Chapter Text
“You alright, soldier?” Karlach asked when they reached Astarion’s house.
She’d been a real trooper all night long. Waiting for Zoraya in front of Wyrm’s Rock, not even mentioning the hearing or the flood of journalists that must have pestered her in the meantime — just opening the coach door with that adorable little half bow she considered part of her bodyguard duties, ready to take her home.
It was late by now, dawn mere hours away. Still, Karlach seemed wide awake, her bright eyes set on Zoraya as she fidgeted with her armor. “If there’s something you need, I could always …”
“Thank you.” Zoraya smiled, the edges painfully tight around her mouth. “But I think I just want to be alone.”
“Gotcha. Well, if you change your mind, I’ll be out here until the morning shift comes around!” Karlach gave her a slap on the shoulder, good-natured, but jaw-rattling, then took up her post next to the front door.
Zoraya made a mental note to bring her a cup of hot tea — just as soon as she was done crying.
She let the smile slip off her face the moment she stepped into the dark, empty hallway. The door fell shut behind her with a merciful thud, and Zoraya sank against it with her bag clutched to her chest, closing her eyes and waiting for the tears to flow. For her knees to buckle, sobs wrenching from her throat until she was down on the floor in a perfect heap of despair. That’s what people did, right? They cried and wailed and wallowed, and then they moved past it. Pulled themselves together and did what needed to be done.
Her body, however, did not seem to have received the memo.
Well, shit.
Zoraya kicked off her pumps, toppling over the whole shoe rack in the process. She was debating whether to pick it up or land a few more kicks when she noticed a flicker of light from the living room. There was a faint crackling noise as well, like a set of logs burning away happily in Astarion’s once-abandoned fireplace.
Her first instinct was to go get Karlach. But then, what sort of burglar would light themselves a fire? Make sure they were nice and comfortable while they stole her prized fountain pen collection?
Zoraya sighed. “Look, Shadowheart, I’m sorry for taking off like that, but …”
Her feet froze on the threshold. Her mouth hung open, her brain stuttering, trying to process the familiar silhouette that sat stretched-out on her couch, a purring Objection in their lap.
“Mother?” she finally managed. “What in the gods’ names are you doing here?”
“Visiting my daughter,” Nadya said. Her smile was warm and crooked in the firelight, her hand running along the length of Objection’s back, causing him to dig his paws into the thick fabric of her dress with a positively domestic sound of contentment. “I haven’t seen you since you moved me into your old house.”
“It’s two in the morning, and the door was locked.”
“Yes,” Nadya agreed sagely. “Yes, it was.”
Zoraya huffed out a breath, knowing better than to argue with this. She stepped behind the kitchen counter, shooting Objection a reproachful look as she did so, but he did not seem to notice. He was too busy angling his head this way and that, allowing Nadya to reach all of his most scratch-worthy spots.
Traitor.
“I’m sorry I haven’t been around,” Zoraya muttered, rifling through the kitchen cupboards in search of a fortifying snack. “It’s just that—”
“You never told me about Astarion,” Nadya said. “Or your trial, for that matter.” Her voice was perfectly calm. Not an accusation so much as an observation of facts, but it made Zoraya’s teeth clench all the same.
“Well, I’ve been busy!” she snapped, yanking out a block of hard cheese and slamming it onto the counter. She hacked at it with a kitchen knife until she was left with a pile of irregularly-shaped cheese cubes, added a handful of pickled onions and a thick slice of bread, and then began to eat right there at the counter.
She hadn’t eaten since lunch, so if she had to deal with her mother breaking into her home, the least she could do was make sure she had a full stomach.
Nadya didn’t respond right away. Nothing but the crackling of firewood and Objection’s purring to disturb the silence until she said, “You’ve always been busy, Zoraya. Ever since you were a little girl. Always reading, always studying. Doing all these extra things in your free time, so you’d have better chances of getting into a good school. Like those tournaments where you argue with someone in a room full of people? And then there’s a jury that decides who won?”
It’s called a mock trial, Zoraya thought, licking pickle juice off her thumb. And you never bothered to show up for any of them.
“I’ve always admired that in you,” Nadya said, her dark eyes resting on the blissed-out cat in her lap. “The way you always knew exactly what you wanted to do with your life and went after it, no questions asked. It’s made me very proud to be your mother.”
A cheese cube lodged itself in Zoraya’s throat, sending her into a violent coughing fit. Hands flying to the kitchen counter in search of support, and then she hung there, wheezing and retching, until it finally came back up. She stared at the buttery yellow splash on the marble counter, sucking shaky breaths into her lungs.
Gone was her appetite. Gone was pretty much everything, save for a pulse of red-hot anger.
“Why in the Hells are you here?” she asked, pushing herself up to her full height and glaring down at her mother. “Did you stumble over a newspaper on your way to the mushroom patch — is that it? You saw one of those articles about how I’m losing my mind and ruining my career, and now you feel sorry for me?”
“I came to tell you that I’m proud of you,” Nadya said, her mouth a gentle line as she met her daughter’s gaze. “No matter whether you win or not.”
“Well, you’ve picked an awfully odd time for that, mother, because I’m about to lose my boyfriend to a sadistic maniac and destroy everything I’ve ever worked for!”
“Oh, Zoraya.” Nadya sighed, a very real sense of sadness seeping into her sun-kissed face. “I’m not proud of you for your trophies or your accomplishments. I’m proud of you because I have a daughter who does what’s right. A daughter who follows her beliefs, no matter how difficult it might be. That, more than anything else, makes me proud to be your mother.”
There was a lurch in Zoraya’s stomach, unrelated to the cheese. “You think I’m pathetic,” she hissed, hands curling into fists. “Risking it all for a man who never really loved me anyway. You think it makes me like you. That there’s some kind of kinship between us — a thread of fate binding us together or whatever bullshit esoteric way you like to picture it. But honestly, mother? Nothing could be further from the truth.”
She rounded the kitchen counter, eyes on her mother. “You see, I am not the one running after a man who randomly got me pregnant and then spent the next thirty-odd years ignoring me. I am not the one trying to bribe him into loving me, the way you tried to bribe my father by shoving me his way the moment he showed the tiniest bit of interest in me. There is nothing at all that we have in common. So please, for the love of god, spare me your sympathy and get off my couch!”
The words hung in the air like the edge of a guillotine, ready to sever the tattered bonds between her and her mother, once and for all. And maybe it was better this way. What did the two of them really have to say to each other, anyway?
Nadya’s hand stilled on Objection’s fur, her brows knitting together. “You think I gave you to your father as a way of luring him back to me?”
“Of course, you did!” Zoraya spat. “It’s obvious you’re still in love with him! Every year or two, you make sure the clan returns to Baldur’s Gate, just so you can see my father and pretend you still have a chance with him. Clinging on to him when everyone knows that all it ever was to him was an exotic little love affair!”
“Your father asked me to marry him more times than I could count.”
Thankfully, there was no more cheese around; else, Zoraya would have definitely choked on it. “What?”
Nadya sighed and lifted Objection off her lap, ignoring his disgruntled meow as she rose to her feet. “I never told you because, frankly, I didn’t think it was necessary. Your father is not a bad man, Zoraya, but he’s never understood me. Which is why it was never particularly difficult to tell him no when he asked me to come live with him at the Ancunín estate. Be a proper family, whatever that means. He thinks he loves me — and maybe he truly does; who knows. But he never quite managed to wrap his head around the idea that I enjoy living the way I do. That it’s not some sort of predicament, but a choice to live out in nature, everything I need strapped to my back.”
“But then why did you … leave me there?” Zoraya whispered, terrified by the crack in her voice.
“Oh, sweetie.” Her mother reached out for her, warm hands closing around Zoraya’s cheeks. “I didn’t do it to get rid of you. It’s just that … Look. Lavender may bloom beautifully on a rocky, wind-swept cliff, right? But put a maple tree there, and you can practically watch it wither away.”
“Why are you talking about plants?”
“That’s my point, exactly.” Nadya chuckled, a low, raspy sound not unlike the crackling firewood. “You and I, we’re so different. You never enjoyed traveling around with the clan. Other children would go out into the woods to play and gather supplies, but you were always happiest sitting in our tent with a book in your lap. You were barely old enough to walk when you’d read everything we had in camp. And then, when I took you to visit your father one day, you wouldn’t stop talking about how wonderful it was there. How they had an entire room full of books and a tutor who would come in to read from them, teaching you about history and numbers and the stars up in the sky. You learned about the concept of school, Zoraya, and you were so excited, you couldn’t sleep all night.”
Nadya smiled and pushed back a strand of Zoraya’s hair. “I could tell how happy you’d be there. How you were going to flourish there in a way you never could if I kept you with me. What kind of mother would I be if I withheld the things you love, just because I don’t relate to them?”
Zoraya pressed her lips together, trying to stop them from trembling. “So, when you came to visit every year …”
“I came to see you,” Nadya said. “It was always for you. I wanted to see you grow up, spend whatever time I could with you. I knew there wasn’t going to be a whole lot of space for me in your life, but … for me, it was always enough. Because you were where you were meant to be.”
Zoraya’s vision swam. “I didn’t know,” she whispered.
And something seemed to snap inside of her at the admission because next thing she knew, she reached out her hands and sank into her mother’s arms like she hadn’t in many, many years.
Maybe not ever.
“I’m sorry,” Nadya said. Her arms were warm and tight around Zoraya’s shoulders, her hand stroking soothing patterns over the length of her back. “I meant to tell you, but you were always so grown-up. You didn’t want to be coddled or hugged or anything like that, not even as a child. Always talked like you were ten years older, like you had it all figured out.”
“I don’t,” Zoraya sniffed. “I have no idea how I’m supposed to turn this thing around. And I know Astarion’s counting on me, but I … I don’t think I can do it.”
“Of course, you can.”
Zoraya tried for a scoff, but it came out more like a hiccup. “You don’t understand. I’ve tried everything, but no matter what I do, they just pull another dirty trick out of their sleeve. They lie and manipulate in ways you can’t even imagine. And every time I think I found a way to expose them, Raphael somehow manages to weasel out of it. I’m trying to do this the right way, but I’m running out of ideas and—”
“Zoraya, listen to me.” Nadya’s voice was firm, her hands gentle as she stepped out of her daughter’s embrace, beckoning her to meet her eyes. “You’ve come very far, doing things the right way. I know it couldn’t have been easy for you, working your way up in the world all by yourself. Picking a path that was littered with prejudice and injustice and countering them with nothing but hard work and dedication. It’s amazing what you’ve managed to accomplish that way; it truly is. But perhaps it’s time you recognized that sometimes, it’s okay to compromise a little bit. Focus on the ends, rather than the means.”
Zoraya swallowed. The cogs in her head were turning noisily, pulling at dusty, old levers she’d never really used before. “You mean I should try to …?”
“Fight fire with fire, yes.” Nadya flashed her a grin. “You may be a lawyer, but you are also part Gur. And aren’t we known for our trickery?”
Before Zoraya could think of a way to respond to this, Objection wove his way in between the two of them. Pressing himself against her leg so as to remind her of his presence, his tail flicking impatiently. Zoraya reached down to pet him, but he leapt for the kitchen cabinet, pawing at the door that he knew contained his favorite fish treats.
“Now,” Nadya said, grabbing Zoraya’s apron off the hook and tying it over her dress. “I’m sure your cat isn’t the only one who’s hungry, so you are going to sit down and let me make a proper meal for you. And then, once you have something in your stomach, you will figure out a way to crush those bastards in court.”
The final day of Naelgrath v. The City of Baldur’s Gate began, as usual, with a flock of bloodthirsty journalists. They were crowding the steps in front of Wyrm’s Rock, a wall of readied notebooks and gleeful interest.
“Miss Naelgrath, what’s your strategy for today?”
“How do you plan on turning the tide in your favor?”
“Lord Szarr has implied that he considers suing you for defamation — How do you respond to such allegations?”
Usually, any one of these questions would have been enough to send Zoraya into a nervous spiral. Today, however, she responded with a laugh and a smile, barely even slowing her steps as she strode through the crowd.
“Lord Szarr can try whatever dirty tricks he likes,” she said. “I’m sure that in the end, justice will prevail.”
This resulted in another onslaught of questions, but Zoraya simply kept walking. It helped that she was holding on to Ira’s hand, the little girl in between her and Dammon acting as a sort of shield against even the most zealous of journalists.
Dammon had decided to join her for what he called emotional support reasons, but Zoraya was pretty sure he was just embarrassed that she’d run into him and Karlach during what she could only assume had been an impromptu late-night picnic in her front yard. There had been a blanket and a bottle of wine, candles and grapes and pretty little cream pies in a rather fancy-looking box. Zoraya had stopped dead in her tracks at the sight of it all, nearly spilling the tea she’d meant to bring Karlach to help her get through her night shift.
Dammon had been on his feet in an instant. Loudly assuring her that this was not what it looked like, he was not distracting Karlach from her work, and actually, he’d come to see Zoraya, and wasn’t it wonderful that she was still up.
The look on his face was so precious that Zoraya decided to let it slide — for the moment, at least.
Shadowheart had showed up a few hours later, a fresh loaf of bread in hand and a scowl on her face. “Just tell me this,” she’d said in lieu of the traditional Good Morning. “Do you have a plan for tonight?”
And when Zoraya, still in yesterday’s blouse, answered with a nod, Shadowheart pushed past her without a beat of hesitation. “Let’s get on with it then,” she said, slamming the bread onto the counter and pouring herself a cup of coffee. “And just so we’re clear: Once this is over, you owe me a hefty bonus for leaving me alone with these vultures last night.”
Zoraya knew she was lucky — exceedingly lucky — to have such wonderful people by her side.
It filled her heart with lightness, making it easier to hold on to that wide, carefree smile as she stepped through the double doors, the screams of the journalists dying away behind her. Inside, it was eerily quiet, barely more than the shuffle of guards, patrolling around their usual rounds.
Zoraya turned to Ira, squeezing her hand. “You know what you have to do?”
Ira rolled her eyes with the existential scornfulness exclusive to thirteen-year-old girls. “Ye-hes,” she huffed. “I’m an artificer of considerable acclaim; I can manage a simple little job like that.”
“Thanks. You’re the best.”
“And don’t I know it,” Ira muttered as she scuttled off, disappearing behind a guard.
“Karlach and I will be in the first row,” Dammon promised. “If things go south, we’ll do what we can.”
“I hope it doesn’t come to that,” Zoraya said.
She gave him a quick hug, then watched as he and Karlach made their way to the courtroom, both of them wringing their hands as if these were entirely new appendages they’d only just purchased, and they hadn’t quite figured out what to do with them yet. Once this was over, Zoraya would need to have a serious conversation with them. One that involved smashing them together like oversized dolls and then grabbing Ira and babysitting her for the night.
Possibly several nights.
Shadowheart’s elbow nudged into her side. “Showtime?”
Zoraya took a deep breath and nodded. “Showtime.”
When Zoraya entered the courtroom, it was like stepping into one of her personal nightmares.
First of all, everyone was staring at her.
Second of all, not in a good way.
It was a very particular kind of stare. The shocked, concerned, but also very clearly gleeful stare reserved for things such as exotic animals, juicy marital disputes, and a woman going through a public breakdown.
Because that’s what this had to be, right? There was no other possible explanation for the fact that, after a decade of dressing precisely in accordance with even the most conservative standards of courtroom wardrobe, today was the day she’d gone ahead and chucked them all out the window.
Her hair was loose, three whole feet of it cascading down her shoulders in unbound waves. Ready to distract whatever unsuspecting onlookers hadn’t already been led astray by the sight of her collarbones, scandalously on display with the top buttons of her blouse undone, the sleeves pushed up past her elbows. Even worse, the blouse was red. A shade so bright and unapologetic that — after years of wearing almost exclusively black and white — Zoraya’s visual system was sputtering in confusion whenever she looked down on herself.
But then, Astarion had always said she looked lovely in red.
“The final day of Naelgrath v. The City of Baldur’s Gate is now in session!”
The gavel struck down — a sound full of finality, an overwhelming sense of decisiveness in the air. For no matter how things were going to go, there would be a decision tonight. One that wouldn’t just determine Astarion’s fate, but that of vampire spawn all over the city.
“We will begin with the continuation of the previously interrupted cross-examination of Exhibit 2,” the courtroom attendant said. “The vampire spawn formerly known as Astarion Ancunín!”
Astarion was led into the courtroom in much the same way as last time. Two guards pulling him along, his hands shackled, his head bowed. At least, they’d forgone the muzzle and allowed him to wear his own clothes, a rich burgundy-colored doublet with velvet trousers to match, the gold locket dangling around his neck. Even so, the change in his demeanor was impossible to ignore.
He approached the witness stand slowly, awkwardly, dragging his feet as if he couldn’t quite muster the energy to lift them. His movements stiff and choppy where they were usually lithe and graceful. Like he was a machine in need of oiling, his muscles not working in tandem.
Or like he’s moving through pain, Zoraya thought, her jaw tightening in helpless anger.
She’d wanted to come by his cell to prep him for the hearing, but she’d been turned away by a set of rather snooty-looking guards who informed her that Lord Szarr had visitation rights for the entirety of the day. Clearly, somebody had been paid to do something, and Zoraya hated herself for the fact that she hadn’t seen it coming. But she didn’t have time to get to the bottom of it — not while she was also scrambling for last-minute changes to her already-last-minute plan.
“Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth?”
“I do,” Astarion muttered. His crimson eyes were trained on some spot in the middle distance. A gaze that was unseeing, uncaring. Simply persevering.
The courtroom attendant didn’t seem to notice. “Miss Naelgrath may now begin her questioning.”
“Thank you,” Zoraya said, slowly rising to her feet.
She took her time crossing the distance between them, her heart growing heavier with each step. Whatever Cazador had done during his so-called visit, it hung over Astarion like an invisible weight. Crushing him down into his seat, forcing him to shrink in on himself until it looked like he was barely even there. Just one more spawn with his hands flat against the table, his shoulders somehow slumped as well as stiff. Like he was expecting a blow, but simultaneously resigned to taking it because what was the point of trying to resist the inevitable?
He refused to meet her eyes, even when she stood right next to him, her red blouse definitely in his field of vision. A command perhaps, or a coping mechanism. Either way, it felt like a cool, smooth rock, gliding down the length of her esophagus and settling at the base of her stomach.
“Hi,” Zoraya said.
Astarion’s hands flexed on the table, uncertain how to respond to this. She had to stifle the impulse to reach out for him, leaning her hip against the stand instead. Gently letting him know she was here, with him.
“How are you feeling today?”
“Good,” he said — way too quickly. And then, because Cazador must have drilled that one a little too deep, “I am happy and healthy. All I want is to go back to my master.”
There was something manic to the rhythm of his words. The way they spilled out of him like foam over the rim of an overly enthusiastically filled champagne flute. His body tensing under the force of it, muscles coiled tight like he was retching them out, every fiber contracting in protest.
Zoraya sighed. “I’m so sorry, Astarion,” she said. “I never wanted you to have to go through this ever again.”
“Objection, Your Honor!” Raphael said. “She is not asking a question.”
“Sustained,” High Judge Nerennos agreed. “Miss Naelgrath, you either need to question the witness or yield the floor.”
Zoraya gave no indication as to whether or not she’d heard him. She simply sat there on the edge of the table, regarding Astarion like they were the only people in the room. “Do you remember the day I came to the Szarr estate, looking for you?”
“Yes,” he said, his teeth clenching around the word. “I was recovering from one of my hunger frenzies, so my master had to chain me to the wall — for my own safety, of course. I was neither injured nor tortured. I was perfectly healthy.”
“When I found you there, you told me to run away,” Zoraya said, a wistful smile flashing over her face. “You wanted me to go and save myself, leave you there to fend for yourself. You were so worried, weren’t you?”
“N-no! I simply had no interest in going with you.”
Zoraya ignored this. “You were so worried he was going to make you hurt me, weren’t you?” she asked, her voice soft and quiet. Like they were back in his cell, fairy lights across the ceiling and Sir Hopperson propped up on a stack of books. “Has he done that before? Made you hurt people against your will?”
“Objection!” Raphael snapped. “Those are all leading questions, Your Honor.”
“Objection sustained.” Nerennos was beginning to sound exasperated. “Miss Naelgrath, please refrain from using questions that can be answered with a simple yes or no.”
“Apologies, Your Honor.” Zoraya was quiet for a moment. Aware of the silence stretching out in the courtroom, yet doing nothing to dispel it.
She knew exactly the sorts of thoughts that were running through the honorable High Judges’ heads right now. Thoughts that began with her outfit and ended with her using her turn at cross-examination to revel in her unrequited feelings for her ex. Making up stories she couldn’t prove, her mind too tortured to distinguish between fact and fantasy.
It was what Raphael had primed them to do, his strategy all about questioning her sanity, making her out as the crazy ex-girlfriend. She was simply leaning into it. Giving them a little more material to work with.
A better lawyer might have found another way. One that didn’t require her to publicly humiliate herself or Astarion to speak in his tormentor’s defense, a prisoner in his own body. But if he could endure his part, she could certainly get through hers.
“Are there any further questions, Miss Naelgrath?” the courtroom attendant asked.
“Just one, if that’s alright.” Zoraya reached out a hand, placing it next to Astarion’s on the table. “Is Lord Szarr forcing you to say these things?”
“N-no!” he sputtered, a shrill note of panic in his voice. “Of course not!”
“And if he was, would you be able to tell me, what with the anti-compulsion field out of commission? Would you be able to say anything that paints him in a negative light?”
“Objection!” Raphael thundered. “Leading question, conjecture, and honestly, I fail to see why in the Hells we’re still entertaining any of this!”
Zoraya smiled and turned away. “No further questions, Your Honor.”
On her way back to the counsel table, she risked a glance at the gallery, finding dozens of journalists with their mouths open and pens working at full speed. She could tell what they were writing by the blend of shock and delight on their faces.
Naelgrath crumbled under the pressure of her first High Court case … showing up in a state of complete disarray, her questions every bit as preposterous as her hair … history of mental instability in her tribe …
That was alright. They didn’t matter. What had her heart sink in her chest were the faces of Aquilan and Quelenna Ancunín, hidden away in the very back of the room, right next to the exit.
Zoraya hadn’t known they were coming. Least of all Quelenna who had always had an excuse for not being able to attend. Citing business appointments and social obligations, so she wouldn’t have to watch as the city decided what she already knew: that her son was lost, once and for all.
Here she was. Conquering her fears just in time to watch Zoraya flounder so badly, you really didn’t need a law degree to be able to realize.
Zoraya had to force herself to look away from them. To return to her spot at the counsel table, where Shadowheart was packing up her things. Shoving notebooks, pens and spare hair accessories into her bag, only to storm out of the courtroom in an exceedingly dramatic display of Fuck this shit; I’m out.
The door hung open behind her, but no one seemed to care. No one seemed to care about much of anything anymore.
“Opposing counsel?” Nerennos prompted, his fleshy chin resting against the knuckles of his hand as if he was having trouble keeping himself upright during what he clearly perceived to be a waste of his time.
“Oh, I just have a handful of questions, Your Honor,” Raphael said pleasantly.
He dove into a variation of the same questions he’d asked before — “Are you happy about the fact that all your rights have been stripped away from you?” and some-such nonsense — but Zoraya was only partly listening.
The majority of her was waiting.
Perched on the very edge of her chair with her knee tapping a nervous staccato against the underside of the table, her hands fiddling with the cap of her fountain pen, screwing and unscrewing it over and over again until finally — finally! — it was time to do what she’d pictured herself doing ever since she’d first decided to become an attorney.
Zoraya jumped to her feet.
Slammed down her hand.
Opened her mouth and yelled, “Objection!”
Of all the many ways Astarion would have expected this day to go to shambles, having Zoraya rush into the gallery in the middle of cross-examination, her dark, hip-length hair a veil of chaos as she ducked in between the seats of unsuspecting spectators, causing them to shriek and scramble out of her way, had not quite managed to make the list.
Then again, maybe that was on him. It had been a rather lengthy day.
“Miss Naelgrath!” Nerennos shouted, his ancient forehead creased with indignation. “You cannot simply say Objection without specifying what it is you’re objecting to! And for the love of god, get back to your seat!”
“I’m sorry, Your Honor.” Zoraya was panting for air as she squeezed her way through the narrow rows of benches, people lifting their feet and clutching their purses to their chests as she hurried past them. “It’s just … my cat!”
“Your cat?” Dekarios sat up, craning his neck so as to get a better look at the promised feline.
“She’s obviously lost it, Gale,” Larkin snorted. “There is no cat in here, just as there is no case. Just a crazy woman wasting everyone’s time with her—”
Something dark and unmistakably furry leapt out from the gallery, forcing Raphael to stumble out of the way so as to avoid a collision with his immaculate doublet. Objection landed right in the center of the well, his tail poised high in the air, one paw raised in a gesture of warrior-like triumph.
Astarion had seen many a dramatic entrance from Zoraya’s cat, but this one truly took the cake.
Before anyone could gather their wits, Objection zipped past the dumbstruck Raphael. A blur of black fur as he dashed across the length of the well, making straight for the witness stand and jumping onto the table with effortless grace, yellow eyes boring into Astarion like a predator locking in on its prey.
Astarion jerked back on instinct, but the handcuffs kept him tied to the table.
This is it, he thought just as those mighty muscles tensed under Objection’s ink-black coat, readying themselves for the inevitable attack.
Objection pounced and Astarion’s eyes scrunched shut. He could feel the sting of claws against his thighs, shredding through the velvet of his trousers. The inescapable weight settling down on his lap, the warmth of life and impending violence. And then, a low, rumbling noise, almost like a …
Like a purr.
It couldn’t be. Astarion had tried for months to earn himself the privilege of being allowed to pet this cat. He’d offered treats and toys and a good chunk of his wardrobe in an attempt to win Objection’s favor, garnering nothing but disdain and rejection instead. And yet, the very same cat was now seated firmly in his lap, rubbing its head against the buttons of Astarion’s doublet as it purred out its contentment.
Nobody in the courtroom, including Astarion, seemed to know what to do about this.
“I am so sorry, Your Honor!” Zoraya returned to the well, her cheeks flushed from her little chase around the gallery. “I had to bring my cat to court today because he wasn’t feeling well. I kept him in the room next door, but he must have managed to escape somehow. He’s very attached to Astarion, you see. Probably caught a whiff of his scent and came running over to greet him. You know what they say about animals being able to find their loved ones anywhere.”
Dekarios smiled and nodded, his thoughts undoubtedly racing to his own cat — or, well, Tressym.
“As heartwarming as this is,” Raphael said, one hand patting down the length of his doublet in search of cat hair, “could we please remove the cat before the spawn rips it to shreds?”
“I think that would be a mistake,” Zoraya said. “Your Honor, I would like to move for Objection — that’s the cat’s name — to be recognized as Exhibit 8 in my case.”
Nerennos heaved a sigh. “Miss Naelgrath, you’ve had weeks to procure your evidence ahead of time just like everyone else.”
“I think we should hear her out,” Dekarios said. There was a glint of excitement in his features, and Astarion couldn’t quite tell if it was due to the cat in his courtroom or this new development to the case. “New evidence turns up all the time. Besides, this is the final hearing, so we might as well use it.”
Nerennos looked like a man who was trying very hard not to roll his eyes. “Opposing counsel, do you agree?”
“A cat as a witness?” Raphael scoffed. He glanced at Zoraya, red-faced and out of breath. Abandoned by her legal assistant and now, apparently, also by the last threads of common sense.
He smiled and sat down next to Cazador. “Well, I assume that is far from the most outlandish thing that has happened during the course of this trial.”
“Go ahead, Miss Naelgrath,” Nerennos relented. “But please, do try to get to the point. We are all in need of a good night’s sleep.”
“Thank you. I promise, it will only take a moment.”
Zoraya stepped in front of the honorable High Judges, threw her hair over her shoulder, and suddenly, she was a different person.
Gone was the dreamy, wistful look in her eyes. That frantic, almost manic energy that seemed to blur her all around the edges as though somehow, on some level she didn’t quite understand where she was or what exactly they were doing here. This version of Zoraya was sharp. Crisp. Focused. Making it perfectly obvious that whatever performance she’d put on so far had been nothing more than that: a performance. A means to an end, a way to maneuver herself into this position at this point in time. Like the edge of a dagger, weaving its way through enemy lines.
And now was her time to strike.
“There are many definitions of personhood,” she began. “Some scholars point toward the capacity for critical thinking. Others focus more on the ability to feel pain or to empathize with the people around us. Rationality, agency, reflection — the list goes on and on. And while these criteria certainly have their merits in the realm of academic discussion, I believe we also need to recognize that they’re not always useful when it comes to real-life applications. How could we assess something like agency when we’re dealing with an immortal vampire lord, capable of controlling his spawn through compulsion? How do we measure empathy when they’ve been systematically pitted against each other for years or even decades?”
She let her eyes sweep across the courtroom, one brow raised in rhetorical inquiry, and Astarion realized he couldn’t have looked away from her if he’d tried.
She was mesmerizing. An overwhelming sense of clarity and purpose ringing from her every word and gesture — one that he knew she’d prepared ahead of time. Diligently honing them to perfection because the gods knew, Zoraya Naelgrath was the kind of person who thrived on excessive prep work.
“The answer is we cannot,” she said. “At least not with the tools that are currently at our disposal. This is an unprecedented case in the history of Baldur’s Gate, and as such, it shouldn’t be surprising that it requires a new set of legal strategies. Strategies that may not yet fill heaps of well-regarded legal tomes, but that are perfectly suited to help us deal with the unique challenges of this case. In accordance with the High Court’s ruling in Asimov v. The City of Baldur’s Gate, I would therefore like to move for the introduction of a novel legal concept: that of the unbiased outside observer.”
She thrust out her arm, inviting every pair of eyes in the courtroom — including the scrying eyes broadcasting it all to the general public — to zero in on Objection.
Objection, in turn, gave a smug purr and lifted his paw, toying with Astarion’s locket as if he didn’t have a care in the world.
Truly, a creature born for the spotlight.
“There is a wealth of things my client cannot tell us right now,” Zoraya said. “Insights he cannot share, questions he cannot answer truthfully. But none of that applies to an unbiased observer who’s known him for months. A being that is deeply attuned to its owner’s personality, evaluating matters of empathy and agency without needing to rely on verbal testimony.
“We have all heard stories of pets recognizing their owners after years of absence, haven’t we? Soldiers returning from war to find their dogs running toward them, not hesitating to throw themselves at their feet. A cat welcoming a grown man it has not seen since he left home as boy. Perhaps it’s time to acknowledge their superior instincts. Ask ourselves how much the vampiric transformation could have truly changed about my client when our cat still recognizes him?”
“Your Honor,” Raphael hissed, his face tight with irritation, “you cannot seriously entertain the idea that we let a cat determine the outcome of a High Court case!”
“The cat’s name is Objection,” Dekarios informed him in the stern tone of dedicated cat owners everywhere. “And he is a piece of evidence that has been approved by this court.”
The two High Judges next to him nodded their agreement, and that’s when Astarion realized.
They were actually considering it.
He couldn’t see all to well from where he was seated at the far end of the bench, but there was definitely an exchange of glances amongst the High Judges. Words muttered behind the bulky sleeves of their robes, old, weathered faces either pinching in scornful dismissiveness or opening up into a What the Hells; why not sort of expression.
Zoraya, realizing the overall momentum, plunged forward. “My cat loves Astarion,” she said. A lie told so easily and with such conviction, a part of Astarion — the part that wasn’t currently occupied with this hearing that would decide his fate forevermore — was dying to pull her into his arms and kiss her right then and there. “He’s always loved Astarion. If that hasn’t changed as a result of the transformation, shouldn’t we take that as evidence? Shouldn’t we—”
“But I thought the cat couldn’t stand him!” Karlach said, her voice booming out of the gallery like a war horn. She probably hadn’t meant to say it quite this loudly, but Karlach was not the type of woman who excelled at things like quiet and discrete. “I mean, every time Astarion tried to pet him, he’d always start hissing and shake his little paw and — mmph!”
Dammon, in a phenomenal display of timely intervention, chose this exact moment to overcome years of shyness and pining, stifling the rest of that sentence with his mouth. It could have been cute, really, if the two tieflings hadn’t continued to go at it right there in the gallery, prompting Wyll to clasp a protective hand over Ira’s eyes. Finally, Lae’zel took it upon herself to separate the two by kicking Dammon in the shin, hissing something in that language she only used when she was cooking or cursing or both.
Zoraya cleared her throat. “As I was saying,” she continued, “If my client is still the same in the eyes of the unbiased outside observer, shouldn’t we take that as evidence? At the very least, isn’t it a point of reasonable doubt against the idea that vampire spawn no longer qualify as people? And isn’t in dubio pro reo one of the pillars of the legal community?”
There was a beat of thoughtful silence, then Larkin slammed down his fist. “It’s a cat, for crying out loud! A stupid, brainless cat!”
All Hells broke loose from there. Pendragon was shouting at Larkin, anger coloring his face in a way that suggested that he, too, had a cat at home. Or two or twenty; who knew. Hackinstone tried to argue that in dubio pro reo wasn’t applicable in this case since the accused was, technically, the city and not any of the spawn. Dekarios countered that it was very much their livelihood that was at stake, and shouldn’t that matter above all else? Overall, there was a whole lot of yelling — a lot of it about cats and dogs and even a tortoise named Craig at some point.
The only one who seemed perfectly calm throughout it all was Zoraya. “Let us ask the witness then,” she said, her voice ringing through the chaos crystal-clear.
She strode up to the witness stand with long, measured steps, her dark eyes settling on Astarion. “As a former magistrate, you are familiar with the concept of in dubio pro reo, right? A point of reasonable doubt being sufficient to ensure an accused’s freedom?”
Astarion nodded tightly, the phantom sensation of a heartbeat pounding in his chest. What in the Hells was she getting at?
“Is there such a point of reasonable doubt you’d like to bring to the High Court’s attention?” Zoraya asked. “Something you would like them to know so as to aid their decision? Something you are … able to say, even under your current predicament?”
The honorable High Judges turned as one, their debates screeching to a sudden halt.
Astarion felt like the floor had opened up beneath his feet. Air rushing around him as he tumbled down, down into the center of Wyrm’s Rock. All the way to the dark, cramped little cell where he’d been resting in the illusion of safety right until his lord and master had burst through the doors earlier that day.
Cazador had been in the company of two guards. The same ugly, unwashed creatures Astarion had so painstakingly educated on the very basics of how to maintain a prison cell.
Clearly, they had not taken well to his teachings.
Before Astarion had time to collect himself, Cazador was already in his cell, the tip of his staff connecting with Astarion’s throat, knocking him to the floor. That’s where he stayed, cowering at his master’s feet as he was lectured on how the final hearing of Naelgrath v. The City of Baldur’s Gate was going to go.
He was to sing his master’s praises. Profess his happiness to be part of the Szarr household, his unwavering gratitude at being allowed to live there.
He was to reject the idea of ever leaving, scoff at the very notion of freedom or independence.
He was to sit up straight and keep his face calm and pretty, and he would not say anything at all that might reflect poorly on his family or Cazador in particular.
One by one, the rules bore down on him. Lodging themselves into the grooves and ridges of his brain, holding on with invisible talons like the wretched parasites they were. Making him a stranger in his own body, a helpless bystander to whatever narrative his master thought up for him.
If there was one thing he’d learned during his time with Cazador, it was this: There was no resisting his commands.
But perhaps he didn’t have to. Perhaps there was another way; one that didn’t break through Cazador’s rules so much as it involved him … slipping around them. Like a fish caught in a net, finding its way to a tiny hole the fisherman had failed to notice. One good flap of its fins and doom was no longer quite as certain.
Zoraya was looking straight at him, her words reverberating in his head.
In dubio pro reo.
The same words she’d told him the night of the vote, only this time, she used them for his benefit. Handed them to him like a gift, a lockpick for his own prison cell, trusting he’d know what to do with it.
Because somehow, despite it all, she still believed in him. Believed in his ability to make the right call and give her that last bit of evidence — something only he could do. For better or worse, Astarion knew Cazador. He knew the way he thought, knew the way he punished. He knew the kinds of things he’d anticipate as well as those that never would have crossed his mind.
And then, all of a sudden, Astarion knew just what to say.
“Yes,” he said. “As a matter of fact, I do.”
Objection had to hop off his lap as he stood — a slight bend in his waist due to the handcuffs that kept him tied to the table, but he did the best he could. Astarion took a deep breath, focusing on the cool metal around his wrists, the lingering warmth in his lap. The words perched on the tip of his tongue, the ones that would decide it all. And Zoraya’s gaze, of course, always locked on him. Always believing in him, no matter how many times he’d disappointed her,
Was he going to prove her right this time?
Only one way to find out.
“I am Astarion of House Szarr,” he said. “Formerly Astarion Ancunín. I am a vampire spawn and retired magistrate, and I … I’m in love with Zoraya Naelgrath.”
He couldn’t keep his gaze from flicking her way, greedy to see her lips part at his words. The way her fists curled around nothing as the full weight of it began to sink in, a flush of crimson across her cheeks, followed by the most bashful, little smile. It spread on her face like the glow of the morning sun, slowly making its way across the horizon. A spectacle of cosmic proportions, one he’d witnessed countless times without ever quite grasping the full extent of its beauty.
Gods.
He could do without the sun, so long as he had her.
Still, he tore himself off the sight of her, squaring his shoulders and lifting his chin. Drawing upon years of elocution lessons to make sure his voice carried all throughout the courtroom, just as it had back when he’d been a magistrate.
“The transformation has changed my life in countless ways,” he explained. “There is the hunger and the bloodlust, of course. My inability to go out into the sun and my … bond with Cazador. I won’t deny those changes or try to downplay their severity. And yet, what hasn’t changed at all as a result of the transformation are my feelings for Zoraya. She was on my mind when I was on the verge of death, and she was on my mind when I woke up in that coffin, six feet underground.
“I regretted my actions, the way I’d treated her. Hoped against all hope that she might find it in her heart to forgive me. But she, she did so much more than that. She went ahead and took it up with the entire legal system, just for a chance at” — his tongue didn’t quite comply with the phrase he’d originally wanted to use, so he scrambled for an alternative — “… getting me back. Which really goes to show what an exceedingly lucky bastard I am, all things considered. The woman I love just so happens to be my advocate as well as my best friend. And I realize it’s taken me way too long to get here because I was young and stupid — and then I wasn’t all that young anymore, but still plenty stupid — but … I’m here now. I love her. And I love her cat and I love a whole lot of other things just the same as I did before I was turned, and whatever definition of personhood the honorable High Judges choose to follow, these are facts they need to take into account.Thank you.”
Astarion sat back down, the handcuffs jingling against the table. He braced himself for questions, objections, even ridicule and laughter. What he hadn’t expected was the thin, wet sob that rose from behind the bench.
High Judge Dekarios sat with his hand pressed against the lower half of his face, his broad form trembling with barely contained emotion. “Thank you, Astarion,” he whispered. “I believe that is everything we need in order to start the vote. Everyone in favor?”
He turned to his colleagues and one by one, they nodded their agreement. Were they allowed to do that? Break courtroom etiquette and just skip over the closing statements? Then again, this was the High Court. They could probably do whatever it was they wanted, so long as they agreed on it.
In any case, no one seemed to stop them as they reached for the ceremonial rings on their fingers, placing them in one of two urns the courtroom attendant passed around. It was an ancient voting tradition, one they’d followed for so long that stopping it now would have probably felt silly.
Astarion’s heart lurched every time he heard the little pling.
When they were done, the courtroom attendant carried the urns over to her desk and set about counting their contents in the most leisurely way imaginable. Astarion couldn’t help but think that he really wouldn’t have minded having the cat in his lap for this part.
He knew without having to look that Cazador was glaring at him, the chill of his gaze like icy pinpricks in the back of his skull. Oh, how he would punish him for this. This was the sort of transgression that wouldn’t just land him in the kennels — no, this was sure to inspire a new punishment altogether. Something too twisted and horrible for Astarion to even imagine, like a nightmare, dissolving at the first streak of dawn.
He tried to tell himself that it was fine. That he could deal with whatever fallout awaited him back at the Szarr estate.
But he knew in his heart that it wasn’t true.
If this vote didn’t go his way, Cazador would break him all over again. And this time, there’d be no putting him back together.
“The results of the vote on Naelgrath v. The City of Baldur’s Gate …” The courtroom attendant’s voice seemed to come from somewhere far away. A different plane of existence, one where old men tossed their rings into an urn and the fates of mortals were sealed, once and for all. “Votes in favor of Miss Naelgrath’s motion to include vampire spawn into the category of sentient beings, deserving of the legal protection, as per Article VII of the constitution of Baldur’s Gate …”
The handcuffs dug into Astarion’s wrists, his fangs into the inside of his mouth. It was like he was back in that alley again, his entire being poised on the edge of a knife. Ready to fall either way, helplessly hurtling toward his inevitable end.
“Five out of nine,” the courtroom attendant declared. “Miss Naelgrath’s motion passes by absolute majority.”
Her tone was so disinterested, so devoid of any and all emotion, that if it hadn’t been for Karlach’s heartfelt “Fuck, yeah!”, Astarion likely wouldn’t have been able to put the pieces together.
It couldn’t be.
It couldn’t be that this tiny Dwarven lady in her revoltingly ill-fitting blouse rattled off a few dozen words and just like that, he’d be free.
But there were Karlach and Dammon in the first row, clapping and cheering at the top of their lungs. Wyll tossing Ira in the air like an oversized hat at some sort of antiquated ceremony, while Lae’zel rolled her eyes and scooted out of the way, offering her own applause at a safe distance. Shadowheart sprinting back into the courtroom as if she hadn’t just left in an angry huff less than half an hour ago, the largest smile he’d ever seen on her face as she jumped over the balustrade and all but tackled Zoraya into a hug.
It was a rather busy arrangement, what with Objection still in there as well, but it only lasted for a moment. Because Zoraya — gods, Zoraya — was already wriggling away from her colleague. Dumping the cat in Shadowheart’s arms as she turned around, nearly tripping over her own feet in her rush to get to him.
“Astarion!” she called out, heels clicking and hair whipping, a joyous little laugh spilling from her lips as she ran. “We did it! We—”
Cazador.
He was there in the blink of an eye. Materializing out of his mist form right in front of Zoraya, one hand raised above his head, the wicked gleam of a blade between his long, pale fingers.
“No!” Astarion jumped up with such force, he ripped off the whole entire table that just so happened to be attached to his handcuffs.
Immediately, he knew that he was not going to make it in time. He tried anyway, his legs scrambling toward her in useless, helpless panic.
Please. The thought was blindingly bright in his head. Someone. Anyone.
Something black flashed in the corner of his eye. A dark savior, rushing to Zoraya’s defense on silent paws. He leapt onto her back as she ducked under the first blow, using it as a launching pad to hurl himself forward with even greater force, landing with his claws in Cazador’s face.
Cazador howled in anger. The blade slipping through his fingers as he stumbled backward, thrashing and batting at the vicious furry creature that was currently attached to his face, its paws a blur of blood and violence. Objection, however, did not let go. He was holding on with all the tenacity of a seasoned rodeo champion, tail swishing in the air, a cry of righteous vengeance in his throat.
Karlach got there first — before any of the official guards, Astarion couldn’t help but notice. She pommeled into Cazador, ripping him off his feet and pinning him down to the floor. Wyll and Dammon were there a heartbeat later, helping her hold down the screaming vampire lord, all while Objection continued to slap the ever-loving shit out of his face.
It was really rather impressive. Because while the combined forces of Karlach, Dammon and Wyll certainly had the strength to hold him, Cazador had a wealth of magic spells at his disposal, many of them designed to get him out of situations just like this one. Why wouldn’t he turn himself into mist as he’d done just a few moments ago? Slip right through their hands and retreat into the safety of his estate, pack his bags and flee town before anyone could possibly catch him?
Could it be that there was more to Objection than even Zoraya could have known? A dark secret hidden away in his past — some sort of sinister magic perhaps, something that allowed him to counteract the vampire’s spellwork and dominate in spite of his diminutive size?
Astarion made a tentative step forward, trying to get a better look at the whole thing, and nearly slipped on a wet, fleshy object.
It was a tongue.
A vaguely human-sized tongue, right where Objection had first launched himself at Cazador.
Astarion couldn’t help it — he laughed. What else was there to do, really, when he’d just witnessed his advocate’s cat do what no vampire hunter would have ever thought to do? Foregoing stakes and crosses and holy water in favor of simply ripping out the man’s tongue, thus robbing him of any spellwork that included a verbal component?
Zoraya stepped up next to him, arms crossed in front of her chest. “I swear, I did not teach him to do that.”
“If I were you, I’d say the exact same thing, darling.”
“But it’s true!” she protested. Then, after a few more seconds of carnage, “I should probably go get him, no?”
Astarion smiled. “I think it can wait a little longer.”
The courtroom guards brought a pair of silver-lined handcuffs, slapping it onto Cazador’s wrists as they hauled him upright. “Cazador Szarr, you’re under arrest for attempted murder and disrupting the High Court of Baldur’s Gate. You have the right to remain silent. Everything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney …” The guard hesitated and glanced at the opposing counsel table.
It was empty, the mysterious Raphael nowhere to be found.
“Well.” The guard shrugged. “If you don’t have an attorney, one will be provided for you by the state. Let’s get you to your cell.”
Cazador grunted and wheezed, but whether it was in protest against the silver handcuffs or the prison cell, no one would ever know. The guards yanked him toward the same door Astarion had come through, and Objection took this as his cue to finally jump off the thoroughly defeated vampire lord. He made straight for Zoraya, announcing his victory with a smug little meow as he rubbed his blood-spattered head against her leg.
“Gods below,” Dekarios said. “If that wasn’t the most eventful courtroom session I’ve ever had the pleasure of leading. And then this delightfully tenacious creature at your side, Zoraya. Why, I’d say I’m smitten if I wasn’t also ever so slightly terrified!” He laughed and bent down to get a better look at Objection.
“I’m so sorry about him!” Zoraya hurried to say, stepping in between him and the cat before the honorable High Judge could attempt to pet him. “I don’t know what’s gotten into him. I mean, yes, he’s jumped the occasional mailman, but he’s never … I mean, almost never …”
“Nonsense,” Dekarios said. “If he hadn’t been here, who knows how many guards would have been necessary to restrain Lord Szarr. I, for one, am going to have a very serious conversation with whoever was in charge of security today. In the meantime …” He turned to Astarion, brandishing a small silver key. “I believe you are a free man once more, Astarion. Congratulations.”
The handcuffs came off with a faint click, the bits of table that were still attached to it thudding to the floor. Astarion thought that he should probably apologize for vandalizing government property, but he couldn’t quite manage the words. He couldn’t do much of anything, it seemed, except for rubbing his wrists together and trying to come to terms with the fact that it was over.
Well and truly over.
Most of the High Judges had already left, but there were still some journalists scribbling away in their notebooks. A few visitors discussing the spectacles they’d witnessed tonight. Dammon fastening an impromptu bandage around a minor gash on Karlach’s arm, a wound she must have gotten from either Cazador or her attempts at removing Objection from his face.
And then, finally, the court janitor ambling up with mop and bucket in hand. Ready to wipe off those unseemly bloodstains because tomorrow was another day and there’d be another trial, requiring clean floors.
Dekarios, meanwhile, was still rambling. “What Zoraya has accomplished here today is truly remarkable. Using a pet’s testimony to evaluate their owner’s personality — this will certainly set a new precedent for all sorts of future trials. Oh, I can’t wait to tell Tara about it! She’ll be delighted!”
“Thank you, Gale,” Zoraya said. “For everything.”
“Ah, don’t mention it!” Dekarios said. “But once the dust has settled, I’d love for you to come by my office, Zoraya. Let me make you an offer for a new job, provided, your client here isn’t keeping you too busy.” He gave Astarion one of his chummy smiles, then finally bid them goodbye.
Astarion waited until he was out of earshot. “So.” He looked at Zoraya, his mouth quirking up at the corner. “Care to tell me how you bribed your cat to testify for me?”
Her grin took him entirely by surprise. It was wide and unrestrained, her dark eyes sparkling with mischief as she reached a hand to the locket he’d started to wear around his neck.
Except, it wasn’t her locket, now that he examined it properly. The thing that hung from his neck was larger and of significantly lower quality. A trinket, purchased for a coin or two at the local market. And what fell into her hand when she opened it wasn’t the clay disc she’d shown him, the sign of their friendship, two fingerprints back to back.
It was a small, fish-shaped object. Brown and somewhat crunchy in texture, the smell of salt and cheap oil so pungent, it made Astarion’s nose wrinkle in protest.
Objection seemed to have no such reservations; he threw himself at the treat as soon as Zoraya tossed it to him, chomping down on it with gusto.
“Good boy,” she said, smiling fondly. “You deserve it.”
Astarion stared at the cat. His thoughts were racing and still, they didn’t seem to move quite fast enough to catch up with the absolute madness of what she was implying. “But … but how did you …?”
“Ira.” Zoraya gestured at the girl who was seated next to Dammon and Karlach, her nose buried in a book and a familiar locket dangling off her neck. “You didn’t notice her? Before the hearing?”
Astarion’s eyes widened when the pieces clicked into place. Him, shuffling up the steps to the courtroom with his shoulders slumped, two guards at his side. A small, nimble silhouette scampering past them, bumping into one of the guards on her way downstairs. Muttered apologies as she stopped, just long enough for an experienced thief like her to exchange one necklace for another.
“Zoraya Naelgrath, you sneaky little thing,” he said, his smile so wide, it felt as though his face might split in half. “You mean to tell me you cheated in court?”
“Shh,” she whispered, pressing a finger to her lips. Looking so unbearably cute, Astarion felt his hands clench and unclench like a poorly animated construct. “I have a reputation to uphold.”
He hadn’t allowed himself to think of this moment. Had denied himself the fantasy of something he hadn’t thought possible right until she’d gone ahead and proven him wrong. Which meant that now that she was here, neither bars nor handcuffs to separate them, Astarion was suddenly exceedingly aware of his hands and the fact that he had no idea what to do with them.
He wanted to touch her. Hells, he wanted to touch her about a million ways at once, most of them starting with that red blouse in a torn-up heap at her feet. But there were also those other feelings, twisting like tendrils just below the surface. Feelings that had nothing to do with Zoraya, but that would nonetheless spring up and lash out as soon as he pushed himself that little bit too much.
So Astarion took a deep breath. Pushed down on the greed and the lust, all those quintessentially vampiric feelings. And then he reached a hand to her cheek, cradling her face for a long, tender moment before pressing his lips to hers.
It was a brief, little touch, barely more than a peck. The type of kiss you might exchange in school corridors or behind the gymnasium, glancing around nervously to make sure no one was watching. The type of kiss Astarion had never really had before. He couldn’t have foreseen the rush of frantic energy in his chest, a fluttering, soaring sensation like a swarm of inebriated butterflies, drunk on the sweetest of nectars.
And then, because self-restraint wasn’t exactly his area of expertise, he did it again. Lingering just a touch longer this time, his fingertips brushing into her hair. Curling around the nape of her neck and pulling her closer, until her chest was flush against his. Zoraya’s lips opened into a sigh, a quiet sound of pleasure, and Astarion knew then and there that he had never kissed her enough. A failure he fully intended to make up for — but for now, he had to step away from her, for both of their sakes.
“Apologies,” he whispered, his every cell thrumming with desire. “I don’t want to …”
“I know.” Zoraya smiled, all rosy cheeks and warm, brown eyes. “Your pace. Always your pace.”
His heart squeezed. Maybe the thing wasn’t dead after all. Just a little dusty and out of practice.
“I love you,” Astarion told her. Because really, last time hadn’t been for her so much as for the honorable High Court, and she deserved her own version. “I love you, Zoraya Naelgrath. So much. I know I can’t hope to make up for all that you’ve done for me. But if you give me a chance, I swear I’ll—”
“You don’t have to make up for anything,” she said. “I already have everything I’ve ever wanted.”
“A job offer from High Judge Dekarios?”
“No.” She leaned in to his ear, lowering her voice to a whisper. “You.”
Astarion shuddered, his arms circling around her waist on their own accord. “You know, my love” he said, “saying things like that should be illegal when you’re already this heart-achingly beautiful.”
She tipped her head back with a grin. “Sue me.”
“Oh, I might,” he promised. “There’s got to be consequences in the world, after all.”
Astarion pulled her close, using perhaps a tad too much force because suddenly, her feet were up in the air, and she was squealing, bursts of high-pitched, breathless laughter spilling out of her as he spun her in a circle of pure unabashed happiness.
“‘starion!” Zoraya giggled, legs kicking wildly. “I’m too heavy for that kind of stuff!”
“Not at all.” He placed her back on her feet, preening at the way she clung to him, fingers digging into his shoulders. “You, my dear, are standing before a creature of the night. A being blessed with supernatural strength.”
“Does that mean you can bring in the firewood from now on?”
“Well, let’s not get carried away. It’s going to take long enough to regrow these nails, even without—”
“Astarion!” Karlach’s voice, loud and forceful like a cannonball mid-flight. Which, coincidentally, was also how she felt, throwing herself at the two of them with her burly arms flung wide.
“Dearest, please,” Dammon said, gently prying her away. “You’ll crush them to a pulp. And wouldn’t that be rather wasteful after Zoraya just went through all this trouble to get him out of prison?”
“Oh, fuck, sorry!” Karlach stepped back, laughing self-consciously. “You guys alright?”
“Minor alterations to my skeletal structure,” Zoraya reported.
“Damn, that was close!” Karlach said. “For a second there, I was sure the fanged fucker was gonna off you. Thank god your cat was here to save the day!”
“A uniquely skilled warrior indeed,” Lae’zel agreed, eyeing Objection with unconcealed interest. “I wonder where he trained to attain such skills.”
“I think we should let him have his secrets. Come on.” Shadowheart took her girlfriend’s hand, tugging her away before she could challenge the cat to a formal duel. “Zoraya, I expect my bonus on my desk in the morning. Good night, everyone.”
Dammon, Karlach and Ira left shortly thereafter, even though Dammon had to remind Ira to return the locket. Astarion was just about to suggest they’d go home as well when he noticed two lonesome figures in the gallery. One of them was tall and composed, not a single silver curl out of place. The other was sniffling into a handkerchief, tear stains all over their fine silk shirt.
“Astarion, my boy,” Aquilan said, smiling through his tears. “We’re so glad. So glad.”
Oh, shit, Astarion thought, backing away on instinct. A series of well-honed defense mechanisms slotting into place, mentally preparing himself for the inevitable onslaught of criticism and blame.
He’d brought this upon himself. They had told him a thousand times to stay the Hells away from Cazador, but had he listened? No. He hadn’t even done them the favor of staying dead, marring the family name with an undead monster in their midst instead. Hadn’t he ever stopped to think about them, their reputation, their legacy …
“You did it,” Quelenna said. Her face was ghostly pale, one corner of her mouth trembling ever so slightly. “You … won.”
And there was something in the way her icy blue eyes were locked on him that made him realize she wasn’t just speaking about Zoraya. That this, at last, was something she considered an accomplishment — his accomplishment.
And when Aquilan reached out with shaky hands, his face all puffy with tears, Astarion found it rather difficult to do anything other than accept it. His cold, undead fingers closing around his father’s hand, squeezing it for just a moment.
There. Not a hug, but close enough.
“We shall have a celebratory dinner,” Quelenna announced, clearing her throat. “You will come to the estate and I will have Eacaris prepare all your favorite meals.”
Astarion snorted reflexively. “I appreciate the gesture, mother, but I’m afraid my culinary preferences are a little—”
“We will!” Zoraya cut in. Smiling brightly as she took his arm and led him toward the exit. “Just as soon as Astarion has settled in. If you excuse us — it’s been a long night, and we still have to work our way through the journalists out there.”
“I’ll deal with them,” Quelenna said. “Come on, Aquilan. Astarion deserves to get home without being accosted by these vultures.”
She strode off with her silver gown rippling behind her, her back straight like a crossbow ready to fire.
“I hope she doesn’t kill anyone,” Zoraya muttered under her breath
“Not to worry,” Astarion said. “I have the feeling she’s in a good mood.”
Zoraya picked up Objection who was beginning to look rather bored now that all the vampire lords had been slain and the fish treats consumed. She pressed her arm against Astarion’s, regarding him with that tender look in her eyes. “Ready to go home?”
“Yes,” he said, smiling at the sound of the word, coming from her lips. The warmth pulsing through his chest, almost like a heartbeat. “Home.”