information on the rite.” Raphael sighed as if he cared.

“So not only is he using us to pay his debt of seven thousand souls, but in the end we’re going to be sacrificed with them?”

“Correct.”

“We’ve got to prevent that vile ritual then.”

Raphael cocked his head and looked pityingly at Astarion. “Didn’t you read the contract? Only if Cazador delivers those seven thousand souls can you truly be free. Otherwise, you’ll be trading one leash for the next; a much tighter one at that. If you think that what I do to my souls is cruel, you haven’t met an archdevil.”

Astarion blinked slowly and looked up. “What are you saying?”

Raphael held Astarion’s gaze. “If anything, you’ve got to accelerate the rite. Get Cazador those seven thousand souls, let him fulfil the contract as soon as possible, and only then can you subdue him.”

“Kill him, you mean.”

“Then I would have said kill. You still need him, after all. He’s not the only one with the potential to ascend.”

“You can’t- Me?”

Raphael merely raised a brow.

“Are you serious? I’ve already condemned too many people to a life of misery, now you want me to use them for my own gain?” Astarion looked genuinely upset, the poor little soul, as if there was still a conscience left in him.

 “They’re going to be used one way or another. Their fate has nothing to do with you. Don’t you have your own pain? Your own desperation? Who ever cared about that, hm? Who bothered to help you?”

Astarion didn’t avert his eyes. “You did.”

Raphael smirked and stood up, slowly rounding the table. “Yes, pet, I did. But I’m significantly more powerful, and I had a free time slot in my schedule. You, however, not only have your hands full with staying alive, but also with keeping your pretty soul in that even prettier body of yours.” He trailed his finger over Astarion’s shoulder as he walked behind his chair, then leaned down. “Don’t you want to own yourself again?”

A small shudder ran through Astarion. “I-”

“And if you can get some more benefits in the process, then that’s even better, isn’t it? Regain those pleasures of the living. Don’t you miss the sun on your skin, all warmth and light?”

Astarion didn’t move. When he spoke, it was through clenched teeth. “I don’t need a literal devil on my shoulder.”

“Oh, but I think you do.” Raphael deliberately turned his head, lips just shy of brushing Astarion’s ear. “The weak need to make use of every advantage they can get to stay afloat. It’s your luck that your advantage comes as a devil on your shoulder. Which returns us all the way,” he patted Astarion’s cheek and pulled back, “to the beginning of this little conversation. To what I’m getting out of this.”

Astarion turned on his chair and gazed up at him. Tense. Waiting.

“You. You are going to ascend. You are going to become the most powerful vampire lord in this realm. Walk under the sun, bathe in rivers, enjoy food and drink and other pleasures of mortal life, all while retaining the powers of undeath. And because I’m so generous, I won’t make you collect any souls beyond those you have to get for your master. That’ll have you quite busy already.”

Astarion’s eyes darkened, but underneath what looked like disgust, Raphael saw something else. Hunger. The hunger of the helpless offered power, of the rejected offered a place in the world. That he didn’t object told Raphael the outcome of all of this.

 “And then I’ll be getting something out of it. You know, you can never really trust people bound to you by contract. But an ally bound by loyalty? By gratefulness? By the mere fact that they like you? Now, that’s a lot more reliable. And, Astarion, wouldn’t you say that we get along so well?”

There was nothing but the ambient sound of the House of Hope’s infernal engines as they regarded each other. Astarion looked like he was staring at a chessboard where all odds were stacked against his favour, trying to find a way to still win. Then-

He laughed. Checkmate. “You fucking bastard. But I think we’re a long way away from liking each other…”

Raphael smirked. “Speak for yourself.”

“Oh, I am. And I’m letting you know that I’m allying with you because you’re the least worst alternative.”

“The devil you know.”

Raphael had to admit that during these past months, he had somehow grown used to Astarion’s company. They were of a similar mentality, as similar as a devil and a pitiful vampire spawn could be. Raphael bit down a laugh. What an intriguing kind of novelty. Without the strict sections and detailed paragraphs of a contract, he could change the terms as he went along, could add new conditions or adjust old ones. It was chaotic, in a way. He was very much looking forward to how it would develop. In which ways Astarion’s loyalty would prove useful. How he could eventually use him against Mephistopheles. Raphael had never enjoyed not being fully in control, but in this case, it felt exhilarating.

Tarsakh 1287 - 18 years later

From outside the window came cheerful music and the hum of thousands of voices celebrating the Greengrass festival. It was unusually cold this year; the grass was still ice-crusted in the mornings rather than verdant green, and only yesterday had another snowfall covered the rooftops of the city in a thin layer of white. While children played happily in the streets, building ugly, ooze-like figures out of snow and trying their hand at warfare for the first time, the adults looked to the skies with worry in their eyes. Undoubtedly the weather would lead to a bad harvest, which would in turn lead to rising prices, hungry mouths, and general desperation. A rather positive outlook, putting those eager to help out with that suffering in an optimistic mood. Because while mortals feared for their harvest, Raphael prepared for an especially rich one this year. His good mood was not shared.

“I’m going to destroy him,” Astarion bit out. He was breathing heavily and trembling with all the tension running through him, hands clenched around the armrests of the chair. Raphael stood before him and healed the cuts criss-crossing his face. Ever since their little partnership had begun, he’d made more use of his healing powers than ever in his entire existence before. “I’m going to tear open his chest, rip his heart out, and feed it to him.”

“Soon,” Raphael said softly, running a thumb over Astarion’s bloody lips, his cheek, and mourned the pretty red patterns he made vanish. “Good things come to those who wait.”

“I’ve waited almost two decades, Raphael.” Astarion hissed when Raphael’s claw scraped over a still open wound. Accidentally, of course.

“And I once waited two centuries for the soul of an elf. We’re eternal creatures, Astarion. What’s rushing you?”

“What’s rushing me?” Astarion slapped Raphael’s hand away and stood up. He swayed on his feet, but jerked his arm back when Raphael tried to steady him. Ungrateful as ever. He spread his arms, presenting dirty, torn clothes. “This is rushing me! Every day I have to let myself get humiliated by- have to use myself for that fucking bastard!”

“And the reward is going to taste all the sweeter for it. Not that you’re lacking sweet-tasting things in life.” Raphael pointedly tilted his head to draw attention to his neck.

“Please.” Astarion scoffed and ran a hand through his hair, a habit he’d adopted, visibly reigning himself in. “You don’t taste sweet.”

“Oh? We’ve never talked about that, have we? What do I taste like, pet?”

Astarion rolled his eyes - because of that nickname he hated or the way Raphael slouched into the chair and made a show of draping his wings over the backrest.

“Sulphur and hellfire.”

“A combination you seem to enjoy greatly, considering how often you come back for it.”

“Fucking- shut up. It’s not like I have much of a choice.”

Astarion slowly calmed down. Almost two decades as a cold undead had not doused his temper and his mask had yet to be perfected. He was simultaneously more and less in control these days. The wellspring for both was the power Raphael had granted him, which was now flowing through him with an increasingly strong current. He was more in control because it gave him ability and agency, and less in control because he wasn’t allowed to use either. Raphael understood that his frustration came closer to boiling over the more powerful he became while still having to pretend to be Cazador’s pet. But in one thing he was right – he didn’t have much of a choice. He could only continue to collect souls while feeding on Raphael to become stronger.

“So hurtful. Sometimes I get the impression I’m nothing but a bloodbag to you.”

“That’s because you are.”

Raphael laughed and reclined further in his chair. It was this, wasn’t it? The reason why he tolerated, no, indulged Astarion. Because he was so daring. The few reservations he had during their first years as opportune collaborators had gotten lost somewhere in 1274. Now he was contrary, petulant, challenging. And Raphael allowed him to be. He would have never thought to enjoy a dynamic such as theirs, a constant push and pull that made them seem almost equal. Not that they were, by any means. Raphael’s power still vastly exceeded Astarion’s, and he knew it, and Astarion knew it. The characterisation they had adopted around each other was coined by that very knowledge, and Raphael only allowed his impertinence because he knew that it still came with underlying respect. Because Astarion still depended on him. Needed him. And need was merely a step away from devotion. I can’t promise you trust, he’d said, but with how at ease he had become around Raphael, it was difficult to not call it trust.

“Well, then. You better make use of me.”

Astarion looked pointedly at the chair Raphael occupied. And fully filled out.

“Anything the matter, dear Astarion?”

“I feel like sometimes you’re being difficult just for the sake of it.”

“Then I must be doing something wrong, I aim to be difficult all the time just for the sake of it.”

Astarion rolled his eyes again, but he had long since learned not to fight losing battles against this all-powerful opponent. He stepped closer to the chair and glared down at Raphael, whose grin only widened for it. With a sigh as if it were the first time they were doing it like this, as if he hadn’t been the one to start the little game during one particularly desperate night some six years ago, he put his hands on Raphael’s shoulders and straddled his lap. Raphael grasped his waist to steady him and tilted his head back, not before making sure to grant Astarion a satisfied smirk.

“Enjoy the sulphur and hellfire,” he purred, and felt the soft exhale of laughter against his neck before teeth sunk into it. Raphael let his head fall against the backrest and his thoughts drift. After so many years of constant exposure, Astarion now only needed to drink his blood once a tenday to maintain his strength, twice to slowly cultivate it without draining Raphael of his. Raphael had been forced to notice (though not admit out loud), that without the order and regulations of an infernal contract, it was slightly more difficult to grant something. Contracts allowed him to tap into the power granted to his kind by their very nature. Passing on power without them meant he had to draw it from himself. (Briefly forced to recognise the purpose of his existence, Raphael’s determination to gain more power had only grown. He would carve his own purpose into the very bones of the nine hells.)

He was pulled from his thoughts when Astarion shifted on his lap, one hand still on Raphael’s shoulder, the other slowly trailing up to cradle his cheek. Raphael was not above admitting that he had grown rather…fond of this ritual of theirs. He was, however, above putting thought to why that was. Pleasures were there to be enjoyed, not contemplated. Raphael felt the scars through the shirt when he ran his fingers up Astarion’s back and into the soft hair at the base of his neck. Astarion made a low sound and pressed himself closer.

“Greedy little spawn,” Raphael tutted. Sometimes he wondered if Astarion had an agenda of his own; to make Raphael lower his guard, overpower him and suck him dry one day. Sometimes he wished he would try. The consequences would be delicious.

But this time, like the times before, Astarion drew back without Raphael needing to say another word. He sighed softly and ran his tongue over the already closing puncture wounds to catch the last droplets of blood. He straightened in Raphael’s lap, threw him a meaningful look and, with exaggerated movements, stood up. His lips were bright red, blood running down his chin, and dripping onto the white shirt. He licked his lips, turned, and went to the wardrobe where Raphael kept a stash of clean shirts for him. They never made it long in Cazador’s palace.

“So.” They had stopped talking about the feeding seventeen years ago. It was an enjoyable necessity, but drawing attention to it was entirely useless, and there were more interesting things to discuss. “Why did he punish you this time?”

Astarion pulled the shirt over his head and glanced at Raphael as he sloppily tied the laces. “He doesn’t bother with reasons anymore. Now that he can’t accuse me of being lazy and incapable, he just finds random things that annoy him. Like my face.”

Raphael hummed and idly touched the slightly raised pin pricks at his throat, already a mere memory of wounds. “The powerful don’t need reasons. Their status is justification enough.”

Astarion scoffed. He ran his hands through his hair, smoothing it back, but it wouldn’t stay. Raphael had often wondered how Astarion would groom himself if he could use a mirror. He rather liked the half-hearted hairstyle he had adopted. “Pathetic. What satisfaction does it bring to torment the weak?”

“Oh, you’ll know soon enough. When our plan comes to fruition, you can taste the sweetness of power yourself.”

“I won’t use it like him.” He threw Raphael a pointed look. “Or you, for that matter.”

“Of course you won’t, my dear,” Raphael all but cooed. “You’ll be a benevolent vampire lord, treating your spawn like equals.”

Astarion looked at him in silent contemplation. “I won’t create any.”

“Oh?”

“What, and perpetuate the cycle? Risk that ambition is eventually going to claim one of them and turn them against me? There are other means of gathering a following.” A sharp smile spread over Astarion’s features and he sauntered over, perching himself on the armrest of Raphael’s chair. He leaned his elbow on the backrest and tapped a finger against Raphael’s horn. “Like gaining people’s loyalties through deception and manipulation.”

Raphael was in an indulgent mood, wondered if Astarion had figured out some kind of trick to soothe tempers with his bites. “Hm, sounds rather effective.” He turned his head, smiling up at the spawn. “You do need a certain skill for that, of course. But I assume your current…occupation serves as good practice.”

Astarion stiffened ever so slightly, expression flickering for but a second. Raphael enjoyed cracking the pretty mask of sarcasm and indifference Astarion had crafted for himself over the years. But he caught himself almost instantly.

“It does,” he said smoothly. “No surprise there, I’ve got a lot to work with.” He tilted back, making a show of his body, and thought it could distract Raphael from the look of disgust that narrowed his eyes.

“At this pace, you might make it before the two hundred year-mark.”

“You forget that I’m not alone. My dearest siblings have to keep up, lest Cazador get a proper reason to punish them.”

Raphael hummed. He knew, of course. He had people keeping tabs on all of Astarion’s siblings. Their efforts were valiant, but couldn’t quite measure up to the little elf whose motivation turned him even more efficient. Altogether they might make it in a little over a hundred years, which would greatly  benefit Raphael as well. But Astarion didn’t need to know that. Raphael didn’t want to risk his efforts diminishing.

“I’m sure they’re doing their best. But you can never have enough help, can you?”

“What do you mean?”

Raphael wound an arm around Astarion’s waist, patting him patronisingly. “I find myself in possession of some free time, what with the Blood War keeping the bitch of Avernus busy.”

Astarion huffed a laugh; ever since Raphael had returned from the Hells in an especially foul mood, courtesy of Zariel’s general existence, he’d taken a liking to listening to Raphael’s complaints. Maybe because it was the one time Raphael’s composure was less than immaculate – prior spawn-related irritation exempt.

“And I’ve been thinking that I haven’t attended one of those atrocious patriar soirées in a while.”

Astarion attempted to draw back and hissed when Raphael’s claws dug into his side.

“They’re terribly hedonistic, seeking pleasures in all manners imaginable.”

“Rich of you, calling others hedonistic.”

“You wouldn’t say that if you knew what some of them sell their souls for. I’m quite positive that you can net many a victim there. And clean ones at that. And while you’re at it, learn about the customs of the upper classes. It might come in handy later.”

Astarion radiated tension again. Two decades, and what Cazador made him do still bothered him. Raphael had expected him to become more indifferent as time went on, but sometimes it almost seemed like the opposite. Well. He still had more years to adapt, and Raphael was more than happy to help if it meant he reached his goal faster.

Chapter Text

Kythorn 1289 - 2 years later

As a devil, watching mortals at a masquerade was like being presented with a child’s abhorrent first attempt at art. Anyone who had ever attended a masquerade in the Iron City of Dis could only scoff at this amateur charade. Together with their costumes, the revellers wore an ill-fitting conviction of anonymity, as if masks and robes were enough to cover up their unmistakable bearing. Raphael, thanks to the upper classes treating their souls like another bag of gold, was quite familiar with the Gate’s patriars and could discern the identity of many attendants at a glance. He used to attend these kinds of gatherings for business purposes – window-shopping for influential chess pieces – and had already found them cringeworthy at best back then. But now, things had changed. Now, he was here for the same reason everyone else was: amusement. It might not come close to that one time the celebration had ended up as stage for a murder spree, but tonight he was expecting something quite entertaining as well.

He’d just entered and considered the best spot to wait. Anywhere close to the musicians’ stage was out of the question, the buffet offered a chance to listen in on ridiculous conversations but came with the downside of chewing noises, the gardens were a good place to observe dramatics but were too secluded. Raphael settled on a table opposite of the entrance doors and took a glance around the room. Already he’d spotted a client of his – human, about 22 years left with that lifestyle of hers, had sold her soul to be allowed to marry the man she loved, something so utterly dull that Raphael wouldn’t even deign to make a puppet from her soul. In hindsight, he wasn’t sure why he’d taken the deal in the first place when there were so many more interesting prospects. Like the attendant who had just earned himself a slap, or the pathetically jealous man sulking next to a couple, or- But he wasn’t here to peruse. He was here for something much more satisfying. And satisfaction didn’t make him wait.

The doors to the entrance hall opened and a group of new arrivals poured in, two of them high enough in status to merit an announcement. Raphael ignored them. His eyes immediately focussed on one of those entering behind. A shock of unruly white hair over a black mask, unadorned dark cloth held together by a tied leather corset, perfectly straddling the line between fittingly ostentatious and uniquely plain. Astarion had a natural charisma about him that was only amplified by the mystery masks granted. He had attended many a masquerade, though not one person knew his name.

The first few times, Raphael had accompanied him. Watched as Astarion walked uncomfortably among the wealthy, hungry eyes following the stranger whose aura was so very alluring. Like vultures eyeing a rabbit on an open field, they sensed the potential in him.

Three souls at once. And that on his first evening. It had been amusing to watch arrogant nobles fall over themselves to compete for a vampire spawn’s attention. Raphael had briefly felt like saving his poor little spawn, knowing full well he found them understandably disgusting. Unfortunately, that would have defied their purpose. Instead, Raphael had taught Astarion how to differentiate important patriars from those who attended as mere applicants, low enough on the social ladder that they wouldn’t be missed. Astarion had slowly grown into it; subsequent masquerades had taught him how to be the curiosity that killed the cats. Sometimes he went for attendants, too: less curious cats and more foolish dreamers. He promised them a fairytale, the pretty noble whose interest was caught by a humble servant, and they willingly threw themselves at the promise of relevance. Only the agreed-upon meeting place turned out to be the opposite of a romantic castle. Well, unless one considered the crypt of a gothic mansion as romantic.

Raphael had enjoyed watching Astarion work, enjoyed knowing that these people got a simpering, soulless shadow where Raphael got the sharp intelligence and cunning sarcasm of his real self. But eventually, Astarion had gotten good enough that Raphael’s assistance became superfluous. Fittingly, it had coincided with yet another emergence of a Bhaalist cult that had claimed Raphael’s attention. The Gate’s Undercity was positively teeming with cultists these days, and it was only a matter of time before the God of Murder would once again demand bloody sacrifices. For the low cost of a single soul (the House of Hope could use the fresh ideas of a new torturer) Raphael had provided their leader, a self-proclaimed and entirely fraudulant Bhaalspawn, with some inspiration regarding fitting victims. They were all nobles of high rank, useless to both Astarion and Raphael. It had taken a while and some effort, but had ended with some of Raphael’s pawns turning into knights and bishops. With the deal successfully completed, Raphael found himself in the mood for a bit of indulgence. And what better occasion than to attend a masquerade that served as hunting ground?

The predator stalking it had changed drastically since the last time Raphael had observed him. The mask served its purpose of concealing the truth, exuding confidence rather than discomfort. Paired with that laced corset perfectly accentuating his figure, it didn’t take long for people to take notice. Soon he was part of a group, all lesser nobles flocking together to project an image of belonging. Raphael observed from a distance, thinking how undeserving that common rabble was of Astarion. Their eyes and hands on him, eager glances and casual touches as if they weren’t sullying him with their dullness. Clearly he was in need of help. Just tonight, Raphael would allow himself a little interference. To have a bit of fun. After all, he would get to inconvenience ugly nobles and earn some more of Astarion’s gratefulness. Perfectly composed and unrushed, he meandered over to the buffet to get a glass of wine first, then turned back to the group. The group that was now short one member.

“Why are you here?”

Raphael had smoothed out his smirk by the time he turned around. Of course Astarion had noticed him.

“I wasn’t aware this was by your invitation only.”

“You said I wouldn’t need your help anymore.”

“I’m not here to help, I’m here to watch.”

“Are you, now?” Astarion’s eyes behind the mask narrowed. He was a Displacer Beast tonight. Graceful and feline. Fitting. Raphael had gone for the obvious choice. “I thought you hated these charades?”

“I do. But I don’t hate you,” Raphael smiled and toasted with his glass before taking a sip.

Astarion blinked. Then looked away. “If you wanted to see me so bad, you could have just sent an invitation.”

“What’s the matter, pet? Are you keeping secrets from me?” Raphael leaned in conspiratorially, invading Astarion’s personal space.

“I wouldn’t dare.” Astarion didn’t move away. He pushed back even, turning his head to glare at Raphael. “I just think there are more pleasant locations if you want to talk. Like literally anywhere else.”

“But you look ever so pretty all dressed up,” Raphael purred and trailed a finger across Astarion’s cheek, right where the dark mask met pale skin. Not even Raphael could turn the words into mocking sarcasm when the truth was so glaring. The ruffled silk shirt hanging loosely from Astarion’s shoulders, clinging to his body by virtue of the shimmering leather corset, the fitted pants tucked into high boots that were laced high up to his knees – he was a vision to behold. In combination with the stark colour contrast of black on white, it was no wonder at all why there were so many undeserving eyes on him. Raphael looked forward to the day where Astarion could look like this and deny everyone longing to get their hands on him. Except, of course, the people whose touch he did not detest. Someone whose touch he sought, willingly climbed into their lap not out of necessity but want.

Astarion scoffed. “I know. I’ve been told five times already. You look better in that corset than my wife could ever hope to, pah.” His lips twisted in disgust. “The only thing getting me through this is the knowledge that people like him are going to end up as fodder for Cazador’s ritual.”

Raphael nodded understandingly. “So noble of you to rid the world of vermin.”

Astarion slapped at his hand, but when he bit his lip, Raphael knew it was to contain a smile.

“I’m sorry, Sir, but I think this young gentleman does not appreciate your company.” One of the people who’d been crowding around Astarion before, a petite woman in a garishly ostentatious dress, her immature bearing putting her barely over twenty, stepped next to the spawn and regarded Raphael critically from behind a swan’s mask.

Now, not even biting his lip could keep Astarion from grinning. He crossed his arms and stood closer to the woman. “Yes, Sir. We both know why I’m here, and it’s not to talk to you.”

Raphael, an uncaring devil who had been rendered immune to impulses by time and experience, had the sudden urge to grab Astarion and pull him to his side. Maybe let that insufferable woman go up in flames while he was at it.

“I mean,” Astarion continued, taking full advantage of the situation, “just consider the age difference.” His eyes gleamed. The woman chuckled and laid a gentle hand on his waist, fingers moulding against the dip created by the corset. Raphael followed the movement with his eyes. Cheap, false nails, too many rings.

“Well then, darling,” he said, poison-sweet, and dragged his eyes up to meet Astarion’s. “You know where to find me should you,” he jerked his head towards the buffet, drawing attention to his neck in the process, “get hungry.”

Astarion had the audacity to wink. He offered the woman his arm and she took it with a simpering, ear-grating laugh. When he brushed past Raphael, he murmured, “Business before pleasure, Sir.”

Raphael slowly turned, looking after him. Head held high, back perfectly straight thanks to that damned uncomfortable-looking corset wrapped so tightly around his already small waist. A graceful, swaying stride befitting of the creature he masqueraded as. He all but oozed confidence and seduction. As Raphael watched the woman press closer to his side, there was a sizzle next to him as the canapés on the metal plates burned. He committed her face to memory. Surely there was something she wanted…

“Lord Raphael.”

He blinked. For a fraction of a heartbeat – already inexcusable – he was confused. Him - confused. He turned his back to Astarion as the spawn leaned over and whispered into the woman’s ear.

“Korrilla.” He breathed out, letting go of his irrationality and focussing. Korrilla only used sending in dire emergencies.

“Please return immediately. There is news regarding the Blood War. The Lord of the Ninth is getting involved.”

Alturiak 1324 - 35 years later

It was snowing when Raphael returned. Shades of blue and white illuminated by the gentle yellow glow of lit windows. It seemed unnatural after all the constant red. Winter was almost disgustingly picturesque in Baldur’s Gate’s upper city, the illusion of a painting draped over reality. This was made possible by virtue of the lower city which, even more so than during warmer months, became the patriar’s refuse pit. Not that it was any less picturesque, only that cold, hunger, and homelessness painted the district in despair.

Raphael manifested a coat around him – unneeded but stylish – and strolled through the streets. He breathed in the cool, fresh air and took in the calm and quiet. Thirty-five years. Thirty-five fucking years because Asmodeus had finally deemed the Blood War worthy of his attention. A mere word of his was enough to count as involvement, and the Nine Hells bentover in their efforts to go with the tide now that his highness Lord fucking Asmodeus was involved, oh, how Raphael despised him. He noticed that he was leaving a trail of melted snow in his wake and calmed himself down. The potential of a temporary ceasefire (because no one believed in an actual end to the Blood War) had led to the Archdevils rediscovering the wonderful art of infighting, and Raphael had been forced to take precautions. Not that anyone considered him a threat – a mere cambion in Zariel’s domain was hardly worth their time when they might as well watch Mephistopheles and Baalzebul take back up their good old feud – but with the Archdevils busying themselves with each other, Raphael had finally seen an opportunity to work on increasing his reach. He had gathered some allies in the other hells (and, unavoidable as it was, double the enemies) while making sure to stay entirely irrelevant in the grander scheme of things. Let the Archdevils fight it out, let Asmodeus revel in his self-importance and power. In the end, Raphael always got what Raphael wanted.

Right now, however, he wanted something else entirely. The Gate had changed in the thirty-five years of his absence; buildings that had been wooden skeletons back then had grown stone, old streets led to new places while others were entirely unfamiliar. But there, next to the docks, still stood the same old tavern. Business had been good, or maybe the third floor had always been there and Raphael had just never paid attention. The door opened the moment he approached and the patron about to exit graciously held it open.

Inside, it was still the same charmingly shabby tavern that offered food, alcohol, and pitiful souls ripe for the picking. But Raphael wasn’t here for those. He saw Korrilla in her usual spot at the far end of the room. When he approached, she jumped up and bowed.

“Lord Raphael. Welcome back.”

“How are things?” Raphael asked and sat down, took the goblet of wine already waiting for him and smelled it. Nothing compared to what was stored in the House of Hope, but mediocrity and bland taste were part of the Prime’s experience. He took a sip. That experience was thin and watery, but had an intriguing, rich aftertaste. “Considering you have not contacted me, I assume nothing of note has happened while I was away.”

“Well…in a way. You said to contact you only should the spawn get into serious trouble. Which, uhm, he didn’t.” Korrilla looked slightly uncomfortable. “I had several people keep a close eye on him, but not much has changed. He is still collecting victims, still making good progress, still vanishes every few days for punishment.”

“Has he managed to gather allies?”

Korrilla cleared her throat. “He has been…very thorough with those.”

He raised an eyebrow at her hesitation.

“He has made interesting connections.”

Raphael felt his impatience grow when still she didn’t elaborate. Impatience and- something else. There seemed to be a matter she was reluctant to tell him about. “Very good. And?”

“No, Lord Raphael, you don’t under- I mean, I didn’t speak clearly enough. You remember the Mithril Masons and the Granting Hand?”

“I’ve been away for thirty-five years, Korrilla, not 3,500. What did those two budget gangs do?”

“Nothing. Astarion united them. He, well, he established something akin to a…I’m unsure, a syndicate perhaps? He is rather, uhm, well liked in his circles.”

“A syndicate,” Raphael repeated, eyebrow cocked. “Out of those two gangs? I thought they’d destroy each other before considering as much as a friendly handshake. Impressive.”

“And he is currently in the process of pulling a patriar on his side, hoping her influence will allow him more freedom in the upper district. Your, uhm, absence has caused him to seek aid in other powerful people.”

Raphael felt what might constitute as a headache for people prone to aches. A patriar. Not to sacrifice, but to work with. Raphael doubted that any of those gilded fools had much to offer, especially not compared to what a devil could offer. “And that patriar - what is her name, you said? How likely is she to help him?”

Korrilla didn’t meet his eyes. “Erianne Silvershield. She already is. Helping him, I mean. He has managed…quite well without you.” She swallowed.

Raphael contemplated that name. Erianne Silvershield. He had not had dealings with her. Yet. “And you worry he is growing too independent.”

“No contract has been signed. I just- people like him tend to be ungrateful. It might be possible that he will betray you.”

“Let that be my worry, Korrilla.” Raphael emptied the wine; a new goblet was brought immediately. “Cazador knows nothing of it?”

“No. Astarion has become a convincing deceiver. It shows in, uh, how he approaches his prey. His, hm, seductions are quite effective. They are very willing to engage with him.”

Raphael swirled his goblet and observed the blood red liquid. “Are they, now?”

“Cazador has more than half of the souls he needs. 4,142.” Korrilla’s voice became even more careful. “That is good, at least, right?”

4,142 souls. How many of those had Astarion lured in? How many had he looked at with that promising little smile, how many had he allowed to touch him before he delivered them to their doom? How many had thought they were important to him, how many had he led to believe they were his only-

It mattered not. Only the result mattered.

“Good?” Raphael forcibly unclenched his jaw and adopted a satisfied smile. His temper, always threatening to boil over down in Avernus, froze in the cold winter winds of the material plane. “It is fantastic. You’re gone for thirty-five years and your crops are ready for reaping the moment you return.”

Korrilla glanced at him, slightly confused. “Are you pleased?”

“The plan is progressing exactly as it should. Why would I not be pleased?”

“I just- I thought since you, how to say this, claimed the spawn for yourself, I thought it might… After all, his alliance with Erianne Silvershield is-” She stopped.

Raphael stared at her. That she, as a mere servant, even dared to presume to have insight into a devil’s mind, and with such a ridiculous assumption at that. But he pushed down his irritation. Instead, he burst out laughing. “Dear, you thought I was jealous? Me?”

Korrilla looked mortified. “No, Lord Raphael, that is not what I meant! He is just a spawn, after all, no one of importance, but since you spent so much effort on him and allowed him- but of course I wasn’t implying jealousy!”

“Of course not,” Raphael drawled. At least she realised the utter ridiculousness of her words.

Korrilla kneaded her hands, eyes flicking about as if looking for a new topic of conversation. They fell on Raphael’s hand atop the table, a gash marring the back of it. “And…and your endeavours in the hells, how did they go?”

Raphael pulled his hand away. Wounds caused by consecrated metal were a bother to heal. “If you’re wondering whether the thirty-five years spent among the most exasperating of devils robbed me of the patience needed to endure your sister, then I can reassure you. She lives, for now. Feel free to pay her a visit.”

“I- thank you, Lord Raphael.” She meekly inclined her head.

“A little reward, for holding the line up here. Where is the little spawn now? Entertaining his new benefactor, perhaps?”

“He has been confined in the Szarr mansion for the past two days. Likely for punishment. He doesn’t go a tenday without.”

Raphael smiled at that. “Ah, the poor boy. Well, maybe seeing an old friend will lift his spirits.”

“I’m sure of it,” Korrilla’s voice grew firmer now that she realised Raphael wasn’t inclined to burn down the tavern in a fit of unbefitting jealousy. Ridiculous, the mere notion of it. “However, he rarely comes to the lower city these days. Recently, he’s been frequenting the Helm and Cloak.”

“He has standards now.”

“He does.”

“Well, then I better make sure his standards are met.” Raphael got up. “After thirty-five years, I deserve a bit of fun. Don’t you agree, Korrilla?”

“Yes, Lord Raphael.”

“Return to the House of Hope. On the desk in my study you’ll find a book on alliances I made during my stay in the various layers. See to it that you compose files for each one.”

Korrilla bowed.

“And, Korrilla? If you do visit your sister, make sure to not loosen her shackles anymore. I might have broken something irreparably and she’s even more aggravating than before.”

-

The change was astonishing. It was the way he carried himself, with a kind of confidence that bordered on arrogance, the way a small smirk played around his lips like he not only belonged here, but here belonged to him. His biggest problem had always been that nervous wariness he just couldn’t shake, like he was constantly on edge, ready to pull a dagger on whoever approached him. There was no sign of that now. He was someone promising a good time, were you lucky enough to catch his attention. Raphael felt smugly satisfied. This was to his credit. Cazador might have created him, but Raphael had shaped him.

Astarion didn’t approach anyone. He sat down at his own table, knowing full well that eyes and interest followed him there. He didn’t need to hunt, just had to wait for the little birds to sit on the lion’s tongue. He reclined in his chair and glanced around, surveying the scene. His bored gaze passed over Raphael, moved on, then paused. Across the room, they made eye contact. With a small smirk, Raphael raised his glass in a well-deserved toast. Astarion gifted him a little smile before turning away. Raphael wasn’t bothered in the slightest, not when he was wearing the disguise of a common noble. Even less when it offered him such a wonderful opportunity for theatrics. It had been a while since Raphael had devised a comedy of intrigue. It would be amusing to see Astarion’s face when he realised that for once, he hadn’t seduced some unworthy fool. Raphael was looking forward to his reaction – it was another thing he appreciated about the spawn. He was wonderfully unpredictable.

He stood at the same time as a woman at a neighbouring table, her hair piled high and her dress tastefully expensive. When she noticed her competition, she let a judgemental gaze pass over his clothes but soon came to the conclusion that she was clearly the more eligible match. The pitying smile that curled her lips remained until the very second her eyes reached Raphael’s. She stopped dead in her tracks. Then she smoothed down her dress in an attempt at dignity and sat back down.

Exit stage left. Raphael smirked and inclined his head at her mockingly before sauntering over to Astarion’s table.

“Is this seat taken, darling?”

Astarion looked up. His hair was perfectly coiffed, the pallor of his skin elegant rather than sickly. Whatever tortures Cazador had subjected him to had clearly happened below the collar.

“It’s about to be,” he replied with a small smile that didn’t reach his eyes. When Raphael sat down opposite of him, Astarion leaned forward and rested his chin on the back of his hand. “A bold new face. What brings you here?”

Raphael smiled a pleasant little smile with that bland face of his disguise. “I’m new to the city and thought that making some acquaintances couldn’t hurt. And where better to find friends than in a nice tavern?”

“A newcomer to the Gate? Where do you hail from?” Casual smalltalk in a slightly bored tone. Raphael could see how it would make people eager to catch his interest to make him stay, and wondered just how many people he had seduced like this. Wondered if he had grown to enjoy it.

“The name’s Riemiyd. I’m originally from Waterdeep, but I’m…looking for a change.”

“You came to the right place. We’ve got plenty of opportunities for change here.”

“So I’ve heard. And what’s more satisfying than taking a good opportunity?”

“I’ll drink to that,” Astarion said with a wink. Were Raphael not a master of reading people, he might have missed the insincerity of it. They clinked glasses, never breaking eye-contact as they drank. Astarion’s wine was unusually viscous.

“You don’t happen to offer guided tours through the city?” Raphael asked after a bout of silence. “In broad daylight of course, there’s not much to see now for us folks that can’t see in the dark.”

A small chuckle. “Forward, aren’t we?”

“I’ve learned the hard way that hesitation always leads to the bad ending.”

“And you already have an ending for this night in mind then?” Astarion was wearing a soft smile, but his eyes were cold.

“Well,” Raphael drawled. After thirty-five years of overt warfare and covert intrigue in Avernus, this was pure indulgence. “Of course we could also go on and pretend we’re not here for the same reason.”

“We could, if we hadn’t just established that we both do not like wasting opportunities.”

Raphael, ever the cooperative victim, smiled. “I’d offer my place, but I haven’t fully moved in yet.”

“No worries, dear, I have a perfectly cosy home for us to use.” Astarion got up and made a slightly mocking bow, offering Raphael his hand. He grasped it, smooth, cold skin against his own as he curled his fingers around Astarion’s that tensed up minutely at the contact. Raphael gave them a squeeze, but the moment etiquette allowed it Astarion let go.  

As they walked through the streets, all bright windows and gentle snowfall, Raphael fell behind, pretending to admire the scenery while keeping his eyes on Astarion. Now that they were outside, his confidence was joined by that same old wariness. Taut shoulders, vigilant eyes, a straight back. Hands pushed casually into the pockets of the dark trenchcoat that fluttered in the winter breeze. Allure in every movement.  Raphael saw why those simple mortals would bend over to get their hands on him. A little hiss sounded when the gentle snowflakes landing on Raphael’s shoulder evaporated.

The house wasn’t luxurious by any means, even less so by upper city standards, but inside of the modest building waited a comfortable little space lit by a crackling fireplace.

“Welcome to my humble abode.” With a single fluid motion, he let the trenchcoat slide from his shoulders and draped it over a chair.

Hands clasped behind his back, Raphael regarded the room. According to Korrilla, Cazador had established several layover houses across the city that were connected to his palace via underground passages. It caught unwanted attention when too many people entered his palace. There were meaningless decorations on the shelves, an upturned book on the table. A space crafted to look lived in. “Humble indeed. Quite unbefitting of you, I would say.” He turned and made a show of looking Astarion up and down; his well-groomed hair, the collarbones exposed by the loosely laced collar of his shirt, the pants tightly hugging his legs.

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“It was meant as one. Do you have plans of moving somewhere a little grander in the future?”

“Who knows what tomorrow will bring.” Astarion sat down in an armchair and crossed his legs. “I’d much rather enjoy the present than fret about the future. There’s too much in life we can’t control, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Indeed.” Raphael sauntered behind the chair and placed his hands on Astarion’s shoulders, kneading gently. “Then let us enjoy the present, hm?”

Astarion chuckled. It sounded forced. “I like people who don’t waste time on false pleasantries. Who know what they want.”

“And you think you can give me what I want?” Raphael purred and leaned in, lips brushing a pointed ear.

“I can take an educated guess,” Astarion replied with a hollow voice, and tilted his head.

Raphael bent further down, let his breath ghost over Astarion’s throat where no pulse beat underneath the white skin. “That doesn’t sound very enthusiastic, Astarion. You should work on your tone.”

It barely took a second. Then Astarion tensed and jerked forwards as he tried to stand up. With a firm grip on his shoulders, it was easy to keep him down. Astarion struggled for a moment longer, then he hissed. “Who the fuck are you? What do you want?”

“Take an educated guess, pet.” Raphael let the disguise drip down his body and folded his wings forward into Astarion’s field of vision.

“No fucking-” As soon as Raphael lifted his hands, Astarion jumped up and whirled around, a dagger in his outstretched hand. His fingers were shaking.

“Thirty-five years was all it took,” Raphael raised his arms, all mocking surrender, “for you to replace me. I’m hurt.”

Astarion stared. The dagger slipped from his fingers and clattered to the ground. “Raphael? Wh-” No more ill-concealed displeasure, no more feigned flirtation. Genuine shock that made him stagger back.

“Hello, Astarion.”

But Astarion didn’t return his smile. Strangely enough, it was discomfort that stole on his face, even more so than before. “Why- why would you-” His gaze darted across the room, anywhere that wasn’t Raphael.

Raphael smirked. “Astarion, dear, are you being bashful?”

Astarion’s eyes snapped to him. He glared and finally managed to catch himself. Disbelief still etched in the frown on his face, he crossed his arms. “I’m being shocked, Raphael. That you’re back. After thirty-five fucking years.”

“Did you miss me, dear? What, is Erianne Silvershield not as good of company?”

Astarion was back in control, prior uncertainty now hidden behind a cocked eyebrow. “Missed you? You wish. I’m just surprised that it took you this long.” He dropped his voice in an attempt to imitate Raphael. “A brief trip into the Hells, you wrote, just to sort some things out.” It wasn’t half bad.

Raphael huffed a laugh. “Were you worried about me? Or… worried about yourself? That your patron abandoned you?” He’d been hoping for that; another sign that Astarion relied on him.

Astarion scoffed, but it wasn’t enough to distract from the flicker in his eyes. “Yeah, sure. More like elated that the devil conveniently forgot about me and let me get away without any payment at all.”

“Please,” Raphael drawled. “I would never.”

“Let anyone get away without payment? Or…forget about me?”

Raphael couldn’t deny that the honest insecurity pleased him after so much false confidence. “Yes.”

“Bastard.”

“How could I ever forget about my favourite little pet, hm? I constantly worried if he was being fed well”, Raphael cooed and Astarion rolled his eyes.

“Can’t have been too busy in the Hells, if you had time to worry about that.”

“If only.” Raphael walked around the chair and took the seat Astarion had vacated. “But what happened down in the Hells is irrelevant. What is not irrelevant, however, is what happened up here. There are whispers about an interesting new underground organisation.”

One hand on his hip, the other gesturing dramatically, Astarion was all put-on indignancy. “Yes, I’m doing fine, thank you so much for asking. Yes, I’ve been moisturising more recently. The last torture? Oh, that already lies two days back, I’m basically being spoiled!” he said sardonically and sat down opposite of Raphael, crossing his legs and arranging his clothes.

Raphael smirked and conjured up a glass of wine from the House of Hope. “Whatever happened during these thirty-five years to turn you into this, I’m delighted.”

There it was again, the shadow of a frown. A clenched fist. “It’s the independence,” Astarion said a little too haughtily. Even now, after the surprise about Raphael’s appearance should have worn off, Astarion seemed on edge. “Without a devil to constantly check up on me, I was thriving.”

“The devil knew you could handle yourself. ”

“Raphael!” Astarion said, placing a hand on his chest in false shock. “I’m scandalised. Are you saying you trust me?” It was their usual back-and-forth, but the underlying tension didn’t ease and Raphael was forced to realise that maybe the thirty-five years in the Hells had slightly impeded his ability to read Astarion.

“Trust goes both ways, dear.” He didn’t break eye-contact, trying to catch a hint of what Astarion wasn’t telling him.

“Yeah, well,” Astarion said and looked at a point slightly to the left of Raphael. “I knew you’d return.”

Raphael hummed. “So. How have you been all these years? Collecting souls, starting your own little organisation, charming a Silvershield…seems like you’ve had your hands full.”

Astarion bit his lips. He smoothed out the frown before it could really form and exhaled with a little laugh. “Building an underground empire is incredibly fun, and Lady Silvershield a willing sponsor.”

“Seems like you’ve perfected your masks.” Raphael said. Astarion had never put on a fake persona with him. To others, he was a mirror image of what they wanted to see, but with Raphael, he was real. At least he used to. Now, his smile was a bad narrative.

“I learned from the best.”

Raphael clenched his jaw. He wouldn’t let this stand. He would rip that featureless mask off his spawn's pretty little face. “How did you get all these people to work together? In my experience, some of them would literally rather sell their soul than agree to any form of cooperation.”

“The usual,” Astarion tried to sound bored. It was everything but. “Blackmail and coercion always work. Then there’s threats for the tough cases. And…” he shrugged and regarded his nails. “other means where they were necessary. What works on arrogant nobles also works on arrogant criminals. They all want the same, in the end.”

He sat perfectly still, waiting for a reaction. Needing a reaction from Raphael as much as Raphael wanted to force one from him. Since their goals aligned, Raphael deigned to act first.

“Other means,” he hummed knowingly. It was enough.

“Yeah, I’m a one trick pony that way,” Astarion snapped and looked up. “And it works every time! Because I’m great at it! Nothing to get people more pliable, more incautious, than making them believe they can own you. Isn’t that right, Lord Raphael?”

Finally he showed his real self, but Raphael frowned at the accusation accompanying his harsh tone. “Do you see me judging you?”

Astarion laughed humourlessly. “Don’t pretend you aren’t. Was it fun, huh? Watching me in action? Watching me- watching me use myself on you? You could’ve just shown up, Hello, Astarion, I’m back after thirty-five years of leaving you to your own devices, how are you?, but no, you had to put on yet another show, let’s see how the spawn does his business!”

That this, out of everything, would bother Astarion, was unexpected. “I would never judge you for any-”

“I don’t care who sees me like that,” Astarion said. “But not you. You’re- Why did you do that?”

He sounded genuinely upset. The feeling of vindication at Astarion’s outburst faded, replaced by something unfamiliar. He had thought the little act would be amusing, but it seemed his spawn wasn't in on the joke after all. “It was an act, Astarion, nothing more. A comedy of intrigue-”

“A comedy, of course. Because I’m so laughable, using my body to get what I want.”

“I think we’re talking past each other. It’s just a body, Astarion, I didn’t-”

“But it’s mine!” Astarion jumped to his feet, teeth bared. “It’s my body, Raphael, and it’s all I have left! At least…that’s what I keep telling myself. Between giving it up to-” He took a shaky breath. “It’s mine. Marked and used and broken and mine.”

Raphael stared at him. He’d never seen Astarion this brittle before, had never needed to exercise particular caution to handle him. Oh, he had always known that Astarion was cracked, splinters of him lost together with his agency, but for it to weigh on him so heavily… Raphael had thought the decades of internalisation and repression had made him numb enough to endure until they could fit him back together.

“Marked as your body may be, a spirit like yours won’t be contained. What you are now is but a mere drop in the ocean that will be your life once you have reclaimed it. And then, none of this will matter. Even now, it is but a necessary discomfort. What you do for Cazador does not define you.”

“Oh, that is a great way to put it!” Astarion threw his arms out. “The utter fucking misery I’ve been enduring is a necessary discomfort. You must think me so weak, letting the decades of servitude get to me like this.”

Raphael just couldn’t seem to find the right words. But who would dare fault him, a literal fucking devil? He thought back to the millennia of honing his skills in making people miserable. He had never even considered the opposite direction. “Astarion, I always knew what you had to do for your master and I never thought less of you. Maybe you remember how we first met?”

Astarion whirled around, but it wasn’t fast enough. Raphael had seen the liquid shimmer in his eyes. “Unfortunately, I do. Difficult to forget that your only ally thinks you’re pathetic.”

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Raphael knew that this was another great chance for manipulation. But when he stood up, it was something else that drove him. When he stepped behind Astarion and grabbed his shoulder, it wasn’t to seize an opportunity. He still told himself it was. “You’re being ridiculous.”

Astarion laughed self-deprecatingly. “Pathetic and ridiculous.”

“If you actually think I would judge you for something like this, then yes. Pathetic and ridiculous.” Raphael turned him around. No sobs, no tears streaming down Astarion’s face, but a forlornness he had never seen on him. His voice was soft when he spoke, sounding unfamiliar to his own ears. “To you, do I seem like a devil who would spend a half a century raising someone up, supporting them, giving them my damned blood without a contract, if I didn’t see their strength and potential? You insult me.”

Astarion didn’t meet his gaze. Stubborn little spawn, so determined to wallow in his self-pity.

Raphael laid a finger under his chin and tilted it up, forcing eye-contact. “Do you think I enjoy seeing you like that?” The words tasted more honest than he would have liked. But Astarion’s eyes flickered with uncertainty, so maybe this was finally the right approach. “Do you think it doesn’t bother me that the little spawn I spend so much time and effort on, who somehow managed to grow into his own person despite being a pawn, has to use himself for that pathetic excuse for a vampire lord?”

Astarion returned his gaze. When he spoke, his voice was barely audible. “Then who should I use myself for?”

Raphael dug his thumb into Astarion’s chin. “Ask yourself. Who do you want to use yourself for? Until you’re powerful enough to need no one but yourself.”

Astarion’s eyes dropped to Raphael’s mouth. He swallowed heavily. Leaned in.

Raphael sighed and put his hand on the back of Astarion’s head, guided it to rest on his shoulder. He heard the surprised intake of breath.

“You poor thing. Have you ever even considered what you want?” he murmured. The gentleness of his voice was easy to justify. He wanted Astarion stable, after all. Strong in mind and body. Self-doubt and insecurity were of no use to them. “No one, Astarion. You want to use yourself on no one. You want autonomy. Independence. And I can give that to you. Will give that to you. You only have to trust me.”

Astarion said nothing, but his head was heavy on Raphael’s shoulder, his body sagged forward to lean against him. Raphael wrapped the other arm around his shoulders.

“Or you don’t. But at the very least…” He gently stroked Astarion’s back. “You need to use me. Because to take a hold of that independence, you need more strength. You need my blood again.” He slowly drew back, allowed Astarion a moment to collect himself, stand on his own two feet.

And he reached out a hand and offered Astarion his wrist. He’d been looking forward to their usual little feeding ritual, but with how fragile Astarion was right now, it wouldn’t be fun, anyway. But Astarion pushed the arm away and stepped close, fingers on the clasps of Raphael’s collar. Raphael let him undo them, regarding him with some surprise.

“You don’t-”

“I do,” Astarion said quietly as he pulled the collar open. “Somehow, I do trust you, devil.”

When Astarion’s teeth pierced his skin, Raphael couldn’t bite back a pleased hum. His hand found Astarion’s hair, fingers tangling in the soft locks, while the other dropped to his waist. With Astarion’s lips on his throat, Raphael idly wondered if in all those years, his little spawn had drank from someone else. If anyone else had ever felt his teeth pierce their skin.

-

“I do not care for that upstart’s opinions. He has to prove himself before he has the right to even open his mouth in my presence!” A harsh, self-assured voice allowed no argument.

“Of course, Milady. I will see to it to convey this sentiment in the letter we send.”

“Well, then bloody see that you do.”

The door slammed open and a middle-aged woman strode in, tall and proud with a jewel-adorned dress and long silvery hair. She had lost the immaturity that had been so prominent during that masquerade over thirty years ago, now replaced by confidence and authority. Certainly a woman of power, if of ill decisions. When the door closed, she sighed and ran a hand over her face.

“Imbeciles,” she muttered.

“Most mortals are.”

Her eyes snapped up, immediately alert. When they fell on the figure reclined on her chair, cracking a walnut with his strangely pointy nails, she frowned.

“Who are you? How did you get inside?”

“Erianne Silvershield,” Raphael drawled and stood, stepping out of the shadows. He brushed parts of shell from his vest. “Very pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“I will ask one more time before I call my guards: Who are you?”

Raphael raised his hands. “Oh, my presence here is for business purposes only. You see, I couldn’t help but notice your family’s coffers are tragically empty thanks to an ill-advised deal…”

Erianne grew tense. “How do you know?”

“Deals are somewhat of a specialty of mine. Say, Lady Silvershield, you wouldn’t be interested in another one? The interest is basically nonexistent!”

Chapter Text

Kythorn 1356 - 32 years later

“Impressive,” Raphael drawled as they walked back towards the makeshift elevator. “Drab and glum, sure. Architecturally questionable, definitely. In need of a deep clean, certainly. But impressive.”

“You act like I designed, built, and decorated this. I just took what was already there,” Astarion said defensively. “And it’s not like I had much time to tidy up.”

“Obviously.” Raphael regarded the pile of bones they passed – animals, humanoids, and beasts swept together like a pile of leaves on a windy autumn’s day – and then the people bustling around, no less varied than the bones. They returned his looks with obvious suspicion. When Astarion had introduced Raphael as his advisor, it had become apparent quite fast that no one in the syndicate would trust the lavishly dressed human at the side of their leader. Perhaps because criminals were naturally paranoid, or perhaps because Raphael had a great time being intentionally ominous.

 “It’s a work in progress,” Raphael murmured as he leaned closer to Astarion to make it seem like he was whispering something secret to him.

The work in progress had, to be fair, progressed quite nicely already, considering it had been barely a year ago that the little syndicate had expanded from the undercity to the upperdark. Two of Astarion’s scouts had discovered the passageway when they’d fled from the Fist. Astarion, smart as he was, had notified Raphael immediately to make sure there were no remaining dangers. Luckily for him, it led to a secluded cavern with no obvious connection to the middledark, so surprise attacks by drow scouts or stray mind flayers were rather unlikely. With the passage deemed safe, they had slowly ventured forth into the underdark’s purgatory. The cavern used to be home to an outpost; remnants of drow architecture were carved into the rough stone, but the strewn-about skeletons and general state of destruction led to the assumption that there had been certain tension with either surface-dwelling Baldurians or other species inhabiting the subterranean space. One dweller’s loss was another’s gain, and Astarion was making good use of the abandoned space.

When they stepped into the elevator, away from the eyes of the others, Astarion briefly swayed as if he wanted to lean back against the wall, before he caught himself again. He’d been keeping more than busy these past tendays, had even foregone feeding in favour of expanding both his master’s collection of souls and his own budding criminal empire. Which was why Raphael had spontaneously dropped by after concluding several dealings on the Prime. Astarion had been surprised at his sudden appearance but not unpleasantly so, and had agreed to give Raphael a little tour of his underground empire. Well, underground fiefdom, for now. Raphael had Korrilla keep an eye on the little spawn, of course, but it couldn’t hurt to check in on him personally. To make sure he wasn’t facing any larger issues. And maybe for slightly more selfish reasons as well. Raphael couldn’t deny that he had grown used to Astarion’s company. To his sarcasm, his disrespect, and his brazen disregard for their respective statuses. Before Astarion, he hadn’t even realised just how little he had truly conversed in recent centuries. Oh, he had talked a lot – Raphael was an expert when it came to monologuing – but actually relevant and interesting dialogue had been rare. Though he doubted Astarion was capable of stimulating conversation right now, considering his state.

“One would assume a vampire spawn to be resistant to tiredness. You seem positively exhausted.” Raphael remarked.

“I’m not. It’s just- between collecting people and commanding people and not getting caught and- It’s a lot, okay?”

“Why is it, little spawn, that you always feel the need to justify yourself in front of me? I was not accusing you, I was stating a fact.”

Astarion ran a hand over his face and briefly squeezed his eyes shut. “I know.”

“Why are you torturing yourself like this, anyway? I thought that the woman you have acting as your substitute was doing a good enough job leading in your absence.” Looking at Astarion’s slumped shoulders and half-lidded eyes, it was tempting to pull him in, lay a patronising arm around his shoulders and promise him rest once all of this was over. But Raphael knew this kind of manipulation didn’t work on Astarion anymore, no matter how much amusement it would bring Raphael himself.

“She is. But this…this is my effort. I built this. And even if I won’t ever get to see it truly flourish, I still want to- I don’t know.”

The elevator jerked to a halt and Astarion stared at the closed doors.

“I thought we talked about this,” Raphael said. He wasn’t sure when he’d put a hand on Astarion’s shoulder to squeeze reassuringly. No, patronisingly. Astarion leaned into the touch. “The plan will succeed. You will ascend first, and afterwards can focus on this little project of yours.”

“Must be nice, not worrying about failure.”

“It’s my plan, Astarion. And my plans never fail.” He snapped his fingers and the elevator doors slid open, revealing the syndicate’s main base of operations. The large underground cavern had been made good use of; multiple layers of stone-carved floors connected by wooden structures, rooms shaped into the stone, all illuminated by braziers and torches. Crates, chests, barrels standing around; all means of commerce acquired and sold on the other side of the law. But the most important resource down here was not the gold, not the goods, not the space. The people nodded respectfully when Astarion passed them while Raphael received more suspicious glances. He knew what they whispered about him.

The advisor, he’s a strange one, I bet he manipulates our leader.

I don’t know how he can trust that smarmy face of the guy. He’s dangerous, I can tell, there is something off about his smile.

When the advisor looked at me, I swear his eyes flashed in a weird way. I think there’s something very wrong with him, and I hope our leader has him under control.

Oh, how great it would be to put his hand on Astarion’s back now and guide him forward. Greater still to pull Astarion against his side, show everyone who controlled whom. Over the years and despite his very nature, Raphael had gotten used to merely entertaining thoughts like that instead of acting upon them. Unbefitting as it might be, he had found himself not wanting to compromise what Astarion had built up. And there was amusement to be found in acting the opposite of his usual self. He walked a step behind Astarion, eyes trained on his little spawn’s back as if he were his personal bodyguard.

“I do ever so enjoy the moniker you chose,” Raphael said after a dwarf had greeted Astarion. He leaned a little closer so no one else would catch the words. “But I think I’m going to stick with pet. Though I could be persuaded to change it to pale pet, should you ask nicely.”

“Spare me,” Astarion groaned. “I didn’t choose it. I still have no idea who started it, and why it got picked up.”

“A bit uncreative maybe, but memorable nonetheless. Maybe I should reveal my true form, then they can call us the Pale Elf and the Red Devil and write exciting stories about us.”

“Do they have the saying ‘speech is silver, silence is golden’ in the Nine Hells?” Astarion turned to him. They were so close that Raphael could see the patterns in his irises. He had never noticed that Astarion had silver lashes.

“Pale Elf.”

Astarion blinked and drew back. Raphael instantly lowered his head and curved his back to make himself seem smaller when an older woman in an elegant dress that looked entirely out of place in these underground halls approached them. Astarion’s second-in-command was proprietress of one of the Gate’s most frequented pleasure houses and thus a useful asset regarding information procurement.

“Do you have a moment?”

“Yes. What is the matter, Marika?”

“Well…” Her eyes briefly passed over Raphael, who made sure to give her his most genial smile that might have exposed too-sharp teeth. “A matter concerning our recent endeavours…”

“Then speak,” Astarion said in a slightly exasperated tone. Marika was always reluctant when Raphael was present, possibly because she had once observed him teleport out of Astarion’s office in a gust of flame. Completely unintentional, of course.

“If you require me to leave, Pale Elf, I will.” Raphael said. Astarion clicked his tongue and waved dismissively.

“No need. Whatever happened, my advisor can hear it. I’ve said so several times already, Marika.”

 She clenched her jaw and nodded. “It’s about the Guild. As you know, they’ve been sending spies after our people.”

“Again?”

“Yarris caught one of their rats following him. They’re getting more brazen by the day. Luckily, they lack the talent to be considered a real threat.”

“The thrilling tale of two upstart organisations racing to the top as they try to make the other fall. A battle of both wits and brawn. Place your bets now, who will emerge the winner? Assimilation or eradication, what will happen to the loser?” Raphael said in a toneless voice that echoed in the cave. Then he turned towards Astarion and inclined his head in the faintest allusion to a bow. “Just say the word, and I will take care of it for you.”

Marika shifted uncomfortably and didn’t even look in his direction. “The Guild is nothing but a band of unorganised criminals. Don’t worry, Pale Elf. We can deal with them ourselves. Should one of them come close to the passage, they’ll be made short work of.”

“Good. Do not let the knowledge of what we found get out.”

“And should one of them approach us with an offer of collaboration?”

“I trust your judgement on this. Few are as insightful as you are when it comes to reading people’s true intentions.”

Marika’s eyes briefly met Raphael’s and she didn’t manage to stifle a flinch when his eyes flashed orange. The ensuing silence was more meaningful than words could hope to be. Astarion sighed.

“Exceptions validate the rule. You know my stance on this, Marika.”

“I…do. Whether I understand it is another matter entirely.”

“I do not count as people, dear, so don’t be too disheartened if your insight doesn’t work on me.” Raphael said. “And worry not, I would never dare do anything that puts our leader at risk.”

“My advisor and I have other matters to discuss.” Astarion’s voice was authoritative and he gave Marika a nod before decisively walking towards his office. Raphael followed behind him at a respectable distance.

“And here I thought I had a trustworthy face,” he mused when they were far enough away.

“Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing.”

“Oh? What am I doing?”

“Acting out this annoying role! Did you write it yourself or did you recently purchase a copy of Faerûn’s worst stageplays?” Astarion pushed the door to his office open and strode through. He whirled around and threw his arms out. “I’m trying to build something here and you’re being- well, some kind of ominous horror story devil that parents tell their children about!”

Raphael closed the door. He itched to release his wings; felt the phantom sensation of cramped muscles against his back. It was at times like these where he regretted having killed Haarlep. If there was one thing the incubus had been good at, it was giving massages. “And why do parents tell their children horror stories of devils?”

“What?” Astarion’s arms were suspended in the air like wings. Raphael rolled his shoulders – he had spent six days in this stifling disguise and regretted not returning to the House of Hope for a brief break when he’d had the chance, but the danger of being roped into yet another plot before he could meet Astarion had been too high.

“Don’t underestimate the kind of respect nourished by fear, Astarion. If they fear a devil, imagine their image of someone who has tamed one. And am I not ever so tame when we’re amongst your subordinates?” Raphael smirked and curved his back to make himself smaller, in the same way he so often did before Astarion’s newfound allies.

Astarion blinked. “You’re not making fun of me?”

“Why would I make fun of you?” Raphael sat down on the chair in front of Astarion’s desk and pressed his shoulder blades against the backrest in an attempt to alleviate the strain on his muscles. “Dear, your efforts here are as admirable as they are beneficial. Once we’ve freed you of your shackles and you can walk out in the light, literally and metaphorically, this little syndicate of yours is going to prove very useful.”

“Useful…” Astatarion stared into the middle-distance, then focussed his eyes on Raphael. “And me? How am I going to be useful?”

“What do you mean, dear?”

Astarion slumped down on his own chair. “Please, Raphael, enough with the secrecy and the theatrics. Just tell me, will you? Tell me what you want from me once all of this is done.”

What Raphael wanted from him. Right. Because there was a goal behind all of this. Because the long-term plan he had dedicated so much time and effort to was now slowly nearing its end. And that end was not Astarion’s ascension. Because Raphael had actually had a purpose when he’d started turning Astarion into his loyal – accomplice. A purpose that was still very much relevant. To have Astarion break into Mephistopheles’ vault and procure the Crown of Karsus was still the final act of this grand narrative. Mephistopheles might get 7,000 souls, but he would lose a priceless artefact that would help his wayward son break the chains his heritage had put on him.

And yet…

The eighth layer of hell was no pleasant place, with inhabitants less than welcoming, not to mention its Archduke. And should Mephistopheles get his hands on Astarion…well, Raphael was confident enough in his efforts to believe that Astarion would not betray him. Meaning the danger Astarion would be subjected to was quite real and…wouldn’t it be just so unsatisfactory to have him die in the process? After spending all this work on him, it would feel more like a waste than anything. Maybe it was time to reconsider. There were enough other things Raphael could make him do that did not involve him getting imprisoned and tortured by Raphael’s dear father.

“There is really no need to worry about that,” Raphael said after a too-long pause. “I promise you, Astarion, I would never demand anything terrible of you. You should know me well enough by now to be aware of that. You should focus on what lies ahead.”

“Raphael-”

“What I want from you right now is for you to become the Vampire Ascendant. Become powerful. And when we free you, we’ll see what lies ahead.”

“Yeah. When we free me,” Astarion muttered. Ah, the pessimism again. The closer they came to the ritual, the more Astarion’s perspective darkened. Raphael understood that he was scared of all their efforts turning void in the end. Hope was cruel like that; it had given him a goal to work towards, to spend his life in pursuit of, unknowing if his struggles would ever pay off or if he would pay with his life. If his suffering would ever end or if he himself would end before that.

“I can hear you thinking in ifs rather than whens, my transparent little spawn. Don’t worry. You have me on your side. Until the end.”

An end that might arrive sooner than Astarion expected. Raphael had Korrilla keep an intricate record on the progress of the soul-collection. Should the spawns persist in their efforts, they would need little more than ten years to reach Mephistopheles’ ridiculous demand. It annoyed Raphael greatly that in his effort to free Astarion, he had aided his father in a way. But he would collect that debt soon enough. Raphael was patient. One day, he would reclaim every single soul that greedy archduke got because of him and then he would-

His thoughts of sweet revenge jerked to a halt. There were hands on his shoulders, thumbs digging into the junction of his neck. Raphael instinctively leaned forwards.

“Well, if I have the great Lord Raphael on my side, then there is nothing to worry about. Unless, of course, he strains a muscle and can’t come to the final showdown.” Astarion’s hands wandered down and pressed right against where Raphael’s wings were cramped up under his disguise, and despite all effort not to, he let out a small gasp.

“He thinks he’s oh-so-difficult to read,” Astarion sing-songed as he kneaded Raphael’s muscles. “Unfortunately, I’ve had some time to observe you. You move differently when you’re in disguise for too long, are you aware?”

Raphael didn’t deign to answer. His head dipped low as Astarion put his strength to use. It didn’t help in the slightest. As dexterous as Astarion was, he was weak. Even using his entire weight to press against Raphael’s back would be little more than a droplet on a hot stone. And yet Raphael kept his mouth shut. It might not help, but it wasn’t unpleasant, the way Astarion’s deft fingers moved over his back, more stroking than massaging. He half expected Astarion to mock him, but they remained in mutual silence. Not unpleasant, indeed.

Flamerule 1368 - 12 years later

As beings that defined themselves through the passage of time, mortals loved all means of tracking it. The Prime had to be the plane with the most intricate and accurate timekeeping, going so far that other planes had started to adapt to its customs. And while the Hells did not, per se, count hours, days, or months, it still used the Prime’s years as a rough estimate to record events. Raphael had never cared for the specifics; time, to him, was a pointlessly abstract concept that only really applied to those who didn’t have an infinite amount of it. Right now, however, he was grateful for the mortals’ penchant for counting the hours until their demise. For this year signified the one hundred year-mark of Astarion’s turning, and this hour marked the point of certainty that the next stage of his existence would be reached during this most fitting of times. Raphael could not have constructed a better narrative.

“The information is much appreciated,” he said pleasantly and set down the quill. “Now, your contact wouldn’t have happened to tell you of the little spawn’s location?”

“He is currently in a tavern called The Blushing Mermaid. A new and rather rowdy-”

Raphael raised a hand. After all these years, Korrilla was still unable to refrain from elaborating on useless details. “Thank you. You did well, Korrilla. Keeping track of the souls, keeping track of dearest Astarion, and all his siblings to boot.” He gazed at the calendar he had put on his desk as a means to adjust his perception of time to Astarion’s. “If I’m not mistaken, this date marks the celebration of midsummer on the Prime.”

“That is true.”

“I am releasing you from your duties for this single day. You may do whatever you like -”

Korrilla’s eyes widened and she stammered out a thank you, but Raphael threw her a pointed look.

“- as long as those activities have no negative influence on any of my endeavours.” They both knew what he alluded to.

Korrilla smiled mildly and glanced briefly at the map of Faerûn behind Raphael’s table. “Then I will visit the Great Rift, if it’s all the same to you.”

Raphael raised an eyebrow in surprise. “A trip home. Certainly. But is midsummer not a celebration to spend with your loved ones, be it family or people otherwise occupying your heart?”

“I have spent- no, wasted, enough time on her,” Korrilla said. There was a hardness to her voice and steel in her eyes. Raphael detected no attempt at deception. “You were right, Lord Raphael. Those who cannot stay afloat on reason are best left to drown in their ignorance.”

“Oh? Am I to understand that the well-being of your sister no longer holds any sway over you, rendering our contract rather useless?”

“If you allow, I would still like to remain in your service.” Korrilla said firmly and met his eyes. “You have shown me what is possible in this world. You’ve allowed me to discover parts of myself I have not known before. I can’t - I don’t want to return to the dullness of before.”

Raphael regarded her, this dwarven woman in her elegant robes who was so timid and withdrawn when he met her. After he had saved young Korrilla and her imposition of a sister from their family in the Great Rift, it had been more on a whim than anything that he had contracted her into being his assistant. An early attempt at counteracting boredom. He had expected for her to stay no longer than a few decades before either he grew tired of her, or she broke against what he made her do. She’d been part entertainment, part a useful tool to discard once its edges blunted. Holding her impertinent sister’s life over her head and a contract over her soul in his hands, Raphael had never even considered the possibility that she might work for him freely. But as he looked at her now, choosing the devil who had all but enslaved her over her dearest sister, he realised that devotion came in many different forms, and that he might have gained it in a place entirely unexpected. A smile spread over Raphael’s face and Korrilla’s tense expression loosened. “Korrilla, dearest, do not tell me you have grown fond of your tormentor. What about my reputation?”

“With all due respect, Lord Raphael, I know what it looks like when you torment people and- well.”

“Are you accusing me of being soft on you?” Raphael’s eyes flashed, but Korrilla didn’t even flinch. He sighed. “I must admit, I’ve become rather used to your assistance. You’re well acquainted with the rotation. You show initiative and I no longer need to explain simple matters to you. It would be a foolish action on my part to let you go. Very well.” He snapped his fingers and a scroll manifested in his hand, then burst into flames. “I will rework your contract.”

Korrilla inclined her head. “Thank you. I will not disappoint you.”

“Good. And if you do, well. As you said - you know what it looks like when I torment people. But all that has to wait for later. Right now, I have another…dearest friend of mine to take care of.”

“Of course, Lord Raphael,” Korrilla smiled and bowed. “It has been a long road.”

Raphael looked after her as he leaned back in his chair and rested the tips of his claws against each other. For a moment, he allowed himself to stare into nothingness and let the reality of the situation sink in. A long road it had not been, not by the standards of a devil. And yet he couldn’t deny that the past hundred years had felt long. Not for the Blood War or his scheming, not for the contracts made or the souls obtained. Raphael couldn’t remember ever being as invested in anything as much as he was in the fate of a little, insignificant vampire spawn.

He got up.

Seven thousand victims had been gathered. It was time for the next stage.

-

Midsummer had filled the streets of Baldur’s Gate with people. As Raphael walked among the revellers, someone bumped into him. They laughed and threw him hasty apologies before moving on, unbeknownst that their souls remained their own only by virtue of Raphael’s peculiar mood. It was- strange. His usual sense of superiority that always allowed him detachment was muted, and he felt almost involved in the Prime’s mundane fate. Raphael had always been a writer, a director and book-holder. Never an actor. But right now he knew that he was not entirely in control of the play. All too often did Astarion refuse to adhere to the script.

The Blushing Mermaid was a relatively new establishment, one Raphael had not had the opportunity to visit. Overlooking the wharf, the gaudy bow that served as its barroom hung over the streets, all but begging one of the Gate’s more unstable minds to use it as a means of murder. Raphael was briefly tempted to make it crash down himself when he passed underneath and a group of the worst creatures inhabiting the Prime – laughing children – ran into his path. As he had places to be, he simply made one of them fall, and regretted it soon after when laughs turned into wails. Luckily, the noise was drowned out by the sound of drunken revelry pouring from the open door of the tavern. Courtesy of the celebration’s nature, there were many couples or those hoping to become one. Midsummer used to be a grand occasion for collecting souls as the lonely were confronted with what they lacked. As per that fact, it also served as the perfect season for a spawn to lure in desperate victims with the promise of company. Astarion had been more focussed on the upper-class establishments in recent years, but every now and then he indulged in simplicity, a sentiment Raphael could understand. There was nothing like being the most powerful, important, interesting figure in the room. Tonight, there were two of those in the dingy tap room. Raphael’s eyes immediately fell on Astarion. He was sitting at a table with two men, laughing at something and leaning over to press his shoulder to one of them. It was a tall one with dark, slicked back hair tucked behind half-elven ears. He grinned in return and raised a hand to tug at Astarion’s curls. The other crossed his arms in playful indignation and said something that made Astarion roll his eyes with amusement. He looked perfectly comfortable and relaxed, as if he was genuinely enjoying himself in their company. Of course there would be people he found tolerable among his many, many victims. Of course there would be instances where he had a genuinely good time, rare as they may be.

Astarion barely reacted when he noticed someone approaching their table, keeping his attention on his companion. Then he stilled. Mouth still caught in that smile, mirth twinkling in his eyes, he slowly turned his head. His expression flickered. The change in him didn’t remain unnoticed by the other two and their attention shifted from the object of their desire to the man standing before their table.

Raphael didn’t grant them the faintest of glances. He gazed down at Astarion and from up close he could see it; the tension in his body and the dishonesty of his smile. That, in turn, put a smile on Raphael’s face.

“What is the matter?” Astarion asked, suspicion creeping into his voice. After all, Raphael had, in a rare display of consideration, not shown up at any of Astarion’s hunts since that evening.

“It’s done.”

Astarion’s eyes widened.

“Come with me.”

The half-elf huffed a laugh. “Mate, I don’t think you-”

Raphael silenced him with a look. Then he reached his hand out to Astarion. Astarion hesitated. Maybe he, too, sensed the change that crackled in the air. It muted the sounds of celebration and dulled the flickering lights. Raphael had witnessed countless changes. They were what he lived for, what he profited from. But this was different. This was one that would affect himself. And for the briefest of moments, he felt a stab of worry dig into his chest as a thought flashed up; First and foremost, the change affects Astarion. And if even just one thing goes wrong, it will be his last.

Cold fingers on his hot skin. Astarion grasped his hand. He went easily when Raphael pulled him to his side. The two men were rendered speechless, but neither Raphael nor Astarion paid them any mind as they left the table. With a hand on the small of Astarion’s back, Raphael guided him towards the staircase. There was a private room waiting for them upstairs.

“I was in the middle of something,” Astarion said. His annoyed tone was brittle. He wouldn’t allow his hopes to be raised without Raphael explicitly spelling it out.

“You don’t need to do that anymore,” Raphael allowed and pulled open the door. “You don’t need to do it ever again.”

Astarion took a shuddering breath and closed his eyes. Raphael gently nudged him into the room and closed the door. Beyond the window, the gleaming city beneath the night sky created the illusion of a sunrise. The backlight set Astarion’s form aglow, as he stood forlorn in the room, eyes trained on Raphael. Raphael moved in and grasped his upper arms, smiling down at him.

“You will be your own person again, Astarion. You will get to choose.”

Astarion made a soft, broken sound.

“No more using yourself for anyone. Your long, perilous path has come to an end. Everything you’ve suffered and endured, all the pain, the humiliation, everything will pay off. And it was all by your own strength.”

Slowly, Raphael pulled him in. He dismissed that bothersome, plain disguise of his and stroked Astarion’s back with his claws, enveloped him in the warmth of his wings.

“And you’ll see it will be worth it. Once you stand in the sunlight high atop the palace, overlooking the city below and knowing all those little scuttling people are not only spatially, but literally beneath you, you’ll know it was worth it.”

Astarion was motionless in his embrace. Raphael left him to his thoughts. Maybe he had been too forward; should have chosen a more suitable time to tell him, but he had felt excitement unlike any he had experienced before. And with the little spawn in his arms, he admitted to himself that it was not curiosity, investment, selfishness, or boredom that had kept him - and still did keep him - at Astarion’s side. It was that strange thing called fondness he knew so well from his foolish contractees. It was Astarion himself who drew Raphael to him. How unbefitting, Raphael thought and tightened his arms around Astarion.

“Because in the end, Astarion, you didn’t use yourself for Cazador, or for those unworthy fools you had to seduce. It’s always been for yourself. You used yourself to be free of everyone.”

“Free of everyone,” Astarion echoed quietly. He pulled back and gazed up at Raphael. “Then let me. Let me be my own person.”

Raphael chuckled. “That is the plan.”

“I mean it, Raphael. Let me fight against him on my own.”

Raphael felt his smile slip. “Fight on your own? Now, Astarion, there is no need to be overdramatic-”

“I don’t need you there, Raphael. I don’t want you there.” Astarion took a step back. Raphael’s hands hovered in the air. He tilted his head and tried to understand why Astarion would pick this moment to be an idiot. He slowly let his arms sink to his side and forced the smile to stay on his face.

“Come now, Astarion, do not be foolish. Your master is still too powerful, you can’t just go up against him yourself. You need me to-”

“What point is there in freeing myself if I do so only by the power of another?”

Raphael clicked his tongue impatiently. Right now, Astarion’s habit of talking back was an annoyance rather than an amusement. “You’d really risk everything we’ve worked so hard for, and for what? A moment of self-righteousness? I won’t let you-”

“Won’t let me? This is my final act, not yours. Just for once, I want to play the main part. You’ve already directed my entire journey. All by my own strength? No. Everything I accomplished was through your help. I owe you more than a soul at this point. I owe you everything. I need to do this by myself. Without relying on anyone.” He met Raphael’s gaze with unrelenting determination. “Without relying on you.”

“Astarion, be sensible. Your master is a vampire lord. Your vampire lord. He can easily kill you, and without me-”

“If I die, I die. It’s better than starting yet another life on the whims of some powerful creature. This would not differ at all from how it began with Cazador.”

“I won’t -”

“We didn’t make a contract, Raphael. If you don’t agree to let me do this on my own, I won’t do it at all. And you’ll have no powerful Vampire Ascendant to use,” Astarion said simply.

“Ungrateful!” Raphael had never been interrupted this much in his life. He had never been denied anything to this extent. He had never spent an entire century on such a labour-intensive project. He had never dealt with anyone as brazen, reckless, and aggravating as Astarion.

“I’m not ungrateful. In fact, I couldn’t be more grateful. That you’ve shown me that I can own myself. So let me do this, Raphael. Let me start my new life as my own person.”

Raphael stared at him. “You’re using my own words against me. You’re using the trust I gave you when I didn’t make a contract against me. I could destroy you in an instant, and yet you refuse me.”

Astarion squared his shoulders and raised his head. “I do.”

Raphael nodded slowly. He had no one but himself to blame. Maybe just this once, he shouldn’t have talked so much. Shouldn't have given the little spawn all those grand ideas. “Well, I’m impressed. Proud, even. It shows that I’ve taught you well. Too well, maybe, but that’s on me.”

Astarion looked relieved at that, as if he had actually thought Raphael might destroy him. “I have your blood, do I not? Years of exposure to powerful infernal blood. Doesn’t that constitute having you right there with me?”

Raphael huffed a laugh. “Admittedly, a nice usage of the ‘the power has been inside you all along’ trope. Very well. I agree to not intervene in your battle. But I’m sure you understand that I refuse to let you die, either. Not after what I- we did to get here.”

“Fine. A contract, then. Unless I’m halfway across the threshold of death, you won’t interfere. But how are you going to know that if you’re not there?”

“By trusting you, dear Astarion. You still have the coin I gave you. Then you know what to do.”

When Astarion touched his fingers to his chest, Raphael felt a slight nudge. His eyes fell on the chain around Astarion’s neck, tucked inside his collar. His useless mortal soul resting against Astarion’s unbeating heart. How fitting.

“Do I finally get to sign one of your contracts now?” Astarion asked, a playful smirk on his face that almost managed to hide the tension underneath.

“I just told you I trust you, dear. I also trust that you do want to experience the fruits of your labour, even if they are going to come with the slightly unpleasant aftertaste of sulphur and hellfire.” Raphael sat down on the bed. “So. This will be the last time we see each other like this. Once we part, that is it. The next time we meet, you will be a different Astarion.”

“Oh, don’t be dramatic.” Astarion sat down next to him and adjusted Raphael’s wing behind him so he could lean against it. Raphael curled it around his shoulder, shaping it around Astarion’s form to make him comfortable. “I’ll still be myself. What’s a little bit of power going to change?”

Raphael would have laughed, had the word change not come with such an unpleasant aftertaste. He had seen how power affected people, and he could not control the way it would change Astarion. “We’ll see.”

“Aw, do you worry your little spawn is going to abandon you once he’ll be able to stand on his own two feet?”

 Astarion tapped a finger against the side of Raphael’s neck. “I think this is the right time to admit that the taste of your blood alone is enough for me to come back.” Astarion leaned over until his nose brushed Raphael’s neck.

Raphael forced a smirk. “I knew it.” He tilted his head to give Astarion better access, but Astarion laid a hand on his cheek and turned his face towards him.

“But your plan worked, Raphael. It’s not obligation or force. It’s not even loyalty. It’s just the pleasure of your company that is going to make me come back.” He held Raphael’s gaze as he traced his thumb over his cheekbone. It was barely a kiss when his lips brushed against Raphael’s.

“Thank you, Raphael. For everything.”

“Thank you, pet, for humouring me for a hundred years.”

Chapter Text

Raphael gazed at the scenery below. Although scenery might be a bit generous a term for the rough, cragged landscape stretching out to the horizon. At least Minaurus had some variation, if only in deadly plants, and Dis went as far as to have scenic parts, but Avernus? Avernus was the definition of a hellscape, plunged into chaos and destruction. Befitting of Zariel’s nonexistent sense of style. She would be the first to fall when Raphael’s plans came to fruition, and he would make sure to turn this new domain of his into something slightly more presentable. At least partially return Avernus to its once-magnificent state, maybe build a city shielded from the Blood War’s endless destruction. Or just introduce a new shade to the dreadfully dull colour palette. Of course Avernus wouldn’t remain his only domain; and as soon as he secured Dis, he would move his main seat to the Iron City and keep the House of Hope as a vacation home. After that…well. The other layers of hell would pose more of a challenge and taking them all would be a matter of millennia. But good things mustn’t be rushed, and Raphael was a devil of patience. Before taking on father dearest, he might just conquer some other planes first.

He sighed and pushed himself away from the railing of the balcony. He couldn’t imagine confining himself to a single plane, even less one single place. He needed variety, the excitement that came with the unfamiliar. His attention never lingered for too long, his ambitions ever growing, interests ever changing. He absentmindedly placed a hand in the middle of his chest, pressing his fingers over the point where his mortal soul had once been. That useless, faulty thing he had ripped out and contained in a small coin. The symbol of everything that flawed him. He wondered sometimes, why he’d been allowed to exist, and what had caused his existence in the first place. Knowing his father, it must have been curiosity. And now it was too late to get rid of him. Raphael felt grim satisfaction at the knowledge that his father was unable to kill him, and even more at the thought of replacing him.

And maybe that was why he was so invested in Astarion’s fate. Because what Raphael longed for, Astarion was about to achieve. At least if everything went according to plan. Because despite their precautions, there remained a chance that Cazador might kill him. A single heartbeat, a moment of hesitation was all it would take. All because the foolish little spawn had insisted on fighting his master on his own, while Raphael could only make sure he was at least prepared well. Raphael focussed on his soul, but he felt nothing. No cold fingers around the warm metal.

For the past three tendays, he had fed Astarion so much of his blood that even someone like Raphael – though unadmittedly so – felt the strain of it. After the second tenday, he had to make use of the soul pillars. Should even one of his many adversaries catch so much as a whisper of Raphael’s current state, he wouldn’t need to make any further plans at all because he would be fucking dead.

It was all highly irritating, most of all the fact that it wasn’t his own continued existence that worried him most. Raphael ground his teeth and shoved the thought away before it could find purchase. Back inside the lounge, he opened the display case holding his most prized wine. Made from rare saltgrapes harvested in the ice swamps of Stygia, he had procured some 700 years back when he had helped an erinyes stranded on the Prime. He looked at the bottle crafted from thick, unmelting ice and unsealed it without thinking. Rich, sweet smell drifted in the air.

“You better prepare your finest wine when I return,” Astarion called over his shoulder as he walked out of the door. “But don’t start without me.”

Raphael clicked his tongue, glared at the bottle and resealed it with an annoyed snap of his fingers. Fucking hells. He placed it on the table – a piece of ice splintered off – together with two glasses, then sat down in his armchair and waited, one hand on his chest, wondering if he’d missed Astarion’s call. He only noticed how hard he’d pressed down when his claws broke skin, as if it was more likely to feel the tug on his soul when he touched the very spot it had once sat.

Raphael had long since stopped counting years. Which ones was he supposed to count, anyway? The fast ones of the material plane or the creeping ones of the hells? Maybe the erratic feywild-years or the neverending one on the astral plane? As an interplanar creature, time and age hardly mattered to him. What did matter was how the time was used. And so Raphael found nothing more excruciating than waiting. Which he usually didn’t need to do. People knew what happened if they let him wait. He got up and didn’t know why. Sat down again. It had been three hours on the material plane.

Raphael stood up again, determined to do something at least slightly productive, when he felt it. Fingers around his coin. Soothing cold where his soul used to be. His name whispered. Weak, but not fleeting. Relieved. Raphael closed his eyes. There was a strange emotion overcoming him that he couldn’t place. Didn’t need to place if he focussed on the sense of pure satisfaction that made his lips curl in an honest smile. He breathed in, sulfur and hellfire, let out a small laugh and followed the beckoning of that useless mortal soul of his. 

He emerged in what looked like a standard crypt described in any poor work of vampire fiction, but didn’t grant it more than a passing glance. Astarion was laying face-first on the ground, hand next to his mouth, the coin almost touching his lips. Raphael still felt the cool of his fingers like a caress against his skin, calming him even as he saw the blood pooled around him. He knew Astarion was alive. Most of the blood oozed from the body next to him, positively ripped to shreds. Both arms were missing and it looked like a hell hound had torn into its gut. The throat was bloody and missing a significant chunk. The face, though distorted in pain, was still recognisable.

Raphael slowly walked over and glanced down at him, allowing his smile to take on a cruel edge. Cazador Szarr, his father’s hunting dog, stared back, eyes widening in disbelief. He opened his mouth, but no sound escaped. Raphael pushed the mangled body to the side with a foot and knelt down next to Astarion. His little spawn was shaking when Raphael carefully turned him around and pulled him close, allowing him to lean against his chest. He looked glorious. Face splattered in blood, hair matted with it, even more smeared across his mouth in a way that made it easy to guess what had happened to Cazador’s throat. His eyes were hooded and tired as he gazed up at Raphael. In his closed fist, he clutched the coin tightly.

“It’s over,” he whispered, and it sounded like a question. 

“It is. You freed yourself, Astarion.”

Astarion’s eyes widened as if he only just realised the reality of the situation. That Raphael wasn’t making fun of him. That he was free. Raphael wrapped an arm around his shoulders and pulled him in, let his head rest on his shoulder. Astarion’s nose brushed Raphael’s neck, but instead of the sharp sting of fangs, Raphael only felt soft lips and shaky breaths against his skin. Astarion was crying, and usually Raphael detested the weakness of tears or revelled in their pain, but now he felt…nothing. He gently carded his fingers through Astarion’s hair and left him a moment while Raphael glanced up and surveyed the room. As expected – and hoped – the corpses of Astarion’s siblings lay strewn about on the ground in various states of mutilation. Three, four…Raphael paused. The body of a young woman, albeit heavily wounded, was still showing signs of life. Her head was turned towards them, staring in mute shock as Raphael held Astarion in his arms.

He smiled at her and raised a finger to his lips. Then he slowly reached out with that finger and pointed at her. At the liability. Best to eliminate potential risks before they could turn into actual ones. She shook her head, her expression desperate, mouth opening to beg or plead or call out to her brother, but it was too late. Raphael would not leave any contender alive. He granted her a quick death, as quiet as her insignificant existence, before he turned back to his spawn.

“Feed, Astarion. I need you strong for what’s to come. And you want to savour your Master’s end, hm?”

Astarion’s reaction was delayed, his movements sluggish as he raised his arm and laid a hand on Raphael’s neck to steady himself. It took him two attempts to pierce skin, the first was more of an open mouthed kiss that had Raphael smile at its clumsiness.

As Astarion drank, he noticeably regained strength. He managed to hold up his own weight, his grip on Raphael tightened, his mouth grew more insistent. In the end, this was the first time where Raphael had to stop him. Astarion was breathing heavily and his eyes bore into Raphael’s as if he needed something to anchor him. Raphael gently laid a hand against his cheek and turned his head to the disfigured body of his former master. If Astarion needed something to hold on to, it should be his own victory. Slowly, Raphael stood and pulled Astarion up with him. Cazador turned his head in their direction and his face distorted into a snarl.

“And thus the circle perpetuates,” he pressed out.

Astarion pushed himself away from Raphael and staggered forward. He stared down at his tormentor, bloody and broken and soon nothing but an unpleasant shadow fading under the rising sun.

“I can only hope that the spawn that’s going to kill you will be more worthy than-”

He made a gurgling, pathetic sound when Astarion jammed his foot on his torn throat. “I was forced to listen to your bullshit for a hundred years. Enough.”

Raphael stepped next to him with the warmest smile he could muster and laid an arm around his shoulder. His expression turned to pity as he looked down at Cazador. “Should have chosen another devil to make a deal with. Seven thousand souls? Hysterical. A single one is enough. You’ll see.”

He snapped his fingers and manifested an intricately crafted dagger, its blade made from infernal iron filigree that branched out into several barbs and ended in a long, thin tip. “In order to make use of him, you need to mark him…like he marked you.” He took a step back and offered it to Astarion with a small bow.

Astarion reached for it, his fingers brushing Raphael’s and lingering for a moment. Then he grasped the handle and weighed it in his hand. With a flourish, Raphael rose Cazador from the ground and made him hover with his back to Astarion.

“You are going to regret making a deal with a devil, you ungrateful little rat,” Cazador spat.

“A deal? Oh, we didn’t make a deal,” Raphael said smugly and leaned in closer. Cazador’s eyes flickered frantically and he tried to move his head away, but the magic constraints held him in place. Raphael dropped his voice. “I’m helping Astarion because I hate seeing potential wasted. And having someone like you become the Vampire Ascendant would be insulting.” He smiled and walked around Cazador to Astarion’s side. Astarion’s eyes were trained on Cazador’s back, pale and smooth and waiting to be marked.

“Savour this moment, Astarion,” Raphael said and snapped his fingers. An illusion of Astarion’s scar, made of flame and sparks, flickered to life next to the canvas it was about to be carved upon. Raphael had made the necessary changes to the infernal runes to adapt to the changed circumstances. Astarion’s knuckles turned white when his fingers tightened around the dagger. He licked his lips and raised his hand. Raphael resisted the urge to curl his own fingers around it, to help Astarion carve out his freedom. He knew the little spawn would not appreciate it, needed to claim freedom all by himself. Cazador screamed when Astarion dug the blade into his back, much deeper than necessary. The first stroke was a long slash down the spine and Astarion made sure to scrape along bone as he went. Raphael followed the motion with his eyes, then glanced at Astarion’s face, and paused. Astarion’s eyes were wide, his fang dug into his lower lip and a droplet of blood pearled down his chin. When he reached Cazador’s lower back, he twisted the dagger, turning it once, twice, before pulling it out. He let out a shaky exhale and his eyes flickered to the template before he started on the runes. It was far from artistic, but Astarion was no Bhaalist seeking aesthetics in blood. He only wanted to inflict as much pain as possible. His intense focus had made way for a small smile that widened with each scream of pain. His arm trembled with elation and strain, and Raphael couldn’t help himself. He stepped behind the spawn and rested one hand on his waist while he raised the other to lightly cup Astarion’s elbow. He leaned over the spawn’s shoulder, lips close to his ear, and murmured: “Careful. Don’t slip.” Astarion shuddered and for a heartbeat, his hand paused. Raphael traced a claw down his arm to his wrist. “Almost done.” He felt the tendons tense under his fingertips when Astarion resumed his work. Raphael turned his head slightly to watch his expression, mesmerised by the raw beauty of it. When the last rune was carved, the dagger clattered to the ground and Astarion slumped against Raphael’s chest. Raphael grasped the hand that had held the dagger.

“Very good, Astarion. But we’re not done yet.”

With a swiping motion, he made Cazador fly to the two pillars in front of which the ritual circle was drawn. He gently led Astarion over. “There is one thing left for you to do.” Cazador’s staff lay on the ground and Raphael knelt down to pick it up. He balanced it on both palms, then offered it to Astarion. He gazed down at Raphael, then grasped the cold metal. Raphael stood and took a step back.

“This is your moment, Astarion. Your end and your beginning.”

Astarion slowly walked into the middle of the circle. His eyes were focussed on Cazador above him.

“How does it feel?” he asked, voice echoing in the large crypt. “To be undone by your own creation?”

Cazador stared down at him, hatred and pain distorting his features.

“My only regret…” Astarion ran his fingers over the staff, “...is that I have to kill you for this. Is that I cannot keep you alive for eternity. Down in a basement. And slowly, over centuries and millennia, forget about you as you wither and rot.”

Cazador opened his mouth to reply. The word turned into a scream when Astarion rammed the staff into the middle of the ritual circle. Red light flashed, bright and turning brighter still, swallowing Astarion, breaching the edges of the circle, and finally reaching Cazador. When it died down, as suddenly as it had emerged, there was a pile of ash between the pillars. And in the middle of the circle Astarion, leaning heavily on the staff.

“How are you feeling?” Raphael asked.

Slowly, Astarion raised his head, gleaming red eyes finding Raphael’s. His lips split into a fanged grin and a low laugh bubbled up from his throat.

“Darling, I’m feeling glorious.”

-

“I hope this humble home is worthy of the Vampire Ascendant,” Raphael said with an amused little smile when they arrived in the House of Hope. Whether the ascension had let Astarion grow or it merely appeared as such because he held his head so high, Raphael didn’t know. But it was more than obvious that his bearing had changed, with the newly gained power inside of him all but oozing out.

Astarion glanced at him with a raised brow and smirked. “For now. As soon as the sun rises over Faerûn, I’m afraid I’m going to have to excuse myself.”

“Then I’ll consider myself lucky that there is still a little time left for you to grace me with your company.” Raphael reached for the icy bottle on the table to unseal it once more, this time with actual intent. “You demanded my finest wine. There is nothing more extravagant than saltgrapes from the fifth layer of Baator.”

Astarion sat down, stretched languidly and glanced up at Raphael expectantly. He huffed a laugh and deigned to humour his little- well. Humour the Vampire Ascendant lounging on his chaise. Deservedly so, after what he’d been through. His clothes were still bloody, and of course Raphael could have offered him to get changed, but he ever so enjoyed seeing Astarion splattered with blood. He filled up a glass and offered it to Astarion, who smelled it and nodded approvingly. Raphael took the seat next to Astarion with his own glass.

“To leaving behind a dark past in favour of a bright future. To becoming your own person. To you, dearest Astarion,” he said indulgently.

“To me, indeed.” Astarion clinked their glasses. The Stygian wine was magnificent. A full-bodied, intense flavour, sweetness that was only enhanced by the salt, so luscious certain mortals would kill for it. But Raphael enjoyed it much more to observe Astarion have his first taste of something that was not blood in a hundred years. He scrunched up his nose at first, then tried again and hummed appreciatively.

“Oh. Not bad. Not bad at all.”

“Only the best for–” he barely caught himself, “the newly risen Vampire Ascendant.”

“The best you have to offer. Who knows what indulgences await me on the mortal plane,” Astarion said and placed the glass on the table, then crossed his legs. “Speaking of which. It’s over, darling, isn’t it? The ritual is done, Cazador is dead, and I’m free - at least of him.”

Raphael raised an eyebrow at the sudden attitude. It was almost endearing, the little bout of arrogance. What’s a little bit of power going to change? What indeed, little Ascendant? “You are, indeed,” he said because he was nothing if not indulgent when it came to Astarion.

“Don’t you think it’s time you finally come clean about what you’ve got planned for me? I’m simply dying to know the final task I have to do in service of someone else. Because, you see, I could really use some much-needed time to myself.”

“Are you saying you want to get rid of me as fast as possible after I did so much for you? You wound me, pet,” Raphael said dramatically.

Astarion’s eyebrow twitched. “Not much of a pet anymore, am I?”

“Of course not. My mistake,” he allowed. “Well, since we’re celebrating such a joyous occasion, we might as well share stories of the past. Let me tell you of the time I humoured a little vampire spawn hunting for prey in a run-down tavern.” A little reminder of the past. Just to make sure he didn’t forget where he came from.

Astarion’s smirk slipped slightly. “Sounds ever so interesting. And why did you decide to humour him?”

“For an entirely selfish reason, as we devils are wont to. Later on, however, it became apparent that our goals were more tightly interwoven than expected. He wanted to free his soul from Mephistopheles and I, coincidentally, wanted something of that archdevil’s myself.”

Astarion placed an elbow on the backrest and leaned over, giving Raphael a calculating look. “And said in just slightly less vague words that means-?”

Raphael leaned over as well, meeting Astarion’s gaze. “That I planned for him to break into the Citadel of Mephistar and procure something for me.” Raphael let the words sink in for a bit until he decided to give voice to that damned thought that had been plaguing him for a while now. Sending Astarion to Cania had been the plan, sure, and even though it had not failed per se, it had changed to an extent that failure was but a shift in perspective away. Because what used to be his goal had become something Raphael would rather avoid. The mere thought of sending Astarion to the icy hell of Cania left a bitter aftertaste. But before he could speak, Astarion laughed and leaned back.

“That’s a pretty steep demand, considering you told me it was nothing to worry about. I do see why you would need a powerful ally for that. I assume it’s not easy to steal from an archdevil. Impossible for a little spawn.”

Raphael chuckled and continued this little game of theirs. There was always time for admissions later. “Absolutely. But I saw infinite potential in that particular little spawn, only waiting for someone to pull it to the surface. Which is what I did. And it turned out I was right.” Raphael reached out and brushed a strand of hair from Astarion’s forehead, careful as to not hurt him with his claw. He turned serious. “I never had any doubt you would best that benefactor of yours.”

“One of my benefactors,” Astarion said smoothly and tilted his head away from Raphael’s hand. There was something strange about his smile. It wasn’t just the arrogance. Astarion reached for the glass to take another sip. “An unusual taste, but easy to get used to. Even more so knowing that I can choose this now. It’s ever so nice to not have to rely on anyone’s blood.”

The more Astarion spoke, the more Raphael noted the discrepancy. What can a little bit of power do?

“Why the whole drama, then?” Astarion asked casually as he regarded the glass and emptied it, then returned it to the table. When he glanced at Raphael his expression was derisive. “All that talk of loyalty, of gratefulness. You could have just made me sign a contract and gotten it over with.”

It was a temporary condition, surely. Let him revel in that newfound power, flaunt it to his unbeating heart’s desire, and he would eventually grow used to it. Indulge him. He worked hard for this. Raphael took a deep breath.

“I could have gotten it over with. But I told you, my once-little spawn, I know loyalty created by a contract, how brittle it can be when it’s forced like that. And archdevils are known to be capable of quite tempting counter offers. So it’s safer to send someone whose loyalty comes from…personal conviction.” It was an ill-fitting word, but the alternative would have sounded worse.

“Conviction.” Astarion nodded slowly. He idly slipped a hand into his pocket and Raphael felt it in his chest, a finger tapping his soul as if contemplating something. Gradually, Astarion’s smile turned crooked and there was a coldness in his eyes Raphael was more used to from other devils. “Tempting counter offers, you say? Well,” he chuckled, “Mephistopheles does seem marginally more powerful than you. You know, considering he’s the archduke of the eighth hell and you’re…well, a cambion. Say, is that comparable to a vampire and a spawn?”

Raphael stilled. His eyes flickered to the empty glass and he considered whether it had been enough to make Astarion drunk after a hundred years of abstinence or whether the ritual had taken part of his sanity.

Astarion didn’t notice the shift in atmosphere or simply ignored it. His fingers were pressing down on the coin. “But considering you want to send me to him anyway, maybe I should listen to one of those offers. Having archdevil Mephistopheles as a benefactor does sound promising?”

An image flashed before Raphael’s eyes, of Astarion perched next to his father on Cania’s melting throne. He only realised that he had moved when Astarion gasped as a claw closed around his throat. “Don’t overreach, pet.”

Astarion coughed out a laugh. “It was a fucking joke, Raphael, why would I accept yet another thing to control me? But clearly I hit a sore spot, hm?”

Raphael felt the kind of sudden, uncontrolled rage he thought he had gotten rid of. “A joke, was it? And is it a desperate need to prove yourself, Astarion, that caused this arrogant vainglory? It merely proves your insecurity. Remember, I made you what you are. I can easily take it away again.”

“And there it is,” Astarion hissed. “All your grand talk about turning me into my own person, when in reality you only freed me of Cazador because you want to possess me yourself.” With strength Raphael hadn’t expected, Astarion shoved his hand away, uncaring of the gashes the claws left in his throat.

Raphael flexed his fingers. “You’re quite full of yourself, vampire. What, a bit of power and you want to go up against me? Me? You should consider yourself lucky I still deem you worthy of my attention, little spawn.”

Astarion jumped up, eyes blazing. “Lucky? Your attention is nothing but another slaver’s leash. No matter how powerful I get, how much I change, you will always treat me like your little spawn. Your fucking pet. You will never see me as a person. You’re exactly like Cazador.”

Raphael stood. Slowly, measuredly. He towered over Astarion, no matter how high the Vampire Ascendant held his head. “Am I, now? And think very carefully about what you say next, Astarion. Am I like the man who took out his every whim on you? Who tortured you, used you, made you seduce all those people for him? Did I ever enrich myself with you?”

“Spare me the pathetic manipulations, Raphael. You wanted to turn me into your devout puppet and send me into the eighth layer of hell. But you miscalculated. You didn’t consider that I might not play along with your script.” Astarion gazed up at him, without any hint left of the man who had softly kissed Raphael mere days before. “You want my loyalty? Fuck you.”

This was so against everything he had expected that Raphael was briefly rendered speechless.

Astarion’s voice remained even, void of any emotion. “You were too sure of yourself, Raphael. Too arrogant to make a contract. And now you have to live with the consequences. I won’t tell Mephistopheles of your plan against him. But I sure as hells won’t do anything you ask of me. You wanted to turn me into my own person. Congratulations. You’ve succeeded.”

“I see. You think you don’t need me anymore?”

“There’s nothing more you can offer me. I’m a Vampire Ascendant, darling. I can do whatever the hells I please.”

“You dare.” Raphael’s voice shook with anger. The air around him flickered with heat. His wings flexed open with tension. “I will show you what a devil can do. It would take little more than a snap of my fingers to destroy you.”

“What are you waiting for then?” Astarion stared at Raphael’s hand. It had been a reflex more than intent to raise it, fingers pressed against each other. “Do it. You have no further use for me. So get rid of me.”

Raphael’s rage froze over. His arm fell back to his side. “That is how you see me. After a hundred years.”

Astarion snarled. “You don’t-”

“Get out of my sight.” He snapped his fingers, and Astarion flinched. Raphael let out a humourless laugh. A portal to the Gate appeared between them. He turned around. A failed plan. That was all Astarion was now. There was silence. A tight fist around his soul. Then the sound of a portal being used. Raphael closed his eyes. A failed plan. It happened to the best. It was a pity about the hundred years of work, but what were a hundred years for an eternal creature? He closed the portal. It was a pity about the effort, but it wasn’t the first time he’d wasted some. He took the bottle of wine and looked at it unseeingly. It was a pity about what could have been. But in the end, Raphael didn’t need loyalty, even less so companionship. The bottle shattered when he threw it against the wall, spilling blood red liquid over the tiles.

Chapter Text

Eleasis 1369 - 1 year later

The Grinning Lion was among the best places in Waterdeep for collecting souls. Foolish noble sons and daughters, using the tavern as a place to practise rebelliousness without putting themselves in harm’s way. Growing up nice and sheltered, their naivety knew no bounds and they were happy to believe every fabricated truth if it suited their purpose.

You’ll live your whole life in splendour. And what do you need a soul for in death, anyway, when your consciousness is long gone?

What matters is the here and now. It is the weak and cowardly that condemn us devils, because they can only wish for the courage to strike a deal with us.

Goading, luring, promising, it was easy figuring out which approach to choose to ensure that the evening ended with a name on a paper and a soul forfeit. Raphael had always disregarded Waterdeep as more reputable than other cities, but with each day spent there, he learned that it was just as depraved as the rest. It was so rich in willing souls, in fact, that he soon had to construct a third soul pillar for storage. So rich that contracts lost their lustre and Raphael barely bothered with creative paragraphs. He also didn't bother with fashioning puppets from his spoils, lately finding them more annoying than amusing. The House of Hope was quieter these days, without the bumbling souls, without Haarlep, and without-

“Uhm, Lord Raphael?”

“Yes, Korrilla, I am listening. Do you need me to give verbal cues, or will you trust in my ability to listen without maintaining eye contact?”

“Apologies.” Korrilla said, somewhat exasperatedly. “You seemed absent.”

“I was not,” he replied. “So, Belhifet has been defeated? That’s bound to make him insufferable for at least a decade. A pity, he was quite the entertaining conversationalist.” Since the Prime was starting to bore him, Raphael was spending more time in Avernus to see which devils were potential allies against Zariel. Belhifet was a promising candidate, refined cruelty and manipulative cunning that made him almost pleasant company. His full-devil status allowed him more elaborate schemes, and his recent one had Raphael pay regular visits to his Basalt Tower to observe his progress. It came as no surprise at all that the plan to flood the Prime with demonic armies had been thwarted – heroes were simply too numerous here.

“Oh, uhm, I- I mean, he was defeated in Avernus.”

Raphael paused. “Belhifet is dead?”

“Yes. Vanquished by the very aasimar he sought to control.” Korrilla glanced cautiously at Raphael as if she expected some kind of angry outburst, but he merely laughed humorlessly. Another pastime gone. They were dropping like imps.

“I won’t pretend to be surprised. Belhifet was always rather arrogant. Underestimating lesser beings came easy to him.” Raphael took his wine goblet, only to realise it was empty. He clicked his tongue and immediately a tavern keep came running to refill it, muttering apologies.

“Argent is trapped in Avernus now. My people spotted her some ways away from Basalt Tower. Maybe she would make for an interesting little project?” Korrilla tried for a businesslike tone, but the uncertainty in her eyes betrayed her. She was worried he’d get angry. It was that which sparked Raphael’s irritation, a flame against his constantly smouldering temper. He reigned it in, forcing disinterest into his voice.

“Oh, most definitely not. People of her disposition are an imposition. You saw what happened to poor Belhifet. Those paladins can never truly be cured of their holier-than-thou attitude. And don’t you think I’ve been betrayed enough for the next few centuries?” Korrilla choked on air and stared at Raphael in shock. She’d been carefully circumventing the topic, thereby drawing even more attention to it, and he was getting damned sick of it. “Yes, Korrilla. Astarion. The little vampire spawn turned mighty Vampire Ascendant. The one who made use of my gracious help only to discard me afterwards. The very one you’ve been keeping an eye on despite me never giving such an order.”

Korrilla’s cheeks reddened. “I-”

“Tell me what he has been up to.” Raphael said and swirled his goblet. The candlelight caught on the liquid inside the glass and painted shifting red patterns onto the tabletop. They were reminiscent of red lines of magic, flowing into the middle of the ritual circle…Raphael scoffed. “And after this, stop wasting your, and by proxy also my, time on him. We’ve got much more important things to take care of.”

“Yes, Lord Raphael, of course. Astarion, he’s doing… he’s not doing too well, merely-”

Raphael’s temper flared. “The truth, Korrilla. I won’t say it again.”

She shifted uncomfortably and stared at the table. “He’s doing okay. Growing his syndicate, expanding to other regions. He’s made it into the Underdark recently. Even established contact with an agent from Menzoberranzan. So…yes. Doing okay.”

The wine slosh around in Raphael’s goblet, little bubbles rising to the surface. “How very nice for him. And his position in the city?”

“He resides in the Szarr-palace. Well, the Ancunín-palace now, I suppose. He’s…respected. Has gained some influence through the Silv– with his allies backing him.” She spoke faster as she went and kept her eyes firmly on the table. 

“Which allies?” Raphael asked casually, fingers tightening around the glass.

Korrilla swallowed heavily, her shoulders tensing. “Through her deal with you, Erianne Silvershield took her brother’s place in the Council of Four, and she has declared Astarion…has declared him her…her precious protégé.” Her eyes widened in fear when she glanced up.

The goblet in Raphael’s hand was slowly melting, spilling liquid glass and boiling alcohol over his fingers and onto the table. “As I said. Stop wasting time on people who are of no use to me whatsoever,” he said calmly.

“Understood.”

Raphael brushed the molten glass from his hand. It immediately cooled down and clattered to the table in a mangled, shapeless glob. In truth, Raphael didn’t care about what Astarion did or didn’t do. A pet that bit the hand that fed it and ran away was hardly worth a second thought.

“Does the Gate still have its ever-present Bhaalspawn problem?” He asked.

“There was a bit of drama last year after Sarevok Anchev’s death. His daughter, well, granddaughter, well, both-”

“Korrilla. How often do I need to say that I don’t give a fuck about unnecessary details?”

“Apologies, Lord Raphael,” Korrilla turned a little more businesslike when she realised Raphael was about to give her a task. “Yes, the cult of Bhaal is still active under a changed leadership.”

“You have agents among them?”

“I have five people currently acting as initiates, though two of them- I mean. Yes, Lord Raphael.”

Raphael nodded slowly. “Lady Silvershield seems like an appropriate offering to the Lord of Murder, don’t you think?”

Korrilla stared at him, shocked. Her mouth opened and, depending on what would come out, Raphael might have her join her sister in the dungeon for a while. Then she cleared her throat. “Of course. It shall be done, Lord Raphael.”

Uktar 1370. Boredom. The disease of the eternal. Raphael felt it spread through his body, weighing down his mind. Time blended together. There was no significance in days, months. Since he’d shifted his focus from the Gate to Waterdeep, he’d felt it even more pronounced than before. No matter how many souls he collected, none could sate his appetite. The City of Splendours was dull, its populace like a mass of puppets without even a hint of intrigue. No matter. There were plenty of cities on the Prime. Tarsakh 1371. Lush gardens and bountiful harvests. It would have been much more fitting to call it Eversummer. The mere mention of winter in its name made Raphael connect it to coldness and snow. He disliked the discrepancy between his connotation and the city’s reality. Neverwinter was not a pleasant city. Great at keeping up its shining appearance, but dull under the surface. The Prime had lost all lustre. He should be focussing on the Hells.

Flamerule…

Nightal…

… …

Eleasis 1372

“Cania is completely sealed. No one gets in or out.” Korrilla’s voice was eager when she manifested in his office, waving around a scroll. Raphael glanced up from the letter he was formulating regarding an alliance with a certain devil.

Korrilla had been subdued these past months, ever since Raphael stopped going to the Prime. Their communications went mostly through messages and she’d become a rare presence in the House of Hope. For a moment, Raphael frowned at her unexplained excitement, then realised what exactly she was talking about. He carefully put down the quill, took time to fully appreciate the implications of her words, then laughed uproariously. For the first time in years, his mood brightened. He leaned back in his chair and waved her over. A smile spread over her face when she passed him the scroll.

“Oh, that is grand.” He read the report once more, savouring every word. “Magnificent, even. Thousands of souls, countless artefacts in his possession, and still the Lord of No Mercy gets bound by a mere mortal. What an embarrassment.”

“It gets even better, Lord Raphael,” Korrilla said, smiling. “The drow is using him. With Mephistopheles’ powers, she already conquered large parts of the underdark, and my agents report that she is now setting her eyes on Waterdeep.”

Raphael smirked. “He must be furious. The knowledge and magic he hoarded for millennia, now used in service of a drow. I would give ten thousand souls to see it.”

He conjured up a bottle of wine and two glasses. For but a moment the image of ice shattering against tiles and spilling liquid over the floor flashed through his mind. He pushed it down. He was in too good a mood for this. After generously filling the glasses, he leaned forward to pass one to Korrilla, then paused mid-motion. There was a sudden strange coldness in his chest, something tight and uncomfortable. He exhaled, but the pressure didn’t lessen.

“Lord Raphael?”

Raphael blinked. It was nothing. A phantom sensation conjured up by the memory of that damned evening. Slowly, the feeling faded.

“Merely savouring the moment,” he smirked and passed Korrilla the glass. She gave him a probing look, but smartly didn’t pry.

“Then…should we go to Waterdeep and aid the drow’s efforts?”

Raphael raised an eyebrow at her. “Oh, no, absolutely not. As delighted I am about my dear father’s enslavement, I’m equally devastated by the fact that it is merely temporary. He’ll find a way out of her shackles soon enough. And I do not want to draw the old man’s attention.”

Korrilla looked slightly regretful, and Raphael appreciated that she had adopted his loathing of Mephistopheles. “Of course. Well, then I will make sure to station enough of my people in Waterdeep to not miss a single scene. If you can’t see the play, you can at least read the script.”

“And that’s why you’re my favourite, Korrilla,” Raphael said indulgently. This was the exact kind of event he had been waiting for. Something to occupy him. To drive away the boredom.

“But you do intend to profit from this somehow, no?”

“Of course I do, dear.” He snapped his fingers and cleared the parchment before him from the text. Then he picked up his quill and let it hover over the blank paper. “The Lord of No Mercy, the Archduke of Cania, the great Mephistopheles, has been subdued by a mere mortal. I think this is something as many devils as possible need to learn.”

Nightal 1373

What had been bound to happen, happened. Valsharess, the drow to bind the Lord of the Eighth, tragically perished, effectively letting an angry archdevil loose on Toril. It was disappointing, but fortunately Raphael’s annoyance didn’t last too long, for his father’s freedom didn’t either. Mephistopheles hadn’t even managed to destroy Waterdeep before yet another mortal showed up and banished him back to Cania. If nothing else, his father’s reputation and pride had suffered a significant blow.

It was the satisfaction about this easy win that led him back to the Gate. Why not indulge in mortal foolishness once more, after spending years on nothing but work? Why not revisit the Gate, which had always been his city and would remain that way, always.

It hadn’t changed much, of course it hadn’t – five years was a short span of time even by mortal standards. Raphael didn’t bother with the Lower City and its dirty, run-down taverns, and emerged in the Upper City instead. It was late afternoon and lit windows illuminated the snow-covered streets. Noble lords and ladies in fashionable winter coats meandered, while the establishments prepared for the evening rush. He passed by the Helm and Cloak, already entertaining patrons, and only paused briefly before walking on. He was in the mood for something a little calmer tonight, to raise a glass to his father’s peril while listening in on idle mortal banalities. The Three Old Kegs, despite its rustic name, provided comfort just this side of lavish and housed a more relaxed clientele. Raphael chose a table in the middle of the room that offered conversation on all sides, and settled with wine and spiced stew. Mortal food might be unimpressive and bland, but tonight it served its purpose of immersion. Because tonight, Raphael had no purpose. He would take everything as it came; allow himself a rare moment of peace of mind. And should opportunity present itself…well.

A couple of Fists sat in one corner, their talk about a recent murder case quickly devolving into a discussion about the viability of bribery. Two wizards contemplated the recently constructed Tower of Ramazith and if it should be open for visitors. A group of young nobles debated whether or not it was shameful to not be invited to some current party. Raphael listened to the lull of their voices without really paying any attention to any one in particular. That was until a certain name fell.

“-why she was invited and I was not. Not because of her standing, that’s for sure. She was already insufferable beforehand ‘Ooh, I can’t wait to finally see the Ancunín-Estate from the inside!’. She’s going to be a nightmare afterwards.”

Raphael glanced at the girl who had spoken. Nondescript, like her two compatriots. Faces to see and forget. The boy was quick to agree with her.

“I bet she’s going to make up a story about how Lord Ancunín danced with her or some other nonsense.”

“Sure,” the girl scoffed, then pitched her voice. “The innocent young maiden who melts the lord’s cold heart! Pah. She’s been reading too many stupid copper novels.”

“I don’t think maiden is the right word,” the other girl snickered. “But yeah, he can have anyone. Probably has anyone. Verica won’t even merit a second glance.”

The three giggled. One of them caught Raphael’s eye and choked on her laughter. He was staring into nothingness as he contemplated their words. Subconsciously, he raised a hand to his chest. He couldn’t deny that he felt a tug of curiosity each time coldness spread through his body. Not that he expected it to mean anything; for all he knew, the great Vampire Ascendant had tossed this soul into a pond and it had gotten eaten by a fish. Which was preferable, actually. But that Lord Astarion Ancunín was hosting a party on the very evening Raphael had decided to pay the Gate a visit once again almost seemed like… an opportunity.

-

“Invitation,” demanded the elven woman in front of the tall gate. Light poured from the windows on either side, beckoning with its warmth, while voices and laughter promised company and a good time for those deemed worthy enough to enter.

Raphael smiled at the woman. “I don’t think that Lord Ancunín’s oldest friend and benefactor needs an invitation, do you?”

She looked at him dismissively – clearly he wasn’t her first difficult encounter tonight – then blinked and her cold expression turned friendly. “But of course not! Please enter, I am sure the Lord will be elated to see you.”

“Oh, I really don’t think so,” Raphael chuckled. “But we shall see.”

“Yes, yes, we shall,” she said and stepped to the side with a bow. Mortals and their nonexistent resistance to even the simplest little tricks of infernal magic never failed to amuse him.

The palace had gone through many a lord and lady. Raphael had been here during Donnela’s reign, when it had been all pomp and splendour. With Vellioth, the interior had veered towards the minimalist; sparse decorations and plain furniture designed for use rather than appearance. After Cazador’s takeover Raphael had lost all interest in the palace, but from the man’s general disposition he would bet on the stereotypically drab crypt-aesthetics.

Astarion shared Donnela’s preference of an interior design befitting his status. Large, bejewelled chandeliers illuminated red carpets with golden linings, warm wooden panelling ran along the walls and beautiful artwork of landscapes hung evenly spaced above it. The people mingling in the entrance hall matched the surroundings; lavish garments rustled while jewellery competed for the title of most distastefully expensive. Raphael felt almost underdressed in his dark red and black get-up, but what his clothes lacked, his bearing more than made up for. He clasped his hands behind his back and meandered through the guests. Some he recognised; the same old aristocracy that had been around for decades. But there were unfamiliar faces, too, young nobility Raphael couldn’t place. Maybe Astarion had groomed himself some influential supporters. He’d been a rather good judge of people’s usefulness.

“Apologies, Sir, that door leads to Lord Ancunín’s private quarters,” said an attendant politely when Raphael casually approached a door that was very obviously not for trespassing. “This way to the ballroom.”

Raphael could have charmed him as well, but Astarion’s bedroom was of no real interest to him, so he smiled and honoured the attendant by following his directions. The wide corridor leading to the ballroom was bright and comfortable, with couches and chaises offering a space for those looking for calm conversation rather than merry celebration. Raphael spied a familiar youth - well, what had been a youth seven years ago when he’d struck a deal. Now he had progressed into adulthood and fitted himself into the dull template of the everyday noble. Raphael smiled at him, eliciting a wide-eyed stare. It transitioned to a frown when the man started to doubt his memory.

The ballroom was glorious. High ceilings supported by ornate pillars, a marble floor, tall windows bracketed by red velvet curtains, balconies overlooking the expanse of the room. At the far end of the hall was a dais. Behind a long table laden with food and drink stood lavish chairs. In their very middle towered an opulent throne.

Raphael had certain expectations of what Astarion would be like after those five years. His would be an air of lofty allure, the barely-there smile hinting at something everyone craved but no one could possess. He would sit with all the regality of a king, confident and unwavering. He had always known how to present himself, and surely the Vampire Ascendant would present nothing but all-consuming power no one dared to question. A blazing inferno, as deadly as it was tantalising, that no one dared to get too close to.

But what he saw was a far cry from those expectations.

He saw not a person, but a statue. A beautiful face carved in ivory, with rubies for eyes and framed by pale marble hair, dressed in black-golden finery. The smile on his face had been chiselled by a sculptor who had studied emotions but never experienced them. His red eyes were vacant and seemed to be focussed on nothing at all. He sat on the throne with exaggerated casualness that looked unnatural and stiff. The people on either side of him either didn’t notice or didn’t care as they talked to him with their servile gazes and leaned as close as they dared. Every now and then he replied, but his expression remained vacuous.

It was such a contradiction to the image in Raphael’s mind that it stunned him for a moment. Hadn’t the foolish vampling caused such a grand scene back then to prove he was his own person? Then why was there yet another pitiful fabrication sitting up there on that dais?

And then Astarion reached for his chest, half-bared by the loose laces of his shirt, and Raphael felt cold fingers around his soul. His utterly useless mortal soul, weakness resting around Astarion’s neck like an antithesis to everything he wanted to be. A vestige of the past he had claimed he didn’t want anymore, as if he still fucking cared-

Raphael moved before he realised it, parting his way through the sea of guests towards the dais. This was what Astarion had ascended for? This was what he had betrayed Raphael for, what he had destroyed everything they had achieved for?

“Apologies, Sir, no one is allowed past this point without Lord Ancunín’s explicit invitation.” The petite drow regarded Raphael with a stern look when he arrived at the stoop to the side. Raphael’s eyes didn’t move from Astarion.

“Go and tell him, and do not deviate from this wording, the benefactor is here to see his little spawn.”

“Sir, we do not-”

“Now.”

“Of course.”

With a vacant expression, she ascended the stoop. Back bent and head held low, she carefully approached Astarion. For a few moments she was left standing there, waiting. Then Astarion slowly turned to her with detachment written all over him.

She whispered something to him.

The change was astonishing.

Were Raphael in a poetic mood, he might elaborate on his previous metaphor, but he was not in a poetic mood. Astarion was not a statue being given life, he was a fucking Vampire Ascendant being reminded of where he came from. Raphael watched with grim satisfaction how Astarion’s apathy melted into surprise, then was lit up by disbelief and flared with anger. Red eyes looked past the attendant and immediately found Raphael’s. They widened, anger flickering ever so briefly with realisation. The attendant said something else, but Astarion simply pushed her away with his arm and stood up. The others at the table stared at him, one reached out but didn’t dare to touch him, one called something but was left ignored. Astarion moved with fluid grace, the long, blood-red cape he had slung over his right shoulder trailing behind him over the floor. He paused atop the stairs and looked down at Raphael.

“Lord Ancunín.” Raphael said with an insincere bow. “At the risk of rejection, I ask to be granted a private audience.”

Astarion swallowed heavily. Raphael’s eyes dipped to his throat, then to his chest. It was a thin-linked gold chain with a filigree locket that held his coin. 

“Follow me.” Astarion said tonelessly. He was uncomfortable underneath that ivory exterior of his, oh, he could hide himself all he wanted, but Raphael still saw through him, down to the very essence of his soul. Astarion led him to an inconspicuous door next to the dais and Raphael almost regretted that they didn’t have to cross the hall. Behind lay a plain side room with the usual nondescript decorations; vases, paintings, display cases, a statue. That statue stood in the middle, back to Raphael and shoulders tense. Heavy silence settled over them. Raphael waited. Astarion seemed to, as well, but he wasn’t even 200 years old. Time still mattered to him.

“Why are you here, Raphael?”

He didn’t sound like Astarion, challenging and self-assured. He didn’t sound like the mighty Vampire Ascendant, either. His voice was hollow.

“Is that how you greet someone after five years?”

“Someone I have no desire to see, yes.” Astarion turned around, his face blank.

Raphael hummed. “I see. Then why are you here?”

“I know you don’t care much about anything that isn’t yourself, but you must have noticed that this is my palace.” Irritation cracked the ice of his voice, a frown marred the perfect marble of his skin. Beneath the surface of what he had become, Astarion still remained. And there was no one as fitting as Raphael to force him into the sun.

“Let me restress that. Why are you here, Lord Ancunín?” Raphael asked with a small, pleasant smile. “In this room, alone with the devil you have no desire to see, when you could have so easily denied him?” 

Astarion stared at him. Unable to reply. Raphael wondered if he had ever been challenged in this new life of his.

“But of course I don’t want to waste more of your time than necessary. There is only one thing that truly interests me.”

Astarion crossed his arms. “And whatever answer could I offer the all-knowing devil?”

“Whatever happened to you, Astarion?” Raphael asked. No dramatics, no act, a plain question, and maybe it was that which caught Astarion off guard.

There was a moment of hesitation that said more than his pathetic attempt at deflecting. “Darling, you should know very well what happened to me.”

Raphael nodded. He clasped his hands behind his back and slowly walked around Astarion, letting his disguise dissolve in sparks and smoke. “I do. Which is why I can’t help but wonder how becoming the Vampire Ascendant turned you so…pitiful.”

Astarion whirled around and sneered. Not the expression Raphael had aimed for, but an expression. Emotion on this flawed, cracked statue. “So you come here after five years, just to make sure I remember how far beneath you I am? You know what, I’m not surprised. But who is the pitiful one of us, Raphael? Me, or the one convincing himself that I’m doing badly just so he can feel better about himself?”

“Oh, there is definitely some convincing going on here,” Raphael said and raised a brow, meaningfully looking Astarion up and down.

Astarion clung to arrogance. “Gods, you’re pathetic. Both in the city and its underground I am the most influential person. People respect me, out of fear or admiration, depending on what I allow. I have power, Raphael, and where the Gate is concerned, my power exceeds yours. I don’t need you here, I don’t want you here. I’m exactly where and what I’m supposed to be.” His eyes hardened and he shouldered past Raphael. Then he paused. “Let go.”

“No one questions your power.” Raphael said, fingers tightening around Astarion’s wrist. He tried to not sound derisive, but it was difficult in the given circumstances. “But are you free, Astarion?”

“What the fuck are you even talking about?” Astarion snapped.

“That was the goal. Remember?” Raphael turned his head to the side and regarded his little spawn’s profile. “You wanted to be free. From the very beginning, that was your greatest wish. The reason we did what we did was to free you from others’ influence over you so you could be your own person.”

Astarion stared straight ahead. “So? That’s exactly what I am.”

“Are you truly? Or merely a slave to your own design, trapped by the Vampire Ascendant you think you should be?”

Astarion’s jaw clenched, his throat moved with a heavy swallow.

“Tell me, does it feel like freedom to sit on a throne and still need to put on a mask?”

“What do you want from me, Raphael?” Astarion’s voice wavered, and a hint of desperation cut through the anger.

Raphael looked down at him and sighed. “When I came here, I expected to see you thriving. To have taken everything you ever wanted. After all, you claimed you didn’t need me anymore with that newfound power of yours. But this? You?” He took a step back and let his eyes roam over Astarion’s facade. “You’re as tragic as the first time I saw you.”

“I have everything I wanted,” Astarion said, but it sounded like he wanted to convince himself more than Raphael.

Slowly, Raphael reached out, claw hovering just over the necklace. “Is that why you kept a useless trinket of a past you despise?”

Astarion’s arm jerked, hand halfway raised to his chest before he dropped it again. Something in his eyes shifted and Raphael recognised that look. Not quite frustrated, not quite irritated, but helpless. Like he wanted to be angry but didn’t know about what, exactly.

“Fine. If you’re so fucking intent on gloating, have it your way. You must be happy to see me like this. Surely there’s an ‘I told you so’ hidden somewhere here.”

Raphael softened his voice and took a step back to give Astarion some space. “Happy to see you like what?”

Astarion laughed humourlessly, derision to overshadow his fear of giving voice to a truth he had been ignoring for years.  “Empty,” he said finally. It sounded like a question, like he needed someone to validate his own feelings. Like he had never before tried to make sense of his state of mind.

Raphael wasn’t about to make this easy for him. Not with how deeply Astarion had sunken in his own self-deception. “Empty of what? What is it you lack, Astarion?”

“Why do you care?” he scoffed finally, clinging to emotions he knew and pushing away that which was uncomfortable. After all, it was so much easier to seek fault with others. Raphael knew. “You left. Why come back now?”

“Who left, Astarion?”

“You gave me no other choice.”

“There was a choice, Astarion.”

“Not if I wanted to be myself.”

“And who are you now?”

“I don’t know!” Astarion finally burst out. “I don’t know why this is happening! It should be great, shouldn’t it? I’m the Vampire Ascendant, I’m one of the most powerful beings in this realm, but I don’t-” He looked around. Helpless.

“You don’t what, Astarion? What is missing?”

“Everything!” he yelled and threw his arms out. “It has been five years but it might as well have been five hundred. Days pass in a decade, I don’t know why time has slowed down and- and everyone is moving on without me and everything feels wrong and I just don’t understand why. What did I do wrong?”

“Nothing,” Raphael said simply. “It’s normal.”

Astarion’s arms slowly dropped to his side. Gone were a hundred years of ceaseless struggle. Gone was the Vampire Ascendant who never had a chance to adapt, who was thrown into a world he had no idea of how it worked. What was left was the spawn who wanted nothing but his own place in the world.

“It’s the disease of the eternal. And no one told you the cure, young one.” For him, five years were nothing. A decade constituted a moment, a century was just scratching the concept of a while.

“What are you talking about? Can you just once say something clearly?”

Oh, how Raphael loved to see his frustration. The desperate shadows around his eyes, the urgency in his voice, they were all so real, so very him. And once again it had been Raphael stripping him of his pretence.

“When was the first time you realised that time meant nothing to you anymore, because you have an infinite amount of it?” he asked. Astarion’s eyes widened. “Of course your days seem meaningless to you, Astarion, because they are. You need to change how you perceive time. You need to adapt to being an entirely different creature. And, more than anything, you need a purpose. This?” He gestured to the door behind which the Gate’s nobles and patriars mingled in the grand ballroom. “Hedonism? Pleasure? This will barely sustain you for a year. Have you ever thought about what you want to do with your power? With your forever?”

 Astarion stared at him. Oh, his sweet Vampire Ascendant, more unsteady on his legs than a newborn fawn. Raphael ventured a step forward. Astarion didn’t back away. “Many consider immortality a desirable state, but few think about the actual ramifications. Those lofty goals you once dreamed of, the crushing worries that once plagued you, everything that defined your entire existence is now nothing but a drop in the ocean. Now, you need to reach higher to find significance. You need a purpose you would once have considered unattainable. You said it yourself, Lord Ancunín. You’re the Vampire Ascendant, you can do whatever the hells you please. And you chose to act like a spoiled little lordling?” He took another step forward. Astarion’s eyes were fixated on him, greedy almost for a reason, an explanation for his state. Raphael was once again reminded of their difference. For him, the five years of their separation had been…a bothersome intermission. For Astarion, it had been a lonely eternity without anyone there to help him navigate his new life. And Raphael had never felt and would never feel guilt, but in this moment there was a small stab of regret.

“Something that always comes with immortality is loneliness. Especially when the beings you surround yourself with are defined by time while you become more aware of the fact that none of them will remain with each passing year.” With another step, he stood right in front of Astarion. He gazed down into those red eyes. And as he spoke of loneliness and time, he realised something. The hundred years he had spent at Astarion’s side should have been insignificant in the context of his existence. While he had been Astarion’s everything, Astarion should, in turn, have been nothing but a pastime. But that wasn’t the case. The company Astarion had provided had been the most meaningful in millennia. Those hundred years might have been the longest of Raphael’s existence. How could he stand here, otherwise, free of the anger he was entitled to, feeling something akin to compassion instead of vengefulness? Maybe it was time to admit that Astarion wasn’t the only one deceiving himself. Maybe it was time to admit to what he’d known for a while. He cared, inconveniencing as it was.

“You should befriend other immortals. Find someone to help you navigate this new existence,” he said.

Astarion met his eyes. “I did have such a person. Once. But…” He looked away. “I didn’t see what he did for me. I didn’t want to see what he did for me. He was my entire life for a hundred years. I wanted something for myself…”

“Maybe you should seek him out. Surely he’ll understand.”

“I don’t know. I tried looking for him, these past years. In those places we used to visit. He was gone.”

The words sunk in. Devotion. Raphael reached up, a claw grazing the necklace. “You could have asked him to come to you, if you needed him.”

“He must hate me.”

Raphael laid his finger under Astarion’s chin and tilted his face up. “I don’t.” Hope on Astarion’s face, a shadow of the past when he had looked at the devil with pure trust. Then he closed his eyes as if to cling to the pride and dignity the past five years had forced upon him. Raphael sighed and pulled him in, allowing him to hide his face against Raphael’s shoulder.

“Foolish little spawn.” He curved his wings around him. “I shouldn’t have left.”

“I understand why you did.”

Raphael sighed. It would be a lot easier if Astarion were just another client. Raphael would use this to increase his debt, pile more guilt on him and manipulate him. Unfortunately, that wasn’t how things worked between them anymore. And having Astarion in his arms, repentant and desperate, seeking direction once more, tempted him into indulgence. And Raphael had no intention to resist temptation. He carded his fingers through Astarion’s hair and dropped his voice to a soft tone.

“Maybe so. But I should have known that your little bout of hubris was an early symptom, not the final disease. I have some experience with forever.”

“It didn’t even take a year.” Astarion said quietly. “I was elated, at first. The world at my feet. I didn’t think of you at all. But then, things turned strange. Time stretched on and on and suddenly forever turned from a promise into a threat. I felt like I didn’t belong to the world anymore. And then I realised that I never belonged anywhere.”

“That is-”

“Except for when I was with you.” Astarion pulled back to look at him. “You made me feel like I belonged. For all your pets and little spawns, you didn’t see me as a tool. I know that now. You always treated me as Astarion. I was never as much myself as I was with you.”

Raphael prided himself on many things, but first and foremost he prided himself on his words. He never lacked them, they never failed him. Until Astarion, who spoke a truth Raphael had not even worded in his own mind. He had wanted to turn Astarion into his tool, and thought he’d succeeded. But he hadn’t. Worse yet - he had become the tool.

Astarion clutched Raphael’s soul in his fingers. “I don’t know how to live forever without you.”

Raphael grasped his wrist and pulled him forward. “Then don’t.” His soul between their bodies. He dipped his head. “I never asked you to.”

Astarion dropped the necklace. His fingers brushed Raphael’s cheek as he reached up, then curled around his horn. Raphael easily followed the tug. The kiss was gentle, even more so for who they were. Raphael wrapped an arm around Astarion’s waist and pulled him closer. He allowed his little spawn to set the pace, content with letting him take instead of give. Astarion let go of his horn to lock fingers behind Raphael’s neck as he parted his lips, a silent demand for Raphael to deepen the kiss. A demand easily fulfilled. Astarion made a soft sound and Raphael felt a light smile against his lips. When he pulled back it was still there, a soft little thing.

“This was my first kiss.”

Raphael raised an eyebrow. “I somehow have trouble believing this.”

“The first one I gave willingly, anyway.”

“Well. I’m honoured.”

“Was it yours, as well? We can work on your performance.”

“Excuse me?”

Astarion laughed, and it was the first time in a hundred years Raphael heard a genuine laugh from him. It almost didn’t bother him that it was at his expense.

“I’m joking, I’m joking! Your performance was entirely satisfactory. No need to hold another five-year-grudge.” Astarion leaned in for the briefest kiss, but Raphael’s eyes narrowed.

“I’m a millennia-old devil. I do not hold grudges over petty things.”

Astarion slipped his arms from Raphael’s shoulders to wrap them around his torso. His fingers tapped against the base of his wings. “Then why did you leave the Gate?”

“I was busy.”

“And did you hear that Erianne Silvershield was inexplicably murdered?”

“There is little explanation to be found in Bhaalist murders.”

Astarion laughed again, warm breath against Raphael’s lips. “I see. Not a single thought spared for your little spawn during those five years.”

“I’ve always seen you as your own person, Astarion,” Raphael said seriously. What was one more admission?

“I know,” Astarion replied quietly. “What I said, back then, I knew it was wrong even as I spoke. I wanted- I don’t know what I wanted.”

“You had power, for the first time. Over yourself, even. Of course you wanted to show it.”

“Well, I could have shown it without making an ass of myself and hurting the only-” he swallowed as if he briefly considered replacing the words, then didn’t anyway. “Hurting the only one who ever cared for me. I’m sorry, Raphael.”

Raphael didn’t know what should annoy him more; that the little spawn assumed he was able to hurt him, that he couldn’t even deny the truth of that, or that he wasn’t annoyed at all.

“As I said. I do not hold grudges,” he grumbled.

“Good. I imagine it would be really difficult, spending an eternity with someone petty.”

Raphael smirked. “Bold of you to assume the devil is willing to entertain you for that long.”

“Are you saying he won’t?” With vampiric speed, Astarion reached up and grasped Raphael’s horns to pull his head down and kiss the space between them. “He’d miss out on so many great opportunities, though.” His eyes twinkled when he pulled back, still holding Raphael at an awkward angle.

Still no annoyance. Raphael clicked his tongue. “We shall see, little spawn.”

Chapter Text

Nightal 1373

Astarion sat on the balcony and stared up at the dark sky. He’d been sitting there for the past hour, completely unmoving. Pale face aglow with moonlight, hair windswept, expression calm. Raphael stepped behind him and reached over his shoulder, offering a glass.

“1045 Thayan vintage. Not comparable to the Stygian from last time, but that’s your own fault.”

Astarion took the glass and considered it. “My fault?”

“You angered me.” He walked around the chair and leaned against the banister, facing Astarion. “The bottle was collateral damage.”

Astarion’s eyes shot up. “Wait, you smashed it?”

“I did.” Raphael raised his glass for a toast. Astarion huffed a laugh and did the same, but then hesitated.

“What?”

His eyes turned unfocussed as he gazed to the horizon. “It’s still dark.”

“I can very much see that.”

“Maybe…maybe we can wait a while longer until we drink to the future?” Astarion blinked and stood up to join Raphael at the banister. He leaned his arms on the smooth marble and idly tapped his finger against it. “Just until the sun comes up.”

Very dramatic. Not that Raphael was one to judge. “Is there a specific reason?”

“My first sunrise was pretty miserable.” Astarion smiled wryly. “I panicked when my skin turned warm. Ran inside. After that, they kind of felt…wrong? So I’m not counting any of them.”

The street below was empty save for a beggar sleeping under an awning and a cat that slunk through the nightly streets. It was quiet, peaceful. In all other cases, Raphael detested it. There were no opportunities to be found in peace. Now, however, he was willing to – not admit that he was wrong, but to compromise. This peace felt meaningful.

“Are you saying you want to share your first sunrise with me, little spawn?”

“It’s as good a moment as any to start anew.”

“Oh, the symbolism.” Raphael gestured dramatically to the horizon, a sweeping motion that fell short only for his lack of a cape. “Mirroring our little encounter with the sun all those years ago. The parallelism of it all. This moment, my little spawn, is perfect.”

Astarion rolled his eyes. “I thought I was being dramatic. Thank you for reminding me of the company I keep.”

“Dear, when you reach my age, you’ll realise just how important it is to revel in your own flair.” He snapped his fingers and let a little flame dance across his knuckles. “Keeps the spark alive.” The flame illuminated Astarion’s face, casting warm light over his ivory skin and setting his eyes aglow before dying down.

“Having access to a mirror suits you,” Raphael said and laid a wing around Astarion’s shoulder. “Love what you did with the hair. Longer is very becoming of you.”

“I know,” Astarion smirked. “I should thank Cazador for turning me at my best age. Imagine if you had to deal with some pimply youth.”

“Dreadful thought. I probably wouldn’t have spared you another glance.”

“And I will forever be grateful that you did,” Astarion drawled. He raised his head to the sky, mouth half open as if he was debating with himself whether or not to say his next words. “I mean it.”

Raphael hummed. “It would have been quite the waste of opportunity, had you not attempted to seduce me all those years ago.”

“And luckily I succeeded,” he said sarcastically and kept his eyes on the horizon.

“You did.” Raphael replied. It was easier to admit than expected, especially with the way it made Astarion’s breath hitch. “That is quite a feat, little spawn.” He took a step to the side behind Astarion. Placing a hand on the banister on either side of him, he caged him between his arms and rested his chin on his shoulder. Astarion clicked his tongue when Raphael’s horn scraped against his cheek, but tilted his head to accommodate him. “You ruined my plans. My composure, while you were at it. I don’t think I’ve met someone as aggravating as you.”

“And yet you’re still here. And I’m still here. You know, I was quite surprised that you didn’t kill me when I turned against you. For some months, I expected you to show up and just disintegrate me.” Astarion leaned back against him and Raphael rested his hands on Astarion’s hips instead of the banister.

“Foolish spawn. Had you listened more and reigned in your need to prove your power to me, you’d have learned that I never would have killed you.”

“Ah. Missed opportunities and all that. Because you invested so much in me already.” Raphael recognised it as the challenge it was, as Astarion daring him to say out loud the words that were so terribly unbefitting of a devil. He turned his head to press his lips against Astarion’s throat and murmured: “I wouldn’t have sent you to Cania.”

“I’m sorry.”

“A new dawn is rising.”

Before them, where the ocean met the sky, a sliver of pale purple drew a line between them, painting clouds and waves in pastel. Raphael tightened his arms around Astarion.

“Don’t run again.”

Astarion let out a small laugh. “I would never.”

“Good. Wouldn’t want to destroy this wonderful symbolism, hm? Facing the bright future head on as the past fades into darkness behind you.”

“The past behind me feels rather pleasant,” Astarion said meaningfully and leaned against Raphael’s chest.

“A slight incongruity. It happens in every great play, even with a seasoned director such as myself. Because sometimes, the actors just refuse to adhere to the script.”

“This play of yours had some unnecessary drama. Much could have been avoided by proper communication.”

“Astarion, dear, you must know by now that there is no such thing as unnecessary drama.”

The sun slowly emerged from the sea. When Raphael gazed at Astarion’s profile, he found it contoured by light, sharp teeth glinting where his smile exposed them. Astarion raised a hand to his chest and Raphael felt fingers close around his coin. Who owned who, was the inevitable question. The devil holding the spawn in his arms? Or the spawn clutching the devil’s soul?

“But much trouble on your side could have been avoided, had you used that little thing I gave you specifically to notify me should you find yourself in trouble.”

With deft fingers, Astarion removed the coin from its locket and looked down at his palm; at the little inconspicuous thing laying there. “I’ve always relied on you. You guided me down a road you paved, to a destination you showed me. I just- wanted to achieve something for myself.”

“The steps were always yours to take. And where you go next is yours to choose.”

“It is.” Astarion paused, fingers playing idly with the coin. “But as we established, my sense of direction is not the best…so, if the devil hasn’t grown bored of me yet…”

Raphael chuckled. “He could never. When I said I wanted an ally not bound to me by contract, but by conviction, I wouldn’t have expected…well. That it might backfire on me.”

Astarion looked over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised. “Are you saying you’re bound to me?” But he smiled, and Raphael knew they had established enough understanding between them that Astarion didn’t need an answer. “Well, I suppose I won’t need this then, anymore.” He raised two fingers, coin held between them. “Now that we’re basically equals. How about this for symbolism?” He drew his arm back and looked towards the ocean.

Raphael raised a hand from Astarion’s hip and grabbed his wrist, maybe a little harder than intended. “I’d rather you didn’t. If you want to proclaim your independence, just give it back.”

Astarion glanced at him, surprised. “I wouldn’t have taken you for someone prone to sentimentality. Especially towards such a small trinket.”

“I’m not,” Raphael said softly and plucked the coin from Astarion’s fingers. “I just don’t want to risk this falling into the hands of certain individuals.”

Astarion turned in his arms, tipping his head back to give him an inquisitive look. “Why? Is it something special?”

Raphael smiled at the unassuming coin. He could destroy it. Should have destroyed it, a long time ago. That he carried it around instead probably said something about him and sentimentality. “Quite the opposite. It’s something dreadfully dull. Which is why I ripped it out and put it in this coin.”

“What do you mean? What’s in that coin?” 

“The human part of my soul.”

Waves lapped at the coastline, seabirds quarrelled on the roof next to them, the sun had fully risen above the waves. Astarion stared at Raphael.

“What?”

Raphael sighed. Mortals placed much importance on their souls, and Astarion hadn’t been free of mortality for long enough to lose that attachment. “There was no benefit in keeping it. All it did was connect me to a part of my heritage I did not care to be connected to.”

“Right…because you’re a half-devil.” He said slowly, as if he only now truly realised what that meant.

“Cambion, dear.” Half. Raphael detested the insinuation of incompleteness.

“For over a hundred years, I carried around your soul? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You never asked.” Raphael shrugged and squeezed the coin in his fingers. He really should just get rid of it. There was no point to it any longer. “Don’t stare at me now, you’re missing your first sunr-”

“Did it hurt?”

Raphael blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Ripping out your soul. Did it hurt?” 

Raphael was about to give a sarcastic answer when he met Astarion’s eyes. Honesty. Annoying. “It did not. For us, the human part of the soul matters not. It stores some memories, some rather bothersome characteristics, but nothing significant. It’s not uncommon among cambions to remove it, especially those with a modicum of ambition. Humanity holds you back. As you should well know.”

“And yet you kept it. And gave it to me. This whole time I thought it was just some coin with a message spell on it, but you gave me your literal soul! What the hells, Raphael?”

Raphael scoffed. “Don’t flatter yourself. I told you, it’s not special.”

“So, what is it like when I call you? Do you feel it when I touch the coin?”

Why Astarion was so fixated on this, Raphael did not know, but he did know he would rather not continue this conversation. “It found its use, in the end. But since you’re no longer in need of it, it might be time to let the past rest. What was that about symbolism you said?”

He flipped the coin up into the air and conjured up hellfire in his palm. This was the right thing to do. If Astarion could let go of his useless past, then so could Raphael. As the coin slowly fell, he felt it grow warmer, a slightly uncomfortable sensation in his chest, overheating, burning, and then-

“Fuck!”

Raphael stumbled to the side when Astarion pushed against him, reaching through the fire to catch the coin before the flames could consume it.

“What are you doing?” Raphael curled his fingers to quench the flames, but there were already angry red burn marks on the back of Astarion’s hand. “Did the ascension rob you of your brain cells?”

“I just took back what’s mine,” Astarion said haughtily, words a little strained since he had just burned himself with white hot hellfire. “You gave me that coin. It’s mine.”

Raphael stared at him. “You-”

“Foolish little spawn? Well, since you don’t want it anymore, I’ll keep it. Make sure to remind you of who you are every now and then,” he winked. “To keep you grounded if you ever end up as some nasty archduke.”

Raphael was about to snatch that hellsforsaken trinket from him when Astarion closed his hand around it. After the heat of his fire, Astarion’s cool skin was pleasantly soothing and Raphael paused mid-motion.

“Fine. Whatever.” He dropped his hand, rolled his eyes, and turned back towards the ocean. He leaned on the banister, fresh morning wind against his face and Astarion’s hand around his soul. “Keep the damned thing then, just make sure no one else gets their hands on it.”

Astarion hummed and put the coin back into the locket. Then he stood next to Raphael, mirroring his posture. He scooted over, bumping their shoulders together.

“So. You have parents.” As if the concept of Raphael not having formed from sulphur, hellfire, and a faint sense of malice was especially baffling.

Fantastic. Another pointless topic. “If you want to call it that. I’ve never met my mother and I think at this point my father is half a bad night’s sleep away from showing up in my house and killing me himself.”

“Speaking from experience, killing your creator before he kills you is a satisfying course of action.”

Raphael huffed a laugh. “I’m afraid in my case it’s a little more difficult. Archdevils are annoyingly resilient.”

Astarion whistled. “I wasn’t aware I’m in the company of royalty. Which one is it?”

“Take an educated guess.”

Astarion considered for a moment. “You’ve got to be kidding me. Mephistopheles?”

“As you can see, our fates were linked from the very beginning.”

“Did you know? When I approached you, was that why you started the whole thing? To get back at dear old papa?” Astarion’s eyes were closed, face turned upward, illuminated by the sun. The cool wind ruffled his hair. He hummed appreciatively when Raphael offered his wing for warmth, and draped it around his shoulder. 

“I had a hunch. I wasn’t aware in what way they were involved, but I did know you were one of Cazador’s, and that Cazador was working with Mephistopheles. And I couldn’t resist that narrative of creations destroying their creators. But not even I could have penned the wonderful irony of the whole situation.”

“So what’s the next course of action? Since you realised I’m way too great to turn into glorified thieves’ tools and send into Cania, are you going to look for someone new?” Astarion cracked one eye open and glanced up at Raphael.

“Worried I’ll replace you?” Raphael smirked.

“Darling, please. I’m one of a kind.” He shifted closer to Raphael and wrapped an arm around his waist, all but curling against his side like some overgrown bat. “But I do feel bad that I robbed you of your precious opportunity. Maybe I can help.”

“You, helping me? And for what price?”

Astarion opened the other eye. “How about your devotion?”

Raphael lowered his head, their noses almost touching. “A devil’s devotion is not easily obtained. Will you make me sign a contract?”

Astarion leaned further up, murmuring the words against Raphael’s mouth. “I don’t want devotion forced by a contract.” He made a small gasp when Raphael closed the distance between them. His lips parted readily, and Raphael dipped his tongue inside to taste him - only fair, considering this would inevitably end with Astarion tasting him.

“I’ll find you someone to send into the hells,” Astarion said when they parted after a too-long time. Not having to breathe was a quite useful feature. “A new actor. One I’ll see to that you don’t grow attached to again.”

“Hm, my little warlock, acting out my will on the Prime,” Raphael said and ran a claw down Astarion’s back, making him shiver.

“A warlock gets granted powers by their patron, but I’ve already got all the powers I want. You’ll need to offer me something else.”

“It sounds like you’ve got something in mind.”

Astarion hummed and kissed the corner of Raphael’s mouth, then down to his jaw and to his throat. “Darling, I have to admit, amidst all the indulgences and pleasures of my new existence, nothing ever measured up to your blood.”

He teased at Raphael’s neck with his teeth, but Raphael gently held him back. “Don’t you want to sit down for this, pet? For old time’s sake?”

“You have the best ideas.” Astarion purred.

“Ah, but look at that. You all but missed your first sunrise.”

Astarion didn’t even glance in that direction. “No matter. There’s going to be many more.”

He was right. There was no one rushing them. They were eternal beings, after all.