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Chapter Text

A Harlot's Rest

Chapter 1

            Astarion didn't even scream.

            He knew the dance well by now. His mind and body executing the extensively rehearsed choreography without any input from his soul.

            Cazador had done such a good job with him, he thought bitterly as his face was being pressed into the floor. No matter how much the bastard liked to repeat that Astarion needed to be 'taught his place', the truth was that he really didn't. He knew it all too well.

            Though, in all honesty, this time, he had said no. Which he would have never done, while still in Baldur's Gate. But something about everything that had happened recently had changed that. The fresh air, the sunlight, the victories, the powers, the friendships. Something about all that had made him think maybe he could say no. Maybe he was strong enough to face the consequences of refusal, and valuable enough to be worth their cost.

            So, when the hands of the local Baron had become a bit too adventurous, Astarion had done something he hadn't in nearly two hundred years. He had said no. First flirtatiously. Then gently. Then firmly.

            For all the good it had done him.

            If his brain had been able to slip out of its torpor, Astarion would have wondered if anything would have been changed if he had been firm right away. If he had protested more clearly, more coldly. 

            When the Baron had followed him away from the party when Astarion had wanted to have some fresh air, he had known that whatever his protestations had sounded like, it hadn't been enough.

            It had all begun like one of their stupid days, as the stupid heroes of the oppressed that they had unexpectedly become lately. They were still a handful of days away from Baldur's Gate but, thanks to some random act of heroism by Wyll – who had decided that fighting some giant spiders instead of just walking past them was a good idea – they had been granted a comfortable night at the nearby town. The locals had thought that welcoming them in the Baron's manor until the morning was the best way to thank them for their good deed.

            Astarion would have preferred gold and he had made it known but, as often, he had been ignored by the others who had been all too eager to rush inside where good wine and good beds were available.

            Despite his complaints, Astarion had been happy not to spend yet another night sleeping in the dirt.

            He was now reconsidering. He would have preferred the dirt.

            Hells, he would have preferred the spiders. Even covered in their blood and guts, he wouldn't have felt as dirty.

"C'm'on. Wanna hear you. I'm sure you're the kind to never shut it..."

            Astarion could feel the hot, wet breath of the man against his neck, and smell the vapors of alcohol.

            He had tried to fight. When he had felt the body press against him, that foreign yet familiar hardness against his back, he had tried to kick and claw. Had sprained his wrist in that fight and could still feel the pain pulsing along his bone. But his swords had been left in the main room, and he had drunk more than his fair share of blood as well, his motions slowed and his strengths dulled.

            The only thing he had not done was to scream. For he knew, by extensive experience, how much everyone adored the sound of his cries and could never get their fill of it. How many times had he heard that they were especially sweet? Even if he had wanted to, he didn't believe the sound would have made it past his throat. Forever blocked in his chest, too scared of the outside world.

            When the Baron, using his much more imposing frame, had taken him off his feet to slam him against the floor, Astarion had kept resolutely quiet. When his pants had been yanked down, he had stopped fighting.

            In an instant, his body had gone completely limp, his every muscle relaxing. A well-trained dog, he was. The little mechanisms in his brain were perfectly greased. Lessons taught over and over again had been carefully integrated. He had fought, which was unusual for him. Unthinkable even. But his pants down, he knew it was too late. The begging, the bargaining, they were all taking place before. The feeling of his hips being bruised, of his legs being pulled apart, that was telling him he had run out of time. Everything, from now on, would just grant him punishment and nothing else. Screaming would arouse them, pleading would annoy them, fighting would inspire them.

            So, Astarion's body knew how to stay still, and his mind knew how to wait it out.

"I told ya I would make you feel real good..." the Baron said, his words slurred by alcohol.

            Astarion objectively knew his heart wasn't beating. But somehow, he swore he could sense it pounding in his chest, like a trapped bird crushed by the Baron's heavy body. Yet he didn't sense anything at all in the way of emotions. There was no thought in his brain and no feeling buried in his guts. His survival instinct was such that it would only indulge shame and disgust and rage and despair when Astarion would be alone. For now, it was just waiting.

            And it was getting long.

            The Baron had already had a whole ride, bringing himself to completion and spilling all over Astarion's thighs, but he had been in the mood for a second go at it apparently. Rubbing himself against the Elf's bottom until he was ready for another round.

            Astarion was patient, but he was in pain. His mind wouldn't let him acknowledge it but it was actually agonizing. His wrist wasn't even throbbing enough to distract him from the rest. He had distinctly felt the fragile wall inside him being ripped open when the Baron had shoved his massive erection into a hole that was not made nor prepared to handle such a harsh violation. And each thrust was rubbing against the wound that Astarion could feel widening inside him.

            He was sure that the Baron had some orcish genetics, buried in his family tree.

            After twenty decades of experience, it was a skill he had developed. He could sometimes guess forgotten lineage just by the specific way their cocks hurt when they were being forced dry into him. What a neat party trick, he would think tomorrow, bitterly laughing. Tomorrow only. Right now, he couldn't think and he was not drunk enough to laugh.

"You're all big talk but it's all you wanted, huh?" the stupid disgusting mouth was saying while kissing his skin. "You like playing coy but you're still begging for a good fuck."

            If he hadn't before, Astarion nearly laughed at that.

            Coy? Him? He sure as Hells wasn't. He had shamelessly flirted with everyone tonight. Including the Baron. Cazador had told him enough that, as he only had one skill, he may as well make use of it. Or else what good would he be?

            Where the Baron was right was that he had been begging for it to happen. He had smiled and laughed. He had made sure to look beautiful and to arouse the senses.

            Now, he was lying on the floor, with a cock the side of his damn fist ramming into him. What a bloody surprise. How fucking unexpected.

            It was just as if he had directly asked for it.

            Apart from the part where he had said no and he had fought back, but that part didn't really matter.

            Where the Baron was just being ridiculously stupid and pathetic was when he was talking of a good fuck. It was pitiful and ruined and moist. If he had not been pinning him down and ripping him open, Astarion would have shown him what a damn good fuck looked like. Just out of fucking spite.

            That the Baron had his way with him was one thing but that he thought he was being good at it…?

            More times than he could ever recall, Astarion had had to pretend he was loving what was being done to him. That he was having a real blast out of it.

            But Cazador was not here. He would never know whether or not Astarion was doing a good job. So to Hells with it all, Astarion would find a way to make sure the Baron knew just how much of a bad lay he was.

            When it would all be over, though.

            For Astarion's mind had locked itself away for now, and he knew he would have no real control over it for as long as this whole ordeal would last.

            So, just wait for now.

            Breathe in, and out.

            Astarion didn't need to breathe.

            But he had realized very quickly that he loved the strange lulling sensation. So that was what he was doing. Breathing in. And out.

            It was nearly peaceful if it wasn't for the pain, the thrusts, the smell of blood and semen and the grunting of pleasure in his ear.

            Well... Maybe it wasn't anywhere near peaceful, actually.

            It was even less so when Astarion, who was desperate to hear anything other than the Baron's stupid moans, picked up on a glimpse of conversation taking place outside the room.

"Astarion?" he heard his name being called. "Where are you?"

            Wyll's voice.

            His unexpected companion searching for him.

            Astarion pressed his face onto the floor, feeling the dirty wood against his mouth. Making sure no sound would come out of it. Staying as silent as possible. 

            But the Baron was still rutting and grunting like a boar, having failed to hear the call.

"I saw him leave that way," another voice said.

            Lae'zel, Astarion had no trouble figuring out.

"Astarion, come on, you'll never believe what Karlach is doing. I swear, if you miss it, you'll regret it your whole l..."

            The Baron hadn't heard the voices, but he heard the door being swung open just fine.

            The sight put an abrupt end to Wyll's sentence, as he froze on the threshold.

"Oh, sorry, I didn't mean to... Sorry!"

            He closed the door as quickly as he had opened it. Leaving Astarion alone with the Baron.

            The moment the door closed, Astarion felt a sharp pain in his stomach. He had no idea why and where it was coming from, but it was more vivid and more dizzying than the pain between his legs or in his wrist. For an absurd second, Astarion was convinced that the Baron had fucked him deep enough to perforate his organs.

            But he was aware that it was objectively untrue. He didn't think he had been hurt at all, and there was no reason for this pain, yet it was so sudden, so crushing, he felt like, unlike everything else that had happened to him tonight, the sight of the door closing would be what would finally bring tears to his eyes.

            The Baron laughed above him, visibly thoroughly amused.

"That's awkward," he said. "Though, with the little I've seen of you, I can easily guess they must find you in much worse positions all the time."

            The Baron's gigantic hand playfully slapped Astarion's thigh as if he was in on the joke.

            Astarion tried to sink his fangs into the floor. All he could do was scratch the wood and collect dirt on his tongue.

            Tears burnt his eyes. They didn't fall down. They rarely did. But they burnt as hells.

            Why a door of all things? What was so tragic about it?

            Before Astarion could try and fail to find a reason, the door opened again, still on Wyll, Lae'zel standing behind him.

            Only a few seconds had passed, between the moment the Human had closed the door and the moment he had reopened it. As if he suddenly remembered he had left something in the room.

"Are you dense?" the Baron asked, not finding it so funny anymore. "You're clearly interrupting something here. Can't you see?"

            Wyll's mismatched eyes met Astarion's. They looked at each other in silence for a moment. Astarion didn't say a word. He kept his mouth resolutely close.

            No matter the burning pain in his stomach, that for some reason was making him want to stand up and fight back, he knew too well that talking now would only bring him more suffering and humiliation.

"Astarion, are you alright?" Wyll asked, not paying any mind to the Baron's growing annoyance.

"Is it some kind of weird fantasy?" the Baron asked. "Is it somehow fine by you to just stay there and watch when people are so obviously having a private moment? Because if so..."

            The Baron's voice faded in the back of Astarion's silent mind.

            He still didn't say a word. Didn't move a muscle. He just looked at Wyll.

            Whose eyes transformed in reaction. They narrowed, they grew darker and colder, and anger shone behind the pupil.

            Astarion felt a thrill of pure terror run down his spine. He feared Cazador's every mood and emotion. But if he was enough of a brainless failure to bring upon him his Master's wrath, Astarion knew that none of his worst nightmares would match the punishments that were about to be inflicted upon him.

            He felt it even more distinctly than any pain. The nausea. Astarion was about to throw up, unable to stomach his own fear.

            He closed his eyes. Wishing for death. A new, definitive one. A Masterless one.

"Wyll, we should not..."

            Lae'zel's sentence ended with a blast.

            With a yell, the heavy body weighing down on Astarion was sent flying and it fell loudly on the floor, a couple of feet away.

            Astarion, as for him, didn't feel any added pain. He opened his eyes, reluctantly.

            Wyll, his hand extended in front of him, still open from the Eldritch Blast it had just cast, stepped forward, his eyes shining with furor, which made Astarion quiver with fear, the pre-taste of vomit filling his mouth.

            The Human reached for his back, realizing too late that he had left his trusted rapier in the next room. The time this mistake wasted was enough for the Baron to get back on his feet and launch forward with a growl of anger. His massive fist flew toward Wyll's face who jumped on the side to dodge it. However, from behind him, Lae'zel appeared. And she had not parted from any weapon she was carrying.

            Her gigantic long sword, heavier than Astarion's whole body had to be, swung in the air and collided with the Baron's neck in a geyser of blood. The powerful blow was able to detach the head from the shoulder and, in a second so short it left everyone but Lae'zel stunned, the Baron was no more.

            He fell on the ground in two pieces.

            Astarion looked at the corpse. And took in the heavy silence that followed.

            All he could think was that he wouldn't have any opportunity to tell the Baron how much of a bad lay he was, by listing all his sexual flaws and shortcomings back to him.

            All he could feel...

            He wished he could feel anger. Or emptiness. He couldn't. He felt pure, debilitating fear. He was unable to crawl out of it, even as the head of the Baron had stopped rolling on the floor.

            The wood creaked by his side, as Wyll was stepping closer to him, and Astarion felt his terror pulse in his body, the way his blood couldn't anymore.

"Astarion?" Wyll called.

            There was so much that could be said.

            Astarion had dozens of reactions, ordered in his mind, ready to be performed. He had jokes, excuses, wits and distractions. He had thousands of reasons he could give to explain his predicament and keep his dignity. He also had a few insults and threats that would make anyone reluctant to try to save him ever again. He could hear in his head, with perfect clarity, his own singsonging voice delivering the well-rehearsed lines with flawless confidence. 

            Yet, nothing in him moved. His tongue remained inert in his mouth. His body stayed limp on the floor.

            His ordeal had been put to an end, but it had been too abrupt, too unexpected for him to fully comprehend it. And, though he knew it was stupid, he found himself still waiting.

            Waiting for it all to be over.

"Lae'zel," Wyll called. "Please, go tell the others we've killed the Baron. They need to discreetly gather."

"I will do that. Though I doubt any of them knows the meaning of discretion."

            Lae'zel put her blade back in its sheath and left the room, carefully closing the door behind her to hide the disgusting scene.

            Wyll knelt down by Astarion's side. He didn't seem angry anymore. His voice, as his face, was softer. But it did nothing to calm Astarion's persistent fear.

"It's over, my friend. You'll be fine now."

            Astarion could tell Wyll had no idea what to say. He had that lost air on his face, and he was trying to look more confident than he was.

            Astarion was not one to be fooled by lies. He knew them too well.

"I... We should... Maybe you want to..."

            He finished none of his sentences. Wyll looked up, toward the door, then down on Astarion once more.

"Are you hurt? I mean, of course but... can you move?"

            Astarion didn't answer. 

            He had stopped breathing. Air could sometimes calm him down, but air created motions and sounds. Astarion yearned to be as nonexistent as possible.

            And he feared that breathing would finally trigger his gag reflex. The urgent need to just vomit everything that was stagnating in his stomach was still there.

"I will..."

            Once again, Wyll interrupted his beginning of a sentence and looked at the door. Astarion heard footsteps growing louder.

"I'll just dress you up, if that's alright with you."

            Astarion didn't react and Wyll grabbed the loose pants hanging around the vampire's thighs, and carefully brought them up, putting them back around the elf's waist.

            On one hand, Astarion was sorry Wyll had to suffer the disgusting sight of blood, sweat and semen he was offering.

            On the other one, he nearly wept with relief when he felt the fabric of his pants pressing against his bottom. Everything was painful, wet and sticky, but at least it was hidden now. Only for Astarion to feel. He would take any kind of privacy he could get right now.

            A few seconds after Wyll's decision to pull his pants up, the door opened again.

"What do you mean, killed?" Gale's voice interrupted the silence. "What in the Nine Hells made you think it was a good idea to kill the Baron of all people? In his own manor?"

"The town should thank us for that deed," Lae'zel spat. "He was a weak leader. He would never have brought them any military victory. They will get a shot at a new, better monarch."

"More likely, they'll take their shot at us, Lae'zel. If they don't..."

            Gale didn't finish his sentence. He had stopped the moment his eyes had fallen on the beheaded corpse.

            He then looked around. At Astarion on the floor, at Wyll by his side. He opened his mouth and closed it.

            Astarion was dressed again. But the Baron was not. His pants hanging around his knees were leaving everything on display. Astarion didn't look. He had no desire to see what had been inside him a moment ago. Better to just feel the pain than to add the visuals on top of it.

"Well," Gale said, keeping his voice light and detached, "he is dead. And his body is right in front of us. Those are the undeniable facts. What next?"

            He was talking more to himself than to Lae'zel. 

            More footsteps led to Shadowheart, Karlach and Halsin bursting into the room.

"They are distracted," Karlach said right away, "I told them that... Oh by the Gods... You weren't kidding when you said he was dead."

"Kidding?" Lae'zel repeated. "Why would I be kidding? Where would be the core of the joke?"

"I mean he is really, really dead."

"As opposed to somewhat dead?" Shadowheart said, stepping forward and kneeling next to the corpse. "What happened?"

            There was a moment of silence. Once again, all the witty answers Astarion was so talented at delivering lined up in his throat. And, once again, none got out.

"He attacked Astarion," Wyll said, leaving it at that. "He tried to take a swing at me, and Lae'zel put an end to the fight."

            That recount of the event made it sound like Astarion had been with Wyll and Lae'zel the whole time. That it had been nothing but a fight.

            He liked that version.

            But despite his best attempt at hopeful denial, he didn't think anyone understood it that way. The state of the Baron and the fact that Astarion was still uselessly prostrated on the floor, lying on his stomach, was enough for the other members of their group to piece together the missing bits.

            Though none commented on it. They rolled with Wyll's words.

"What do we do now?" Karlach asked.

"I can make the corpse disappear," Shadowheart coldly announced. "Blood can be cleaned."

"And then what? We return to bed and pretend we have no idea what happened to the Baron?"

            The little group began to talk and plot, trying to find a way out of their predicament. But Wyll didn't take part in any of the conversations.

"Halsin?" he called, quietly enough to not bother the others, "could you..."

            He didn't finish his sentence, but he made a discreet head gesture toward Astarion.

"Yes, of course," the Druid said, promptly walking up to them.

            He knelt on Astarion's other side, his massive silhouette casting a shadow over Astarion's slender body. Halsin was a bit smaller than the Baron. But he was still just as imposing.

            Astarion pressed his face harder against the floor, wishing his muscles could contract to offer him some deceiving impression that they would protect him.

But no. Contraction meant pain. It was a very straightforward equation, Astarion had learned that very early. The more he was scared of what was to come, the more he needed to stay perfectly limp. And scared he definitely was.

"Are you injured in any way? If so, can you tell me where it hurts? "

            Even if Astarion could talk, he wouldn't have. He was too dizzy, too nauseous to even think about opening his mouth.

            The wrist, he didn't care. But he had no desire to let Halsin know the first thing about the stains he could currently feel dripping down his inner thighs.

            He closed his eyes, waiting for Wyll to answer and expose him as obscenely as the Baron had done.

            But Wyll didn't. He took a sharp breath, on the verge of speaking, but didn't say a word.

"Yes? What is it?" Halsin asked him.

"No. Nothing."

            And Astarion had rarely loved someone as much as he loved Wyll in that very second. He didn't care about the Baron's death, or about anyone putting a – temporary – end to his torment. But Wyll keeping his mouth shut brought renewed burns, if not tears, to his eyes. This time of sheer relief.

"I will just have a look at your head, Astarion," the Druid said. "Make sure there's no wound. I promise I won't touch you in any way."

            Astarion heard the rustling of clothes and the squeaking of leather, but nothing touched him indeed. He remained stoic under the inspection. He knew no wound would be found.

            His fall face first into the floor had been the least violent part of his evening.

"We're leaving," a voice said from above him, Halsin and Wyll.

            Gale had walked up to them, Karlach by his side.

"There is no way we can pretend to be innocent, we've decided that our best shot is to put as much distance between them and us before they find out. Thankfully, they seem to believe he has retired for the night. That may grant us a few added hours. Very welcomed ones."

"Shadowheart's off making sure the other folks of the manor are getting a real good night of sleep," Karlach said. "Lae'zel went outside to see if she could find some horses or a cart maybe. Anything to speed us up."

"We're not going to steal horses, are we?" Wyll didn't sound too happy about it. "They rely on them."

"Well... I guess we could pay someone else to bring them back if that bothers you... I'm sure that won't make them hate us more than they already will."

"Can he..."

            Gale didn't finish his question. But the use of that pronoun and the hesitation of his sentence made Astarion feel he was the one being spoken about. Gale ultimately decided for another wording.

"Can we leave?"

            Can he walk, he wanted to ask.

            Astarion would have felt anger if his general anxiety was not already overwhelming to the point of emotional numbness.

            Yes, he could walk just fine. If the world was willing to give him a damn second to pull himself together.

"Go ahead," Halsin simply answered. "We will be right behind you."

            Gale and Karlach didn't add anything and simply walked away. Astarion felt Wyll hesitate for a second by his side, on the verge of getting up, but he finally stayed with Halsin.

"Astarion," the Druid softly called his name, "I can guess that you have no desire to be picked up and carried around, so I will help you on your feet. If you feel pain or any kind of uneasiness, let me know right away."

            Astarion felt a hand grab his elbow and he sensed a shiver of disgust run down his body, contracting every muscle in its trail. He felt, despite himself, his fists tighten, one of them painfully so, and his nails sunk into the wood of the floor, scratching it. 

            Halsin let go of him, but he didn't step back.

"I know you don't want to be touched, Astarion," he said with a patience that Astarion had trouble not believing it was hiding an impending retaliation, "but we cannot leave you behind. There is no world where you can stay here on your own. I am sorry, but I have to touch you. We will take it slow and keep it as light as possible, but we have to take you with us."

            The warning having been given, Halsin grabbed his elbow once more. Astarion reacted in the exact same fashion but this time it didn't make Halsin reconsider his gesture, it simply made him whisper a quick apology as he was turning him on his side before hoisting him up. Astarion staggered but the firm grip on his arm kept him up.

            And, as he was now facing Halsin, having to look at him and having no way to recoil away, what had to happen happened. 

            Astarion threw up. With little to no warning, he felt the content of his stomach travel up his throat and he vomited it all over himself.

            It was of little comfort, but throwing up was the only weapon Astarion really had. Defiling himself in such a repulsive way could sometimes grant him a small mercy. Once or twice, out of pure disgust, Cazador had let go of him and let him fall back on the floor, unwilling to touch his stained boy. Leaving the chore of punishing him up to Godey rather than doing it himself.

            It had never gotten him out of harm's way, but it had sometimes lessened the cruelty, or at least the tormentor's enthusiasm. And there was something in seeing someone regretting touching him that was empowering to Astarion.

            As empowering as throwing up could be.

            Halsin didn't regret. He didn't release Astarion, he didn't let him fall back on the floor. He didn't seem disgusted. Not even angry.

            He looked down on the half-digested, old, coagulated blood and the revolting stain it had left on his top.

            And he laughed it off.

"Don't worry about that, my friend," he said with an amused smile and a warm voice. "Believe it or not, it is far from the worst fluid I ever had to wipe off my clothes."

            Astarion felt himself retch some more, but Halsin didn't move.

"If you need to throw up again, don't fight it," he said instead. "It's not pleasant, but if it doesn't belong in, then let it out."

            Astarion gagged a couple more times but didn't have much to throw up to begin with and he swallowed with difficulty the mixture of saliva and bile that was lingering in his mouth. The acerbic taste of it and the foul smell nearly made him throw it up once more, but this time his body didn't go through with the process and he only coughed and choked on it for a few seconds.

            Halsin remained where he was, waiting patiently for Astarion to be able to – somewhat – breathe again. He didn't help him, didn't pat his back as he certainly didn't want to touch the vampire more than he already had, and, for that, Astarion was nearly grateful. Anymore and he would have started becoming violent.

"Here, if it tastes bad."

            Wyll was holding a wooden mug filled with water. Astarion couldn't really drink it, but he poured some of the liquid in his mouth and spat it back, cleansing a bit of blood with it. He thanked Wyll with a small nod of his head, without meeting any gaze.

"Let's move," Wyll said, opening the door for them, "we don't want to waste any time."

            Each step was painful, moving his legs and balancing his weight from one to the other was making him wince with discomfort, as he could clearly feel the stabbing burn pulsing inside him. He kept his mouth shut and his gait as confident as it always was – or at least he tried – but he had no idea if he was truly able to fool anyone. His tense shoulders and fluttering hisses would invariably give him away to any observant eyes. Though none of his companions was looking at him. Wyll was a step ahead, leading the way, and Halsin was by his side, a hand on his elbow but his eyes on their surroundings, making sure they weren't being spotted by anyone.

            By the entrance, they met Karlach who walked up to Astarion.

"Here, fetched them for you. Thought you didn't want to leave them behind."

            She handed him his twin short swords, carefully tucked away in their sheaths. He grabbed them and held them against his chest. He thought of putting them on his back, where they belonged, but, for reasons beyond him, he couldn't find it in him to let them out of his hands. He wanted to feel their weight in his arms and keep them where he could see them. Where he could be sure he would be able to reach for them.

            Outside, Lae'zel had brought a wagon, pulled by a couple of horses. It was rustic and minimalist, but it looked sturdy and should be able to suffer long distances at a decent pace. Maybe one slightly faster than six mediocre and fairly drunk riders on individual horses.

            Gale was already in the wagon, studying a map he had certainly stolen in the manor itself.

"There's a city over there," he was saying to Lae'zel, pointing at something on the map, "it seems to be distinctively bigger than this town. We could go there and be forgotten."

"I could get us there by the morning."

"You know how to drive horses?"

"They will listen to my authority. They will know better than to stand against me."

"I have no idea what could possibly go wrong with such an attitude."

            Halsin had climbed up the wagon and was helping Astarion in turn. The pain was sharp and vivid, and Astarion had to bite his lips to not let a groan slip out of his mouth. He let himself fall on the rough bench and was all too happy to curve into a ball in the corner to leave enough space for the rest of their group. Halsin sat by his side, but he had let go of him and there was a good inch between the two of them, which Astarion was grateful for. All he could feel was the comforting weight of his clothes and no amount of pain in the world would make him forget what a blessing it was.

            A few minutes after everyone had settled, Shadowheart ran out of the house and jumped on the wagon, a bottle of wine in each hand.

"The only ones I didn't dose," she said, when faced with the inquisitive gaze of her companions. "What? I won't apologize. We don't owe them anything."

            Astarion agreed with her. He couldn't drink wine but even then, the bottles would be wasted on those peasants.

            Or maybe he just wanted to take something from them. The rush of cruel satisfaction he felt at the idea of stealing from the Baron was...

            Truth be told, it was pathetic really.

            But Astarion had learned to always settle for the breadcrumbs he could get.

            Lae'zel snapped the reins, the horses whinnied, and the wagon drove off into the night.

            Astarion watched the manor disappear behind the mist.

            He was not stupid enough to think he was putting any distance between him and what had happened tonight.

            He knew it would happen again. It always did. It was sticking to his skin like sweat.

            It was just how life was for him.

            Until next time, he simply told himself with resignation.

Chapter Text

Chapter 2

            The trip had not been as awful as Astarion had expected.

            Sure he was chilled to the bone, like every one of his companions who had left in a rush the warmth of the Baron's party. Even more so than his companions, maybe, as Astarion had no heat of his own to keep safe inside his body.

            He also was in an undeniable amount of pain. The jounce of the rough road was sending flashes of agony up his spine and he could distinctly feel the wound inside him growing wider. So much so that, not even half an hour after their departure, Astarion, who had been pretending to rest for nearly as long, had to press his face against his folded arm to prevent any wince of pain from escaping him. He could feel the blood staining his backside and dripping freely inside his pants, and even that wasn't warm, just clammy and disgusting. The only small favor was that Astarion was used to being drenched in blood and he knew how to pick fashionable clothing items that would best conceal any worrying stain.

            The last and somewhat least of his problems was the rancid smell of regurgitation lingering on him and mostly on Halsin by his side. The cold night wind whipping them as the horses were galloping through the wood was doing little to brush it away and it was still overtaking Astarion's nose as well as the back of his throat where he could taste the stale blood.

            And yet, despite all that, the trip was nowhere near as unpleasant as that exhaustive list of discomforts made it sound. Because Astarion didn't feel much. He knew he was cold, he knew he was in pain, he knew he wanted to throw up once more, but nothing of it was being registered. Astarion was falling in and out of trance, his mind as empty as it had been when he had been crushed under the massive body of the Baron.

            Once again, well trained. Under Cazador's absolute ruling, if he was lucky enough to not end up in the kennel after a night of torment, he knew he had to get as much rest as he could if he wanted to survive the renewed nightmares waiting for him the next day. The aftermath of torture, no matter the kind of torture it was, was never a good time to think about it. Actually, there was no time that would ever be good for that. Pain had to be forgotten. More than that, convinced that it had never happened at all or that, if it had, it was too worthless and anecdotal to even be acknowledged. It was the only way to move forward.

            And, with the years, that had turned into decades, that had turned into centuries, Astarion had developed an amazing skill to just lie on a bed – or on the floor – at the end of the night and just leave everything that belonged to the future to tomorrow and everything that belonged to the past to be forgotten forever.

            He was glad to see that his ability to walk under the sun and to cross rivers had not come at the cost of the little scraps of power he had been able to develop during his pathetic life.

            The Baron was nearly forgotten already. The cold, the pain, the smell, nowhere near unpleasant enough to prevent Astarion from denying their existence. And nothing would ever be able to prevent him from resting the moment neither Cazador nor Godey were in the room with him. For Hells' sake, Astarion had even once gone through his whole trance cycle while being pounded by some rich boor Cazador wanted to entertain. It wasn't a ride in an uncomfortable wagon and an uncomfortable silence that would prevent him from numbing his mind into complete unreactivity.

            He didn't see the night pass by. He had no idea how long he tranced and how long he stayed awake, but he would fall so quickly from one state to the other that it was nearly as if the whole world was glitching before his eyes, and the moon was jumping from one side of the sky to the next.

            He did miss the end of the night however as, the next time he opened his eyes, the sun was shining with its first timid morning rays. He was dragged out of trance by Karlach, standing above him and poking his shoulder.

"Wake up, soldier. We've reached an inn."

            Astarion looked around and noticed that they had entered a city. Nothing like Baldur's Gate, but it was large enough to have clean paved streets and pristine looking buildings, which meant they were isolated from the nature around. Looking right and left, Astarion couldn't spot the end of the city, and there were enough houses and shops to hide the dense forest they had traveled through to come here. The inn in front of which they had stopped couldn't possibly be the most luxurious of the city. It wasn't a hovel per say, but it was busy, and not with the most prestigious of crowds. Some families with small children, a handful of drinkers already getting ahead of the night's joys, a bard who reeked of misery, with his holed and washed out doublet and his dissonant violin.

            However, what Astarion was happy to notice was the diversity of the faces gathered around. Enough to not mind a couple of Tieflings added into the mix. Lae'zel, who was untying the horses, had put a hood over her head, hiding her Githyanki features under its shadow, and no one was paying her any mind.

"You coming?" Karlach asked, still waiting by his side for him to fully wake up.

            Astarion simply answered with a sigh and an obvious display of his foul mood. He was able to get on his feet and carefully step down from the chariot without making a show of his physical discomfort. Lae'zel threw a cloak at him. A wave of pain hit his wrist when he caught it midair, but he was at least able to wrap himself in it to hide the regurgitated blood. With his sleeve he quickly wiped his chin, and, as he was stepping into the inn, Astarion was as dashingly presentable as ever. While passing by a group of somewhat wealthier clients, he let his hand wander off and it inexplicably came back with a full purse. How lucky of him.

            He walked to the counter, where Gale was visibly in an unhappy conversation with the keeper, a young human in her thirties.

"Surely, you must have some less expensive rooms."

"Well, sir, I would like to help you but with the horses and the wagon..."

"We don't really mind them, do we?"

            Wyll, who was by his side, seemed shocked that Gale would even consider abandoning the horses on the street, the second they were no longer of use.

"We can't just leave them on their own," Wyll argued.

"I assure you, you can't," the woman nodded. "There are laws, you see."

"I mean, we will find them a shelter, that is not up for debate," Gale tried to meet them halfway. "But it doesn't have to be here, does it? With the price of the..."

            Before Gale could finish, Astarion interrupted him, slipping next to the counter and nudging the wizard out of his way. He flashed his most stunning and luminous smile at the woman.

"What a lovely sight to be greeted with, after such a long trip," he said with a warm voice, looking both at the inn and at the woman.

            The keeper, taken by surprise, seemed a bit flustered by his radiant presence and smile, and Astarion knew that, no matter what, he wouldn't sleep in the dirt tonight.

            But still, he would rather have his own bed, if he could manage it.

            He dropped his newly acquired purse on the countertop. His agile fingers were playing with the leather cord to subconsciously tease what other work those fingers could get down to, if they so felt inclined.

"What nice things could these coins buy my friends and I?"

"I... Uh..."

            The woman took the purse, her warm skin brushing over Astarion's, and she quickly glanced inside it and weighed it, her experience easily telling her the worth of the content.

"You can get the last floor, there will be enough rooms for all of you. And of course, a night of rest and food for the horses. We will have someone put the chariot somewhere safer."

            Astarion, who was just as good at guessing the content of purses, didn't believe it was quite enough to buy a whole floor, and seven individual rooms, but everyone always felt the urge to help him out, if only he asked the right way. The help was never meaningful enough to do anything for him but, for the little things, it was pleasant.

"And our own sustenance?" Gale asked, as Astarion had little care for that.

            Astarion remained silent but he kept his deep gaze and warm smile on his face.

"We will fix you a couple of meals for today and tomorrow," the keeper told him even though he wasn't the one who had asked.

            They were quick to agree and take that – technically – free offer. When the keeper handed the keys to them, she nudged one toward Astarion specifically.

"That's the best one," she whispered before promptly getting back to her discussion with Gale.

            He winked and took the key, before spinning around and walking away.

"Where did you find the purse?" Wyll asked him before he could disappear. "It doesn't look like yours."

"It was just sitting there. Begging to be taken, really."

            With no more explanation and leaving his companions to their own devices, he climbed up the stairs and let the noises and bustle of the main room fade behind him.

            He couldn't get to a bed too soon. If each step hadn't been a damn chore, he would be running up the stairs and dashing to his room. But he had to mind both his sore state and his overall dignity. Even when no one was here to see him.

            Once on the last accessible floor, he found a small yet comfortable foyer, with many places to sit and lounge. A fireplace at the center would warm the room once lit up, and a table on the side, as long as the ones downstairs, was able to accommodate a large group of people, gathered around a good meal. A big door, with folding shutters, was opening a way to a balcony overlooking the backyard. It was just broad enough to welcome the table and some guests around it, for an outside meal. Several other, smaller, doors all around were leading to just as many private rooms and Astarion found the one matching his key.

            The room was nothing special, but the bed was clean and looked comfortable, the blankets were numerous and thick, and the window was offering a view on the calm, silent alley beside the inn. There was a chair in a corner, next to a wobbly writing table. A bucket of water and clean cloths next to it. Some flowers were kept by the window to give the space a fancier aspect than it had any right to claim, and an ugly painting on the wall was letting Astarion know that it had to be the best room indeed.

            Astarion closed the door behind him. He dropped his bag on the wooden chair, in a big noise of clashing metal as the plastron of his armor as well as his daggers had not been taken out since the beginning of the Baron's party. He unfastened the cloak clasp and let the dark fabric fall on top of the rest. He then threw his short swords on the mattress, and, after a long sigh, followed them as well.

            The bed smelled good, and the sheets were warm against his frozen skin.

            The morning light, which was becoming bolder by each passing minute, was falling on his back and he could nearly feel it through the thin fabric of his clothes. It wasn't unpleasant. He wouldn't have minded a bit more of it, though. With a groan, he rolled on his back. He contemplated the idea of taking his vest off. After all, it was stained with foul blood and dirt, and it was just as cold as him. But he had no desire to get rid of the little weight he could feel against his skin. He knew he had a shirt underneath, and he could still keep it on, but the more layers he had, the better he felt. The mere idea of taking one off made him feel like he was willingly disrobing and exposing himself. What was more, he didn't want to see what was underneath. If he touched nothing, if he saw nothing, then he didn't have to deal with anything at all.

            He was positively disgusting, he felt equally as stained, but there was nothing he really wanted to do about it. He simply grabbed the blankets and pulled them up until he was laying under their weight.

            Everything would wait until tomorrow.

            He began to hear agitation in the next room, but he ignored it.

            He thought of beds and rest. The last time he had slept in a true bed, with a frame and a mattress, it had been at the Szarr Palace. It was not true per say that it had been 'his' bed, as none of his siblings had any dedicated bed.  But it was nearly a tacit rule that the bed further from the door was his alone to rest in, when he was not spending the day at the kennel. He liked to think that, as one of the oldest Spawn, he had authority over his younger siblings who wouldn't dare to touch the little that was his. He still knew, deep down, that the truth was elsewhere. His siblings 'respected' him for he could easily be the most violent and cruel of them all, but that was not the reason why he was the only one with his own, unshared space. It was obvious that Astarion being the one that, most often, was coming home covered in all kinds of fluids no one wanted to know about – not even Astarion himself –, none of the other Spawn really felt like laying in his bed.

            Which was a blessing in its own rights. Astarion liked to take care of what he was able to own, and repairing his clothes and making his own bed were the few minutes of tepid joy he had at the beginning and end of most nights. He truly believed that, if he had ever found one of his siblings sleeping or trancing on his bed, he would have stabbed them over and over again in pure rage, killing them for good, his Master's ire be damned. He owned little but the Gods knew he would fight to keep that little to himself, unsoiled by others.

            Ever since the kidnapping... it couldn't be said that Astarion missed his bed. Because he was not stupid enough to like it above freedom and Cazador's absence. 

            Mostly, they had been sleeping in the dirt, with poor quality bedrolls that they didn't have much time to clean. They were still days away from Baldur's Gate, and even when they were stopping by a town or a city for the night, they had little money to spend on other things than arrows, scrolls and potions. They were using so many of them to keep themselves alive and looting cultists didn't make the most comfortable of living. Astarion had offered to steal for them, and Shadowheart had offered to assist him, seemingly agreeing with his idea, but it had been decided that the less attention they would bring upon themselves, the better they would fare.

Astarion had not complained more than he had thought was funny to do. He really didn't care about waking up in the dirt when it was under the sunlight, and he had more reasons than anyone else to want to remain unnoticed. Who knew how many other Gurs Cazador had sent after him...

            Still, spending the day here and even getting to sleep in a warm, comfortable bed tonight was not something Astarion would overlook. He knew the value of that kind of privilege, having spent his share of days right on the floor, with nothing but blood to cover him.

            The Baron had promised a bed for them. Astarion was getting one.

            Now he just had to find it in him to be happy about it.

            A soft knock on the door interrupted his thoughts and Astarion had the brilliant idea to not answer. Which did little to actually prevent the knocker from entering as the door softly creaked and Shadowheart popped her head into the room.

            She looked at him for a moment, as he had slipped under the blanket though he was still very much awake.

"So you plan on just sleeping it off?" she asked.

            Her voice was ringing with her usual coldness with just a hint of surprise, but she was talking about it the way she was talking about anything else. Whatever she thought it was. What was she expected him to do exactly?

"I don't sleep," Astarion countered. "You would know if you were purebred."

            Shadowheart leaned against the frame of the door. Which was not the position of someone on the verge of leaving. She remained silent for a moment. Thinking of what to say. Oh, Astarion had no desire to see what that conversation held in store.

"Do you need help?" she finally simply asked, her naturally guarded tone not pairing well with her words.

"With what, exactly?"

            She saw that question as the challenge it was. And of course she answered in kind.

"I know last night was…"

"Shh, shh, little girl," Astarion interrupted her right away, placing a finger across his lips to pedagogically illustrate his simple command. "Whatever you gathered from last night, you understand nothing of it."

"You think I have no experience with assaults?"

"I would be so sorry for you if only I cared. But, when I am thrown into the mix, it is nothing that dramatic, and nothing worth receiving help for, thank you very much. What's more, when it comes to handling whoremongers: I don't take advice, darling. I teach the class."

            She still hesitated on the threshold, and Astarion wondered if she would step back and close the door without adding anything, but she finally said:

"I'd tell you he was no monger, but I'm guessing you are not interested in listening to me."

            Astarion put a hand over his heart, deadly offended.

"Me? Not interested in listening to you? What better thing could I ever have to do with my life than hearing all the fascinating pearls of wisdom you are blessing the world with, each time you open those pretty lips?"

            Despite being annoyed by the conversation, Astarion had to admit that finding back his dramatic, insufferable persona was a true relief. No more unresponsive prostration. He had been so lucky Cazador had not been there, the other night, to see him in that weak, trembling state. He would have never heard the end of the scorn and the taunt. Getting back some of his usual bravado was putting some weapons, that he never should have dropped, in his hands again and grabbing their familiar hilt was a true pleasure.

            Shadowheart, used to their banters by now, smiled sardonically, her dark eyes promising future burns on his ego, the next time he would drop his guard. Astarion would have sincerely preferred to enter a fight of jest with her rather than talk at all. But, after a while, seriousness was back on her face, and she finally sighed.

"It may seem easier right now. To just go to bed. But you'll feel awful when you wake up."

"I don't think I will. Thank you for the warning, little priestess of everything that is dark and moody, but I will handle it on my own just fine."

            He was good at that, forcing people to step back and fuck off. In his good days, and if his mood was particularly foul, he could be insufferable enough to get the whole dormitory all to himself, efficiently driving his siblings away quicker than if he had threatened them with his fists. They all knew they were better off spending the day somewhere else than punching their Master's favorite toy where it could bruise and be seen. And the whole of Astarion could always be seen, at any moment.

            Yet, Shadowheart didn't step back. She didn't sigh nor roll her eyes. She didn't even seem to hear the disrespect for her dear goddess.

            She simply looked at him, intently, and she appeared to be more focused on what to say next rather than on what she had just heard. She had stepped out of that confrontational dynamic Astarion had set for them, and he was unsure what to do to force her into it again.

"There's hot water," she simply offered after a while. "Burning. And they have some bath oil. Bergamot."

            Astarion found himself hesitating. Gods, he loved warm baths. It could nearly make him feel alive again. And he knew Shadowheart had mentioned one of his favorite smells just to lure him out of bed.

            She saw the doubt and quandary in his eyes and smiled, satisfied with herself. Pulling herself up from the frame, she walked to his bag.

"Come on, Astarion. I can guess you'd rather rest, but you can do that after a bath. You know everything will be a tiny bit better then."

            She grabbed on the top of his bag a few clothes he had found on the road and carried them with her as she was walking to the door. 

"The more you wait, the less warm it will be."

            That argument of logic took care of Astarion's last reservations. He wanted to keep up with the fight, the one language he was fluent in, but he didn't know how long the group would decide to stay here. He wanted more than anything to stay under the blankets but... a warm bath. He hated to admit it but he knew Shadowheart was right. If he really were to just roll into a tight ball and trance, his state would be even worse in a few hours. A bath would get rid of a lot of the disgusting... things, staining him.

            With a long dramatic sigh to show his absence of appreciation for the situation, Astarion kicked the blanket off of him, and got on his feet, following Shadowheart into the next room.

            The rest of their companions were there, putting their bags into their rooms, preparing some food for breakfast, or simply resting in one of the armchairs for a moment.

            None minded Astarion as he followed Shadowheart into another room, where the wooden bathtub shared by the whole floor could be found. Upon entering, Astarion noticed that Shadowheart had dropped his clean clothes next to a pile of towels, and she was about to pour some oil into the bathtub, which was already filled with hot water, a soft vapor rising above it like a sweet promise.

"Do you have any open wounds?" she asked, the bottle of oil still in her hand, as she was a second away from letting the perfumed liquid fall into the water.

"No," Astarion simply lied with ease.

            Taking his words for it, Shadowheart poured a generous amount of the small bottle's content into the water and the sweet scent of bergamot invaded the confined space.

"You can go ahead," she said, putting the bottle back, "I'll see if there is any way to get our hand on some blood for you."

            Astarion knew a better soul would have said that there was no need, that she shouldn't bother. He said nothing of that sort. Astarion would be damned if he wouldn't snatch anything and everything that was freely given to him. So, instead, he scoffed. If Shadowheart wanted to have fun trying to hunt for blood, he wouldn't dream of stopping her. Living in Cazador's shadow, he had often wondered what it felt like to not have to fight for his own food. He didn't have any high hopes, as he didn't believe they would really find any good blood on their first attempt, but he would absolutely let them try. And, if they were to succeed, he wouldn't need to be begged to take every droplet of that blood off their hand. He had a terribly ravenous appetite.

            So, he ended up shrugging it off. He didn't want his unimpressed, ungrateful attitude to stop anyone from trying. But he was not one to thank either. He walked to the bathtub to put an end to that topic. Once Shadowheart had left, closing the door behind her, he began to undress.

            He had to suppress a chill of disgust, as his clothes were being taken off and he could feel the air against his bare skin. He clearly preferred the feeling of his pants sticking to his skin with blood and semen than the feeling of nothing at all. He also kept his eyes on the ceiling, to not have to suffer the sight of his own body, and he blindly reached for a towel to tie around his waist.

            Then, after taking a long, deep, and mostly useless breath, he looked down.

            His first thought was that it wasn't as bad as he was used to. There were some bruises poking out of the towel, on his hips. And he could see the blood that had run down his tights and had reached his knees.

            But he had not been hit, nor whipped in any way. He had shivered and recoiled when he had heard the Baron unbuckle his belt, but he had not received any blow from it. He let his fingers run up his back, and he felt the shape of his scars, but no new wounds there. Nothing bleeding or hurting. He had a few sore muscles where he had been forced against the floor and kept down, but it was so negligible compared to what Astarion knew he could suffer that it nearly made him laugh. He knew he had a sprained wrist, but that was the only other true source of pain, with the one inside him.

            He was doing great, he realized. Splendidly, actually. He was nowhere near having had a truly bad night. Just a little unwanted sodomy; he had gotten out of it easy. And Cazador was not there to judge his performance of the night and be forever disappointed... 

            Astarion had that deeply rooted feeling that he was getting off the hook far too easily. Something wasn't right. He was expecting more. Had he been in Baldur's Gate, he wouldn't even have bothered to clean himself, knowing that there was simply no way his night would end so smoothly. He would even consider the idea of walking himself to the kennel, as getting ahead of Cazador's cruelty was the only way to make it slightly less entertaining for him.

            But now... Where was he supposed to go? What was he supposed to do? Even more importantly, what should he be expecting?

            He had no whip threatening to fall on his back, no leash keeping him in place, and he had a night that was nowhere near what he knew his life was about.

            A couple of his companions had told him that freedom could be disorienting at first. Astarion was finally getting their point. There was a tensed knot in his stomach, as he was anxiously expecting something that he knew wouldn't come.

            He didn't dare to think about it... But he nearly hoped the Baron had been crueler. For, at least, it would have met Astarion's expectations and he wouldn't have been left wondering when the rest of the torment would be delivered.

            Astarion smiled despite himself. A sad, bitter smile. Here he was, hoping that more pain could have been inflicted upon him. Cazador was right. He was made to be treated the way he had been so far. How else to make sense of his thoughts?

            It was him. He was the cause and the problem. He was creating his own torment. He deserved every bit of it. Maybe he even enjoyed it. What other explanation was there?

            In that moment, that line of thought made sense to him. He was disgusted with himself and with the world, he wanted nothing more than to shred his skin here to then crawl back to his bed, trance to never wake up and never have a thought again.

            But surely, he must have enjoyed it in some way. Or ask for it at the very least.

            His fingers lingered on the towel around his hips, playing with the soft fabric. 

            Whether or not he was the cause for everything that had happened to him changed little to a simple fact: he couldn't bear the idea of taking off that towel. He hated the mere thought of seeing his own intimacy right now. Which was absurdly stupid. He knew what he had down there. He had seen it a countless number of times. And he even knew it was beautiful to some. Desirable. Even covered in blood. Especially covered in blood, many seemed to think. But just thinking about having to see anything at all, having to acknowledge what anatomy he had down there and its only point, was making him sick. After all, as an undead, he had no use for a digestive system. Nothing was expelled from his body, only burnt to fuel his living death. So everything that was currently hidden by the towel had strictly no other use than to be joyfully abused by the whole of Baldur's Gate. And even the surrounding countryside it would now seem.

            Astarion felt like he was on the verge of throwing up again, as he felt, more than ever, the weight of having to constantly carry on him the means of his own humiliation and violation. His empty stomach was threatening to throw itself up his throat if Astarion was to ever catch a glimpse of his own cock, let alone the drying semen down his thighs. He gagged and pressed his fist against his mouth to try to keep the bile down. To keep himself calm and to hopefully let the passing distress fade away, Astarion looked up, carefully detailing the ceiling to make sure he wouldn't see anything of himself.

            Well... At least he was beautiful, he tried to tell himself. He had to acknowledge his few blessings. He couldn't bear his own body, but he knew it was objectively good looking. Which once again made him laugh. For there was nothing he wouldn't give to have more people be half as disgusted by his body as he himself was.

            What kind of twisted irony was that? If Cazador was to ever hear that line of thoughts – and he always ended up hearing all of them – it would certainly give him great pleasure. Good for him.

            A knock echoed on his left and he had to use all the control he had over himself not to jump back in surprise and fear. He had just been caught thinking about his Master and, for an instant, he wondered if he hadn't summoned him somehow.

"Astarion?" called a voice which definitely wasn't Cazador's. "May I come in? I need to fetch something."

"You may if you must," he said, glad he hadn't taken off his towel.

            The door slightly opened, just enough for Shadowheart to slip in without offering a full view for the people in the main room.

            She kept her eyes away from the bathtub but, as Astarion was very much not in the bathtub yet, she met his gaze in a second.

"Something's wrong?"

"Nothing at all, darling. I am just thinking about it."

            Shadowheart glanced at the bath. Maybe wondering what there was to think about. Then she walked to the shelves where the oils were on display without making any comments.

            Astarion's hand was so tight around his towel that his fingers were white and shaking. He had to make sure that nothing was dropping or sliding. He liked to think it was out of modesty. But Shadowheart had her back at him, and he had been gripping it as desperately when there had been no one but him in the room.

"You don't have to take it off, you know."

            Astarion, who had been focused on other matters, mainly his towel and whether or not thinking about Cazador could summon him, barely understood what had just been told to him.

"I beg your pardon."

            Shadowheart's voice was still as emotionless as ever. She wasn't even looking at him, instead reading the labels on the bottles.

            Making talking easier. Both for her and for him.

"The towel. You can keep it in the bath."

"I very much can't," Astarion answered.

            And the same way she was showing her usual detachment, he had dipped his voice in his signature playfulness.

"I know you don't have a lot of memories left, darling, but surely you remember the basis of taking a bath, don't you?"

            If she was annoyed at him, she didn't make it known and didn't turn toward him. She simply continued, while picking up a few bottles from the shelf.

"You can keep it, Astarion. If you want."

"Everyone would disagree."

"They're not the ones taking a bath right now. You are."

            Done with the task, she walked to the door, concluding the conversation as she was passing by him.

"Keep the cursed towel, Astarion. You're allowed to have that one thing."

            She exited the room, still careful with the door to not allow anyone a glimpse inside and she closed it behind her before walking away.

            Leaving Astarion alone.

            And it took him yet another minute with a very silent mind for him to realize that... she was right. Who the hells cared? Parents had told him, a lifetime ago, that it was not how baths were taken.

            But now...

            Astarion slowly acknowledged the fact that he was simply too tired to truly care. He looked down on himself. He was still in a terrible state but, the simple fact that he could look at himself and just know that no more layers would be taken off of him... That they didn't have to be...

            Astarion nearly felt joyful. Relieved, for sure. With a strange sense of victory, the High-Elf stepped into the tub and, with the towel around his hips, he sat down in the warm water. The white fabric gorged itself and doubled its weight but that was more pleasant than it was foreign.

            The sigh that escaped Astarion's lips when he began to feel the warmth around him was the most visceral, sincere noise that had gotten out of him in the last few days. It was followed after by the sizzling sound of hot water meeting frozen skin. A mist of dense vapor rose and, when it was finally dissipated, Astarion began to feel it.

            His blood warming up, coming closer to the surface of his skin. Even beginning to somewhat move inside his veins, bringing its newly found heat to his motionless heart. A pleasant tingling in the tips of his fingers and toes chasing away some of the natural rigor of his dead body.

            Astarion let his head rest back and he closed his eyes as his warmed skin was slowly spreading the heat up his face.

            By the Gods did he love warm baths.

            He hadn't had many of them after his death. No warm water was allowed in the wooden tub the Spawn were all sharing. At first, Astarion had thought it was Cazador's usual pettiness. He didn't want his creations to ever have anything remotely nice. But he had learned later on that it was slightly more complex than that. Cazador didn't want them to be able to feel alive again, even if only temporarily. He required of them to be grateful for the gift of death he had offered them and to spend their eternity thanking him and repaying him. Therefore, to try and get anything back from their former life was doing him a great offense.

            Astarion had no opinion on all that. Cold water was laughingly low on his list of problems. But that also meant he knew how to enjoy warm baths at their true worth, the few times he had been able to enjoy them, usually while in the arms of guests Cazador had told him to entertain. Dalyria, his only older sibling, had once told him that warm baths were bad for Vampires anyway.

"Stop trying to find warmth," she had lectured him during the first months after his death, as he had been looking in the dead fire of a deserted room for any remaining heat. "Your body is dead, brother. Coldness protects it. If you warm it up, it will just have a harder time healing and you will reek of putrefaction."

            Astarion had thrown burning ash at her face. It was either that or cry of frustration as he was shivering, still trying to find out what was worse between serving Cazador and being dead – it hadn't taken him too long to realize it was the former. By so damn far.

            Right now, however, Astarion couldn't possibly care less. The smell? That was what the bergamot was for. And the wound... It was worth it. Astarion could feel it burning and bleeding, reacting to the irritating oil and the warmth, but it was such a minor price to pay for everything else, he didn't even bless it with a thought. His head was pleasantly empty as the vapors of the bath were surrounding him with a dense mist.

            Everything could always wait.

            Such was his mantra and, according to his unbiased opinion, it was a good one.

Chapter Text

Chapter 3

            Getting out of a bath was an unpleasant experience shared by all.

            Astarion delayed it as much as possible, scraping every last second he could get of that warm bliss. But when the water turned cold and began to undo its wonders, Astarion was wise enough to get up and grab a clean towel. The one he had kept around his waist, heavy with water, fell into the tub in a big splash as he stepped out of it.

            He was eager to get back into some clothes, therefore he did a quick job of drying himself, roughly scrubbing his skin. He was more efficient than he was gentle, but it was over in a minute or so.

            He hadn't really cleaned himself if one was being technical about it. He hadn't dared to touch his own skin, barely even to look at it. He had hoped that sitting in the water would be enough on its own to get rid of the dirt and stains. And he thought it was sufficiently satisfying indeed. Not perfect, but the smell of bergamot was so overwhelming one could barely pick up on the scent of death it was hiding. The Baron's sweat was gone, only lingering in Astarion's memory, and as for the blood... Well, enough of it was gone, Astarion thought. He knew he would bleed some more, especially now that his body was warmer than it was ever meant to be, but he would care about it later.

            He would first rest. And then hunt for blood. That would take care of it.

            After he had finished drying himself, he put on the clothes Shadowheart had fetched in his bag. His old ones were discarded on the floor and were in a miserable state, soaked in blood, coming either from his wound or from his stomach. He knew Gale had a few cantrips up his sleeve that he could use to wash clothes, but, for reasons he didn't feel the need to explain further, Astarion was not too fond of the idea of shoving in Gale's arms his stained clothes. The wizard was used to blood, but semen and puke, Astarion wouldn't dare to presume. The new clothes in which he was now dressing up smelled like the dust of the road but, much more overwhelmingly, it smelt like Astarion himself. Which was a fantastic smell to pick up on his own clothes. And an awfully rare one.

            Done with his towel, he used it to wrap the dirty clothes tightly. He would clean them himself whenever he would find time. With a bit of care and repairing, they would be usable again. Astarion could do wonders with a needle and a thread. And he hated to throw his stuff away. It was his, he would keep it.

            Once he was ready, he got out of the small, cramped room. The pain inside him had worsened, and he could feel it was now swollen and sensitive on top of being still open, thus he was all too eager to get to his bed. He didn't say a word to Wyll and Karlach, who were playing some card game outside on the balcony having left the doors open, and he reached his room.

            He threw the towel on the writing table, to be taken care of later on, and he closed the door behind him. Kicking nothing but his shoes off, keeping everything else on him, he climbed up the bed and brought the blanket on top of him.

            Alone and at peace at last. Technically, he had been alone in the bath, but he had had the hardest time getting rid of the certainty that someone was about to walk on him at any moment, his eyes shifting toward the door every so often, hardly believing it was really closed. But no one had entered, and the tub had been his alone to soak in.

            Astarion couldn't remember the last time he had had such a good, easy time after a violation. He didn't have to report poor results, didn't have to throw himself into the arms of his next victim, didn't have to be corrected for some arbitrarily made-up mistake, didn't have to hide in the forlorn hope of avoiding Cazador.

            Despite the pain he could feel pulsing, and the persistent sadness in his gut, he knew it was an objectively good day for him.

            From the corner of his eyes, he noticed that the pitcher, that had been left on his bedside table, was not filled with water but with a dark red liquid. With a wince of pain, he sat up and reached for it, bringing it closer to his nose. Animal blood, he was sure of it. Not warm exactly. A deer, if he had to guess.

            So, he had underestimated Shadowheart. She had been able to find something. He doubted she had hunted. More likely, someone had bought it to a local hunter or a trapper maybe. Which was not a means of obtention Astarion had ever benefited from, in Bladur's Gate, as he could only walk the street after the sun had set. He could steal a decent amount of gold whenever he fancied it, but it wasn't as if there was much he could buy with it. Apart from more of that alcohol he couldn't drink but that he would offer generously to his unsuspecting victims.

            He grabbed the glass that had been left next to pitcher and filled it up. He downed it just after, with little elegance. As his body was already warm, it was harder to feel it dripping down his throat, coating it with its rich substance. But blood would heal him, whether or not he was enjoying it as he should.

            He drank two glasses, to be on the safe side. Then he was forced to admit he just wasn't hungry. For a moment, he contemplated the idea of putting the pitcher back… and then he reconsidered, not being anywhere near that stupid. Blood was precious. Rare. Did he truly want to be hungry and starve and wither? Was he begging for more suffering? The worst kind?

            Not bothering any longer with the glass and the lie of civility, he picked the pitcher up and voraciously gulped down its content, licking the rim as far as his tongue would get. He truly wasn't hungry, but it didn't matter, he would feed nonetheless. Just in case. He knew it was supposed to last him a day, but it was better drunk now. One could think that, when limited, resources had to be consumed sparingly. One would be awfully wrong. When limited, they had to be devoured as fast as possible, until nothing was left of them. Because, if not, everything that had remained would be snatched away. Invariably.

            That was why it was with reluctance that he put the pitcher down once he was done. There were still some droplets of blood left on the bottom, but it would be hard to access, and he was genuinely full now. The only downside was that the slight buzz from the intoxication was not yet enough to truly impact him, he would need a couple more pitcher for that. With one last glance at the few scraps left, he lay back on the bed.

            He was longing to trance, but his mind was too busy to welcome unconsciousness.

            After a full night of little activity, now that he was somewhat cleaned and somewhat rested, Astarion realized that he had matters to be bothered about.

            The first one, possibly the most important one, was his companions. He had no other choice than to face them again at some point. They still had to solve that tadpole situation together. But they had all seen him on the floor, they had all understood, even if only Wyll and Lae'zel had witnessed the worst of it. And Astarion didn't want to be forced to acknowledge that anything had happened at all.

            It shouldn't be bothering him half as much as it currently did. He was not used to enjoying a lot of privacy and dignity. His siblings had seen him get back to his bed in all kinds of humiliated states. But his siblings had it just as bad as him and it would be absurd for them to say a word about it when Astarion had heard them cry for their mother under Godey's whip. He had even prevented Aurelia from walking into the sun once and putting an end to her miserable undeath a couple of days after the Master had scarred her. He had dragged her back into the manor, sobbing and kicking. He had only done so because he knew Cazador would inflict endless torments on his remaining Spawn if one of them were to free themselves from him. But still, he had seen her in quite the state of despair and had spat at her face when she had begged him to let her die, promising everything from money she didn't have to sexual favors that Astarion had no desire to receive.

            They were all pathetic. They were all eating vermin, begging for scraps and humiliating themselves according to their Master's will.

            But his companions...

            They were different. He was different, when he was with them. In principle, they were somewhat aware of what he was. He had not told them much, had carefully avoided any details, but he had not lied per say. Not since the bite incident. They knew he used to have a Master whom every whim he would obey. They knew he had little virtues and was something of a harlot. And he hoped they had linked those two pieces of information and had figured out that the former was the reason for the latter.

            But there was a difference between knowing it and seeing it. Astarion loved the respect they had for him. Sure, they rarely listened to his ideas and were more often than not rolling their eyes at him, but they had relied on him more time than he could count, and it was indubitable that they appreciated his strengths and valued them. They were not shying away from admitting when Astarion's skills and blades had gotten them out of a dire predicament. And it might sound anecdotal but, for Astarion, it was quite the world-wrecking change.

            Cazador would always highlight how worthless Astarion was. Even his biggest strengths were laughable when compared to the Master's omnipotence. What he did best, he was barely able to do it at all, according to the old Vampire.

            It had been made abundantly clear to him, during those two centuries. The only use Astarion had was to bring food for his Master and look good. And even that, he was not so good at it. Just passable enough to be granted his Master's gift of endless death.

            Overhearing Wyll tell the rest of the group that Astarion's swords had saved his life, catching Gale's impressed look at how quickly he had picked the lock of a door, or, even silly things, like Karlach asking if Astarion could cook because 'no offense, Lae'zel, you're good at other things' implying that Astarion was good at something...

            Living among people who were just as quick to compliment him as they were quick to sigh at him had been a vertiginous change for Astarion. And he had quickly yearned to be every bit as good and useful as he had fooled them into believing he was.

            The idea that they had witnessed him the way he was meant to be, under his truest features, was more hurtful than any twisted humiliation that had ever been forced upon him by the most perverted minds.

            He would have preferred a night of entertaining the whole crowd of Cazador's cruel friends than being seen like that by his newly found companions. It wasn't so much that he cared about them. But he cared about what they saw in him. And it was now forever sullied and broken.

            He felt it before he could understand it.

            It started with a contraction in his stomach, then a wave of warmth up his throat.

            And Astarion barely had the time to roll on his side before he threw up.

            For the second time in less than twenty-four hours, his body refused the blood given to fuel it and gave it back with disgust. This time, the blood was a bit fresher but mixed with the stagnant one in his stomach, it was still stale and foul.

            Asterion retched for a while, struggling to calm himself and having to use all his focus on not choking on the blood and putrid bile. He had drunk a lot, and his stomach had been full, but his body made sure to purge itself of every drop of it, leaving Astarion even more breathless than he usually was, and ruining the relaxing effect of the bath.

            Once he was able to stop and take a couple of useless breaths again, Astarion grabbed the soiled pillow and, enraged, he threw it away with a few cursed words.

            His mouth filled with blood, his body shaking from angry frustration, Astarion pressed his face against the mattress.

            He wouldn't fucking heal, then.

            Damn it.

            Damn him!

            Did the universe have any new twisted joke left for him? Had he gotten everything he deserved or was there more where it was coming from?

            It would happen. Sometimes. When a Spawn was sick or otherwise unwell, they could struggle to keep down the rare and precious blood given to them to fuel their undeath. It was a problem that was easily fixed, usually. If it was not a one-time thing, like when it would happen in the middle of a torture, but it seemed to be a true inability to keep the blood down, then Cazador would be warned.

            He would get to the dormitory – which was every Spawn worse nightmare –, would look with disdain at his sick child, and then would order them to accept what was given to them. Their body, bound to their creator's will, would have no other choice but to keep the blood down.

            He would then order the other Spawn to find the most putrid rats they could get their hands on and feed them to their poor, sick sibling, willingly or not.

            All of them had known those passing sicknesses. Astarion more than most, for some reason. His body was always too eager to betray him in every way it could. The fact that he would also do so just in order to protect himself had to be some kind of cosmic joke. But, the sicknesses… They were something else. One night, Cazador had grown so tired of 'tending to him' – it had happened twice in a year, which was two times too many – that he had ordered his other Spawn to not stop force feeding their brother, no matter how much he would beg and cry.

            Astarion started to shake at that memory, feeling like, even if he had emptied his stomach, he was on the verge of throwing up again. His fists tightened around the sheets, and he pressed his face deeper into the mattress. He didn't want to think about it. Damn, he really didn’t!

            That night, decades ago, his body had been unable to give the blood back. Rats, after rats, after rats, he had been fed. Restrained by one of his younger brothers so he wouldn't kill them all. His jaw had been broken, his mouth kept open, unable to throw up or even to spit.

            He still remembered, with a painful vividness, the fear when he had started to breath in the blood and the drool. And the pain. By the Gods, the pain.

            Astarion really couldn't afford to think about it…

            …His stomach tearing open, the fresh blood pouring directly into his body, his skin turning black where the hemorrhage was spreading. By that point, Cazador had long left the room, uninterested in the show. And having no desire to tell his Spawn to ever stop.

            Why was he thinking about that?

            The tearing, heart-shattering despair when Cazador had left the room, never to give the order to stop. How he had begged and begged and begged for his Master to come back.

            Why now? Why was he thinking of it now? He had other matters to focus on. He could finally rest, and it was the time his brain had decided would be right to remind him of that fully unrelated event that had happened so long ago and that Astarion was done having to deal with. So, by the nine Hells, could he not just stop thinking!

            Astarion had lost consciousness that day. In pain and in fear. But, he guessed, far too late to prevent his psyche from suffering yet another scar. Hours later, he had woken up in his Master's bed, freshly healed.

            He wished he could say the rest of his night hadn't been much better after that. It wasn't true. He didn't believe he had ever been so eager to pleasure his Master. So grateful that it was all over, and he had cried with relief as he had lay under Cazador.

            The memory was playing behind his eyes, with too many details to truly belong to the past, no matter how old it was.

            That night might have been the only time Cazador had caressed him. Or at the very least, it had been the only time Astarion had craved it. Even now, he could feel the cold hand on his flank, petting him. And his memory of it was still… fond. Hells, he hated himself. He hated how depraved he was for having any other feeling than pure rage for every single part of his life. But Cazador had been gentler than usual and, after the horror of that night, Astarion had let himself hope that, if only he could be a better Spawn, then he would get more of that tenderness.

            And, underneath his layers of denial, he was convinced that the fact that he had loved Cazador's embrace that one time was more telling about him than the thousands of times he had loathed it.

            Astarion sighed and wrapped his arms around his chest to chase away the lingering sensation of any other hand on him. He couldn't remember the color of his own eyes, but did he recall every detail of that insane night.

            After the instinctive rush of fear had died down, Astarion had to take a moment to try and find his composure again. He apparently was a bit sick. But it was just passing. And, more importantly, he had to remind himself that no one was there to tell on him and call the Master. That he could be sick in peace for once.

            But it was still not a joyful situation. For, without blood, there would be no regeneration, and no magical healing. On the other hand, it was still better than to drown in rat blood, he was forced to admit.

            A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts. Couldn't he have a damn break for once? He cursed some more but rolled on his side to face whoever it was. The door opened and this time it was Halsin who had come to bother him. Great.

"Were you trancing?" he asked in a whisper, as if Astarion would be less annoyed to be woken up if it was done softly.

"What is it, Druid?" he asked, harshly. "If someone has found yet another way to throw themselves into mortal perils, I am not helping. They need to learn to stop saving everyone they meet."

"No, everyone is safe. We are all taking the day to rest."

"Then how about letting me do just that?"

            Halsin smiled but he still stepped into the room and closed the door behind him, making Astarion roll his eyes. He wouldn't be resting just now.

"I've seen the water, Astarion."

"The water?"

"For the bath."

            He hadn't emptied the tub, it was true. But it wasn't as if anyone was used to Astarion doing his share of the chores. He cared for what he owned, not for what he had to share. In the palace, he had younger siblings to do that for him. Lately, it was Wyll who had to go after most of them to keep everything clean and tidy. Neither Astarion nor Gale or Karlach would do it on their own.

"Oh, well... I'm sure it will be emptied at some point, if you wait long enough. Someone is bound to do it."

"It's not the water."

"You're the one who talked about the water."

            Halsin noticed Astarion's bag on the chair. He picked it up and carefully moved it to the table next to the discarded clothes. Then he took the chair and brought it by the side of Astarion's bed, before sitting down, his warm eyes shining with something Astarion couldn't read. Something he was not used to seeing in eyes set on him.

"I saw the blood in the water, Astarion. There was plenty of it."

"Oh..."

            Astarion didn't have anything to add beyond that. He knew he should be able to think of dozens of lines to take back control over the conversation. But he couldn't manage any for now. All he was thinking about was the fact that Halsin had been surprised. Which meant that Wyll had held his tongue.

            It was such a strange thing to be surrounded by decent souls. He was not one of them but still it was baffling to him that someone could actually keep his secrets. It was known, among his siblings, that they were all spying on each other for Cazador's sake. The only reason why Astarion had never shared his siblings' secrets was that he was much more scared of the Master than any of them was, even though he would never show it. The rewards he would sometimes get were just as bad as the punishments. Otherwise, he would have been just like them, and would have snitched on everything that he could.

            Not a second he would have bet that Wyll had actually kept Astarion's humiliation to himself.

            He would never thank the Human of course.

            But he would at least remember it.

"Astarion?" Halsin softly called, having sensed that the Spawn's focus had drifted away.

"What?" Astarion snapped, wanting to put an end to that conversation already.

"Would you be willing to show me the wound?"

"Fuck all the way off, how about that, Druid? Would you be willing?"

            Once again, Halsin didn't react much. He simply nodded with a patience that was hardly reasonable. Why was no one reacting to his insults? Had it been Petra... Well, for starters, his younger brother would have never bothered to ask something like that, but even then, he would have already tried to punch Astarion in the face by now. They would have fought, violently and briefly, fearing to be caught by their Master.

            One never knew if Cazador was in the mood to punish the tormentor or the victim. When it came to his Spawn, it changed from hour to hour.

            Granted, Halsin and Shadowheart were not as stupid and impulsive as Petra, but still. They should be reacting. Not passively taking his mockery without so much as a complaint.

            Yet, here the Druid was, looking sadder than he looked vexed.

"I understand," he simply said after a moment of thinking. "But please, at least promise me that, if it gets worse, you will seek some help. Even if not mine."

"Do I need to reiterate my statement about you fucking all the way off? Let me know if I do. I would hate for the subtleties to be lost on you, you big elf."

            Halsin didn't react more to this dig than he had to the others.

"Fine. I'll take that. Will you let me have a look at your wrist then?"

            Astarion looked at it and noticed that the bruises had turned it nearly black, and it was slightly swollen, the warmth of his blood increasing the reaction of his body to the injury.

            Detailing his wrist, he hesitated for a second. He had an urgent wish to tell Halsin off. But on the other hand, he needed to be able to wield his swords properly. A lot of what was making him useful to others as well as to himself was his dexterous hands, that could swirl daggers, pick locks, find purses, and pleasure orifices. He could of course move his hand through the pain, but he would have a decreased agility for as long as it would be injured. Refusing Halsin's help was good for his dignity but bad for his chances of survival. And Astarion had his priorities well ordered.

"Fine," he said, rolling his eyes with a carefully crafted dramatism. "You seem to be desperate for it, I wouldn't dare to leave you cold."

            He sat up, keeping a tight control over his face to fight off the wince of pain and then he extended his hand toward Halsin.

            The Druid carefully took it, resting Astarion's wrist in his broad palm. His other hand lit up with a yellow glow and he carefully moved it around the injured limb.

            A magic warmth spread from the epicenter of his wrist and Astarion was forced to admit that, even if it was doing nothing for the pain so far, it felt great.

"Undead are the trickiest of patients," Halsin said, his focus on what he was doing. "Most of my spells don't work on your kind. And there are few products of nature you are able to consume. Necromancers are better healers for you."

"Mmh..." Astarion simply hummed.

            He knew all that, but the spell felt very nice, and he didn't want Halsin to stop just yet. But nothing was ever going his way and Halsin, his diagnosis done, dispelled his druidic magic. The bruise hadn't moved. But the palm underneath the wrist was so firm and steady, it was keeping Astarion's hand perfectly still, naturally reducing the pain.

"It is not broken," Halsin said. "Simply sprained. I will bandage it to keep it immobilized. That should decrease the pain until your natural regeneration kicks in and takes care of it."

            He took from his satchel some rough bandages and began to tie them around Astarion's wrist, as tightly as he could without actually harming the Spawn.

"You're warm," Halsin casually said, as his skin was brushing against Astarion while he was wrapping his hand in bandages.

"It's the bath," Astarion let him know, without further details.

"I see. I can guess it's very pleasant. But if you're able, don't keep your body too warm. Cold will make healing easier."

            Astarion instinctively bared his fang in a clear sign of annoyance but didn't say a word. Halsin sounded exactly like Dalyria.

            If the Druid noticed Astarion's silent but obvious irritation, he didn't comment on it.

"Let it rest for the time being," he said while getting up from his chair. "Until your regeneration naturally takes care of it. It shouldn't be long by now. Gale has brought some blood from a hunter for y..."

            Halsin didn't finish his sentence. He had glanced at the other side of the bed, to check that the pitcher was where it was supposed to be. But then he noticed the floor. And more importantly the pillow that had been thrown on it.

            Without a word, he walked around the bed and picked it up, while Astarion was following him with his gaze, unsure what to say or what to explain.

            Turning the pillow around revealed the stain on it. It took a few seconds for Halsin to understand what he had under his eyes.

"Did you throw up again?"

"What an impressive deduction skill you have here. Wouldn't have expected it."

"Is it normal? For Vampire Spawn to throw up."

            Astarion frowned, his jaws clenching, but he reluctantly answered.

"It happens."

"How often?"

"It happens," Astarion repeated, now frankly annoyed. "Happened before, will happen again if I survive long enough. Nothing to make a fuss about."

"What does it mean, for your regenerative abilities?"

            Halsin was keeping his sight on his line of questioning, not letting Astarion's foul mood distract him.

"I will heal only when I feed," Astarion admitted between his teeth. "And I'll feed when I'm hungry."

            Halsin observed the pillow, then passed a hand under his chin, visibly deep in thoughts.

"Is it some kind of illness?" he asked. "Or is it because of what happened the other night?"

"By the Gods, are you really so dense that you can't find the way out of this room?! Do you need my help for that?"

            If Halsin had not been receptive to Astarion's words, he was to his anger. Not as receptive as Astarion would have wished him to be, but still, he bowed out of the conversation at last.

"I'll clean that pillow for you," he simply said, finally walking toward the door. "Make sure you get some rest in the meantime. And if you need me, I'm in the next room."

            When the door closed behind Halsin, Astarion was violently shaking with barely controlled anger. He didn't quite know why he was so furious but the pain in his wrist did nothing to prevent him from clenching his fists. He could feel his fangs scratching against the inside of his lower lips and his jaws were burning with the contained desire to bite.

            With his siblings, it was easy. If he was angry at one of them, he just had to beat the shit out of them. He didn't need a reason. He would just do it. And they would return the favor, if they felt they could get away with it.

            But with his new companions, he couldn't simply do that. Firstly, because some of them would have no trouble ending him. And also, because... they just weren't as disposable as his siblings. With them, Astarion couldn't get angry without reason, he couldn't redirect at them whatever harm he was receiving from somewhere else.

            The result was that he often had to hold back and, what was much worse, to ask himself why he was even angry in the first place.

            Right now, he was in no mood to ask himself anything. Halsin had gone away and with him his stupid questions. That was all Astarion would focus on.

            The small conversation and his burst of anger had efficiently exhausted him and, after a few minutes, once he was able to calm himself again, he found that he was yearning to trance.

            Unconsciousness was his favorite thing in the whole wide world, and he had a bed, residual warmth in his veins, and even the knowledge that he wouldn't wake up in the kennel.

            For the second time this day, he tried to remember he was lucky. Incredibly so. He couldn't possibly have it any better. With time, his stomach would strengthen and accept blood again. He would heal. He would forget everything. And he would resume his quest to handle the tadpole situation.

            The sun was bright outside. He was well and relatively safe. He was getting more powerful with every passing day.

            Indubitably, things were going well for him.

            Yet, there was that thing inside him. That vague feeling. Hard to define.

            Because, with everything going for him, how could he possibly explain that one simple fact: he was sad.

            For reasons beyond him, Astarion was just so damn sad.

            There was no point in wondering about it, he decided. The more he was dwelling on that heavy mass in his stomach, the more it was spreading, the duller the sun looked.

            He would trance for now.

            Things would be better after some rest.

Chapter Text

Chapter 4

            When Astarion emerged from his trance, the sun was still shining outside. Weaker, shier, but holding its ground against the night. It was late, and the evening was upon them, but Astarion was certain it was the same day. He might be a bit lost and have trouble ordering his thoughts, but he knew he wouldn't have tranced for a full day.

            He stretched his arms, trying to relax the muscles of his back. It had been a good trance. Dreamless as ever but profoundly resting and he had woken up without any lingering anxiety, which was a true luxury for him. For a moment, he let himself believe nothing of note had happened the night before. That it was just a nice beginning for a nice day. But the vivid pain – of the familiar kind – in some very precise places of his body didn't let him fool himself for long.

            His eyes fell on his carefully bandaged wrist, where the pain had noticeably decreased since the last time he had registered it.

            Maybe he had been a bit too harsh with the Druid. Right now, Astarion couldn't tell for sure why he had gotten so angry at him. Certainly, he had had a good reason, but he couldn't remember it in clear details right now. The burst of anger had been short and, while it was fading, it had left nothing in its trail. Looking at the tightly wrapped fabric, and the clean pillow that had been brought next to him during his trance, Astarion wasn't sure it had been worth succumbing to it. He wouldn't apologize to Halsin of course. That would be ridiculous. He would simply play it off with a few jokes and well-paced compliments. Halsin was bound to forgive and forget at some point. And if not… Well. Astarion was a Vampire Spawn. He would outlive any guilt just fine.

            He sat up on his bed. If the pain in his wrist had decreased, it was thanks to the rest and the imposed stillness, and not to any regeneration skills. For they had not done much to his body, lacking the sanguine fuel necessary to activate them. And Astarion knew they hadn't worked their magic for he could still feel the throbbing pain inside him, where he knew there was still that cursed wound, an obscene reminder of the harshness of the former night.

            His eyes lingered on the pitcher still on the table. The blood, left at the bottom, had spoiled under the direct sun. But even without taking into consideration that detail, made negligible by the fact that Astarion had often eaten much worse than day-old blood, he hesitated to touch it anyway. It wasn't sitting well with him to let blood like that, when he could still reach it with his fingers and bring it to his mouth. But despite the burn in his stomach, characteristic of blood thirst, he was feeling nauseous. The thought of getting food to his mouth, tasting it on his tongue was enough to make his body retaliate, spasming in disgust, ready to give back everything that would be forced inside of it. Torn between his mind's need to feed as much as possible and his body's clear cue that it wouldn't be accepted, he stayed still, frozen by uncertainty. It took a lot out of him to finally look away from the blood. Having the luxury to listen to his body was too rare for him not to seize it. Thus, he closed his eyes.

            The smell was pungent, constant encouragement to reconsider his decision, but he didn't have it in him to stand up and remove the pitcher. If he were to see it again, he could well change his mind. On the other hand, if he waited long enough, maybe his problem would find a way to solve itself without his input. That was what he decided to believe anyway.

            He had no idea what he was supposed to do now. His companions would certainly spend the night at the inn, and Astarion could hear a couple of conversations taking place in the room next to him. He didn't want to be a part of any of them, no more did he want to join the rest of the group. Or even leave the bed.

            Being able to just not start his day or his night was an absurd yet alluring thought. What would happen if he just didn't stand up? Ever. If he just laid in bed and called it a life. That sounded too good to be possible, but also it appeared to be very much within his reach.

            For now, that would be the plan. To just not do anything at all. Rest some more, if he could manage. But the world rarely complied with his will. And his dream of complete peace was shattered by the sound of a knock. Was knocking on that door some kind of new fashion everyone in Faerûn wanted a go at?

            He thought about the fact that his bedroom was the new place to be. Then his joke made him sadder than he had expected it would. It was a good joke, though, wasn't it?

            A moment later, the door opened on Halsin.

"Are you awake?" the Druid whispered, though he could clearly see with his own eyes the answer to that question.

            Astarion leaned forward, then whispered, just as quietly:

"No."

            Halsin brushed it off and entered the room, crouching down next to the bed to be at the same level as Astarion.

"Shadowheart and Gale are off trying to find some money to buy more nights here. We've decided we needed to take a few days to rest and lay low."

            Astarion had the feeling that they all thought one among them needed to rest, but he didn't point it out. That would humiliate him more than it would annoy the druid.

"I want to check on the horses and make sure they are being taken care of. Wyll is gathering intelligence in the city to see if we were followed. But Lae'zel and Karlach are staying in the foyer, if you need anything."

"Why would I need anything?"

"Just in case."

            Astarion yawned to display all the extent of his appreciation for the potential help.

"Do you want me to take away the pitcher?" Halsin asked, glancing at the bottom that had turned a nasty shade of brown.

            Well... Yes, Astarion wanted him to do just that. He took a moment to wonder what mattered more to him: rejecting help or removing the pitcher. Then he settled for the latter.

"I guess I wouldn't mind."

            Halsin laughed at his reluctant acceptance, and he tapped the bed a couple of times to mark the end of the conversation. But what should have been a gesture of momentum froze and stopped abruptly. Halsin frowned and looked down on his hand.

"What is it?"

"What's what?"

            Halsin slipped his hand under the blanket. Astarion's first urge was to cringe away from the hand. His actual reaction however was the one his disciplined body had rehearsed extensively. To remain where he was, lower his head, close his eyes and brace himself for what was to come.

            But the hand didn't come anywhere near him. Astarion could already feel it slipping under his shirt, grabbing a handful of his flesh, yet it didn't even brush against his clothes. Halsin simply rubbed the mattress and, when he retrieved his hand, his fingers were stained with red.

"Astarion, what is this?"

            Astarion didn't answer. He could not get rid of the ghostly feeling of a hand caressing his sensitive skin. Crawling on his body to reach every place he didn't want it to reach.

            If he had to breathe, he would have trouble doing so. As it were, he was still choking on the nothingness in his lungs. He couldn't raise his head or hold a gaze. He was simply ready to take whatever he would be given. The hand on his skin was leaving a trail of thrills. And Astarion kept his jaws clenched. Furious at himself to be so easily shaken. So easily scared into absolute submission.

            How funny was it?

            That Astarion never knew if he was more of a whore or more of a dog? Those were the two figures he had any kinship with, the two figures he was ever compared to. And Astarion was never sure which one he was, and which one he was supposed to be.

            But funny it was. To so many. They just loved it when he would freeze. Stiff, lost and silent, unable to do anything. Their laughter… How funny he was, really.

            And Astarion just wanted to scream in rage as the memory of the whip and of Cazador's sneer, like ghostly burns on his back and mind, had more power over his treacherous, incapable body than his own damn brain.

            Halsin pushed back the blankets. Not enough to uncover Astarion's legs, but his gesture still exposed the large stain of blood on the mattress. Halsin looked at it, speechless for a moment, before turning his gaze back to Astarion.

"My friend," he tried to say as softly as possible, "you can't ignore it any longer. I know you don't want to, but it must be addressed. You need to find someone to care for that wound."

            Something about the words, about the situation, about his subservient reaction, about the shame of sitting in one's own filth also, something about all that triggered a visceral reaction in Astarion and, without a warning, he grabbed Halsin by the leather strips of his top and violently shoved him away from him. If only his rage and hatred could move his body, then so be it! Rage and hatred it would be.

            Taken by surprise, the Druid stumbled back and fell on the floor. Astarion was up in an instant, ready to fight for his life.

"To care for the wound? Really?"

            He could hear that his voice was resonating a whole octave higher than he would have wished it to be.

"Astarion, I..."

            Before Halsin could finish, Astarion had rushed toward his bag and had grabbed a dagger from it, having no idea yet what he planned on doing with it exactly. His only plan was to get violent. He didn't mind dirt; he was already stained with it. And so would be everyone coming anywhere near him.

"So that's what you have in mind, Druid. You want to play doctor, don't you?"

"Astarion, please, put away that weapon," Halsin said, sitting up.

"You stay down!" Astarion heard himself yell. "You don't get to move. You've not earned it."

            Those sentences fled out of his mouth effortlessly. He had heard them far too often. There were engraved around his neck like a collar. They were burned into the fat of his fucked-up brain.

            The tone Cazador would take while saying them rolled off his tongue. Exactly like Astarion remembered them.

"So, how do you want to do it?" he asked more quietly.

            He was calmer only on the surface. Deep down, he was a true mess, and he had no idea what he was doing, nor why he was doing it. The words were just bursting out of his mouth, his hand was shaking around the hilt of the dagger.

"Do you want me to bend over for you, uh? Where will it be? Over the bed, the table, against the wall, on the floor? Keeping my ass real high so you don't have any trouble pulling my pants down? Or do you want me to do it myself? Maybe put on a little show, just for you?"

"Astarion, please, stop that."

"Do you want me to pretend to be all flustered and coy? Hide my face and whisper for you to stop? Or do you want me to play the part of the naughty little boy who just can't get enough? Oh, I know the lines of this one by heart. Do you want me to whimper and whine about how big you feel and oh, Gods, I can't take that, Doctor, it's too much. Or do you want me to beg for more and deeper and faster and rougher?"

            He couldn't stop himself. He wanted to shut up at last, but he just couldn't. And a part of him, a small, overwhelmed part, was furiously set on forcing Halsin to listen to all he had to say. All he had heard. Forcing him to acknowledge it and to react to it.

            That part of him, buried behind centuries of scars, was bleeding more so than any Baron had ever made him bleed.

"I can moan if you want me to," he continued, though his voice was breaking on each word. "Or I can scream at the top of my lungs, if it's what gets you going."

"Astarion..."

"Shut up and just place your damn order already!"

"Astarion!"

            Halsin's voice had snapped with authority, loudly enough to silence the High-Elf but not enough to scare him into submission. He was no Cazador.

"I have no desire to roughen you up," the Druid said coldly, "but if you step any closer with that dagger in your hand, I will intervene. I am understanding, but I won't let you harm me."

"Try..."

            Before he could say 'me', and as he had stepped forward, Astarion saw Halsin react and leap forward. He stepped back but the Druid didn't try to reach for his throat or chest or anywhere where he could deliver damage. Instead, Halsin simply went for Astarion's hand, more precisely his bandaged wrist, which he squeezed just enough to awaken the latent injury. A sharp burn flashed up Astarion's arm, who yelled in pain and dropped his dagger.

            Halsin let go of him, but, once the weapon was on the floor, he gave a kick that sent it sliding far away, under a cupboard.

            Astarion stumbled back, hugging his wrist to his chest. Halsin hadn't twisted it enough to worsen the injury, but the pain was back and strongly pulsing. Before anyone could curse or apologize, the door opened wide, Karlach and Lae'zel having heard the commotion.

"Where is the enemy?" Lae'zel asked, her long sword ready to swing and kill, her yellow eyes screening the small room.

"There's no enemy," Halsin quickly said to the two women, before they could get too worked up. "Only a heated discussion, that's all. No blade could bring anything good to it, so how about we all keep them away?"

            Lae'zel didn't seem convinced and was still detailing every corner of the room.

"I couldn't be more serious, Lae'zel," Halsin insisted, his expression dark and sober. "Please, keep that blade away for now."

            Lae'zel hesitated but something in Halsin's seriousness convinced her. Not without a clear sound of disapproval, she put her sword back in its sheath. Karlach tried to hide her axe too which, considering its size, was doomed to fail.

"What's the matter?" the Tiefling asked, glancing at Astarion who was still shaking with hardly contained anger.

"Why would you ever think it is any of your business?" he hissed between his clenched teeth.

"I don't but..."

"Then maybe, if you have nothing to do with any of it, then just maybe you don't get to share an opinion no one cares to hear."

            Before anything could be answered, Astarion made his way to the door. He didn't have the shoulders to push any of the two women on the side, so he simply slipped in between them and left his room behind. He rushed into the bathroom and shut the door.

            His hands shaking, he paced around aimlessly, unable to sit yet too shaken to stand.

            What he had just said to Halsin was turning round and round in his head, and he couldn't get rid of the sound of his own voice yelling the words he had heard so often back at the Druid. Or maybe it wasn't his voice. He wasn't sure. The accents were too familiar for him to distinguish anything about them. Maybe it was someone else's voice. Maybe it was many voices. Repeating the same idioms over and over.

            He didn't know and he couldn't afford to stop and think. He needed to do something. To be busy. To numb himself.

            No.

            What he really needed was to get angry at someone. Not just annoyed, truly wrathful. Where were his useless siblings? They would punch back harder than the Druid had, but Astarion could say and do to them whatever he wished, they wouldn't leave him. Not that he was too thrilled about that. He wished they would. But it was a fact, nonetheless. They wouldn't. Whereas his new companions...

            Astarion needed them too desperately. And having something to lose was not a feeling he was still used to. He couldn't afford to yell at them or threaten them the way he had just done to Halsin. He knew that. Therefore, it was in his head that he was yelling and threatening. At himself, for no one else could hear.

            Why hadn't he been able to stop talking? Why hadn't he just complied?

            After two centuries of repeated lessons, he ought to know by now. Fighting back was never an option.

            He should have kept his mouth shut. Obediently let Halsin see everything he wanted to see. Even offering him more than he was asking for.

            If, instead of being all shaking and fearful like a pathetic little bitch, he had been bold and enterprising. If he had initiated, dropped arousing hints, worked his flirtatious magic, he could have ensured Halsin's favors for himself. He could have made sure the big bear was gentle and careful with him, willing to provide protection for a small cost.

            Astarion knew that. He just had to compare Cazador's guests with the unlucky souls picked up in inns and taverns. The formers were joyfully cruel, the latters were amorously tender. Astarion's victims were just that. Victims. Making him the tormentor. Which was infinitely better than the other way around.

            That was the only choice he had. Being a victim or a tormentor. Why was he never able to make the right one?

            Exhausted, his muscles aching for rest, he was longing to sit. But, where Halsin was right was that some things couldn't be ignored. Presently, the fact that his pants, once more, were soaked in blood. His numb, shaking fingers struggled a bit but he managed to lower his pants and take them off, staying in his undergarment. Just like before, his thighs were stained with that crimson liquid. He had bled a bit more, thanks to his warmer body, but at least there was no semen thrown into the mix. Everything was coming from him. Small comfort.

            His legs too tired to stay up, Astarion sat on the edge of the tub. He grabbed a clean towel and dropped it on his lap, hiding some of the all too familiar show.

            For a brief second, a second of pure madness, Astarion allowed himself to wonder if he was not better off at the Szarr Palace. He hated every instant spent in this gloomy manor. But the fact was that, at least, no one there cared enough about him to ask any question. No one checked what was or wasn't on his sheets. If he was hurt? Either he had been good and he had a few droplets of rat blood to heal himself, or he hadn't and that was the least of his problems. And if he couldn't stomach blood? Cazador was there to solve this issue for him.

            The truth was that he was far too scared of his Master to ever willingly go back to the mansion and ask for forgiveness. If he ever were to see Cazador again, he would fight him to his definitive death. But that changed little to that very simple fact: Astarion's existence was easier under Cazador's ownership.

            Yes, there were the tortures, the humiliations, the rapes, the violence, the guilt. But at least, Astarion knew all that. It was all second nature for him. He knew Cazador and knew how to behave. Not that it would spare him from any harm, but he had a role to play. A very precise partition he knew by heart.

            He didn't want to be tortured. But he knew how to take a lash and stifle a sob.

            He didn't want to bring pretty souls to their death. But he knew how to seduce with a few words and a sharp smile.

            He didn't want to be raped. But he knew how to thank his lovers earnestly for every new day of horror.

            He was familiar with all that. More than familiar. He was good at it.

'Your only true skill,' he could hear Cazador whisper in his ear, 'make torment look alluring on you. Now scream, sweet boy, or what use will we ever have for you?'

            A knock drowned the end of the sentence, saving Astarion from the sound of his own screams echoing over and over in his hollow head.

"Yes," he answered without thinking.

            He preferred any confrontation to being left to face the memory of Cazador's soft whispers. Gods, he would play doctor with Halsin rather than being alone with that voice.

            The door opened, letting Karlach in.

            There was a moment of silence, where the two of them simply looked at each other.

"Hey," she finally said, eloquently.

            Astarion thought of the poor spectacle he was offering. Sitting on his own on the edge of a tub, in his undergarment and untucked shirt, his legs covered in blood.

"Hey," he answered, and even he couldn't play it off as casual.

"Can I come in?"

'Of course! There are so many entertaining things to do in this bathroom, I wouldn't dare to keep you away from all that fun!'

            That was what he wanted to answer. But he didn't have the energy to deliver it the way it should be. Nor was he in any position to suffer the consequences. Anything but his memories, he begged wordlessly. So, he simply lowered his gaze and nodded.

            Karlach took the time to carefully close the door, before joining him and sitting next to him. The tub protested with a long creak, but it didn't budge. Astarion clenched his fist around the fabric of his towel.

"Does it hurt?" she enquired.

"Known worse."

            And he had rarely known better, actually.

"Still," she shrugged. "It sucks."

            Point made.

"Yes. I guess it does."

            The silence settled once more, only vaguely bothered by Karlach kicking her heel against the wood of the tub. And Astarion was too exhausted to carry his fair share of the conversation.

"Do you mind telling me what happened?" Karlach wondered, her eyes detailing the wall in front of them, leaving some privacy to Astarion. "With Halsin, I mean."

"What did he say?"

"He said he was careless and hurt you. He said you didn't react too well."

"So that's my fault then."

            It was.

"That's not what he said. And that's not what I said he said."

            But that was what both were thinking.

            And they weren't wrong.

"He was... inappropriate. Asked for something that I obviously didn't want to give."

"What did he ask for?"

"Do you really need me to spell it out?"

"I mean... I wouldn't mind. Cause you and I both know Halsin. And he is not at all the kind of guy that would do what I think you're hinting at."

"Maybe you don't know him that well!"

"Maybe... What did he say, exactly?"

            The question annoyed Astarion. The way everything that was forcing him to admit his faults was annoying him.

"Fine! Maybe he didn't mean it like that. Maybe he was being genuine. But how was I supposed to know? Am I expected to just take his word for it? That's not how anything ever works."

            Karlach didn't blame him for his anger and just let it die down. She left to him the responsibility to continue, which he did after a while.

"Maybe I was a bit harsh. But if you're here to make me apologize then..."

"No. That's not what I'm here for."

"Then what?"

            She shrugged, seemingly unsure herself.

"I don't know. Is there anything I can do to help?"

"Am I so pathetic that you feel the urge to do something about it?"

"Not really, no. I don't think you are. But I think you're having it rough lately. And that's not fair. So, if there is something I can maybe do to..."

"There's nothing."

            It cut her good will short.

"Thank you," he added like a hypocritical afterthought. "But there simply isn't."

            And he didn't need help. What for? What would it change?

            It had happened so many times, over so many years. Why would Astarion still need help? There was nothing in him that could still be salvaged.

            Another knock filled the definitive silence. Astarion didn't react to it, more focused on the sight of his hand clenched around the towel over his lap.

"May I have a word? A short one, I promise."

            Astarion recognized Halsin's voice. Little of his former anger was still there. Having offered its place to a general exhaustion.

"Is it ok?" Karlach asked him when he didn't answer.

            Astarion shrugged. It was all the extent of what he had to say and the emotional investment he could pour into this situation. His feelings were… overused. Blunt-edged.

"Come on in, Halsin. Close the door behind you."

            Halsin did as he was told and the small room, only meant to give some privacy to the user of the shared tub, quickly felt overcrowded. Halsin, who looked especially large in this limited space, didn't need more than a step to join the two other occupants. His large shadow was enough to cover the whole of Astarion. Just like the Baron.

            He didn't close his eyes, didn't wince. But he could feel fear flow through him. An overused, blunt-edged one, that one too. But still potent enough to widen his pupil and tense his muscles. Whether or not he saw it, Halsin didn't come any closer. He didn't stay where he could hover above Astarion, he didn't come to sit next to him either. He remained where he was, a good couple of feet away, and he crouched on the floor, right in front of Astarion, a level lower.

"I wanted to apologize, my friend. I hurt you, even though it wasn't my aim, and I am sorry for that. I can think of a couple of things I can do about the pain, to correct my actions."

"It is fine, Druid," Astarion said, his eyes on the floor, a bit on Halsin's left. "The pain is nearly gone already."

"That's a relief, then. As for the other thing I wanted to address..."

            He let his sentence float in suspension in the air and he glanced at Karlach, looking for her approbation. She was as lost as he was, and she answered with an unconvinced nod.

"I feel like there is something I should have taken the time to clarify," Halsin finally said, after having taken a long, deep breath. "I did not realize that there was a misconception between us, and I let it hurt us both when I should have addressed it first and foremost... Astarion, do you think you can look at me for a moment?"

            The question sounded genuine, not some order in disguise, and Astarion blessed him with his gaze.

"Astarion, there is something I need you to know and believe. When it comes to that kind of thing, I will never – never – perform any medical act on you if I don't have your explicit permission beforehand. This is a hard rule that nothing will bend. I feel like, when I talked of taking care of your wound, you had some intrusive assistance in mind, I assure you it wasn't what was on mine. Do you hear me, Astarion?"

            Hardly. Astarion could swear he was hearing his own heart beating loudly inside his body. He knew it wasn't possible, but it was still deafening.

            It was taking all his focus to keep his eyes locked into Halsin's and not just let his mind float away from his body. There was that distance between him and the world. It felt like Halsin was standing miles away, on the other side of that border between two planes that were Astarion's eyes.

"To put it bluntly, Astarion, no, I will not ask to see any private part. There will be no rectal examination, no intrusive observation. I am a good enough healer to take circumstances into consideration and the circumstances are such that I know that there is no invasive procedure that will do you the slightest good right now."

            Astarion had lost the fight against himself. His eyes had fallen down on the floor once more, away from Halsin's gaze. It was a comforting thing, to experience his body from the inside, all its sensations mere campfire stories. To be heard only. Not experienced.

            He didn't know how he felt. He didn't want to know. He felt lightheaded, the world slowly spinning around him.

"Did you hear that, Astarion? I believe it is of the utmost importance that you do."

            He nodded. He had. Heard every single word. As for understanding them, however, it was another matter. He knew he didn't have the strength right now, he couldn't take the risk. Listening to them would break something in him. Something strong. Or, more exactly, it would force him to handle a very dangerous thing: hope. Hope that those words were true.

            Astarion couldn't afford it right now. His world was dark, but it was a darkness with which he knew how to work. Anything new had the ability to shatter his whole word.

"May I speak about your wound, now?"

            Astarion made his shoulders shrug. In a while, when all would be over, he would be angry at himself and his lack of words. They were what he was doing best. His only weapon his Master had any care for. He was polishing them more diligently than his own swords. Yet, none were coming to him to save him and strengthen him, right now.

            Halsin had slipped under his defenses, and there was nothing left to keep him at bay anymore. Deep down, under the veneer of seduction and the carefully embroidered clothes, Astarion had always been very empty. Very inexistent.

            Why were the Druid's words making his mind hid deeper in his own body than Godey's lashes had ever been able to?

"The important thing right now," Halsin said, obviously trying to catch and keep Astarion's fragile focus, "is to concentrate our efforts where they are the most needed. The priority is to get you to feed again. Our best plan is to let your body heal itself but for that we need to give it some energy."

"What if it doesn't?"

            Astarion's voice was so distant, he could barely hear it. It was in another world. Like Halsin's.

"Heal. What if it continues to bleed."

"We are not there yet. We will see when and if it comes to that."

            Halsin must have caught the bitter fear in Astarion's red eyes for he resumed promptly.

"Astarion, even if it comes to that, it doesn't change what I just told you. Whatever you have in mind, it will not happen, do you hear me? No matter how dire the situation is, it is not on the table. Do you understand that part? It is essential. I don't think I can help you in any way as long as you won't believe that to be true."

            Astarion attempted a vague gesture, mixture of a nod and a shrug, that looked generally approving.

"Good," Halsin said, delivering enough enthusiasm to make up for Astarion's lack thereof. "Say it back to me."

            Astarion didn't react. He didn't understand those sounds. A long moment of silence followed them. When he looked up again, he noticed Halsin seemed to be waiting. He had just missed something.

"I beg your pardon?"

"It's alright. If you're not really here right now, we will wait with you until you're back. There's no rush. Take your time."

            Halsin wasn't making any sense. Of course Astarion was there. Where else was he supposed to be? He frowned, the surprising turn of the conversation and its overall absurdity making him focus a bit more on it.

"What do you want, Druid?"

"What I just said. Say it back to me. So, I know you heard it."

            Astarion opened and closed his mouth, failing to see how he had become the butt of that weird joke.

"I am absolutely serious, my friend," Halsin said with a patient smile. "Say it back so we can be on the same page and get it out of the way."

            Then Halsin waited, not moving on without Astarion's collaboration.

"Fine," Astarion sighed, quickly finding back his usual dramatic antics when faced with the silliness of the inquiry. "You won't do any of your healing shenanigans to me, unless I give you my permission."

            Even though he was mocking Halsin with his exasperated tone, the words were ringing weirdly in his mouth. Scratching against his tongue. He was truly hearing their meaning for the first time, as they were leaving his tongue, no more mere sounds. A part of him, still fearful and ready to recoil, expected a lash. Something to remind him of the absurdity of such a concept. The only permission that mattered was Cazador's, his Master and owner. Stating otherwise was not only plainly wrong, it was also incredibly dangerous.

            Yet no such lash came down, no skin torn from his back. Halsin's smile simply grew. He was made genuinely happy by Astarion's words.

"About the wound," he resumed, "I would like you to do a thing or two about it, if you can. First of all, try to keep it clean to the best of your abilities. Don't let the blood stagnate around the wound. If you are unable to reach it, or you don't feel comfortable doing it, it is alright. Just bathe in clear water for a while, it will do a good enough job. I insist on clear water. No oil, no salt, no nothing. Just plain old water. Cold also, if you can manage it. The warmer your body will be, the more fluid your blood will get, and the more easily you will bleed. I don't know at what pace your body replaces the lost blood, given your state right now; we better not make it any harder on it."

            But warm baths were so pleasant. He knew he never had it the easy way, but it didn't mean he couldn't yearn for it.

"As I don't know just how much you're truly able to focus right now, Astarion, I'm counting on you Karlach to keep it in mind as well for the time being. If you can help out a bit..."

"Of course! No oil, no whatever-you-said-next but I got the gist of it. Boring ol' water. And not even warm, so that really sucks."

"Well... Put that way, it doesn't sound enticing but..."

"No, don't worry, I'll keep everything in mind. If Astarion was lucky enough to miss anything the first time you said it, I will remind him of all the annoying parts."

"I mean... Thank you, I guess."

            Astarion appreciated the irony of having Karlach of all people pay attention in case he couldn't. The same Tiefling who couldn't get trapped in a conversation without breaking into dance moves every two seconds, and who couldn't be left out of sight without taking the risk of finding her again in the most improbable and impossible of places, she of all people was tasked with listening carefully in his place.

            With a bit of luck, she would forget all the key points and Astarion would have an excuse to completely disregard the healer's orders.

"Anyway," Halsin continued, apparently confident that Karlach would do a good job paying attention. "The other thing I would like you to do is to reduce your activities to the minimum. You don't only need rest; you also need to stay still for a while. As you cannot heal right now, the only thing you can do is widen your wound. There is no need to grow too worried, but it would still be good for you to not run around too much for a while. Or walk. I believe bed rest is warranted until you are able to feed again and trigger your regeneration."

            Halsin waited a moment, trying to see if his words were being registered. Then he got back on his feet with a long sigh.

"I will leave you to it. Was there anything else you wanted to talk about?"

"Anything else?" Asterion repeated, pointing out that there was nothing he had wanted to talk about in the first place.

"Fair enough. If you need me, I'll be outside. I still need to check on the horses."

"Got that," Karlach said with an enthusiastic salute.

            Halsin was about to leave when Astarion felt the urgent need to call after him.

"Druid?"

"Yes? What is it?"

            The words were not yet out, they were already burning Astarion's throat. Unable to bear Halsin's gaze, he was looking at the door, his jaws clenched. If he had been able to warm up on his own, he knew his face would be burning right now.

"What..." his voice being weaker than he had expected it, he cleared his throat. "What I said. Earlier. In the other room. What I said to you."

"Yes... What about it?"

"I... It wasn't relevant to the situation."

"There is no need to apologize."

"Just... Just forget it, will you?"

            Halsin frowned, thinking about it for a while.

"No, my friend. I don't think I will. And I don't think it should be."

            Halsin left the room before Asterion could react to the level of his surprise. What was that supposed to mean?

            Did Halsin plan on using that little... misstep of his against him later on? Astarion wasn't sure whether or not he should be worried. He wasn't sure Halsin could really hold his ground when it came to dirty fights and vicious schemes. But then, why would he make it a point to keep track of Astarion's... small overreaction?

"The water's clean," Karlach's pointed out, after a glance inside the tub. "And cold. Great."

            She leaned in for a secret.

"I could casually wet my hand in the water for a minute or so and get it tepid... You know... By accident."

"That's fine. I don't mind cold baths."

"You're tougher than me, then. I have to as well, to cool down that lil' ol' thing," she tapped on her chest and a metallic sound came out of it. "But I never got to the point where I'm fine with it."

            Astarion grabbed the closest washcloth that he then wetted in the clean water.

"Don't the water evaporate? When you get into a bath, I'd picture a blast of vapor. A makeshift steam room of sorts. And transportable too."

"Well... It may have happened once or twice..."

            With the cloth, Astarion began to methodically clean his inner thigh, wiping the blood away, getting under the towel on his lap to reach higher and higher.

"I'm never sure if I can really bathe in rivers. What if the water gets too hot for the poor fish and they die because of me? That'd be awful. It's just a degree or two but I guess it matters, doesn't it? Maybe not. I should ask Halsin... But I could do wonders in salt ponds and stuff like that... Maybe a good career change once we're done with all that tadpole stuff. What do you think?"

            Astarion had reached high enough to be done cleaning his thighs. The tip of his fingers had just reached the fabric of his underwear.

            It was soaked in blood, soggy against his skin. So full of it, droplets were wrung out with a simple contact and were dripping down on his fingers. It felt every bit as if he had wetted himself. And he had, in all the ways that mattered. Soiled himself. He always ended up like that. Defiled. Humiliated.

            Every. Single. Fucking. Time.

            The truth was, there was nothing left to humiliate. He wanted to laugh so bad. It was all so pathetic.

"Astarion?"

            He dropped the cloth. And brought his hand where he could see it. The tips of his fingers were wet with his blood. Colors, as vivid as that red, flashed before his eyes. He didn't close them. He knew it would give more depth and vibrance to the pictures. As memories of all his humiliations hit him, he was desperate to keep his eyes open.

            Dalyria, trying to teach him how to sew a linen gusset on the inside of his undergarment.

            Astarion is in a bed, rolled into a tight ball, begging for her to leave him alone.

            He is in so much pain.

            And he is so young.

            Astarion couldn't remember how young he used to be. He couldn't afford to wonder. The weight of the world had stooped his shoulders more than age would have done, anyway. So, he kept his eyes on the ceiling. Watching the stains on the wood.

            Stains on the floor. As black as mold. Old blood. His.

            The floor is a mess. The guests, now gone, had an unforgettable night. Astarion too. He will have to try harder to forget it then.

            Cazador is by the door.

'Lick it clean, boy,' he orders, though his eyes are on a contract he has signed with one of his pleased guests.

'I can't...' Astarion struggles to whisper. 'Rules...'

            Cazador doesn't mind him enough to laugh at him.

'You are no thinking creature, Spawn. I am the one thinking. Now lick.'

            Cazador doesn't even stay to witness his humiliation.

            When Astarion, his body compelled by his Master's order, starts to lick his disgusting, years old blood, it is not just the stains he is wiping away. It is his very sense of self.

            He is no thinking creature. He is no worthy being.

            The stains on the ceiling started to blur, moving like black dots would in the corner of one's eyes.

            Dancing bodies and waltzing faces. Astarion is in a tavern in the lower city. The music is shit, the smell is atrocious, but the alcohol is cheap and people are wasted.

            He leaps from arms to arms. Trying to find which embrace is the boldest. Trying to guess who is hungry enough to follow a stranger home.

            Later tonight, he will pick someone too hungry. Someone who won't wait to get home.

            It will happen in an alley. It will be quick and against a wall.

            Astarion will come home empty-handed.

            It will not be a good night.

            But, for now, he is dancing among victims.

            Why was his sight so blurry? Why was it darkening around the edge?

            His hands bound by chains to the wall. To keep him on his feet for the whip.

            His sister Aurelia is chained next to him. They both were caught stealing from the guests.

            Astarion was caught. But he has dragged his innocent sister down with him. Just because he could. Just because he wanted to have the power to make someone suffer.

            And, even then, as she cries by his side, he hates her. Because she is gagged. When he isn't.

            Godey has grown bored of Aurelia's screams. He has silenced her to better hear Astarion.

            Astarion fucking hates her for that. Much more than he will ever hate Godey.

            Once this is all over, he will make her regret not screaming well enough.

            Oh, he will be so much worse than Godey.

            He couldn't breathe. That was why.

            And he didn't have the clarity of mind to remember he didn't need to breath.

            He was opening and closing his mouth, trying to get any air in, but he couldn't. He was suffocating. He was suffocating and he couldn't scream.

"Astarion?"

            His nails scratching the wood of a coffin. His fangs biting his own flesh like a mad dog. He is stuck. He is trapped. He will never get fresh air again.

            Astarion fell on his knees. His whole body was trembling, shaking so violently it felt like convulsing. His sight had turned into a dark haze. He couldn't see anything anymore. So he did what should never be done.

            He closed his eyes.

            The flashes flooded his brain.

            A flaying so bad it makes him bite into the stones. Both fangs breaking. The bare nerves scratching the wall. For days after, he gums rats and weeps in pain doing so. Days before Cazador wants him sharp again.

            He could feel a burning sensation in his fingers, where his muscles were so contracted they were on the verge of rupture. He was desperate to grab something, anything. To hold on to it. But he couldn't open his fist.

            The smell in the sewer as he crawls, looking for dead vermin.

            The cold stone against his grazed knee, as he kneels, waiting for punishment.

            The terror in his stomach when he gets home empty-handed.

            The dreaded sound of the door of the guest room being locked. Always means he is in for the whole night.

            He pressed his fists against his ears, trying to muffle that sound. That artificial silence was soon covered by the memory of his own screams.

"I... Kar... Please..." he tried to say something, anything to get some help. But his throat was too tight. No air in, no word out. And he had no idea what to say. It felt like he was dying all over again.

            Torture implements hung on the walls. Rusted by blood. He can't name one yet knows them all.

            Busy taverns. Hundreds of faces. Astarion is wise enough to choose the kindest. The sweetest. They deserve it the least, but Astarion has never been a hero.

            An erection pressed against his lips. Then hitting hard the back of his throat. He doesn't gag anymore. He still panics though. Still fears suffocation.

            He felt the floor hit him and he recoiled.

"Astarion ! By the Gods, what's... What's happening? Lae'zel! LAE'ZEL!"

            A hand grabbing his wrists. Keeping them together.

            Hot breath against his neck.

            A waist keeping his legs apart.

            Astarion can't afford to forget to smile and praise.

"What's wrong with him?"

"I... I don't know. Go find someone more competent than us. Quick!... Soldier, you'll be alright. You're ok. Everything's fine."

            His face pressed against the mattress.

            His throat raw and broken by all his screams.

            The weight of his master against the small of his back.

            'You moved. No need to cry, my boy, it is alright, we will simply have to redo that part. But thank me for the infinite patience I show you, you foolish thing.'

"Hey, can you hear me?"

            The voice was soft. But so could be Cazador's.

"I swear you'll be alright, ok soldier? You just need to breathe and... well, you're a vampire, so you don't... So, you've already got the first step covered! See? You're doing so well!"

            The needle butchering his body.

            Or was it the whip? Or the weight of another body.

            So much pain.

            So much damn pain, every single day of his miserable life.

            He wants out. Please, Gods, any God, he wants it to end.

            'Open your eyes, Spawn. You won't hide from me. Not even in your own mind.'

            His body answered the order. Habits and training bounding it the way magic couldn't anymore. He opened his eyes.

            He saw nothing of Karlach. Nothing of the bathroom.

            Cazador was above him. His red, glowing eyes eclipsing his grim smile.

"Away from me yet bound to keep me in your every thought."

            Astarion's mind and body froze. No more shaking, no more flashes. Just total, crushing terror.

            He bore the sight no more than an instant.

            He surrendered to dread, and his brain shut down, in a desperate attempt to protect itself.

            One last sentence reached him in the depth of unconsciousness.

"There is no outrunning me, my boy."

            It was the dead of the night when Astarion came back to himself.

            He wasn't on the floor anymore. He was lying somewhere soft. Somewhere... why did he feel like it was somewhere safe?

            It had been said to him. He could hear it still, an echo lost in his ear.

'You're safe, soldier. I promise you. Nothing will happen to you.'

            He could feel blankets wrapped around him. They weren't warm, but they were heavy and Astarion wasn't sure why he was so glad for them.

            He slipped his chin and nose underneath them, breathing in his own smell. He was exhausted and the soft pressure on his face was delicious for some reason.

            Some thoughts began to stretch and yawn, bringing with them glimpses of memories, but Astarion shut them down as soon as he began to see two glowing red eyes in the darkness.

            Looking around, he realized he was neither in the kennel, nor the dormitory, but a cheap, foreign room.

            Someone was snoring loudly by his side and, when he looked, he saw the characteristic orange shine of Karlach's engine. She was sitting on the chair, her knees to her chest. She had a pillow on her lap, yet it was her axe she was using to rest her head, in a position that couldn't be comfortable.

            Astarion didn't believe he had made much noise, especially considering Karlach's snoring, yet she woke up the moment Astarion began to move.

"Hey," she whispered, wiping the drool off her cheek, "you're awake?"

"Some fine observations..."

            His voice was weaker than usual, though his throat didn't hurt the way it would if he screamed too much. It was simply tiredness as he was just waking up from... had he been trancing? He wasn't sure. It felt deeper than a trance. He wanted to go back.

"You know where you are?" Karlach asked.

            She was still whispering but her voice was clearly not made for silence, and she winced at how loud she sounded.

            Astarion took a moment to think about the question.

"The inn," he remembered.

"Yes. You were in the bathroom, and you got... unwell. Remember?"

            Astarion vaguely nodded. Fuzzy memories. Not very pleasant ones.

"You fainted," Karlach cut it short, when she understood Astarion wasn't too fond of that recalling. "We got Halsin back. Said something about anxiety and said you needed rest. He said you shouldn't wake up on your own in case you're unwell again."

"I'm fine," he said. "I feel..."

            He did feel alright. Much better even, when he wasn't thinking too much about his last memories. But his state of mind was not what he felt first and foremost.

"Clean," he ended his sentence. "I feel clean."

            Nothing sticky underneath him, no constant reminder of his situation. He felt dry and it was fantastic.

"Halsin changed you," Karlach said, with a casualness that Astarion would have never mastered. "Kept you covered the whole time, looked away, but he said something about not risking infection and rash. I didn't really listen to be honest. I stop when there're three syllable words."

"Rash is one syllable."

"He said infection first."

            Astarion chuckled softly. He knew Karlach was not half as dumb as she pretended to be in that moment. She was simply doing it for his sake, using ignorance as a way to mind his privacy.

            He had to admit, he wasn't too down about being dry and clean now. Waking up in his own cold blood would have greatly tarnished the experience. He had often been changed while unconscious, by his siblings cleaning him according to their Master's orders, mostly by Dalyria as their only doctor, and he preferred it to waking up in his filth. Also, the fact that Halsin had covered him seemed to indicate he had cared more about Astarion's dignity than anyone should ever bother.

"You alright?"

"Yes, I'm fine. But I'm not thanking the Druid."

"I don't remember seeing you ever thank anyone."

"I do it all the time. Ironically, sure, but I would say it still counts."

            Karlach laughed and straightened up. She grabbed the pillow and hesitated a second.

"I know Halsin said you shouldn't... but I won't snitch if you don't."

            She handed the pillow to him. He didn't understand at first, grabbing it instinctively, but he quickly noticed how hot it was, warmed up by Karlach's engine.

            Without a word, he slipped the pillow underneath the blanket and pressed it against his chest.

            And it felt wonderful.

            He hugged it in delight, barely holding back a sigh of comfort.

"The sun will soon be up," Karlach said with a glance at the window. "Gotta fix something for myself to eat, or else Lae'zel may end up doing it..."

            She was halfway to the door, already, when Astarion asked.

"When will we leave?"

"Don't bother yourself with that. Shadowheart's finding a worrying amount of money. I don't dare to ask where it's coming from…"

"We can't stay here forever. They may send people after us. We killed their B... their leader."

"Astarion..."

            Karlach seemed very amused, and she swung her axe until it landed in her arms again, its mass moving the air around.

"See that? Ever seen bigger, badder axes?"

            Astarion had rarely seen such a massive weapon in the city, but he didn't see what it had to do with anything.

"It will be more than able to welcome anyone coming after us."

            She put it aside with a casualness that shouldn't be physically manageable with such a heavy tool.

"I won't let anyone come anywhere near you, soldier."

            He didn't know what to answer, and she had already left the room when the word stumbled out of his mouth.

"Lovely."

            He was glad she wasn't here to hear it. He hated not knowing what to say.

            He rolled on his side and pressed the warm pillow tighter against his chest.

            He had done nothing to deserve any of this, he thought to himself, as he could sense his mind drifting away.

            But he would snatch every crumb of it.

Chapter Text

Chapter 5

            Astarion was surprised by the amount of time he spent trancing lately. That was what he was thinking about, as he woke up at noon, the sun lazing at its peak.

            Elves needed only four hours of trance every twenty-four hours or so. Astarion could work with two, if he had to. And he often had to as, in the wild, his paranoia would keep him up and watching over the party's sleep. But, lately, he felt like he had done nothing but trance, and after each awakening, he would still yearn for more rest. It was not how he usually was. He could somewhat guess that it had to do with the fact he never had the opportunity to truly rest at the Palace and couldn't believe how good it was to be able to close his eyes and do nothing. But it was not a luxury he could afford to get used to. Even away from Baldur's Gate, he needed to remain sharp and ready to fight, if he wanted to survive everything the world was currently throwing at them.

            That was why he forced himself to sit up, even though he wanted nothing more than to roll on his other side and get back to his trance, resuming unconsciousness exactly where he had left it.

            He knew he was supposed to be on bed rest. And, if he was honest with himself, he didn't feel up to go outside just yet. But he still forced himself to get up, at least to fully break out of his trance.

            He had bled a bit during his rest. Not as much as the day before, as his blood had cooled down, but still enough to stain the bed. He noticed then that a fabric had been laid underneath him. It must have been placed the night before, when Astarion had been out of it. It was rough and thick, and it had served the purpose Astarion could guess it had: to protect the mattress from the blood. More of those rugged fabrics had been left on the table.

            He stood up, hearing his knees crack and feeling some of his muscles protest, but overall, he felt rather fine, all things considered. He walked to the corner of the room where the bucket of water was, and he washed himself summarily. He didn't let himself be overwhelmed or overthink anything. He didn't stop to wonder what he felt, what he sensed or what he was doing. His mind was floating far away from his body as he was executing gestures he knew by heart. He didn't need to be present for that. Once he was done washing, he barely remembered even doing it. He grabbed some clean clothes. His last ones. He needed to do some laundry today, especially as the chances were high he would stain himself again.

            After that, he would be down to his light armor, and even then, if his memory served him right, it was covered with spider's guts. Or was it? Had he cleaned it before the party at the Baron's manor? His memories were so fuzzy, he couldn't remember what he had and hadn't done, or in what order. Gods, it felt like this fight with the spiders had happened an eternity ago.

            A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts.

"Are you decent?"

            Astarion grabbed his blanket and threw it over the small blood stain on the mattress.

"Never truly. Where would the fun be?"

            It was Gale who opened the door. He had already opened his mouth to say something, but he stopped at the sight of the empty bed. He looked around to find Astarion by the corner of the room.

"Aren't you supposed to be resting?"

"Halsin hired you as a spy? Really?"

"I'm sure I would make a fantastic spy, as a matter of fact. You would be surprised. But no, I'm not here for that. Here, an offering to grant me entrance."

            Gale showed what he had in his hand. A glass bottle filled with blood. The label still indicated some local vineyard but there was no doubt nothing was left of the original content. As for the new red drink. Hard to tell the provenance from afar, Astarion would need to take a breath of it, but he could see it was fresh and still warm. Yet, he felt his stomach contract in protest. He could neatly feel the burn of hunger and the itch in his jaws that dreamed of squeezing around something. But he could already sense that his body was getting ready to reject everything that would be given to it.

            The bile was already rising.

"Well, then put it on the table. I'll get a sip. But I'm telling you, I am not paying you back for it. If you're not able to get it for free, it's your problem."

"Shadowheart gave me the money, I could hardly care less."

"How is she doing that?"

"I don't know. I am not asking."

            Gale stepped into the room to put the bottle down on the desk.

"Now..."

            He grabbed the satchel he had by his side and dropped it next to the bottle.

"... I've been told you had some problems keeping it down. I thought you may be fine with trying a thing or two."

"Trying a thing or two? Wizard, if you need a test subject to experiment on, find yourself a nice little rat or some kobolds."

"You will change your catty mind when you'll get to try... this!"

            With a dramatic gesture, worthy of the lousiest of prestidigitators, he flashed a small vial he had just gotten from his bag. Astarion looked at it, very unimpressed, his catty mind far from being changed.

"Extracted it from imp patagium..."

"You'll notice I really didn't ask."

"Listen, Astarion, I'm all willing to make a fool of myself by being an overexcited enthusiast, while you get to play your cool, tongue-sharped self. But the truth is that I could try and help you drink some blood again. So, your call, Astarion."

            With the tip of his fingers, Astarion tapped the surface of the table. It was sturdy wood, making a nice, clear sound.

            He didn't want to need help. Because he hated to need something he would never get anyway.

            But he was hungry.

            Truly so...

"Imp you say?" he simply repeated, looking at the table rather than the wizard.

            Gale understood those three words as they were, an acceptance if not an appreciation per se.

"There may be trials and errors," he said, not asking more from Astarion than what he had just reluctantly given, "but it should have quick effects. In any case, I promise I will not poison you. Or not a lot."

"How considerate..."

"Grab that."

            Gale threw a few small vials that Astarion grabbed effortlessly despite the wizard's bad aim.

"Give me your opinion on those."

"On those… On your alchemy components you mean? I don't know. They look... uh, alchemical?"

"The smell. Which one do you like best?"

"Really?"

"Yes."

            Astarion began to uncork the vials and breathe in their content. Gale, as for him, was taking out of the satchel what seemed to be a metallic syringe as well as a couple of empty ampoules. With a mindless gesture and a whispered word, Gale cast a cantrip so discreetly Astarion nearly missed it. It took him a second to realize that his clothes that he had left earlier by the bucket of water, were now free of blood. A little Prestidigitation trick Gale would not even mention that had just saved Astarion a long, emotionally tedious chore. The High-Elf clenched his teeth. He was relieved he didn't have to do it himself. He also was glad Gale had not said a word about it.

            Then why couldn't he just be happy for the help? He would take it, like he was taking everything that was ever placed within his reach. But he had this weight in his stomach, as it was getting harder and harder for him to believe he wouldn't have to repay his luck at some point. Or maybe that weight was just hunger. Always hard to tell it apart from fear and doom.

"So?" Gale asked.

"You were serious, then. This one, I guess," he said, handing back one of the vials and putting down the others. "Why do you need my opinion?"

"Because you're the one who is going to drink it. It may as well be pleasant."

            The wizard was done with his preparations, and he turned around at last.

"Those are three of the binding agents I can use. They have similar properties, so the taste can make me choose one over the other. Though I wouldn't advise anyone to taste them undiluted. Anyway, would you be kind enough to lend some blood?"

            Astarion eyed the needle.

"I'm sure it doesn't hurt as much as it looks. I wouldn't know, I never had to use it on myself, but I would guess."

            Astarion wondered if he should joke about having felt much bigger prick than this one. But he didn't think Gale would laugh at that, so he said nothing and just lifted up his sleeve.

"What will you do with it?"

"Some observations. If we are going to save the world, or at least save ourselves together, we need to figure out how you work. And how you can be healed. I am no doctor, but I'm good at understanding how things are. I need to have a look at your kind and vampires don't usually throw themselves at me... Not that I am complaining."

"You don't know what you're missing out on. But how do you plan on helping with the whole... well, blood ordeal exactly, if you have no idea what you're doing?"

"I can always start trying. I already did. Ever since your little forced identity reveal to us, I've read a thing or two. Yesterday, I did a fair amount of research. You could think not much can be learned in just a day at the local and very poorly furnished library, but you would be wrong. That, added to what I've learned during our journey by observing you, and of course my natural intelligence, gave me a beginning of knowledge about the kind of ill that could infect an undead. A very sturdy beginning. There are very few things that could make you throw up. But I have a liquid answer to most of those things."

            With a gesture that was more confident than it was experienced, Gale sunk the needle into Astarion's vein and began to draw the blood. A dense, cloudy liquid, much darker than elven blood, with some brown reflections, began to fill the ampoule. Slowly as it was too thick for the needle.

"It looks..." Gale searched for his words.

"...dead and old? Yes. Tell me about it."

            Astarion remembered licking that same blood off the floor. Its rancid, putrid taste. Its clammy, viscous texture. On his tongue. Stuck in his throat for weeks. He felt himself gag.

"Wow, you're alright?"

            Astarion answered with an annoyed snarl and looked up at the ceiling.

            Cazador's voice was so clear, so powerful in his head. Even a whisper of his could bend the whole world.

            Lick it clean, boy.

            Astarion had to fight himself not to drop to his knees and do just that. The memory of Cazador every bit as powerful as Cazador himself.

            Astarion hated being so damn weak.

"Are you done now?" He asked, turning his anger at himself into impatience against Gale.

"Yes, all done."

            Whether or not Gale had understood Astarion's reaction, he quickly hid the ampoule out of sight.

"I'll have a look at that later," he said, getting that part of their interaction out of the way for good. "Here, let's try something."

            He mixed together a few ingredients, used the binding agent picked by Astarion, added some salts of strange colors, until he obtained a weirdly transparent mixture. He then used less than a drop of it that he added to the half-gallon of blood he had brought with him.

"We will see how it goes..."

"That's all?"

"For now, yes. I said I wouldn't poison you too much. If you are really infected by one of the rare conditions I've read about, we should already see a drastic change with that addition to your diet. It may not be perfect at the first attempt – though, who knows, it could. But, at the very least, it will be noticeable. Positively so. If it is one of the conditions."

"And if it isn't?"

"It should be. As I said, there is not a wide variety of physical illness that can make a vampire unwell."

            Astarion was still as disgusted by the blood as he was hungry for it, but he knew he had to start healing. No one in their group could afford to be delayed like they were being right now. What was more, the blood was just there. Available to him. Who knew when would be the next time he would get to drink some? He had to ignore what his body was telling him in order to make sure he was making the most of his access to food. So, he grabbed the glass Gale had just poured for him. Drinking straight from the pitcher was poor table manner, so he did no such thing. But he downed the glass in barely a second. The blood went down too fast for him to truly sense its taste, let alone the binding ingredient Gale had made him choose.

            He guessed it was fox as he was licking his teeth for the remaining droplets. Not the most nutritious of blood, but the taste wasn't as strong as those of bigger animals. When he reached for the pitcher, however, Gale stopped him.

"Maybe we should see what a little of it does to you, before taking some more. It will be easier for you to digest a single glass of blood rather than two. If it works, then you can drink to your heart's content."

            The pitcher was just there. Within reach. Astarion could really drink it all right now, if he so wished. Gale would certainly not be able to stop him in time.

            Telling himself that he wasn't that desperate and that he could wait for the Wizard to be out of the room to drink was a harder feat than he would have expected it to be. But he managed. He put the glass down and forced himself not to stare at the pitcher.

"And now?" he asked instead.

"Now we wait, and we see how it goes."

            Gale drew the chair to him and sat down on it. Patiently waiting.

"You plan on staying here?"

"If you can't keep it down, I want to see how long it takes for you to reject it. To see if truly it isn't working, or there is just not enough of the medication. I'm just monitoring that."

"Monitoring... Now you make it sound weird."

"That's how it is. Guesswork is your thing, and I understand. Truly. Sometimes, not thinking about something is far too appealing. But that's not how any of this will ever get better. So, yes, I plan on waiting. Unless you can't bear me, but I'm so bad at taking hints I may still stay here and talk about alchemy even while I'm boring you out of your mind."

            Astarion weighed his options for a moment. But Gale looked very comfortably seated and unwilling to move. Astarion gave up before he even started to fight, and he walked to the bed where he sat.

            He would like it, if someone could find a way to make anything in his life easier. He had tried. For two centuries, he had searched for any way to struggle a bit less.

            Or maybe not. Maybe he had stopped sooner. Exhausted already. If Gale still had it in him to fight, then Astarion would take the fruit of that labor he wasn't brave enough to do himself anymore.

"How often does it happen?" Gale asked.

            He wouldn't talk about alchemy, would he?

            Astarion, his elbows resting on his knees, clasped his hands together and watched them hover above the void between his legs.

"From time to time. Less than once a year. Sometimes, I go a full decade without any problem. Not often."

"Because the illnesses I read about are very specific and I can't see them happening more than a couple of times in a lifetime. Even a vampiric one. And that's how it goes when you get sick? You just throw up the blood?"

"Yes."

            Blood had been so rare, so precious, there had only ever been two ways for it to get out of Astarion. Either by throwing it up, or if someone had had the good idea to gut it out of his stomach directly. Funnily enough, the latter had happened way more often than the former.

"And how long does it take for you to get better?"

"Not long. More than a day and Cazador heals us."

"How does he do that? Does he use a spell or something of that kind? If you can remember the somatic component, I could..."

"No spell. He orders us to stop being sick."

"That's... That's all?"

            Gale looked puzzled, frowning in disbelief. Astarion smiled. The wizard had no idea what those things were like. All that Cazador could do. It was nearly cute.

"He is our Master," Astarion simply said, as it explained everything. "Our bodies are physically unable to go against his will. He tells us not to throw up, we simply... don't. Now he is not here anymore and... well, I have no idea how it's supposed to be stopped, if he is not here to put an end to it."

"We will find a way," Gale assured, absolutely confident. "A better one."

            Astarion didn't believe there was any. Cazador could effortlessly and naturally solve that kind of issue. Natural magic and healing spells didn't work on Vampire Spawn for they already had a Master who was the one meant to decide their fate and give them life. If they were submissive enough, useful enough, they would still suffer, but they would do so safely. None of Astarion's siblings had ever met a definitive death in two centuries.

            Because Cazador was their way to stay safe. Everything else was death.

"Astarion. We will find one."

"Of course, Wizard."

            He didn't believe a word of it.

"Have you ever noticed a specific trigger?" Gale continued to ask, taking Astarion's words at face value. "Something that would provoke those passing illness. A place you've been, a type of blood you've consumed, a school of magic you've been touched by."

"Not really... I think I remember all my siblings got sick after the marking. Not me, though. I did fine in comparison."

"The marking..."

"The nights he marked his poems on our back."

"Ah. Yes. I see. Well..."

            Gale couldn't find what to say, but Astarion wasn't listening, lost in his retailing of distant, unimportant memories.

"One of the very few times I saw Leon get sick. I was not too displeased. The one time the favorite boy didn't meet his quota."

"Quota of... what exactly?"

"Of victims for the night. Under the quota, there are punishments. Above, we are safe... if we haven't done something else to deserve punishment that is. And much above the quota we have a better shot at being Spawn of the day."

            He sang that title with all the bored disdain he had for it.

            He knew Gale had no idea what it was about. Yet, Astarion was surprised at how much he wanted to tell him. How much he wanted to talk about what a prick Leon was.

"I mean, the 'reward' is a better bed. That is literally all. If you work yourself to exhaustion, you get an extra pillow. How dumb they have to be to yearn for it."

            The words were naturally slipping out of his mouth. Astarion had no idea why he was telling all that. It was objectively of little interest. But, for reasons beyond him, he felt... eager to share them.

"He even tried to give me advice. Leon, I mean. One day, he comes to me, and I kid you not, he starts going on about how I could be more efficient if I choose this tavern instead of that tavern. He has been turned less than a decade ago, and he is giving me advice? Can you believe it? So, I smashed his head against the wall. He had it coming. Well... He cursed me in retaliation, but Cazador learned about it and made sure Leon didn't feel the need to use magic against his siblings any time soon. Magic is his thing."

            It had been one of the few times Astarion had been happy with Cazador's ruling. The Master had taken one look at Leon's bruised, bleeding face, and had just stated that it was Astarion's prerogative to teach his younger siblings how to respect their elders. Cazador had lifted the curse off of Astarion, had sent Leon to the kennel and had left without adding anything.

            Astarion could count on the fingers of his hands the number of times he had felt an ounce of power, in two centuries of captivity.

"He never bothered again after that," Astarion continued, so lost in his story he barely minded Gale at all.

            He didn't need an opinion or support. Not even someone with whom he could share something. He just needed to hear his own voice say bits of his story aloud. The lighter, more comfortable parts. About his stupid siblings and their petty quarrels. About the parts that didn't suck so much.

"He said I'm not worth the trouble. Good riddance, really. I don't know in what world he thinks he is, to tell me anything about how to live our undeath. I've been at it for decades, him for months back then. I'm sure it's because he has a child. He is convinced he knows so much more than the lot of us. Especially me for some reason. They never remember I am much older than them. Don't know why. I wonder if it is because Cazador calls me a boy."

            Now that he was hearing himself say it, he realized it was probably true. They were all Cazador's 'children', but he called them 'Spawn', or even 'you there'. Leon and Violet were blessed with names, when they were especially diligent in kissing his masterful ass. But, on the other end of the spectrum, there was Astarion. Whether he did good, whether he did bad, he was a boy. Not just to Cazador, to his guests also. That was how he was introduced to them.

            He had nearly reached the quarter of a millennium, he was the fourth oldest being of the Szarr Palace if Godey was a being at all, and yet, he remained a boy. Cazador, who was always deliberate in his cruelty, had to have a reason. Maybe to remind Astarion of his childish terrors, or maybe to nip in the bug any sense of self-worth and power he could develop. Or maybe because Cazador loved that little story he had invented. Of Astarion being the ungrateful brat, the ill-bred child that needed taming. And, much more importantly, that couldn't be trusted with any kind of freedom for his own good. A story Astarion was never able to remember whether there was any truth behind or not. It had been decades since he had forgotten where reality stopped and were Cazador's games of play pretend began.

            He nearly asked Gale. He nearly told him all that. But his words didn't pass his throat and he felt a heavy weight in his stomach at the idea of sharing that. It was too intimate of a humiliation. Though Astarion had heard that pet name over and over to the point where it felt as familiar as his own name, saying it aloud made him feel dirtier and more mortified than if he had been made to describe in detail the most disgraceful aspects of his work for Cazador. So, he shut his stupid mouth after that.

            Only mattered the fact that Astarion was not a boy to Gale. And he didn't want to give the Wizard any idea. What if Gale started to see what Cazador was seeing in Astarion?

            The mere idea made him shiver.

"Astarion, are you alright?"

"So yes, the day after his marking, Leon got very sick," he promptly said, refocusing on the lighter parts.

            Leon, what an ass.

"Couldn't go out and fetch some new blood for the Master. Kept vomiting... well not really vomiting considering the little blood he had, more like vaguely coughing. But visibly ill. Didn't do his part, so he got the whip good. I remember because we got to watch."

            He laughed at the joyful memory. It had been so good to be safe for once.

"The youngest, the favored, positively skinned by Godey. You should have seen that. Dumbfounded, the little brother. He didn't think that would happen to him. And not the day after the scarring. He really thought Cazador couldn't possibly be that cruel. Ah! I say he needed to learn. And learn he did. When he was getting shackled to the wall, just before it could start, I asked him if that meant he would finally be able to give me advice on how to take a licking. That made Cazador laugh."

            Astarion could still feel the surge of relief and gratitude when he had heard his Master's approbation. As much as he hated the bastard, being on his good side for once had felt... It had felt warm, and peaceful and powerful. Just like he had some other night, after having drown in rat blood. Being able to get some validation from their Master, even a changing, whimsical one, was everything really.

            At that time, it hadn't mattered to him if he had turned out to be no better than Cazador. Not if that meant he wouldn't be beaten that night.

"Leon didn't laugh much. He spat on my face. Cazador said that one should honor their older sibling. He was really into that family thing. So that this little disrespect of his granted Leon added strikes and I got to deliver them."

            Astarion was sure he had had fun. Yet, he couldn't remember it. Now that the memory was emerging, and he was hearing it being recalled... he just couldn't remember that part. He could distinctly hear Cazador say this. You will get a turn, my boy. Teach him what you have been taught and show me you have learned well. The words were very clear in his head. And if it had been said by the Master, then it had been done accordingly. But why couldn't he remember anything about trashing that prick's back?

            He frowned, trying to get anything out of his fuzzy memory. He could see himself holding his hand open. Could see Godey's bones placing a bloodied whip in it. His own fingers clenching around the hilt and then...

            Nothing. At all. He could only remember his vision going white, like when one was standing up too quickly. But he couldn't for the life of him say what he had done or say after that. Why had he forgotten the best part? Hadn't he enjoyed it? For once, being on the giving end rather than the receiving one should have filled him with joy.

            But when he was trying to think about it too hard, solely two certainties would hit him. He had obeyed his master. And a girl had cried and screamed and wept.

"Astarion, is everything…"

"His brat wouldn't stop bawling," he cut Gale off.

            It was now too urgent for him to get that glimpse of memory out of his damn head.

"I swear, she just couldn't shut it."

            He didn't remember whipping the bastard, but he knew for sure Cazador hadn't made him stop until that stupid child had screamed so much she had had not voice left anymore. Only mute whimpers. Astarion hadn't slowed down.

            He hadn't wanted for Cazador to think he needed a reminder of what a true flaying looked like. And also, no one had ever slowed down for him…

"I don't know, maybe she didn't understand that the more she would cry, the longer her father would be whipped. She was ten, but that's no reason to be this dense. Or maybe she knew and couldn't help it. In both cases, she annoyed everyone."

"His daughter... Wait. She was with you when this happened?"

"Well, yes. Everyone in the palace is gathered when Cazador wants to make something public. I mean, not the servants, but who cares about them?... Or maybe they are, and I never noticed them. I really can't tell for sure, they are so forgettable."

"She saw her father get tortured..."

            Gale seemed shaken and Astarion simply shrugged, not really getting what was troubling the Wizard. It wasn't as if the girl herself had been whipped. It had always been her father taking for her, and even then, the duo had mostly stayed out of trouble compared to the other, less perfect siblings.

"Witnessing that," Gale continued, "at such a young age, it must have broken her."

"Well, she saw me get buggered by two bugbears in the middle of the ballroom," Astarion said, laughing, "so I think she's seen worse than a casual flaying."

            The silence that followed was heavy. Uncomfortable. Astarion's laugh had stopped a bit too abruptly and Gale was not picking it up.

"It really wasn't that bad," he tried to continue. "I don't think her father even passed out, that time. He could have taken more."

            Gale closed his eyes for an instant, and Astarion could nearly see that strange brain process the words in the clinical privacy of the human skull.

"This is…" Gale said, before he even reopened his eyes, "This is every bit that bad, Astarion."

            Oh, Gale had no idea what a body could do if under enough pain. And he also had little imagination if he thought a flaying alone was enough of a torture to be part of the wonderful collection of messed-up abominations that was the 'that bad' department.

"But…" Gale resumed before Astarion could deflower his naivety, "the bugbears? She was there and she saw… and you were…"

            None of those beginnings of sentences suited Gale who tried again.

"I have no idea how I am supposed to understand what you just said, Astarion. It is extremely concerning and… I think honesty is a virtue and thus I will be honest, I don't feel like the flippant way you said it matched the content of the words. I… Is it something…"

            Astarion felt that questions were coming so he cut his losses short.

"Sorry. It… escaped me. That is not what I wanted to say.

            Gale observed him carefully and, strangely, the Wizard seemed to have greater, deeper thoughts about what had just been said than Astarion himself. Or maybe he was just more intelligent. In any case, Astarion quickly moved on to not let Gale the opportunity to overthink anything that wasn't worthy of a thought in the first place.

"It may have done something to her," Astarion resumed, after having cleared his throat for the sake of trying to appear more composed." The girl. It's true that she didn't dare to be in the same room as me after that whip situation with her father."

            He still remembered the bugbears. And, oh gods, the pain. The Baron was nothing in comparison. A gentle caress.

            No, he needed to talk about the girl. There were things to say about her. Important things. Astarion didn't know what exactly, but he could feel the words getting out of him.

"I take every blessing," Astarion heard himself say, his words obeying automatic thoughts he didn't really have access to at the moment. "The girl is boring at best, annoyingly whiny most of the time. Having bad dreams every day about her father dying for good, leaving her here all alone and what not. I really cannot understand why he doesn't abandon her at the nearest temple. It would save him a lot of trouble. When I told him to get rid of her, one day when she wouldn't shut up, he said he would rather die a true death. That his life would have no meaning without her. I call it crap. My parents never came to check whether I was dead or alive, and their life is all the better for it. Cutting burdening ties is a choice one can make, and it's the right one."

            Once again, that damn silence. Even in Astarion's head, no sound could be heard. His throat hurt from all the talking, his words had tied knots in his stomach, and he could feel the bile rising up.

            But maybe that was why he had started talking and hadn't been able to stop himself, no matter how desperately he wanted to shut up. Unconsciously he had been aching for it. The silence. Having thrown all his shits on Gale and having drowned him underneath them had granted him that precious silence. Awkward, thick, unpleasant. But at least, what was suffocating was in the air, no more in Astarion's head. He had been in urgent need to bleed his thoughts dry.

            He was ashamed that Gale had witnessed that, but he had been unable to control anything as he had dumped his memories on the floor between them.

            He didn't mind too much, however. Now that the world was silent once more, Astarion felt exhausted to the bone. So deeply tired and worn that he felt truly and utterly numb. No feeling, no thought, no sense of self. Just exhaustion and heavy eyes.

            And it was as fantastic as it would get for him.

            The only thing he could still sense that was bothering him was the growing nausea.

"It is messed up."

            Gale had said that, as a statement that, despite being general, encapsulated the situation with precision and accuracy.

"What is?" Astarion asked, trying to ignore the small spasms in his stomach.

"Well... Everything, I guess. But I meant your parents. The fact they didn't come look for you."

            The moment Gale finished, as if a punctuation to his statement, Astarion threw up. The exact same way he had just thrown up words a minute ago. It happened overwhelmingly fast. He felt a wicker spasm in his stomach, tremors and twitches in his chest, an acidic burn going up his throat, and he just had the time to drop on his knees to vomit on the floor rather than on his bed.

            The blood, still fresh but half dissolved, splattered the wood in a wet sound that nearly covered Astarion's retches. His hands, that he had put forth to stop himself from falling forward, slipped on the blood and his elbow hit the floor, his palms and forearms stained by the disgusting fluid.

            Gale remained frozen for an instant, not understanding why his attempt had failed, but he quickly got over his shock, as it was clearly not the time to wonder about that. After that, he reacted in a split second. He stood up and grabbed the bucket of water that Astarion had used earlier for a quick wash. He put it right in front of the High Elf. The bucket was already half filled but at least there was somewhere Astarion could throw up and, what was more, something he could grab and hold on to. His fists clenched around the wooden rim, and he felt Gale's warm hand brushing against his forehead, to keep some of his loose curls away from his face and out of the way.

            From the corner of his eye, Astarion noticed that Gale had knelt on the blood, dirtying his pants and the bottom of his robe. And Astarion, who had killed and doomed, who had whipped and lied, felt utterly awful. An overwhelming guilt washed over him as his companion was kneeling in the sick because of him, sullied in a way only Astarion deserved to be. He would hate with a vengeful passion anyone bringing him down with them, making their problems his.

            And Astarion didn't care about Gale and his feelings. But damn did he care about the man waiting through the retching with him, keeping his hair out of his own sick as his body was shaking and spasming uncontrollably.

"I..."

            He tried to mumble an apology, before Gale could get angry, maybe he tried to beg for mercy, but he cut himself off, his mouth otherwise busy, regurgitating some more blood.

"Hush," Gale said coolly, his analytic focus obvious in his tone. "Whatever you want to say, it can wait. For now, just focus on not breathing in your vomit. That would make things pretty bad."

            As Astarion couldn't apologize for his entire existence, he did something else he was also good at: obeying.

            He focused his mind on not drawing any breath, not choking, not coughing. A simple task, one that, if he could accomplish it well, wouldn't grant him any retaliation.

            He threw up the whole content of the glass he had drunk, getting everything out of his body, his stomach just as empty, upset and hungry as before.

"Better?"

            Astarion spat the blood in his mouth and waited a couple of seconds to see if some more would get out, but he had given back everything he had.

"I'll get you some water. I'll be right back."

            Astarion barely registered Gale leaving. The sudden nausea had died down and the vague sense of relief he had from being able to complete his task was dulled by his exhaustion.

            Gods, he needed to trance. He had spoken too much, had thrown up too much, there was nothing left in him.

            He felt hollow. No pain left but also no strength to carry him any further.

"Here, take a sip."

"Imp… Didn't work…"

"I know, take a sip."

            A glass was put in front of his lips. His hands were twitching, still gripping the bucket, and he didn't trust them to carry anything. He leaned forward, took a sip of the clear water, washed his mouth and spat it back into the bucket.

"Good. Look at me."

            The orders were simple. Easy to follow. No way to fail. Astarion diligently complied without even thinking. Gale, a damp washcloth in this hand, began to quickly wipe the blood off Astarion's mouth and chin. The water was cold, but it smelled like citrus and jasmine, covering the stink of the sick.

"Give me your hands."

            He had been holding the bucket for dear life, but without an input from his brain, his hands let go of it, meekly presenting themselves, palms up. He could feel his mind slip further and further away from his body. Sounds and colors were struggling to reach him as if they were coming from so far away.

            Gale used the cloth to wash Astarion's hands, scrubbing his palm and making sure no blood was left between his fingers or in the creases of his skin. One of them however was tightly bandaged and the white fabric was gorged with blood. He had messed it all up.

"I'm sorry… I…"

"It's ok. It's nothing at all."

"I didn't mean to…"

"It's fine, I assure you. Halsin will give you new ones. In the meantime…"

            Gale undid the careful wrapping and let it drop on the floor. He washed the blood that was still left on the hand. His gestures were slower, softer, to not move the wrist too much, but they were as efficient as they could manage to be. After a while, Astarion's hands were clean again. His sleeves, however, were still covered in sick and dripping.

"Let's get you out of it."

            Astarion didn't protest when the vest was taken off of him. He felt its comforting weight being lifted off his shoulder with a sense of quiet and passive resignation. He wasn't left to shiver in his shirt for long, however, as Gale grabbed one of his elbows and helped him up.

"Well, it didn't work that time, that much cannot be denied. Unexpected but… we will bounce back."

            He guided Astarion back to the bed.

"That was not the only trick up my sleeve. If I search into it, I am positive I will find other things to try. It is obviously not one of the illnesses I've read about, I just need to look into it some more."

            Astarion was sitting once more, not hearing much of what Gale was saying.

"You don't look too well. Still nauseous?"

"Just tired."

"Then sleep. Trance, I mean."

            That sounded like a wonderful idea.

"But..."

            He gestured toward the floor.

"I'll take care of that. Any opportunity to practice cantrips should be seized with enthusiasm."

            Gale could be enthusiastic for two then.

            His head heavy despite how empty it was, Astarion lay down on the bed, not even bothering to get under the blanket. His eyes were burning and begging to be closed, just as surprised as he was by his sudden fatigue.

            Gale had knelt on the floor, next to the stain, and was slowly vanishing the blood.

"It's better that way," Astarion mumbled, as he was feeling his brain get ready for the slumber of a trance.

"What is better?"

            Gale, his palm still extended toward the floor, had turned his head toward Astarion.

"That they didn't look for me. They would have found a whore of a son."

            Gale interrupted his spell, detailing Astarion. A strange expression was twisting his features, but Astarion didn't care about deciphering it.

"It is not true, Astarion. And even if it was, it is much better than no son at all."

            Astarion gave up and closed his eyes.

"I would have preferred nothing at all..."

            The whole day had passed by Astarion without him noticing any of it. That was made undeniably obvious when he opened his eyes to find a darkened room. And it was a nice surprise to find. Those were his favorite kind of day. The days he didn't have to see. For a brief moment, he even wondered if it was not still the same night when he had woken up to find Karlach by his side. It took him some careful thinking to extract from his hazy memories the conversation he had had with Gale.

            Why was he feeling so disconnected from everything lately? Time and actions didn't make sense to him, they appeared disjointed, not registering as they should, not leaving any impression on Astarion's perception. Half of the time, his mind was neither in his body nor in the world, and, for a moment, as he was waking up, he had no idea where he truly was, even though he recognized everything around him.

            It even took him a while to understand that he had actually been dragged out of his trance by small creaking noises on his left. He looked around and noticed Halsin's massive silhouette, near the table. He was folding clothes that he was putting down into a neat pile and Astarion understood they were his, carefully cleaned, the blood having been scrubbed off.

            Outside, from the foyer, he could hear bits and pieces of lively conversations, as the rest of their party was probably spending the night together, eating, drinking and arguing about their day. There was some very dissonant music going on, and Astarion could guess Karlach had to have picked up the Spider's Lyre again, even though she had no idea how to play it. It was easy to picture Wyll, indulging her and her Gods awful music with a few dance steps.

            But all that was happening on the other side of the door. A world away from Astarion.

"Is it Gale?"

            Halsin, who had his back on Astarion, was startled by the unexpected voice. He turned around, halfway through folding a shirt.

"Oh, sorry, I didn't want to wake you up. I tried to be discreet, but it is not my strong suit."

"Is it Gale? Who cleaned them."

            Halsin looked at the shirt, following Astarion's gaze.

"Yes, it is. A couple of cantrips and it was a done thing."

"What a fun day it must have been for him..."

            In what manner would Astarion have to pay the Wizard back?

"He really didn't seem to mind."

            It was not because someone didn't mind that they couldn't ask for payment. Astarion knew that, as, had the role been reversed, gold would be the very least he would have asked for.

            Halsin, done with the folding, put the last shirt down on the table and took a few tentative steps towards the bed.

"If you're awake, and not too tired, do you think we could have a word? While I redo that bandage of yours."

            Astarion sighed without a fight. He sat up, a quickly repressed wince accompanying the jolt of pain, and he rested his back against the headboard. Even though he wouldn't admit it, he was a bit anxious of what the conversation would bring, but something about having lost his whole day to unconsciousness and the party going on next door was making him not too reluctant to have a word. Which he didn't know was unlike him or not.

            Astarion didn't even know whether or not he liked being around people or alone. For alone meant a year in a coffin and around people meant abused and displayed. In between those two extremes, Astarion didn't have a clue where he stood and what he enjoyed.

"What is there to talk about? It failed."

"It... failed?"

"Well... the blood and... Gale didn't tell you about that?"

"Ah, yes, sorry. He did."

            Halsin grabbed the chair and placed it next to the bed.

"This is not what you wanted to talk about?"

"If you want us to discuss this, we can, but no. It is not what I had in mind."

"Then what?"

"What happened the other day? With Karlach, in the bathroom. Do you want to tell me about that?"

            Halsin sat down, his frame too large for the small chair, his knees sticking out on both sides. The Druid then lit up the candle on the bedside which gave Astarion a moment to order his thoughts.

"I don't really know what happened. I was just..."

            He didn't end that sentence, instead simply extended his hand. Halsin took it, kept it safely still, and he began to wrap a new bandage around it.

            Astarion watched the white strip of fabric being moved around with precision. He didn't want to dwell too much on what exactly had been the origin of the bathroom situation. He feared the suffocating feeling would rise again. Actually, Astarion felt fine right now, but there was that constant dread that his mind was always a single thought away from losing it.

            He didn't know where he had left off the former sentence, so he picked a new one up from nowhere.

"And then, I started thinking about stuff."

            Halsin was nearly already done with the bandage, so Astarion looked at the patterns on the blanket instead, his eyes boring a hole into its fabric. He would not see anything else. Ugly and tarnished flowers, that was all he would witness tonight.

"And, I don't know, I felt unwell."

            He didn't describe more. The lack of breath even though he had no need for air, the darkened sight, the dizziness, the shivers, the pulsing, debilitating fear.

            He kept it vague, like the rest of that parody of a recollection. But Halsin understood. More exactly, he already knew.

"Do you know why it happened?"

            Halsin also knew the answer to that question. The softness in his voice was simply because he wasn't sure whether Astarion was willing to hear it.

            The flowers on the blanket were decidedly very ugly.

"I... panicked."

            It was barely more than a whisper. A confession that Astarion wished could be quickly brushed off.

            But Halsin kept silent after that. Hearing it out and forcing Astarion to do so as well.

            Outside of the room, Karlach's loud laugh lulled the night.

            Astarion's hand was gently put back down, on his lap.

"Does it often happen to you? To panic the way you did yesterday."

            Astarion shook his head. Quite the contrary, if there was a single thing he was good at, it was keeping his shit together. No matter how tired, or scared, or injured he was, he was always functioning. That had allowed him to thrive through the centuries, when he had had nothing else going for him.

"That's what I don't get, Druid. It doesn't make sense."

"What doesn't?"

"This. Everything. Why am I... not fine? I should be."

"Astarion. Not even two days ago you…"

"No."

            He cut Halsin off. The Druid didn't get it. That was the whole problem.

"You don't understand. Two months ago, the night at the Baron's, it would have been a good night. I could have spent the whole day in the kennel, getting tortured, and still get to work at the beginning of the night, with no trouble at all. It isn't that I could do it, it is that I was doing it. Every time. It's just what I do. And now, that stupid thing happened..."

"... It is not stupid, Astarion."

"But it is! It is literally nothing at all. Compared to... to… all the usual shit. It is a damn stroll. There is nothing in all of Faerûn that I wouldn't give so that every night of my life could be like the night we spent at the Baron's."

            Halsin didn't answer, but something changed in his gaze. Asterion shook his head, struggling to get his point across.

"What I am saying is... I can take so much more, Druid. So much more, you have no idea. I used to take so much more every night. So why am I..."

            The words couldn't quite get to his brain, let alone to his mouth. They had been so prompt, so natural with Gale. And now, when Astarion really wanted to say what he had in his thoughts, he was stumbling on each syllable.

"Why am I so tired?" He was finally able to get it out. "Two hundred years of getting through shit, much wicker than this. So, why is it so hard? Why am I sick? Why am I in pain? It doesn't make any sense. I shouldn't be so... so weak."

            He didn't try to hide all the contempt he had for that word.

            Halsin didn't answer right away. He watched the light of the candle flicker, its orange glow drawing dancing shapes in his warm eyes.

"Weak, you say."

            And his breath was slow and deep the way Astarion wished his could be.

            In the other room, laughs got louder, happier. Something silly must have happened. Something cheerful also. Or maybe it was just alcohol.

"You are not tired because you are getting any weaker, Astarion," Halsin finally said, after having taken his time to collect words and thoughts. "You are tired because you are doing so much more than before. When you are in a situation like the one you used to be in with your former Master, a situation of such extreme and devastating abuse..."

"... It's not..."

            Halsin didn't interrupt Astarion. He simply looked at him. With his warm, knowing eyes. And Astarion knew he wouldn't be able to argue.

"Astarion… A kennel?"

            Astarion closed his eyes. Why was he never thinking before talking. And why was everything about his life so damn twisted? He genuinely hadn't thought about the word kennel before Halsin said it in turn. It was just the normal name of the normal torture room next to the dormitory.

            He just vaguely gestured at Halsin to continue, not having it in him to try to defend his point of view.

"When you were living that situation. At home, I mean. When it was your everyday life, of course it was hard, and painful and terrible. But the truth is, you only had one thing to do. And it was to survive it. It was the only thing you could afford to work on. Getting through it.

            "But now that you are away from your abuser, in some place that you know to be objectively safer, you're doing so much more than that, Astarion. You're pulling yourself together. Your body and your brain are constantly exhausted because they are working on that much more arduous task. For decades, they could do nothing but take the blows and move on. But now, they have the space and the time to do more, and that more includes to begin dealing with everything that they have suffered but never could afford to heal from.

            "You are safer now, which means you will have the luxury to deal with consequences. And the consequences of everything you've been through... I won't lie to you, it is going to be heavy, Astarion. It is going to be awful."

            Shadowheart and Gale laughed in the other room. Louder than Karlach. It was definitely alcohol.

            Astarion wouldn't have said no to a glass of wine, if he could still drink those. Or better still... blood. Get himself merry on that precious liquid. Or even just get himself full

            But he couldn't.

            A strange feeling washed over him. Not quite sadness but an early sense of defeat and resignation. He would never get out of it, would he? He would always be wrong, and fucked up. The idea that being freed from Cazador didn't mean he was done with all this was too much. Too unfair. What was even the point of anything then?

            On the other hand, it was obvious. How stupid of him would it be to think he could ever have it better...

"Well, that sounds fun," he said with a bitter smile. "More of the same shit. Guess I'm stuck, then."

"You're not. You're moving forward..."

"... I'm really not."

"Yes, you are. Each step is..."

"Druid. I used to lose consciousness somewhere after two hundred lashes. Yesterday, I was knocked out because I got too scared of someone who isn't even there."

"You used to pass out after hours of torture, now you're passing out because you've been tortured for hundreds of years, Astarion. It is doing a poor job at acknowledging your strength than to ignore that fact."

            Astarion couldn't help but laugh at that word. Strength. As if.

"You really don't get it, do you?"

            It could have been Astarion's question, but it was actually Halsin who had just asked that, in disbelief.

"What... What don't I get?" Astarion frowned.

"How unbelievably well you are doing?"

            For a second, Astarion was convinced Halsin was mocking him, and a sharp pain in his chest took his words away. But the Druid's eyes were just as warm, just as kind. Though shining with a light Astarion couldn't give a meaning to.

"You impress me, Astarion," Halsin said when he was faced with such blatant disbelief and hurt. "You really do. Every single day. I won't say that I have the first idea of what truly happened to you during all those years, but from the little I gathered, I cannot look at you and not be amazed. I've seen people in all states of despair, struggling with every shade of hurt. I know what it takes to just live, after having fought so hard to survive. When I see you, every day, washing, dressing, talking. Getting invested, making plans. All of that, it takes so much strength. I know that, even if you don't. And there is so much in you that I find truly remarkable."

            The worst, according to Astarion, was that Halsin looked strictly sincere. Convinced even. He was believing every word that was coming out of his mouth, no matter how absurd they obviously were.

"You're done surviving, Astarion. Every day you get to live after that is a day of victory. Even the bad ones."

            It was a stupid take. A naive one. Astarion couldn't afford to listen to it.

            He couldn't afford to grow attached. Or else he would end up disappointing himself.

            But, for a second, it felt nice to believe he was just a bit more than an incapable failure.

"What a nice world it must be. No matter what you do, you still get the win at the end. Neat."

"It's not nice. It's difficult, and painful. It costs much more than anyone is truly able to pay. But it is my most sincere conviction that it is one of the most exhausting and rewarding fights."

            Astarion, having little to say, just passed his hand in his hair, replacing some strands to give himself something to do.

            The Druid could well believe whatever he wanted. Astarion had heard of weirder religions.

            But hearing that someone was impressed by him… He knew it was stupid, he knew it was empty kindness and it had no real meaning or worth. Still the words kept echoing in his head.

            Remarkable. That was what he had said. That Astarion was remarkable.

"It doesn't matter right now," he said, clearing his throat. "We have other Absolute issues to deal with. We've got to take care of that cult, the rest will have to wait."

"Of course. One thing at a time. Your tadpoles must be taken care of as soon as possible."

"We need to get going."

"For that we need for you to feed so we can take whatever our journey will next throw at us. Without you in our corner, the fight will be much more daunting."

            That was true. Astarion wasn't too bad with a blade, he had been pretty happy to find out.

"I need to find a cure. Maybe Gale will have a new idea soon. An illness he has not yet read about."

"Yes..."

            Halsin, who had been confident and genuine so far, sounded just slightly different which told Astarion he wasn't quite honest with his affirmation.

"What is it?"

"Nothing."

"Druid..."

"I'm just not sure our friend will be able to help us much. Not with his magic in any case."

"Why not? He said he would. He took some blood."

"Oh, he wants to. And he is brilliant, there is no denying there. But we talked about what he found and what he concluded, and it adds up with what I already knew."

"Which is?"

"Well... There are very few illnesses that can affect a Vampire. Some madnesses, some blood infections, but they can be counted on the fingers of two hands. And none of them fit your unique symptom."

"Then, what? A curse? A poison?"

"Everything is possible, of course. But the most likely explanation is that it is psychogenic."

"Psychogenic..."

"It means..."

"I know what it means."

            Astarion tried to not snap too coldly but he didn't like where this was going.

"So that's it. It's not real, it's just in my head, right?" he said, his bitterness betraying how quickly he had become defensive.

            He felt like he was being accused. Of what, he wasn't sure, but he would not take it.

"That's not what it means. Of course, it's real."

"But I'm not really sick, right? I just have to not throw up anymore, I guess. Simply a matter of will. I'm just, what? Doing it for attention?"

"It is not how any of this works. It has nothing to do with will. But it can happen that, in case of severe a..."

"I swear to the Gods, if you say the word abuse one more time, I am going to beat its meaning back into you!"

            Everything in his body was telling that he was not throwing empty threats around. His fists were clenched, his muscles tensed, his fangs bare, as he looked ready to leap. In a second, he had gone from leaning against the headboard to being on the verge of jumping Halsin.

"I'm the one saying what it is, and I am not saying shit!"

            He had been fine. He had been calm. Then, in a fraction of a moment, just because of a word, he had lost it again. Why in the nine Hells was he all over the place like that? So emotionally startled that he couldn't get through a conversation without tears of rage burning his eyes.

            He had been well a second ago. Peaceful. And now, he was so damn angry. Whether or not it was truly at Halsin didn't matter.

"You're right," Halsin tried, in conciliation. "I apologize."

            Which was even worse. Why couldn't Halsin just face Astarion's rage and justify it? Why couldn't he bring it to fists and claws?

            Astarion missed his siblings. And how furious they were, and how violent they acted. Just like him. They were all so angry. All the time. At everything.

"Well, I'm sure you'll find some things to do somewhere else," Astarion said between his teeth. "I promise you, being in my face is not the only activity one can find."

            Halsin inclined his head graciously, unfazed by Astarion's sudden sour humor.

"Alright, I will let you get some air. You're still on bed rest, Astarion. I am serious."

"If you could be serious about fucking off."

            Halsin stood up and put the chair back, next to the writing table.

"If you need anything, you just have to ask."

            To show all the extent of his gratitude, Astarion turned his back to Halsin, bringing the blanket to his chin.

            When the door opened, he heard the sounds of the party, loud and clear, as if he was a part of it. The door was closed, and the room fell back into smothered silence.

Chapter Text

Chapter 6

                After two days of nearly constant trance, Astarion didn't get any rest at all, that night. He kept tossing and turning in his bed, trying to find any remanence of warmth between the sheets, but tonight, only his thoughts were heated.

                He couldn't help but dwell on everything that had happened in the past couple of days. His conversation with Halsin, his blurting out to Gale, the bathroom flashes, those events were all blurring with each other, filling Astarion with a general sense of uneasiness and anxiety, though he couldn't exactly pinpoint what about all this was bothering him.

                So, instead of thinking, he listened. Mostly to the party outside and, once it was over and everyone had gotten to bed, to the distant streets and the nocturnal birds.

                He couldn't hear the outside world, in the dormitory of the Szarr Palace. There was no life inside the mansion, and no life outside either. The only sounds haunting the chamber during the day were the whimpers of the few Spawn who could dream and the deafening silence of the seven hearts that didn't beat anymore.

                When Astarion couldn't trance – which had rarely happened, he was too desperate for any second of unconsciousness he could get – he would scratch the wood of the bed above his, just for the sake of hearing anything that didn't remind him of his Master. And also to prove to himself that he existed. Was a tree falling in the forest really even falling? Maybe there was never any tree in the heart of the forests. Just a void and Petra's snoring.

                Those were the kind of thinking that would keep him company, as he would wait for another dusk of dread.

                But tonight, he didn't wonder or question. He listened to the birds and the bugs. Heard echoes from taverns where he wasn't whoring himself out. Pictured the next day without seeing any humiliation or torment.

                And everything left him cold. Awkwardly detached from any emotion. He was safe, he was free, and he was not unhappy about it. But there was nothing moving in him, as he was enjoying everything he would have killed for, a couple of months ago.

                Maybe Halsin's words were still a little bit on his mind. About how nothing was over yet. The perspective of another fight, one maybe even harder than the one before for more nebulous, was dulling any emotion he was supposed to be feeling about his recent freedom. He knew he had every reason to be euphoric and exultant, but he simply was deeply and thoroughly... tired.

                Also, he had been raped again two days ago. But Astarion didn't believe it had much weight on his current state of mind.

                What was really keeping him up, if Astarion was being asked, was the hunger. It began during the night. He had already started to get hungry before, but, in Astarion's long experience of vampiric starvation, there was a point he dreaded, one that, no matter how many years he had spent living with it, he always struggled to face with dignity. And it was when the pain would really start.

                In the span of a couple of minutes, it would go from a vague burn in the belly to feeling that his stomach was melting, dissolved by its own unused acid. The first time he had sensed it, it had bent him in half, as he had been moaning in agony in his bed. Some days, unable to stand, he would have to crawl to the bathroom or to wherever he had decided to drag his despair. Only the whip had taught him to function through the pain, no matter how maddening it was. Funny what prowess could fear make one achieve.

                The worst part, however, didn't come right away. For Astarion could take pain, even to that extent. The worst usually happened a couple of days after that point, when he would start to feel his flesh rot and decay. All hidden under his pristine skin, he could sense with awful precision his muscles festering, his blood turning to crumbs and scraping the inside of his veins, his organs swelling with putrid exhalations, the bloody foam leaking from the mouth and nose. It was only after several weeks that the skin would start to liquify. And it was rarely before that stage that Cazador would order for someone to feed his rotting Spawn. But even the promise of consistent blood wouldn't give his children the stupid bravery to get to that state of decay, terrified that they were of it. All of the seven Spawn would do anything in their limited power to fight off that starvation, and they would sooner be found roaming the corridors searching for flies and cockroaches, then they would let themselves reach that stage.

                The only time Astarion had really hit low enough to get to that point, it had been...

                He felt his own body suddenly spasming and jolting, desperate to prevent that thought from blooming in his mind. He shook his head, getting the thought out of his skull.

                He was truly hungry now, and he decided he would focus on the pain and wallow about it rather than let himself think of what would happen if he were to stay long enough unfed.

                At least, with Cazador, it was someone else's cruelty that was starving him. Not his own body. What a traitorous, ugly thing.

                As he was willing to seize any distraction he would be offered, he picked up immediately on the sound coming from next door, softly disrupting the night with their whispers.

"Where are you going?"

"Out."

"In the middle of the night? What disreputable plot are you up to?"

                Astarion rolled on his side, listening carefully to the conversation taking place in the foyer.

"Come on, Lae'zel, you know me by now, don't you?"

"It is true I wouldn't have taken you for the betraying kind. Yet, here you are, sneaking away."

"I got a missive."

                It was hard to guess the identity of the second being. The voice sounded masculine but, as it was whispering, it could be any of the men and elves of their party.

"I made a friend in town today. Told her to keep an eye out. She just let me know a group of adventurers made camp in the forest nearby. They are apparently on a mission."

"To kill us or to retrieve us?"

"From what she has gathered, they're asked to bring us to justice. Though... not 'us' per say."

"Who then?"

"A white haired, pale High Elf wearing a stolen Drow armor and two short swords. That's the description my friend was given."

"They are after Astarion specifically."

                Astarion, now fully alert, straightened up and sat on the edge of his bed. He had no intention of being 'brought to justice' or to anything at all for that matter.

"And thus you are leaving in the middle of the night?"

"Not leaving. I've heard they may be from Baldur's Gate. I plan on finding them. Maybe have a word with them. We could fix this whole thing before anyone gets hurt."

                Astarion was nearly certain the masculine voice was Wyll's. Whose dumb heroism was it if not his?

"Fine... Wait."

"Wait? Why... where are you going?"

"I will grab my sword."

"What for?"

"I'm coming with you. If your talking doesn't work, we will get that hurting going."

"I... Alright. But let me try it my way first."

                Astarion didn't wait, however. He got on his feet and, without a sound, he walked to his bag, carefully breathing through the pain in his stomach. Making sure not to get heard, he took out the different elements of his armor, and put them on as quickly as he could, strapping the metallic piece around his chest. His pants were cold with the blood he had continued to lose through the night but he had no time to care about it. At least, there was no spider gut on the plastron. So he had cleaned it. He grabbed his two swords, fixed them on his back and fastened his crossbow to his belt.

                Wyll was willing to talk their way out of this mess, but Astarion wasn't. He would make sure their problems were dead and buried, and he would not jeopardize his safety for the sake of someone else's sorry existence. He trusted Lae'zel slightly more with handling the situation, but she could be convinced to let them go, if Wyll was insistent enough. Astarion wouldn't make that mistake.

                By the time he was done, Wyll and Lae'zel had already left the inn. Thankfully, Astarion was used to prowling dark alleys and tailing victims. One could say he had an undeniable expertise when it came to it. Thus, it didn't take him long to spot his two companions and to follow them from the coverage of the shadows. The moon was bright, but he was good at avoiding lights like the pest they used to be, and he didn't meet any problem as he was reaching the forest and leaving the city behind. Apart from the persistent pain in his stomach, of course, but, on the bright side, it meant he was barely feeling anything between his legs anymore. What a lucky elf he was.

                It didn't take long to find the camp of adventurers. Wyll knew how to navigate forests, and Lae'zel knew how to hunt down her enemies. The campfire was still going and the adventurers were devising late into the night. Astarion, a silent shadow between the trees, walked away from his two allies to get a better view of the group. It was composed of three humans in heavy armor, their different holy symbols letting everyone know they had to be some kind of paladin. They were accompanied by a cleric with a massive mace by his side. They looked impressive, with their shields and weapons, but Astarion's clever eyes spotted how pristine their armors were, and how young the four of them seemed to be, for humans. They were new to this life, and some of those paladins clearly weren't filling their plastrons.

"We could take them out now," Astarion heard Lae'zel whisper between the foliage. "I could kill two of them before they even understand what is happening."

"No. You said you would let me do it my way first."

"I didn't say that. You did."

                Not arguing with Lae'zel, Wyll simply straightened up and walked out of hiding, with confidence but with his hands where they could be seen, showing that he was no threat. Astarion cursed and, hiding deeper into the shadows, he took his crossbow out and armed a bolt, aiming at the cleric. If Wyll was in any danger, Astarion would perforate that lovely jugular before any divine magic could be cast.

                Lae'zel followed Wyll with an aggravated sigh. She kept her sword behind her back but didn't keep her hands high. Nothing she could have done would have made her appear like anything other than the threat she was.

                When they noticed the newcomers, the adventurers jumped on their feet in a disorganized mess that would have made Astarion scoff if he hadn't been trying to be discreet. They stood no chance.

"We are coming in peace," Wyll said. "There is nothing to worry about."

                Weapons were drawn nonetheless but, taken aback by the lack of aggressivity, none of the men knew what to do, as they looked at each other while Wyll was approaching.

"Stay back."

                Wyll complied and stopped where he was.

"Who are you? What do you two want?"

                Lae'zel narrowed her eyes, but Wyll smiled with benevolence.

"We just want a word. I'm sure we can help each other out. You are adventurers, aren't you? You've been sent to retrieve someone?"

                They kept their weapons out, but Astarion could tell they were not as much on their guard as it would have been wise of them to be, when faced with two visibly armed and dangerous foreigners.

"Do you have information for us? You know where we can find the elf we're looking for?"

"The elf is a friend of ours," Wyll admitted, "and I was hoping you could help us out."

                The holds on the hilts tightened.

"You're the other members of the party he was in?"

"Yes," Lae'zel said, "that should have been your first assumption."

                Astarion agreed with her. The fact that they hadn't attacked the Githyanki on sight meant one of three things. Either they hadn't asked their hirer who else had been with the person they were looking for, or they had forgotten the answer, or they hadn't connected the dots. In any of the three cases, those adventurers were laughingly stupid.

"Listen, whatever you were tasked to do," Wyll spoke over Lae'zel, "I'm sure it can be arranged."

"It can. Follow us back to our employers. We won't let a murderer on the loose."

                Good gods, what did they think adventurers were?

"Whatever you think happened that night, it's not what it looks like," Wyll tried again. "Trust me, the Baron was no victim."

"Well, as he is the one feeding the worms, I'd say he is enough of a victim," Lae'zel spat.

                It was obvious in her tone that, when she was saying victim, she meant it at the insult Astarion also believed it was. Wyll wasn't too happy with her intervention but, before he could rectify her statement, one of the Paladins exclaimed:

"You're famous, aren't you?" he said, pointing at Wyll. "I feel like I know you and I'm very good with faces."

"Maybe. I'm the Blade of Frontier."

"Of course! My friends, this man over here is the son of Duke Ravengard," he added for his companions, "I have an acquaintance in the Flaming Fists so, you see."

"I see."

"What happened to your face?"

"Well, there was this Cambion and... it's a long story, really. But you know me. I'm sure we can find a way to help each other."

                The Cleric, who seemed slightly older though not by far, looked at the excited Paladin with a frown. He wasn't half as moved.

"What happened then?" he asked Wyll. "You said it is not what we think."

"The Baron attacked our friend. We simply defended him."

"Well, the Baron is dead, and your friend isn't, so..."

"Wait, he is from Baldur's Gate too?"

                It was the same Paladin who had recognized Wyll.

"Your friend, I mean."

"Yes, he is. Why?"

"Then I may know him. I mean, I know someone who looks like him. A High Elf with curly white hair, it's not that common. Could be someone else of course, but, maybe."

"Yes, you probably met him!"

                Astarion winced. He knew Wyll was trying to appeal to their good graces, but he doubted that anyone knowing him from Baldur's Gate would have any positive feelings for him. He wasn't the Blade of Frontier, if anyone knew him by reputation, it was a very bad sign.

"I never met him, but I've seen him from afar. He spends a lot of time in taverns. But I don't think he is an adventurer. He is a rent boy, isn't he?"

                Astarion was offended.

                Rent boys were being paid at least! That was in the name.

"He isn't," Wyll calmly said, still focused on finding a peaceful way out.

"Maybe you don't know your friend all that well then. Because, if it's the same elf, then I tell you, he is on the game. I never talked to him, but I saw him pick up folks from taverns every night and bring them back with him."

                And he hadn't noticed that none of the folks had ever come back? Sure, Astarion had been careful never to choose regular customers but still. They really weren't facing the sharpest tools of Faerûn.

"That would explain what happened indeed," the cleric commented, "and the... peculiar position the Baron was found in. A trick that ended badly."

                Like every trick Astarion had ever turned. At least the Baron's death had been quick. It was unlikely that any of his victims from the city had known such mercy.

"Listen friends," the cleric said with a sigh, "there's no need to make it any harder on yourselves. You seem to be good souls, we have no quarrel with you. But, clearly, your companion doesn't deserve your dedication. The predicament he is in right now reflects the life of low virtue he has led. It is a fair due. Bring us to him. He'll get the rope but we'll let everyone know you helped out and you'll be able to continue on your journey unbothered. How does that sound to you?"

"Unsatisfying."

                Lae'zel, who had been more than patient thus far, drew her sword out of its sheath. Everyone tightened their grip on their weapon in reaction, feeling that the ambience had switched in an instant.

"I've heard your proposal," she said, "and I am not interested."

"Lae'zel...," Wyll tried, a palm extended toward the Paladins in a soothing sign.

"Astarion is more valuable than those goons. I've heard the offer; I judged it laughingly insufficient. I will keep Astarion and kill our enemies."

                She swung her sword. She was still too far to hit, but the perfect motion of the blade in the air was enough to tell the knowing eye that Lae'zel was a born killer. No flourishes, no hesitation, just lethal force and precision.

                Astarion lowered his crossbow. The Paladins stood no chance at all.

"Come on, it is still time to be reasonable about it," the Cleric said. "You will really risk your life for a harlot? One who lied to you?"

"You are not endangering my life, humans. But if you were, then yes. I would, for someone worthy enough. Now, step forth and lose your heads."

                Taking it as a challenge, one of the Paladins did exactly that. Lae'zel's blade flew through the air and, with a deadly whistle, hit the exposed neck of the man before he could even think of raising his shield. When the throat was slit and the blood burst through the air, Wyll sighed and jumped into the fight.

                Astarion looked without bothering to intervene. The new adventurers were unable to keep up with what they had just unleashed. Lae'zel was positively savage, her sword a massive extension of her will. It was turning and swirling in an impressive metallic dance, keeping the enemies at bay and striking each weakness that their inexperience was bound to expose. Wyll remained behind her, covering her with his spells and the occasional twirl of his blade. He took care of the Cleric right away, before any healing prayers could be spoken, and, by the time he was done, Lae'zel had taken care of the two remaining Paladins.

                In less than a minute, four bodies were on the floor. Adding to the count.

                Wyll, sheathing his blade, stood among them. His expression, highlighted by the campfire, was struck by sadness. He knelt by one of the corpses, detailing it with resigned regret.

"They were young," he simply said, more to himself than to anyone around.

"They were stupid. They're the ones who talked about dues. They got theirs."

                Lae'zel cleaned her blade with the fabric of one of the tents.

"What they said," she resumed, not facing Wyll, "about him..."

"He didn't lie," Wyll pointed out. "He just didn't talk about it. Which we can't blame him for. And even then, they could be wrong. Truth be told, it is not important to me. I will care to know about it what Astarion and no one else will tell me. The rest doesn't matter."

"No, not about Baldur's Gate. About that evening. What they said happened..."

                Wyll stood up, after having closed the eyes of the young man at his feet.

"They're wrong. That's not what happened. You saw it."

"All that I saw was two people having sex. I followed you into the fight because I trusted your judgement and because the leader was unworthy but..."

"Lae'zel, I'm telling you. I saw his eyes. They were... empty. He wasn't there. He didn't want to be there. I have no regret killing the Baron. I just wished Astarion wasn't blamed for it. But he was the last one seen with the dead man…"

                Lae'zel observed him and, after a while, she nodded, accepting his version of the event.

"When will we be able to leave? I have no problem killing everyone that will come for him but this is not a long term solution."

"Halsin said it wouldn't be wise to go right now."

"I am sure we can find ways to continue our progression while minding his injury. Actually, from what I understood of him, I am certain Astarion wouldn't want to be delayed by a mere wound."

"I don't think it's just the injury. Halsin wants us to stop because he doesn't want Astarion to just brush it off and move on."

                Astarion wasn't sure if it was simply Wyll's interpretation or if it was true but, in both cases, he didn't like what he was hearing. Having his companions speak like that of him, few things could possibly make him more uncomfortable. He had heard much nastier words being said behind his back, and, truth be told, he would have preferred catching Wyll and Lae'zel mocking and badmouthing him rather than catching them talking about how he was dealing with his shit.

"Does he know that?" Lae'zel asked.

"What?"

"That we are staying here so that he doesn't get any distraction from whatever happened to him. Because, if he doesn't, then I disagree with the Druid. I think the elf should be able to decide how he wants to deal with his business. And if he doesn't want to, then he shouldn't be made to. There is no shame in not bothering to deal with things that we don't consider to be important. Not everything can be done at all times, and priorities need to be set."

                Lae'zel's view was comforting. Everything Astarion wanted to hear. Like a warm bandage on an infected wound.

                He could simply decide not to care, after all. It wasn't that bad.

                He liked that idea much more than Halsin's promise of continuous struggle.

"It's really not that easy," Wyll said.

"How is it not?"

"Well..."

                Wyll searched for his words for a while before frowning.

"Lae'zel, do you understand what happened?"

"You believe me to be an idiot?"

"Absolutely not. But I do believe you to be completely beyond my understanding and, half of the time, I have no idea what you could possibly be thinking about."

                Lae'zel took it as a compliment and smiled with satisfaction.

"Only half of the time?"

"I am trying to be kind to myself."

                Lae'zel put her sword back in its sheath.

"Yes," she said. "I understand what happened. That Baron forced himself on Astarion."

                Astarion clenched his jaws. It wasn't how he wanted his companions to talk about him. They knew he was no prude. He had always made it obvious. But them speaking of him as some kind of victim...

                The same thought he had had about Cazador and Gale hit him again. There were parts of him his Master knew about. Cazador had seen everything of Astarion and he knew who his Spawn really was. How disgraceful and shameless he was. And Astarion had ended up accepting it. There was no point in trying to escape his reality.

                But, as vain and doomed as it was, Astarion, for reasons he didn't want to explain, was desperate for his new companions to never see those dirty parts of him. There was nothing he wouldn't have given for the other members of the party to never guess what Cazador knew so well about him.

                And, as he was wishing he could change their memories and understandings, Astarion realized that it wasn't the indignity of it all that he cared most about. He was so used to it, he had trouble genuinely caring about the fact that Wyll and Lae'zel had found him lying on the floor, his bottom covered in sperm. It was hardly the most humiliating thing he had been made to endure.

                No, what was truly unbearable for him was that they could guess he hadn't enjoyed it. That they had caught a glimpse of how horrible he had felt, how disgusting it had been. For he far preferred to be without dignity than to be without power. Only fools thought the former was worth more than the latter.

                He was fine with having been raped. It was just how things were. But he was so deeply ashamed of having been sad about it. If he could be granted one wish, if he had the power to change one thing about that night, not being violated would be his second choice. His first one would be to have the power to shrug it all off with a laugh.

                He used to be able to.

                Where had that gone?

"Sometimes, we don't think that something is unimportant because it truly is," Wyll's voice took Astarion by surprise. "But because we're desperate for it to be. Astarion is not someone who likes to face difficulty and I really think it is fair of him not to be. But if the choice of dealing with it or not is left to him, he may never make the right one."

"We cannot make it for him. That is something that he alone can do. I would not try to change the mind of someone as absurdly contrary as Astarion."

"Of course. But a helping hand doesn't hurt."

"That's what you plan on offering? A helping hand?"

                Strangely enough, she didn't scoff it off. She asked with a genuine frown, as if trying to get information to then come up with a plan of her own.

"Well..." Wyll looked around, "I would say that fending off his enemies is pretty helpful. As for speaking with him... I really don't think Astarion wants to hear from me."

"I don't think he wants to hear from Halsin either. I may not be familiar with your customs, but I am pretty sure that flashing a dagger at someone is not as respectful as it is between two Githyankis."

"Halsin and Astarion fought?"

"Yes. Halsin says they didn't, but he is a poor liar. I saw the dagger on the floor."

"Why did they fight?"

"I don't know. But maybe we should talk less. Nothing good is coming from it."

                Wyll rubbed his forehead, exhausted.

"That is... a terrible take to have. But I don't know much more about it. I didn't even know they fought, Halsin didn't tell me. But, I'll trust him. Whatever he wants from Astarion, it obviously needs time, and I'll do my best to give him just that."

"I guess that is something I can do too. And, if the Vampire kills the Druid, then I would say the Druid had it coming."

"Encouraging."

                Astarion's original plan had been to stay hidden and wait until his companions were gone. Once the way would be cleared, he would then be able to search the corpses and the camp. For gold, of course, but also for any information on the mission they had been given. The more he knew about those sent after him, the better he would fret and the easier it would be to outsmart them.

                It had been his intention. But he knew he couldn't see them through. What Lae'zel and Wyll were talking about... he didn't like the strange tension in his chest he could feel when he was listening to them. He didn't know why exactly he felt uneasy. Lately, he was feeling a lot of things he couldn't make sense of. It was either that or complete numbness, without any middle ground. He didn't know which extreme was best.

                What he knew was that he would have preferred to overhear Lae'zel and Wyll insulting him. Mocking what they had seen of his body, and of his lack of virtue. Because he knew how to handle hate and degradation. He was unmatched in petty revenges and would have unleashed a very nasty fashion of hell upon them in retaliation. But that? He had no idea what kind of answer he was supposed to give to that. Apart from getting furious and shouting at them until they would finally shut up.

                Which, he was realizing now, was exactly what had happened with Halsin. Astarion felt so strongly about the righteousness of his bits of anger, but the truth was that so many people had done much worse to him without getting the beginning of his wrath.

                The 'fight' Wyll had talked about replayed in the back of Astarion's mind. He had to admit it, even if only to himself... He had known Halsin hadn't meant sex, when he had said his piece about Astarion finding a doctor. The Spawn had two centuries of experience with aroused, lustful eyes, and it hadn't been the kind of gaze the Druid had laid on him. Deep down, even back then, he had been aware it had never been about sex. He had been the one making it about that.

                Because he would know how to react to Halsin, or anyone, wanting to have their way with him. But how in the nine Hells was he supposed to react to Halsin wanting to help him out? How was he supposed to take Lae'zel and Wyll wondering about how to accompany him through his shit?

                He just couldn't find it in him to learn something new. He was too worn out, too spent. So how dared everyone act in new ways, all of a sudden? Where was the script for that? Astarion had no desire to live through yet another couple of decades of trials and errors just to learn how to navigate a whole new world. He…

                He wanted the old one back. The one he knew. His own twisted home.

                As he was walking away from all that, through the shadows of the forest, he heard Lae'zel voice, getting more and more distant.

"There is something that eludes me still, human. Maybe it is cultural."

"What?"

"That Cazador Master…"

                He wanted to keep walking, to keep growing the distance. But the name, the cursed, awful name always had the power to stop him in his tracks, as nothing could ever truly escape it. Hearing it in a voice that wasn't his was giving it that much more power.

"What about him?"

"Astarion hates him. I can hear it in his voice when he says the name. Astarion is no cold thinker, but his Master really brings out the worst of his impulsivity and his… sentimentality."

"We are not raised to be as detached from our feelings as you guys."

"We are not detached from them. We cultivate them, but only the worthy ones. Pride, confidence, valiance, we feel them all."

"I see. An interesting selection. Your question?"

"Why does that Cazador bring forth such tumultuous feelings. Astarion is not half as angry at our enemies as he is at his Master. If he could channel such furor during the fights, he would be a fierce warrior."

"Our enemies are deemed as such because they stand in our way. Few of them truly hurt us directly. Especially not Astarion who is not so attached to their victims."

"But then, the Baron…"

                Astarion was not thinking anything as his companions were speaking. The name of his Master, coming from outside his head, had stunned him on the spot. Now, he had to battle with fear to regain control over his body. One step. Then the next. That was what he was repeating to himself. Just one step. Then the next.

                He slowly, tediously, began to walk again, moving his body like he would have a heavy puppet, with endless, entangled strings.

"Astarion didn't react to him," Lae'zel continued. "You said you saw something, but I say he was not angry. He was calmer than I've ever seen him. Why? His attitude is not…consistent. It is very puzzling."

"I don't know Lae'zel. I don't think I'm the best to answer that. But neither would Astarion, I guess."

                There was a moment of silence, probably a moment of thinking, and Astarion tried to get as far as he could get, his steps falling into the healthy habit of walking away.

"I think," Wyll resumed, "that it comes from use. There's just something about it that struck me as resignation."

"Use…"

"Astarion has every right to not tell us anything he doesn't want to tell, but I think he shared very little about his Master. It's just… you know. The scars on his back, his random bursts of anger and cruelty, his numbness to what has happened the other night. I think that Cazador he speaks of with such bitterness did more than just order him around. Astarion often jokes about his kinship with prostitutes, but I don't think he truly finds it that funny. And if I know one thing about Spawn is that they are always what their Master intends them to be. That is the meaning of their curse."

"Once at your Gate, we are bound to know more. Astarion is set on confronting his Master and I do think he should."

"Yes. But I don't think it would be very joyful. And, whatever the Vampire Master did, he did it long enough for Astarion not to react to it anymore. That's a… yeah, that's a particularly vile and twisted method of education, that results in getting people to act exactly as it is convenient for them to. You shouldn't be too foreign with the concept."

                It was unlikely Lae'zel had understood that Wyll was mentioning her own childhood. The same way Astarion was not seeing any reflection of those words in his relationship with Cazador. Cazador was cruel, Astarion had learned how to handle cruelty. There was nothing more to it. No 'education' behind, whatever the hells it was supposed to mean.

"The human, this one here, he thought he knew Astarion. When we will be in that city of yours... It could be wise to keep an eye on the Spawn's back. To make sure he doesn't get the displeasure of meeting bothering acquaintances."

"I could nearly think you care, Lae'zel."

"It is a strategic mistake than to willingly ignore the struggles of the soldier that will stand next to oneself in battle. If anyone is able to bring forth any topic that could threaten the integrity of his mind and the clarity of his thoughts, then they shall be promptly removed. There shall be no more former lurkers to bother him."

"I don't think I would agree with your way of solving the issue but I think you're right. Overall. I don't think the Gate is a very good place for him. We have no other choice than to go there, but everything that can be done to..."

                The voices were now too distant to still reach him. Astarion wouldn't admit that he had fastened his pace in order to get out of earshot quicker.

                It was on his mind. It wouldn't leave. That one question that shouldn't have been half as important.

                What were they all seeing in him?

                Cazador was the one who had the most accurate knowledge about Astarion. And then there was the persona he created for his own nocturnal victims.

                Wyll and Lae'zel were seeing something else. And so were the others. But if it wasn't the pitiful, powerless little thing that Cazador knew he was, nor the cold, dangerously precise puppeteer his victims understood he could be as they were brought to slaughter, what was left in him to see?

                Why would Lae'zel see enough strength in him to choose him over the adventurers' offer, and yet still think he would be in danger in his own city? How could those two, diametrically opposed ideas coexist? As if, somehow, he could both be powerful and hurt. Which made no sense at all and if someone should have known that, it was Lae'zel.

                The trees were easier to navigate than his thoughts and he found his way through them, getting back to the city and walking toward the inn, long strides closing the distance quickly.

                If everything around him was confusing him, there was one thing that was clear to him. Gods, was he in pain. His stomach was burning, only a day or two away from true agony. The dizziness had settled in and, now that he was no longer expecting a battle, he could feel it with force, the corners of his sight slightly blurry, the ground a bit too unsteady the further it was from his feet. He had been able to power through it, when he had thought himself to be in danger. But now the danger had been removed, and Astarion felt all the more vulnerable. When he reached the inn, he let himself fall on the few front steps, white dots dancing before his eyes, his whole being begging for that precious fuel that made everything work in his body.

                His back against the stone wall, he tried to force some breathes in and out of his dead lungs, to push away the waves of uneasiness.

                And there was still that wound inside him, always painful, always nastier. He was once again in pants wet with blood, sitting in his own soil.

                Angry tears formed in the corner of Astarion's eyes, as breathing failed to bring him any semblance of peace. And, for once, they did fall down his cheeks.

                There, hungry, in pain, lost and confused, stumbling in a world where nothing was familiar, he thought about it. He dared to.

                The fear in his belly was so great, he felt on the verge of throwing up once more, his hands were shaking with terror, but the thought bloomed on his mind, nonetheless.

                He looked ahead of him, into the dark night and the quiet streets...

                He could leave.

                He could run back to Cazador.

                The mere idea was filling him with a horror colder than his dead corpse, but there was nothing he could do against an idea.

                He could go back to Cazador.

                Maybe he should.

                Cazador could heal him.

                Cazador could handle him.

                Life was miserable, but it was the life Astarion knew.

                He didn't want to starve, he thought as the quiet tears reached his dry, hungry lips. Gods, please, he didn't want to starve. And Cazador was the only one truly able to feed him. He was the one controlling hunger.

                There was that one truth Astarion knew more than his own name and decidedly more than his own face, and it was that, to be fed, he needed to crawl to his Master.

                And damn, every muscle of his body was yearning to crawl indeed.

                He knew he would get punished for having been kidnapped. He knew it would be worse than anything Astarion had ever suffered so far. But maybe it was better to stay there than to be here. Maybe Astarion simply wasn't able to live on his own. He certainly wasn't meant to.

                And, when he left, no freedom to be found. It hadn't been a month, and he had been back on the floor, fucked into compliance. At the Palace or elsewhere, wasn't it all the same, in the end?

                Maybe if he could explain. Maybe if he promised to do better. Cazador was not so interested in his body lately, he had seen too much of it and had other focuses he was working on, but maybe, if Astarion was begging to pleasure him once more, to fulfill his every fantasy with skill and eagerness. Everything he had ever implored not to do, if he now implored to do it instead. Maybe then it would not be so bad. He could lessen his punishment, if he could show how genuinely fucking sorry he was.

                Sorry for having been kidnapped. Sorry for not running back. Sorry for existing in the first place.

                At that very second, Astarion would have given everything to be able to get back to his Master.

                Gods, he would become such a good Spawn. The best of them. Just to be taken back and to erase each of his many faults. To be by the side of someone of whom he understood the language at least.

                At that very second.

                Then he realized his thought. And his terror grew thicker. What was even more terrifying than Cazador was the simple fact that Astarion had the ability to go back to him.

                As long as Cazador was alive, Astarion would always be one decision away from getting back to his Master and his slavery.

                Just one decision away. Nothing else.

                And the absurdity of such dramatic consequences for such a simple action filled him with a dread the whip had never been able to create in him. Stunned by the thought, terrified by the power he had over his own damnation, Astarion ran inside the inn and up the stairs.

                His first instinct had been to reach his room and hide on the bed, like a terrified child.

                But he knew that no blanket would ever shield him from the monsters in his mind, telling him to just go back to his Master. To just take the punishment he clearly deserved.

                And Astarion knew something else.

                If he was to go into his room, and lie down with his thoughts...

                Before the day would be up, he knew he would be on the road. By the end of the week, his Master would have found him back.

                So, Astarion didn't get to his room. Didn't come anywhere near his bed, with its useless blanket and his dooming thoughts.

                Instead, he knocked on Halsin's door.

Chapter Text

Chapter 7

         Astarion pushed the door open. In the absence of answers, what else was he meant to do? He knew he was supposed to feel some kind of shyness while stepping in this space that didn't belong to him, but he couldn't find that specific feeling in him. Mostly because he was too torn out by pain and hunger and otherwise much stronger emotions to feel anything else. But also, because bedrooms just weren't private spaces, in Astarion's mind. Anyone could always walk in, that was simply what bedrooms were like.

         He therefore penetrated Halsin's space, only caring about reducing the noises he was making while doing so, his steps light on the old wood.

         Halsin didn't react to the door opening and the newcomer coming closer. He was lying on the bed, in another world altogether. Astarion walked forth, his years of prowling allowing him to get to the bed without making a single sound. He knelt down on the floor.

         Halsin's face and body were visibly relaxed, his breath slow and regular. He was deep into a trance, his mind perfectly at peace, leaving his flesh exposed.

         A very nasty thought shot through Astarion's brain. Catching the Druid like that, one could do absolutely anything they fancied to Halsin's body. Astarion would know that.

         But the thought dissipated as soon as it appeared, and it wasn't as if it could leave Astarion more stunned than he already was.

"Druid?" he called.

         He barely whispered. He wasn't sure yet if he truly wanted to wake the elf up or not. He was doing one thing but could well be hoping for another. He had no idea what to say to him or ask of him. But he knew he was terrified of being left on his own. More exactly, of what he would do if none were caring enough about him to stop him.

         Even though he still didn't want to see that elf open his eyes, Astarion began to poke Halsin's shoulder before he could stop himself in any effective way. He regretted his impulsive gesture immediately, but it was too late, Halsin jerked awake and blinked a few times to get his elven eyes used to the total darkness surrounding him.

"Astarion?" he whispered in the silence.

         He raised his head from the pillow, his eyes made wet and sticky by sleep.

"What is it? What with the amor? Are we attacked?"

"Wyll and Lae'zel took care of it," Astarion answered, matching the quiet tone.

         Halsin pushed back his long hair, away from his face, and he rested his weight on his elbow.

"What is it, Astarion? What's the matter?"

         Astarion opened his mouth, but he had nothing to say. There was something in his chest, too big, too heavy for him to push any word through it.

         He couldn't say anything. He didn't even know what there was to say.

         So, after a while, he simply shrugged, tediously.

"Tell me what's wrong, Astarion. Maybe I could help."

         He shouldn't have come. There was nothing he could explain. So, he did what had to be done when words failed, he smiled it off.

"Nothing."

         By the Gods, he wished Halsin could stop him. He couldn't stomach being alone, and what he would do to himself if that was to be how his night were to end.

"I'm going to get some rest now. See you tomorrow."

         They wouldn't.

         Astarion was about to stand up and to walk back to the monsters in his room, but Halsin sat up.

"Wait, Astarion. Hold on a minute. Come on, don't leave like that, stay here."

         He obediently sat back on his heels, still having nothing to say but praying to be held back.

"What?" he asked Halsin.

"You cannot simply come to me in the middle of the night, and then just walk off without a word. Something brought you here, and I will hear it. What is it?"

         Astarion didn't know what it was.

         He just knew that he was so hungry and afraid. And that he didn't want to suffer like that any longer. He wanted it all to go away.

         He didn't make a sound. He just looked at Halsin. And he could feel his eyes burning with renewed tears.

"Gods, Astarion, what is it? What happened?"

         Astarion vigorously shook his head. He couldn't say it.

         And he finally understood what that suffocating weight in his chest was, preventing him from saying a word.

         Shame. He couldn't say aloud his horrible thoughts.

         Or else they would know. That it was all his fault. That it had been from the beginning.

         The tears fell in new waves, blurring Astarion's sight.

"Alright, you don't want to say. At least come here, sit down."

         Astarion rolled on the side and sat down on the floor.

"That works too," Halsin said, falsely joyful.

         He got out of his bed and came to sit down on the ground as well, right by Astarion's side.

         Unable to stand Halsin's gaze and judgment, Astarion looked away, pressing his face against the mattress, hiding it from view.

         And then, with nothing to see but the fears plaguing his mind and his inexplicable but insufferable sadness, Astarion began to sob.

         True, harrowing sobs. Like he hardly remembered ever crying them.

         He muffled the sound with the mattress, biting the blanket, but, even then, the characteristic noise was deafening and fucking pathetic. His shoulders were shaking frantically with each sob and whimper of sorrow. He was trying to force himself to breathe but he was crying so much he could only choke on his tears and cough in the blanket.

"Hey," Halsin was not touching him, but he had leaned over, "whatever it is, I promised you there is a way out. We will find a way to help you, no matter what. You're not alone with this."

"I want to go back..."

         The admission was being ripped out of him and it was so muffled, pressed between the blanket and his sobs, that he wasn't sure Halsin had even heard it.

"To go back where?" the Druid softly asked, leaning closer to try to catch what Astarion was saying.

"To my Master..."

         His voice was broken, shattered by what it was confessing. The silence that followed, only covered by the strangled sobs, was more telling than the admission itself.

         Halsin was finally seeing it. Astarion had wished to be someone else for a moment, but it was doomed to failure. Now the Druid could see with his own eyes what Cazador had always seen. That Astarion was nothing without his Master.

         What was much worse, that Astarion himself knew it. That he wanted his undeath to be exactly the way it was.

"No," Halsin said, his disbelief making him forget to whisper, "of course you don't want that, Astarion."

"He can heal me," Astarion tried to explain, as one would apologize. "He is the only one who can feed me."

         Not that Cazador would do it any time soon.

"If I'm good enough, he'll do it."

         Astarion would have to suffer a lot for it, but it would happen. Eventually.

"Maybe I'll be better off staying with him… Maybe it's easier that way."

"You don't believe that."

"I don't want to starve… It will get so bad. It will hurt so much… Maybe, if I am good to him, if I go beyond what he expects from me, he will..."

"Come on, Astarion! You know him better than I do, don't you? Do you really believe it changes a thing? So what, each time he hurt you, it was because you weren't 'good' enough? Each torture, it was simply because you didn't try enough?"

         Astarion sniffled, struggling to talk between his sobs. Despite the overwhelming despair he was in, there was still a part of his brain lucid enough to let him know how pitiful he looked and sounded.

"It's all my fault. I'm just too dense, I don't get what he wants from me. But if I can be exactly what he wants... I just want to feed. I'd do anything. I'd go back to him."

"Astarion, look at me."

         Astarion's fists clenched around the blanket.

"Please."

         Trying and failing to keep a semblance of composure, Astarion looked up, his face wet with tears.

         Halsin's hazel eyes were warm, and kinder than Astarion could stomach it.

"You don't want to go back to him," Halsin said.

         He was so confident about it. Without the shadow of a doubt. He wasn't arguing or convincing. He was simply stating a fact he knew for certain, and that fact was that Astarion truly didn't want to go back.

"If I go back," Astarion whispered, not to spare the rest of the other companions but because he dreaded hearing his own thoughts, "he will..."

         He clenched his jaws together, but it didn't prevent another sob from getting out of him.

"He will do terrible things to me."

         Halsin waited a second, taking in those words that surely were not new to him, and then he asked in a soft voice:

"Is telling me what kind of things something you'd like to do?"

         Astarion recoiled, frantically shaking his head. He could never guess Cazador's cruelty and having to try would be a new kind of torture.

"Alright," Halsin tempered, his hands up and open as if to show no harm would come as a retaliation for Astarion's refusal. "You don't have to say a word. I can guess, there's no need for you to talk about anything you don't want to talk about. But please, hear me out on something."

         Astarion wiped his cheeks with his sleeve but, as he was still crying, it did little more than mixing tears with drool and snot.

"I know you're afraid of what will happen next," Halsin said. "You have very good reasons for that. But let me tell you one simple fact. You will not go back to Cazador."

"It may be the best..."

"Sorry, I didn't make it clear; I will not let you go back to him. I understand your fears. I am heartbroken to not be able to just erase them. I wish I could, truly. But I will not let you listen to them. For they are so dangerously deceptive. I can see your former Master put a lot of effort into making you believe you cannot sever ties with him. You wanting to go back is normal. But there is no world in which it is what you deserve. Or what would ever be good for you. I will not let you go anywhere tonight."

"What if I leave?"

         And Astarion's voice was saturated with hope and terror.

"What if I just walk away?"

"I will stop you. I will physically stop you."

"You said you wouldn't do anything unless I wanted to."

"When I said that, I wasn't half as worried as I am now. I will always respect your dignity and your consent, but it is not respecting you in any way than to let you be abused and do nothing about it. You walking back to Cazador is not the expression of your free will, it is the result of everything he has done to you. So, yes. I'll stop you. I will hate it, I will be overcome by guilt, but I will stop you."

         Halsin's eyes were dark, worried about how Astarion would react to what could be seen as an unveiled threat. At the very least an attack on his freedom.

         But Astarion was in no state to care about any of that. So, he simply said:

"Promise it..."

         He had wanted to make it sound like a demand.

         The truth was that he was begging.

"You have my word, Astarion. I promise you that, tomorrow, you will still be here. With us. We won't let you hurt yourself in such a manner."

         Astarion's urge was coming from somewhere so deep, so visceral, it felt like ripping something off his guts. He stumbled forward, gripping Halsin's shoulders and clinging to them as if his whole worthless existence depended on it. Which it did.

         For, tonight, Halsin felt like the sole true bound keeping him from running back to Cazador.

"Well... Fine... I see..."

         Halsin had not stepped back at the impulsive contact or tried to put some distance between them, but he was keeping his arms open and his hands far away from Astarion, as if he was trying to reduce contact even though Astarion's arms were clenched around his neck, the Spawn's head pressing against his shoulder like it had against the mattress a moment earlier.

"Just so I'm aware, are you hugging me because you want to or because you feel like you should?"

         Astarion didn't answer. He didn't care why he was doing anything at all. He was still shaking and sobbing and fearing for his life. He could feel the burning hunger in his stomach. The cold blood between his legs. Behind him, two centuries of nightmares. Before him, a vertiginous and meaningless emptiness.

         He couldn't answer questions. He just wanted to either stop sobbing like a pathetic, snotty child or cry himself into non-existence.

"I guess we will unwrap that another day, then. For now, come here."

         Halsin dared to close his arms. With deliberately slow gestures, he brought Astarion to him so that their position wouldn't be so awkward and tense anymore. He made sure not to restrain Astarion's body or block any possible way out, but he gently guided him closer until Astarion was able to lean against him fully.

"Shh, it's alright. You're safe, Astarion. You have my word, you are safe."

         Astarion hated tall, broad bodies against his. Because, when they were holding him down, they felt so suffocating. They could hide the light and restrain him with a single embrace. Whether his eyes were close or open, Astarion could see the many bodies that had crushed him against the floor, with little care for whether they could even fit inside.

         Tonight, it was the first time Astarion was not viscerally repulsed by someone broader than him standing so close to him. There was no light to obstruct anyway, and Astarion just knew he wouldn't be able to overcome Halsin in a fist fight, if he wanted to make a run for it. Which made him hug the Druid tighter, wordlessly grateful that he was being kept away from his Master.

         He was a fucking mess of contrary needs, and he didn't react when Halsin began to detach the swords from his back.

"That's it. You're doing great."

         Halsin talked through the whole process of removing the weapons, probably to keep Astarion calm, which was not that necessary, as he could hardly feel anything with his metallic plastron and he didn't have any space left in his mind to care for the world around. He didn't notice Halsin taking the weapons and sliding them under the bed, away from them. However, he did feel Halsin's arm now pressing against his back. It didn't feel intimate, the metal and leather numbing the contact, but it did make Astarion know he maybe didn't have to cling so desperately.

"I don't want to starve," he mumbled again, his voice now too broken to manage any true sound.

"You won't. I promise you, you won't. There is so much that can be done to help you with that, and we will find what works."

         Halsin didn't say much after that. Simply swaying back and forth, very slowly, bringing Astarion with him, gently lulling him while he was crying more and more silently.

         Tears had always been quick to come, to Astarion, no matter how much he hated them. If he was too angry, or too afraid, they would inevitably bead on the corner of his eyes. He had never been brave or strong. But, living at the Szarr Palace, he had become numb to most things. He had reached a point where he would feel so little in the way of emotions, even when facing his worst nightmares, that he would rarely cry despite always feeling on the verge of it.

         Sometimes, he would jerk awake, not from trance but from haziness, and he would feel water on his cheeks without remembering how it had gotten there. He then knew that something bad had just happened to him, but he thankfully hadn't let himself live it and remember it. He was thankful for that neat mind trick, but the consequence was that he couldn't remember with clarity the last time he had truly wholeheartedly wept.

         Having the luxury to cry and to be present for it, Astarion didn't know if it was a good thing, but it was a new one.

"That's the first thing he taught us."

         He wasn't sobbing quite as much now. He was able to keep himself quiet, his voice a broken whisper.

"What is?"

"What true hunger feels like."

         Cazador had probably seen him cry before. Astarion couldn't remember it happening for now, but it was certain it had happened. If he waited enough, memories would come back to him. Hundreds of them. He could hear his Master's disdain for his tears as clear as day.

         Yet, Astarion didn't wipe them away. He was too tired. He would just cry.

"After we are turned, we aren't brought to the Palace right away. We first need to go through what he calls the weaning."

         Halsin tightened his hug around Astarion. He had to feel that, whatever it was, that weaning was nothing good. Or maybe it was simply because Astarion was shaking more with each word.

"He keeps us in the sewer, away from the Palace. On a leash, chained to a wall. And we wait. Alone. In complete darkness. The leash's too short to stand or even sit, so we crawl."

         He could feel the metallic collar biting his skin, strangling him each time he would try to even get on all four.

         He had laid there for so long. On his stomach, his head bent. Even after the weaning, that last part hadn't really change. He had cried a name he couldn't remember today. Probably a mother.

"There are dozens of rats. They run everywhere. They make so much noise, it's impossible to rest. But he orders us to not touch any of them. That's how we all understand that we can't disobey him. The food's so close, and we're so hungry, but our body won't move. Never against his will."

         The soft swaying of Halsin's shoulders was unbelievably soothing. The words were getting out of Astarion's mouth, bringing back the memory of some of his worse days, yet he felt strangely detached from all that. He was telling that story without thinking anything about it. Just a tale, nothing more. And his mind was focused on the rhythmic, repetitive motion lulling him back and forth.

"Once every few days, he visits us. Brings with him a glass of fresh blood. He lets us believe that, if we ask nicely enough, he will give it to us. That he wants nothing more than to feed us but we're really not pulling our weight. He is lying, though. He will always find something. We didn't kneel fast enough, we dared to rise from the ground. We didn't beg, we made sounds. We didn't look like we wanted it that much, we were too desperate and needy about it. He will find something. Or he will make up something. When he finally feeds us, weeks after we've been turned, he kills the rat himself and makes us lick the blood from his hand. And he doesn't have to force us for us to tell him just how much we love him. Because, by then, we have already understood the very simple lesson. He says when we're hungry. He says when we're starving."

         Astarion guessed he also said when they were satiated, but that had never happened, so he wasn't sure.

"It's the worst thing," Astarion said quietly to himself. "To starve. You'd think it's the tortures. It isn't."

"You won't starve. We will think of something."

         Halsin still had his arm behind Astarion's back but, with his free hand, he pushed a few white curls away from the vampire's wet face. It left some lingering warmth against his skin and Astarion tried to focus on it, like some unhoped-for anchor.

"Tell me about it," Halsin asked now that Astarion looked slightly calmer.

"About what?"

"About you being sick. When would it happen?"

         Astarion tried to wipe his cheeks clean again, but his sleeve was already damp with tears.

"I don't know. It would just happen."

"You never noticed any pattern? Gale told me other Spawn got sick after being scarred."

"Yes, all of them. Or, maybe not Yousen. I never really paid him any mind."

"But you didn't get sick."

"No."

"Was there something different between you and them, after that night?"

         Astarion tried to think about it, but he couldn't find anything truly noteworthy.

"That was a bit harder on them than it was on me, I guess. But it's about all."

"Why was it harder?"

"Because it was newer to them. We've all ended up in the kennel at some point, but that's just not the same. In the kennel, Godey whips the undead hells out of us. Sometimes he has fun with his little tools, and it's done before the sun can set because we have to get to work. But the night of the marking... For some of them, it was the first time they experienced something like that. Lasting forever, starting again, without any explanation, any warning. I've already been with people who had a thing for cutting, and I'm used to people enjoying my screams for the sake of it. And I have been in the Master's bedroom a lot of times prior to this. I know how he is. They didn't. They had no idea what was happening to them. It was awful to us all, but I wasn't half as stunned as they were the night that followed. And I was older also."

         He remembered having found them so pitiful, all crying and shaking in their bed. He didn't look much better right now.

"So it could be linked to that?"

"Linked to what?" he asked, having forgotten his retelling was supposed to have a point.

"To stress. Your friends..."

"They are not my friends! They're pathetic."

         He was trying to not get angry, but anger was better than whining.

"He says we are siblings; he says we are a family but we're not! I hate them! I want them all dead! All gone!"

         Halsin tightened the hug. Or maybe Astarion did it. More probably the latter. But it was hard to tell.

"He makes us pretend all day long," he said, his face pressed against Halsin's shoulder and what had been anger did end up sounding just like whining. "If he catches us using our names, Godey is not the one dealing with us… Once he… He made Petras and… He made us burn 'brother' on each other's skin."

         The anger was gone and Astarion was left with nothing but guilt. He was in no position to get angry at Halsin, not when it was his only rampart against Cazador.

"Sorry," he muttered, gripping the shoulders. "Sorry, I didn't mean to… I…"

"It's perfectly alright. Nothing to apologize about. How do you want me to call them?"

"They are…"

         They weren't friends, they weren't siblings, they weren't names. Sometimes they were victims, sometimes they were tormentors. Just like Astarion.

"They are the other Spawn."

"The other Spawn," Halsin corrected himself without arguing, "they all lived through something extremely traumatic and anxiety-provoking and, the days after, they struggled to tend to their most basic need and to feed. This is not unlike the living. I have seen many beings, when put under extreme stress, come out of it with symptoms, like vomiting, dizziness, sweating, abnormal heartbeat, reduction of awareness. Vampires can't express half of those symptoms, but you can experience some."

         Astarion remembered all the time when, seized by a visceral terror, he had just thrown up, his sight blackening, his mind recoiling in his skull.

"It doesn't make sense," he still thought. "Why would I be sick now? Nothing happened."

"Astarion..."

         With a frown of disbelief, Halsin didn't seem to know whether Astarion was playing him or not.

"... You were raped three days ago," he reminded him.

         That was a strange word, that sounded distorted in the narrow space between Halsin and Astarion. Thinking it was one thing, hearing it was another. But he couldn't deal with that right now.

"Yes, but it wasn't that bad."

"It was, Astarion. It really was."

         Astarion shrugged, feeling too tired to argue. His head was painful from all his tears now, though not as much as his stomach was from the lack of blood.

"Even if it was not as... painful or humiliating, or whatever it is that makes you think that one assault is worse or better than another, it still was a severe callback to your life at Baldur's Gate. For a few hours, you were back there. That would be more than enough distress to make your body react. Of course it's linked to that, Astarion. That problem has much deeper roots than just what happened the other night, but we cannot say it didn't trigger something. It was meaningful. It was important."

         Astarion had straightened up and though he was still half leaning against Halsin, there was just enough distance between them for the Druid to see his face and its defeated expression.

"Hey," Halsin softly called, tilting Astarion's chin up with his index finger, "it's good news."

"How is it good?" he said, still angry at the fact that he was now unable to stomach things he had endured for years without a sigh.

"It's good that we know what it is. And that also means that Cazador lied to you. He is not the only one who can heal you. He would like you to think so, but it is untrue. There is no biological need for you to stay with him, quite the contrary. I've seen it before, Astarion, that form of extreme psychological suffering that stays with you long after the battles are over. I've seen people falling ill from it, and then getting better, living beautiful lives despite it, with the proper help and the proper friends."

         It all seemed so far away. A nice little fantasy that would never come true for Astarion.

"Then how can I be cured?" he asked, not letting himself have too much hope.

"The first thing will be to take one day at a time. It won't be a linear healing, and there will be moments of deep despair when you will feel that everything is hopeless. During those moments, you'll need someone to..."

"I don't care about that, Druid. I want to know how to feed so my body doesn't start decaying on me."

"Yes, of course. That would be the first concern. Well..."

         He thought about it for a moment before stating what he knew:

"There's no toxin and no poison in your body physically preventing you from feeding. The problem is that, if you are too stressed, it won't be able to handle digestion."

"I don't feel stressed."

         Panicked and terrified, occasionally though.

"You can try to feed again, if you want. Taking it slow, not putting more pressure on yourself, drinking a little, we can try some things to make it easier on your body."

         Astarion's teeth were tingling, eager to sink into something warm. He feared he would vomit again but not as much as he feared true starvation.

"Do you want to try again?"

         Astarion nodded without hesitation.

"Alright, let me get up, then."

         Astarion pushed himself away and sat back on his heels. Halsin stood up and found a seat on the side of the bed, before patting the mattress next to him.

"Come here, we'll be more comfortable."

         Astarion didn't want to get his hopes too high but... did it mean quality blood? Was he really about to bite into the neck of a thinking being?

         Hiding his hope in the fear of seeing it being taken away from him, he hoisted himself up on the bed, sitting next to Halsin.

"I will give you my blood but there w..."

         The rest of Halsin's sentence was fully lost on Astarion.

         He would get blood. Good blood. No rot, no pest. He would be fed properly, and, if he could keep it down, he would be full. Truly full.

"Astarion?"

         Astarion had the hardest time snapping out of the shooting thoughts crossing his head.

"I said there would be rules."

         Astarion swallowed the little saliva there was left in his dry mouth. A 'anything you want' was dancing on his lips but he held it back. He didn't want the Druid to lecture him about having boundaries and what not. He just wanted the blood, so he nodded.

"I will let you drink from me, but I want to be in control of the flow."

         Halsin knew how quickly unlucky animals would die under Astarion's fangs...

"I have no desire to control how much you feed, Astarion, and I don't want to frustrate you. I wish you nothing but to be truly satiated. But I've seen you hunt before, and I've witnessed with what... despair you bleed your prey. You have little self-control and though I am certain you will gain some with time, it won't happen overnight."

"It's like you've just learned I am a Vampire. Bloodthirst is what I do."

"I know some Spawn. It's not a Vampire feature. It's you. And I understand better now. Of course, you're desperate for blood. Cazador has turned it into yet another means of control and a way to punish you. You've lived without ever knowing if you would be able to feed again, it's not something that can be erased the second you have access to blood again. You cannot be expected not to struggle with food, and it now makes sense that you would... I don't know... drink a whole bear up even though you fed plenty during the day already."

         Astarion lowered his eyes at the memory of that night when he had stumbled back into the camp, drunk out of his mind on bear blood.

"I was hungry."

"You weren't hungry. You were anxious."

"You're just taking it personally because it was a bear."

         Halsin chuckled, not convinced by Astarion's very serious argument.

"I don't want to restrain your access to food, I will let you drink as much as you want. But if you drink too fast, you'll just make it harder on yourself to not throw it up again. Drinking slowly, taking breaks, it is important. Does that sound like a deal to you? You can drink as much blood as you want, but you let me help you do it slowly and listen to what your body can take and what it can't."

         Astarion nodded but he would have nodded to any condition truly. Elven blood was too precious to miss out on it.

"Alright, then give me a second."

         Halsin rolled up the sleeve of his shirt and exposed his forearm, most notably his wrist.

"You can bite. Keep in mind to take your time. Nothing is rushing you."

"May I... hold it?"

         Astarion tried to keep a straight face, but the question was essential. If he could trick Halsin into letting him hold the arm, then the Druid wouldn't be able to take it away from him. Astarion could keep it pressed against his mouth, no matter what.

         Halsin didn't answer right away, and Astarion knew he had guessed the motive of the question without trouble. He had seen it coming.

"You can," Halsin finally said.

"You... You mean it?"

         Astarion couldn't believe that Halsin had guessed his intentions and would still be willing to indulge them.

"I do. I told you, I won't snatch food away from you. But I don't expect you to trust my word that easily. If holding my arm helps you feel more secure about having access to blood, then do it. You're less likely to be stressed about it, and thus less likely to refuse the food."

"Will you stop being so..."

"So what?"

"I don't know, but it's very infuriating."

         Then he realized it was Halsin who was about to feed him. In that very moment, the Druid had as much power over him as Cazador used to have.

"Sorry."

"It's alright."

         Astarion, not letting his chance pass by him, seized Halsin's arm.

         He leaned against the Druid's shoulder to keep his balance and brought the arm to his lips. He knew the other arm had found a place behind his back, but he couldn't truly feel it with the plastron of his armor.

         He let his teeth linger over the skin, feeling the bestial urge to bite but still struggling to believe it could really be that easy. When Halsin pressed his shoulder, encouraging him, he lost his last shred of self-control.

         He sunk his teeth deep into the wrist and, right away, his mouth filled with a delicious, rich, warm blood, so thick it was coating his tongue like melted sugar. Unable to control anything, he began to gulp down the blood, trying to get as much as he could, as fast as physically possible, while he still had access to it.

         Halsin tried to move his arm, possibly to slow the bleeding, but Astarion tightened his hold, sinking his fangs further, drinking faster. His promise fully forgotten.

"Shh, it's alright. Nothing will be taken away from you."

         Halsin waited a bit for Astarion to stop gripping his arm so protectively and he slightly twisted it. Not enough to take it out of Astarion's mouth but enough to press his wound against the Vampire's lip, obstructing it and slowing the blood flow.

         Astarion didn't hold back his growl and he sunk his teeth deeper to get the flow back at its full speed. Halsin let him do so and allowed him to drink like that for a moment but, after a while, he twisted his arm again, starting over the same process.

         A couple of times, Astarion snarled in frustration and fought the attempt, ignoring the word he had given to his feeder not even a minute ago. Each time, Halsin would let him fight back, whispering soft words to sooth him down and promising over and over that he would not take the blood out of Astarion's mouth. But, inevitably, when he felt that the Vampire was calm enough again, he would repeat the process and try to slow down the flow.

         After a few times, Astarion let him have his way for a second or two, then for a bit more than that. Gradually, with Halsin's infinite patience, he was able to try drinking at a slower pace without feeling right away the terrible conviction that the rat would be snatched from his hungry mouth. He was still holding the arm as tightly as before, but he was slowly shown that, even if he wasn't drinking as fast, it didn't mean everything would stop. His mouth was still being filled; the blood was still running down his throat. He was simply taking smaller sips, waiting longer and longer in-between.

"You're doing great, Astarion. Wonderfully."

         The praises were doing little for him. But the gentle rocking had resumed, and it was more soothing that it had any right to be. The motion was repetitive in a way that always allowed Astarion to know what would come next and it was the best feeling he could think of.

         The characteristic sound and light of healing magic vibrated around Astarion. Halsin had just healed himself, replenishing what he had just lost.

         And it made Astarion want to cry again.

         He hadn't been lied to. It was true. Halsin genuinely planned on letting him have as much as he wanted. He would be fed. Truly, fully fed.

         He was aware it was ridiculous to be so happy about it. Astarion didn't live with Cazador anymore. He could drink on any passing creature; he could hunt on his own. He knew that he had access to food.

         Why did it mean so much to him that Halsin wouldn't take his arm away then?

         The swaying, the whispers – that Astarion hadn't been listening to for a while but they still sounded pleasant –, the warmth of the blood in his mouth or the knowledge that he could continue to drink for now, it wasn't clear what exactly began to work on Astarion, as he leaned further against the Druid. A fragile but unhoped-for sense of serenity washed over him. He would still jerk and toss if he felt the arm move between his jaws, but he rested his head against the broad shoulder and closed his eyes.

         Deciding to trust Halsin, despite every empirical instinct he could have, he opened his mouth and got his fangs out of the flesh. He continued to suck on the wound but, without the teeth to keep it wide open, the blood flow was reduced to its minimum, with only the suction to get it out of the veins.

         He didn't have the strength to truly let go of the arm, even though he was starting to feel full, so he began to nurse it, more to occupy his mouth than for anything else.

         Halsin didn't grow impatient or angry. He let Astarion suck on the wound, drawing the droplets one by one without ever interrupting the flow fully. He allowed him to rest his head and didn't take back his arm the second Astarion stopped being careful enough to protect it.

         Had Cazador ever been that patient with him?

         As he was sucking on the blood, the uncomfortable parallel between the two feeding figures was inevitable. Both Halsin and Cazador had given him access to blood. But had Cazador ever let him have anything good for that long? The immortal Vampire had never been in a rush, as far as Astarion remembered, yet he would snap so quickly, so harshly, nothing was ever certain to last with him.

         He hadn't always been like that. Not with Astarion at least. It had been an eternity ago. So long it had started getting erased from memory. But Astarion knew that there had been a moment when Cazador had been kinder to him. Before the turning. Before Astarion knew what the strange noble was. They had met from time to time, and Cazador had always been positively charming. Patient and interested.

         Then Astarion had changed, from being alive to undead. From being a guest in the house to belonging to its owner like yet another painting. Not someone that was worth the lies anymore. He had learned who Cazador was. Who he had been all along. But the rest of the world hadn't.

         Cazador had remained, to them, the social virtuoso, the witty lord that could always say what they most wanted to hear. And Astarion had become his lucky protégé. How many guests, knowing nothing of their host, had told Astarion how blessed he was to get to live with such a pleasant, generous man? And what could Astarion have said or done?

         Except hiding the bruises, smiling, nodding, and asking if they wanted to rape him some more.

         Astarion knew Cazador had never truly been kind. But he had pretended to be, for a brief moment, and that had messed with Astarion's mind much more than any of his twisted tortures. Because, for decades, while lying down after a night of horror, Astarion had prayed to silent gods, not for freedom, but for that elusive kindness he had believed in so naively.

         That had been the hard thing to accept.

         That the gods wouldn't answer.

         And that Cazador had never been kind.

"Astarion?"

         Startled, Astarion flinched, opening his eyes.

"What..."

         Some blood had dripped from the corner of his mouth.

"You're beginning to trance."

"No, I'm not," Astarion growled, closing his eyes once more and trying to find again the wonderful position he had been in before being called.

"Yes, you are. And I really don't want you to fall asleep in a bed that isn't yours. Come on, let's get you to your room."

         Astarion, who had nearly let go of the arm, seized it again, tighter.

"I'll let you drink more when we're there, if that's what you want. I just want you to trance in your own bed."

         Astarion, his mouth still around the wrist, detailed Halsin's face, trying to spot deceit, but he found nothing. On the other hand, he hadn't seen Cazador's deceit before it had been way too late and he had been way too dead. By trusting Halsin's kindness, he was putting himself in the position of being hurt all over again. With a single act of cruelty, the Druid would be able to destroy the little of Astarion that had survived Cazador.

         But he would trust him. For the sake of blood, he was telling himself. For the sake of ever having something nice, he didn't acknowledge.

         He cursed against the skin, sucked on it one last time and then let go of the arm.

         Halsin's wrist was in a poor state. The puncture wounds were irregular, Astarion having clenched and unclenched his teeth and fought to keep the arm where he wanted it to be. The skin was covered with saliva and pink diluted blood. Bruises had formed from the sucking, darkening the contour of the wound.

         Halsin didn't comment on it however and he got up, grabbing Astarion's elbow to help him up in turn. He thought about his swords, under the bed, and his crossbow that had somehow disappeared without him noticing, but he found out he didn't care about them as much as he cared about Halsin's promise, so he followed him without a word.

         Back in his room, Astarion climbed on his bed with no delay. He knew he was in armor, and his dark pants were still stained with his blood, but he didn't want to give the opportunity for Halsin to comment on it. He didn't want to disrobe or clean himself, he just wanted to be able to feed in peace.

         Halsin didn't say a word about any of it and, despite the metallic plastron, when Astarion lay on his bed, the Druid brought the blankets over him, keeping him covered and ready for rest. Astarion's eyes stayed wide open, silently asking his due.

         Halsin brought a chair right next to the side of the bed, sat down and extended his arm. With relief, Astarion rolled on his side and, while keeping his head on the pillow, he brought the wrist to his mouth.

         He wasn't hungry anymore. But having something in his mouth, pressing against his teeth, was keeping some awful thoughts at bay, like some kind of poor man's charm. And being fed, even in such small quantities, was blanketing his mind with that weird, slow haze that quieted his doubts and quenched his anguish.

"For how long?" he asked, while sucking so softly barely any blood was getting out of the wound.

"For how long you wish."

"All night?"

         It was an absurd hope.

"If you want."

         Astarion closed his eyes. It wasn't true. It wasn't allowed.

         He clenched his fists tighter around the arm.

         He would have to see for himself.

"What if I throw up?" he asked, the words coming out muffled, half sucked.

"I will clean you up, calm you down, and we will try again tomorrow. But I don't think you will."

"Why not?"

"I'm just naturally positive. I have an optimistic instinct. And you seem pretty calm now."

         Halsin pushed some wet hair out of the way, and, for a moment, the warmth was back. He must have noticed that Astarion was finding it pleasant for he let his hand linger on the cold forehead, despite having been extremely careful with touches so far.

"I don't know…" Astarion still whispered, though he was not sure what was prompting that statement.

         It was more of a general uncertainty. Toward everything really.

"Focus on your breathing," Halsin asked. "Breathe in. Slowly. Hold it for a handful of seconds. And breathe out as much as you can."

"I am a Vampire; I don't need to breathe."

"I know. But I saw you do it before. When you were upset or worried. It is a grounding technique for you, isn't it?"

         It was not a technique, Astarion thought. Nor was it grounding. It was just... breathing. But the Druid had given him his blood, and the least Astarion could do was to indulge him.

"Do it with me, breathe in, slowly."

         Astarion let the cold air of the room fill his lungs, expanding them fully. He enjoyed the burn of having them stretched to their limits, and then he released the air.

"Again."

         The air circulating inside him seemed to be moving around the dust that he always felt was lingering under his skin, blowing some parody of life back in his body.

         Cazador had never forbidden them from breathing. He had never thought anyone could ever enjoy that liability. It was something Astarion had been allowed to keep. One thing inside his body he could welcome in and out.

"A third time."

         It was the point where Astarion should have complained and told Halsin off, but he had started taking his third inspiration before he was even asked, instinctively mirroring the Druid deep and regular breathing.

         Even after Halsin stopped prompting him, Astarion continued to carefully breathe in and out, automatism kicking in. The sound of the air going up his nose and down his trachea was reminiscent of a time before. A time when Astarion had been alive and young, and nothing wrong could have ever happened to him.

         Astarion didn't care about his youth or his childhood, but the conviction that he was safe and protected was the single most beautiful feeling he could think of. That and satiety. Astarion had reached the latter and, as he was still scratching Halsin's wrist with his fangs, he thought he felt implausibly close to the former as well.

"You know you are safe right now, don't you? That nothing will happen to you."

         Astarion nodded.

"Then trust your body to know it too. It will be alright."

         Astarion was already feeling a bit nauseous, from having drunk so much in so little time, but it wasn't like it had been those past few days. There wasn't that revolting disgust lurking in his guts, ready to twist them in protest. So, he continued to swallow the few droplets of blood he was absentmindedly getting.

"I got truly hungry, once," Astarion said, and it would have been hard to tell for sure to whom he was speaking. "Nothing to do with tonight."

"What happened?"

"He didn't feed me for a whole year. Locked me. In a coffin. I remember the gangrene. And the smell of it. After a month, the body starts to liquify. It's... not the best thing I've ever experienced."

         The air he was breathing was fresh. And a wrist was just under his teeth, he told himself, he was a scratch away from renewed blood flow. That knowledge was enough to keep the bad thoughts at bay.

"I can't even imagine. And I am sorry it happened to you, my friend."

         Astarion didn't believe anyone had been sorry back then. Cazador certainly hadn't. His siblings could hardly care less. Godey had missed him, or mostly his screams, so it didn't really count.

         It was nice that there was one person in the whole wide world, beside Astarion, who wasn't too happy about it.

"Will you stay?" he asked.

         Halsin nodded. There was nearly no blood left in Astarion's mouth, but his teeth were brushing against the skin. For comfort.

"Some of my lovers used to ask me what I am into."

         Astarion could feel his eyes close, and unrelated thoughts were intertwining in his mind, their logical connections making sense to him alone.

"They thought they were being nice. I'd say I'm into being fucked while I'm unconscious. Then, there was a chance that, whatever they wanted to do, they would do it when I wouldn't care. And wouldn't remember."

         Halsin didn't say a think. He was sitting by Astarion's side, listening to him, the hand in his hair not moving an inch, not startling him.

"I'm about to start trancing," Astarion said, as his eyes were burning with exhaustion, behind his eyelids. "I would really like it if you didn't do anything to me. Even when I'm gone."

"I won't. Nothing will hurt you, Astarion. Rest. You will be fine."

         It sounded like a promise. Nothing was forcing Halsin to abide by it. And, once again, one single act of cruelty would shatter Astarion's whole world.

         But, well fed, the Spawn felt like he could take the gamble.

Chapter Text

Chapter 8

                As he was opening his eyes, Astarion had no idea if it was the same day or another one, the same world or the next one.

                But he rose to consciousness with one simple conviction.

                He felt... fine.

                The sunlight was pouring into the room with the lighthearted rudeness of unexpected friends, warming the wood and saturating the colors. A window had been opened and the fresh air was bringing in the strong smells of a distant street market. Peak of that idyllic painting, and an insult to any gloomy eyes, a bright blue bird had found a place on the windowsill and was singing with enthusiasm.

                For a moment, suspended in the air like dust dancing in a ray of light, that scene remained without context. Without meaning. It was simply beautiful and peaceful. An invite to laze in bed or walk the street. Nothing else.

                And even when Astarion began to remember what he was doing here, it was coming to him with sloth, not dragging any burden in its shadow.

                The night before now clearer in his mind, he looked around. And observed the bed with minutiae.

"You didn't throw up, if that is what you're looking for."

                Halsin was by his side, exactly where he had been when Astarion had closed his eyes. He had been looking at the bird with soft tenderness but, when Astarion had begun to move, he had smiled, happy to deliver the good news.

"You kept it down. You've truly fed."

                Normally, Astarion would struggle to believe it. Nothing was ever meant to go his way. But the day was so bright, the wind so pleasant. Maybe life could be good today.

                So, he loosened the bandages around his wrist and tried bending his hand back and forth. No pain, no uneasiness. No rigor either, his body was as alive as it could be, now that it had been fed.

                Without hesitation, despite Halsin's gaze on him, he slipped his hand under the blanket to feel his pants between his legs. The fabric was stiff and rough from the dry blood. But it was hours old. He hadn't bled during his trance.

                He was healed. Truly healed.

"It's dry," he told Halsin with a genuinely overjoyed smile.

                It was as ridiculous as a child proud to have spent a night without wetting themselves, but still, Astarion couldn't help it, he was glad. And, what was worse, Halsin smiled in kind.

                Thrilled the way he hadn't been in days, Astarion sat up, ready to seize the day.

"Well, take it slow, my friend. Don't rush quite yet."

"Why not? I'm healed."

"Still, you should..." Halsin hesitated, then let it go. "You're right. Enjoy the moment. It is a lovely one."

                He stood up and Astarion's eyes lingered on his wrist. He noticed that, apart from the puncture wounds that he remembered inflicting, the skin was displaying a lot of superficial teeth scratches. Someone had nibbled on that wrist, more than they had bitten into it.

"Nasty," Astarion commented, finding it easier than thanking Halsin for everything he had done, "have you thought of getting that checked by a healer?"

"Ha, I will give it a thought," Halsin laughed. "Now, I think the others are gathered next door, having a late lunch. I'll join them. Do you want me to save you a seat?"

"I'll... think about it."

                He wanted to get out of that room. To hear sounds and see faces. But he had to stay elusive if he wanted to keep others on their toes. He couldn't let them know what to expect from him.

"Fine. You know where to find us if you're interested in some quality company."

"Now, Druid, careful or you could sound arrogant. And… wait, Halsin?"

"Yes?"

"Last night, well..."

"Don't worry, I won't mention it to anyone if you don't do it first."

                That wasn't what Astarion had wanted to say. That hadn't even crossed his mind, actually... Had he really assumed that Halsin would just not share around that moment of weakness?

                Astarion was getting too confident. He was growing too trusting.

"It is not what I wanted to say."

"Oh, sorry. What is it?"

"Last night, I... didn't hold my end of the bargain. You asked to control the flaw and I didn't let you do that. I'm... you know."

                He didn't say the word but hoped that his clenched jaws and unhappy expression were enough of an apology.

"Don't worry. I knew it would be a lot for you. I was more interested in you understanding the problem than in you solving it right away. You let us get there in the end, that's already something."

                Astarion frowned. 'Getting there in the end' was nowhere near anything at all. Catching his expression, Halsin continued:

"I am not about to turn on you the moment you don't succeed anymore. I can only guess how it was with Cazador but, from now on, you have a margin to try and fail, Astarion. And enough space to completely mess up, from time to time. No one should ever give you less than that."

                Halsin must have not thought his statement needed any commenting or addendum, for he left the room.

                Well, Astarion would think about it another day.

                When he was alone in the room again, Astarion didn't remain in bed. For the first time since he had arrived here, he was positively eager to clean himself. He liked to maintain a pristine appearance, but he often had to fight against himself to find the strength to bathe or wash. He preferred to care for his clothes than for his body. But now he was healed. And fed. And his body felt much more pleasant to live in.

                He went to the bucket of cold water and, after having taken off the armor as well as the garment underneath the metal and the leather, he started to methodically wash his skin, scrubbing until the last bits of dry blood had dissolved away. He used some pleasantly smelling oil and, when he put on his new set of clothes, he made sure to neatly fold the collar and the sleeves. He had no mirror in the room, but he had no reflection either. So, he stood by the window, pictured a face for himself, and decided it looked very nice.

                He then gave a warning glance to the singing bird, for good measure, and he walked out of the room.

                The foyer was empty.

                The door leading to the balcony overlooking the backyard was wide open however, and Astarion could see that a table had been set there. His companions were sitting around it, sharing together a meal of roasted meat, potatoes, bread, cheese and wine.

                Gale, a hand in the air, his fingers fidgeting abstractly, was making his cutlery levitate and, his forehead furrowed with focus, he was trying to pick up his piece of potato and to bring it to his mouth without dropping it midway. Halsin, sitting next to him, was commenting on his attempt, with a kindness that didn't hide his disapprobation for such silly use of magic. His amusement was obvious, nonetheless. Karlach and Lae'zel seemed to be deep into a heated debate over which roasted meat tasted the best, the Tiefling having in passion what the Githyanki had in conviction. Wyll was pouring a new glass of wine to Shadowheart who looked sincerely interested in something he was saying about the vintage.

                The whole group was talking and laughing, loudly, without any care in the world.

                The one with his doom in his chest, the one carrying the weight of a cursed friend, the one fighting for the freedom of a whole species, the one without a heart and the one without a soul, the one lied to by the Gods.

                They were all basking in the sun, sharing a meal and a good laugh. Whatever their burden could be, they had put it aside, even just for lunch and Astarion couldn't help but feel a stab of jealousy.

                For, the second he had stepped out of his room and into the world, he had thought of him. Of Cazador. He had been fine, he had been happy. Eager even. But…

                Hearing laughter had reminded him of the ballroom. The stones of the wall were of the same grey than the floor of the kennel. The shadows in the foyer were identical to those haunting the corridors of the Szarr Palace.

                He had wanted to seize the day with joy but, somewhere on the threshold, the veil of melancholia had fallen down once more. As it had the days before. Maybe not exactly the same shade of grey, nor the same thickness of sadness, but close enough for Astarion to not care about the difference.

                Sometimes he wondered if there was ever a moment when he wasn't thinking of him. He didn't need to name him to summon him in his mind. It was as if his Master was always lurking in the periphery of his thoughts. No matter where he looked, no matter what he thought, Cazador was there. He just couldn't be rid of him.

                Astarion could already picture himself, walking to the group, sitting among them, smiling and joking. His body empty, and his mind trapped in the nightmare of his unshared memories. Was there even a point in going there? In feeling the sun on his skin and the warmth of companionship? It wasn't as if any of this could truly reach the depths where his mind had to crawl to avoid... everything.

                On the other hand, he truly wanted to see if Karlach and Lae'zel would come to blows.

                He took a deep, if useless breath.

                He would pretend for now. Until he wouldn't have to anymore.

                He walked to the group.

                He could hear Cazador's laugh, mocking his weakness, his silly wish for lightheartedness.

                He continued to walk, nonetheless. Shadowheart patted the empty chair by her side, and he sat down. He offered a comment or two about Wyll's tastes in wine, and how tepid they were, then dropped a pun about bloodthirst that made Gale roll his eyes and lose his concentration on his spell.

                The group took him in and didn't let go of him. While he was listening to Karlach and Lae'zel's ridiculous debate, his eyes met Halsin's. He remembered what the Druid had said. About taking it one day at a time.

                Astarion had the luxury of breathing indeed. If he so wished. And he did. Exactly like Halsin had made him do the night before. Taking in the air warmed by the sun, feeling it spread and cool down inside his chest.

                One day, he would face Cazador.

                It was unthinkable. Astarion was positively terrified by the mere thought of it.

                One day, he would fight Cazador. But it wasn't today. There were smaller fights he could lead in the meantime.

                He was rested, fed. The sun was bright, and the company was good.

                He felt up for a fight.

"There is something that must be addressed," he said aloud to no one in particular.

                He hadn't really talked over Karlach and Lae'zel's dispute, yet everyone heard him. As if they had been waiting for a cue from him. Everyone at the table fell silent, turning their attention to him.

"What is it?" Gale asked, trying to blot with a towel the greasy stains on his sleeve, result of the potato dropping in his bowl.

                Astarion looked at the stains. And no jest came to him.

                He braced himself.

                It wouldn't be pleasant. But he had seen worse, hadn't he?

"In a few days..."

                He stopped. Giving his words a chance to find their way. He was not looking at anyone, he was not talking to anyone either. Maybe the words would float away without reaching any ear.

                But silence followed them as the motions and the shenanigans stopped around the table. They had all already been paying attention to him, even before he had decided to talk. If he had decided such a thing. His mind and his mouth had been two very different entities lately.

"In a few days, we will probably reach Baldur's Gate. And I guess..."

                Astarion tried a gesture of his hand to illustrate his thought instead of his words. But it was as vague and unhelpful as what it was trying to translate. No one cut him off, however. They wasted their time on him instead.

"I guess there are a few things I should tell you about before we get there," he was finally able to finish his sentence, though he had yet to say anything with it. "So you don't go in blind."

                He attempted to raise his gaze to face his companions but, midway, he lost that sparkle of bravery and ended up looking at the cold fireplace inside the foyer, his eyes lost between Shadowheart's and Lae'zel's shoulders.

                That would be good enough.

"If you tell us anything," Wyll said, "it must be because you want to, not because you need to. We can handle going in blind, Astarion."

                The offer was tempting. Lies were always prettier than truths and when neither were possible, then silence was the affordable middle ground.

                But, as he was contemplating the wonderful opportunity to just keep his lips sealed, he slowly realized something.

                It was burning him. His chest, his throat, his eyes. He just wanted some of it out. For no other reason than making everything he was carrying true for someone else as well.

"I want to tell you," Astarion admitted, more easily than he would have thought. "Not everything, though!"

                He laughed, thinking of that one guest that had a bit of a voyeuristic nature unfortunately mixed with a bestiality fantasy. In a fraction of seconds, hundreds of the most humiliating fetishes he had... composed with shot through his head. The absurd thought that his companions could see the same things made him stop laughing but he still kept his amused smile carefully up. He had been told it made his face look prettier. He needed to be pretty right now. He needed to keep those companions by his side despite what he was about to say.

"Clearly not everything..." he interrupted his own thoughts, clearing his throat. "But maybe a little bit."

"Then, I would like to hear that little bit," Gale said.

                Astarion was then sure no one else could see his thoughts. If they had, his companions would be begging him to not say a single word about them. To keep them where they couldn't see them. Astarion couldn't blame them, he wanted the exact same thing after all.

"It is not a really comely topic," Astarion warned them. "May be a bit below your quality."

"It isn't," Karlach said with such obvious confidence it was impossible to believe she may be wrong about it.

                Well, he had done his part warning them. If they didn't like it after that, it was on them.

"When we will be in Baldur's Gate, before we handle our wiggly parasite, there's something I must deal with."

                Everyone was looking at him. Everyone was listening to him.

                Was he really about to be heard? To be believed?

                He was never meant to say a word about his Master's nature, or the kind of life the Spawn led. It was a secret that was meant to forever rot behind the closed doors of the Szarr Palace.

                Never let anyone see. Never let anyone guess. Those were the Master's clear orders.

                Breaking them felt like breaking the whole world.

"Before we free ourselves from the tadpole, I absolutely must kill someone."

"Your former Master," Lae'zel pieced it together.

"Cazador must die. Or I will. And I thought... It may be advantageous for you to, well... help me out, so to say."

                His tongue was so dry, it was hard to move it.

"As it will drastically lower the odds of me betraying you at some point... And even if you think you can take the risk, if I ever get back under Cazador's influence you can be sure he will find a way to get his hands on you and make me watch your slow deaths... And that's not even mentioning the fact that..."

"Astarion," Shadowheart cut him off. "We will help you. There's no need for threats. It was the plan all along."

                Astarion didn't see that one coming and it took him a while to understand what Shadowheart had just said.

"Really?" he frowned, not sure whether or not it was a joke.

"Well, of course," Wyll said, and he was as unfazed by it as Shadowheart was. " The same way we are helping Gale with his orb situation, or we are collecting infernal iron for Karlach. You told us Cazador is a monster and I am a monster hunter. What more is there to consider?"

"Darling, if you want to kill every monster in Baldur's Gate, I hope you ask your patron for added longevity for I tell you, you won't see the end of it."

"Maybe," Wyll conceded. "But not every monster in the Gate is your monster. I'd say Cazador has the priority."

                The world began to softly spin around, and Astarion had to press his back against the back of his chair to keep his balance.

                He decided not to question himself on this passing dizziness and he resolutely kept his eyes on the fireplace as he was resuming.

"Anyway. If you come with me when I go deal with him, if you're here when I talk to him or to my siblings – the other Spawn I mean –, you may guess a thing or two. About me. About this whole 'family' of ours. I don't know exactly what you've already guessed. But I'd rather not have to think about that when I'm facing him. And that's the kind of thing he knows how to use against me."

                Especially when there were guests over.

"So, maybe we could get it out of the way right now. Psychologically gear you up for the meeting so you're better at handling... whatever it will be."

                Astarion didn't know what to do with his hands. He had tried to keep them on the table, but they were too restless. Hiding them under it was not keeping them stiller so he crossed his arms over his chest, forcefully blocking his hands for good. And the added weight against his torso was not unwelcomed.

"I hope it will be quick," he continued. "That he won't be a tease and that he will die already. I really don't plan on giving him the time to think. But if something happens and, for some reason, he has the time to talk... And I mean really talk... Cazador is good at promising things. And he is powerful enough to deliver. You're not his Spawn, he will be willing to be gracious to you. Make very alluring offers."

"He can try."

                His companions truly had no idea.

"He will find what you want. I tell you he will. Wyll, I'm pretty sure he can get Mizora to give your soul back if he so fancied it. Gale, you can bet the Szarr family has more books about the Netherese magic than even you could read in a lifetime. He will find things. He has relations, power and creativity. He could be willing to land a part of his nocturnal hordes to help with the Absolute. Or he could cover you with gold if it is more your thing. If he has reason to believe that any of you have ever shown me an ounce of kindness, you can be sure he will offer you a night with me. Fetish on the house."

                He laughed again at the idea. He hated the sound of his high-pitched, unnatural laughter but, in that case, it was preferable over silence.

"If he does, I would rather like it if you could refuse. I won't say names for the sake of your ego but some of you are very ugly."

                None tried to send a jest back at him. Astarion was left with what he had just said.

                It wasn't the right order. He was messing up his own story and it didn't make sense anymore. Why had his mind jumped right to sex and the – very likely – possibility of being offered up again, instead of just starting by the beginning.

                For someone so good with sweet words, Astarion was bad with all the others. He talked too much and too fast.

                In the desk of his office, Cazador was keeping a muzzle. Just for Astarion. He could see why now. At the thought of the cursed thing, he felt his lips begin to twist in a smile, ready to laugh everything off.

                Damn, how much he hated it. The pressure against his teeth, the drools dripping from the corner of his lips, the gagging… No, he needed to focus on the conversation at hand. His conversation. His story at last. Not Cazador's.

"I still don't know why exactly Cazador turned me," he finally said, after a long moment of trying to even remember what a beginning was like. "The odds of it being an elaborate plan or just a very unfortunate accident are more or less the same. What matters is just that he did turn me. And that means he has... used to have absolute control over me."

                His eyes were no longer on the fireplace. They had slid down, and they were back on the table now. A whole level below his companions.

                He had warned them.

"I let you think... or maybe I've hinted at being something of a prostitute. The truth is, well, I really wished. I'm nowhere near as respectable."

                He smiled, not having any laughs left.

"I hoped I could be that for a moment. I could be that to you. Then you were all set on thinking I was some kind of hero of the people instead, and I didn't plan on letting you know any better. But I'm really none of all that."

                There was a rivulet of blood dripping down the roast meat. Astarion was still full with Halsin's blood and he hated heated blood, but a part of his mind was always thinking about food and starvation.

                Was it what he had to talk about, if he wanted to tell someone about Cazador? Or was the sex part more important? Or was it the kennel?

                By the Gods, Astarion couldn't remember exactly which one was the part of his life at home that was truly horrible.

"We all have a use to Cazador. Some of us are a bit polyvalent, some of us have a very defined purpose. We are all meant to bring food to the Master. That is the basis, if you will. For me, the other part of my purpose is to be pleasant to be around. Dalyria and Leon – some of my siblings – are lucky enough to be blessed with a brain. Aurelia and I, it's the face and nothing else."

                Though Aurelia was sometimes used to please the feelings of the heart. Astarion was left with pleasuring other parts of the anatomy.

"If you ask anyone in the upper city, Cazador is a recluse noble but a generous one. Contracting debts disguised as favors and listening in on everyone's secrets is a passion of his. And it is also well known that he has very lucky protégés. Just as it is known that some of them are really not... hard to seduce. If you go to one of Cazador's grand soirées, you may well find one of his little wards to your taste and everyone knows where the night will lead. This... is what I do. This is what I'm made to do. For Cazador."

                He still couldn't find it in him to look up. He didn't know if the silence was because his companions were expecting more explanation or because they were struggling to understand what had already been said. He wanted to know that. But the risk of looking up and having to face scorn and disdain was just too great. What else could he possibly find? Astarion was used to looking at others from below anyway.

                So, he continued, silencing his thoughts with the sound of his voice.

"There are those I seduce for food. Those I seduce for favor. All for Cazador's benefits and according to his schemes. He can make us do absolutely everything. Some v..."

                Unable to finish his sentence, he took a second to close his eyes and rip the word he wanted out of his mouth.

"...vile things," he achieved to say. "And nothing we can do about it. He has his means. Magic of course. But not only. Our access to blood. To a shelter from the sun. The life of our family for those who still have one. The good ol' cat o' nine, of course. Wouldn't want to forget this one. He is... Just know you cannot possibly picture the amount of control he has on us unless you are us. When he cannot be bothered, he doesn't even have to torture us, he will just tell us to do it ourselves. That's the amount of power that the likes of him can wield."

                Oh, everything Astarion could do with that ridiculous, disgusting power. If only... Hells, if only.

"If you hear things about me," he decided he had to conclude instead of dragging it along, "especially if you hear them from him... They won't be pretty. But they will probably be true."

                It was said. Out in the open.

                Astarion didn't know if he felt too great about it. But at least the shame was not hovering above his head but hitting him right in the face instead.

                Some could talk about an improvement.

                For a while no one said anything. Maybe that moment of latency lasted an extremely awkward amount of time. But, if it was the case, Astarion didn't truly realize it. His mind was stuck in this strange limbo, a very fragile one, where it didn't have the ability to truly go anywhere. No thinking and no remembering. While still being aware that they were everywhere around it and, the second the guard would be down, the surging tide of everything he had mentioned by hints but had lived and barely survived through would flow his whole being.

                It was a true equilibrium work to keep his thoughts so perfectly still that no mental connections could be tied. And that was absorbing him so much that he nearly jumped out of his skin when he heard the voice of one of his companions.

"That Cazador guy seems to be the truest piece of shit I've ever heard of. Can't wait to see you crush him."

                It took Astarion by surprise. He had focused all his attention on keeping himself together, on balancing the tension, the memories, the shame and the façades, the genuine laughter broke out of him in a fraction of second.

                He was the quickest to laugh at every horror thrown at him. He knew he had wrinkles on his face from all the smiling he was doing. But it was so rare for the amusement to not taste bitter on his tongue.

                Karlach's statement, said with her usual unapologetic bluntness, had truly delighted him, however.

"Yes," he said, approvingly. "I think it's safe to say he is."

"If you need help with the crushing part, Mama K's always down for some exercise."

                Astarion was not yet ready to think about how exactly he would kill the vampiric Master. For now, just getting to the point where he could picture himself in the same room as him without starting to shake would be an achievement.

                But he guessed adding Karlach in between the two of them in his mental picture wouldn't hurt too much. He would love to see his Master try to bite this one.

"Do you know if..." Gale started before having a change of thought, "maybe it's not a time for questions. Forget it."

                Astarion could go with that and let the topic be dropped, but he would rather like to not have to pick it up again. He didn't have the nerves to do that every two days.

"Go ahead," he shrugged. "I'm not going to dwell on the details. That's... really not that important. But if it's something else..."

"You said he controlled you. I've learned a lot about Vampires lately and the kind of magic Masters can wield against their Spawn. But we would need to know, before stepping into his lair, whether he truly lost any way to make you obey him on the spot."

"I can walk under the sun, cross running waters, enter homes uninvited..."

"Everything leads us to believe his magic wouldn't work. But is his authority only magical? I..."

                Gale took a moment to find the words to truly translate his thought.

"There was this professor. At school. When I was quite young, really. He used to yell at me all the time. And, believe it or not, I may have been an obstinate boy, I was not one used to loud voices. Years after graduating, I would still feel the childish anguish of having done something wrong each time I would hear someone yell around me. Funnily enough, or maybe not so much, that professor died of a heart attack, Mystra bless his tensed soul. What I'm wondering, I guess, is... Astarion, if he gives you an order, even without the magic bound between you, are you absolutely certain you won't obey? Maybe not something extremely drastic like killing us. But if he tells you to step back, for example? To stop fighting? Are you certain he has no authority left over you?"

                Astarion wanted to answer that, of course, Cazador had no such power anymore. That he wouldn't just submit to the old bastard. The mere accusation was even enough to get him vexed and worked up.

                On the other hand,... He could hear it already. Cazador's cold voice, in his ear.

You will kneel, if you know what is good for you, boy.

                After less than a month with them, Cazador didn't need magic to handle his slaves anymore. His Spawn were domesticated enough to walk themselves to the kennel.

                Astarion knew that, even without magic, even without threat, it would take all of his mental strength to not drop on his knees the second he would be asked to. He had hundreds of years of memory to let him know what would happen if he didn't.

                Even now that he was free.

                He had not known freedom for half as long as he had known subservience. He had counted, one night, on the road, as Karlach's snoring had kept him from trancing.

                161

                It was how many years of freedom he needed to secure for himself, if he ever wanted to have been free for strictly as long as he hadn't been. If he was able to truly be free right away, that was.

                He realized Gale's question still had to get an answer. Lost in his thought, he hadn't noticed the silence, yet everyone had stayed quiet.

                Waiting for him to get back to them.

                He wanted to lie. To say that he would never obey Cazador again.

                But the memory of last night was still present. And, with it, the undeniable knowledge that he had been so close to go back to his Master.

                To walk himself to the kennel.

                He didn't want to admit it. Because he didn't want it to be true. But also because he didn't want his companions to take back their offer to help. He would never be able to kill Cazador on his own.

                Unable to answer anything, he looked up. At Halsin only. The one who had witnessed the depth of his misery, a few hours ago. The one who knew the answer, even more surely than Astarion knew it.

                Halsin's eyes were soft and warm. They belonged to someone who could turn into a beast, yet they were some of the least savage and voracious eyes Astarion had ever seen. The latent sadness that had darkened them the night before was mostly gone and there was something bright and happy in his gaze. Something pleased. Like pride. Toward... Astarion?

"I... I may," Astarion answered Gale, though he was still looking strictly at Halsin, trying to make sense of that light in the Druid's eyes. "Obey him. I hope I won't. I will try not to. But... I-I don't know. I can't tell."

                He was admitting how much of a liability he was and Halsin was more obviously happy with him than Cazador had ever been in two hundred years.

"Then, we will just have to make sure he won't have time to say a word before dying for good," Lae'zel said. "An easy fix. I never liked to hear the begging and crying."

"I usually like to be cordial," Wyll admitted, "a bit of talking rarely hurts. But I won't mind making an exception for this. Straight for the heart. Beasts make for terrible conversationalists anyway."

"On a more serious and helpful note," Gale added, "I know some silencing spells if things don't go our way."

"Or Astarion could simply strike from the shadows," Shadowheart proposed. "The Vampire Master doesn't need to know that he is here at all. Astarion can fight without being seen better than any child of Shar I know."

                Astarion was still keeping his eyes away from that conversation, turned toward the familiar but still puzzling ground that was Halsin's gaze. Yet, he could hear perfectly. He listened to them, elaborating plans, making efforts, searching for ways to help him.

                Astarion had exposed a weakness, and no blade was stabbing it.

                He should know his companions better than that by now. After the time spent together, he was aware that they were 'good'. Genuinely so. Astarion had seen them help strangers the way no one had ever helped him. He had more than once wondered how things would have been for him if he had had someone like them in his life at Baldur's Gate.

                And yet, there was that annoying, persistent part of him. Repeating over and over the same thoughts. That he didn't deserve that. That if he dared to hope, it was just him begging to be disappointed. That, of course, if his companions were saying that it was because they had no idea what the situation was truly like.

                Astarion was leading them on. He was doing nothing but abusing their trust. And everything would come back to bite him when his deceit would be exposed.

                What deceit exactly, Astarion wasn't sure. But there had to be one. And he needed to sabotage it himself before Cazador could do it for him.

"If he does have it... The time to speak I mean. If he can say things and... If he says things about me... The things that wouldn't be pretty. I need you to know. Before you meet him, before you see anything at all. I just..."

                He knew his bits and pieces of sentences didn't make sense. But he had nothing better to offer.

"I know that it will be nothing glorious. And that you'll find me revolting, rightfully so. But I need you to know I was never proud of it either and I did everything I could to..."

"Now that's just crap."

                Astarion stopped in the middle of his sentence, filled with the characteristic dread that he never failed to feel when he was on the verge of being exposed.

                Did they know? Did they guess that, maybe, he hadn't done everything he truly could have done? That he might not have said every single word that could have possibly lessen anything that had happened to him? Could they tell the guilt he was sure was staining his conscience though even he couldn't pinpoint its exact origin?

                This time, he was able to look at Karlach, who had just called him out on his lie, though her gaze was heavier than he could truly bear. Despite himself, he bent under its weight.

                Cazador hated it when he was slouching but Astarion could very rarely stand straight. He just didn't have the backbone.

"There's nothing revolting about you, Astarion," Karlach continued, her fiery eyes shimmering with intensity. "Are you for real right now?"

                Was she... angry? If so, it was perfect, Astarion was good at handling anger. Karlach was not as cold and controlled as Cazador but it was still less foreign to Astarion than everything else that had happened ever since they had arrived here.

"Karlach..." Halsin tried to calm her down.

"For fuck sake, I'm pissed!" she snapped at him, taking her anger away from Astarion. "I'm so damn pissed! It's always the same story and they never get half of the shit we get!"

                The fire of her engine started to grow, and flames licked her skin.

"Someone I trusted more than anyone in the world sells me to a devil, I spend decades thinking I am so dumb, so blind for not seeing it coming. The fact that I was a child, that I did everything right, it doesn't matter, I'm still the dumb one. Now that other guy goes around torturing and enslaving and assaulting and Astarion's the one saying he is gross. How is that fair? How does that make sense? I'm sick of it! No more! No fucking more!"

"Karlach, please," Halsin tried again, "I understand your point, and of course I agree. But it is not helping to..."

                This time around, she ignored him. Instead, she turned to face Astarion, her fingers menacingly pointed at him.

"The shame's on him," she spat, between her clenched teeth. "The dirt's on him. Everything he ever did to you, it tells on no one but him. If there's something I know it's that you're not messed up, my guy, he messed you up. And by the nine Hells, he'll pay for that. But don't you dare carry his blame, just because he is too much of a piece of shit, of a spineless coward to pick it up himself. You got that? Cause if you need me to yell louder, trust me I will. You will not feel more guilty for what he did to you than he ever felt. Or the world just ain't right!"

                As Karlach's warmth had become as burning as her conviction, Astarion had pushed his chair slightly away.

                His companion's anger was too intense, too disproportionate for him to think about anything else.

                But he heard her words still. He knew that, once it would all be over, they would stay with him. Certainly for a long time. An even longer time would be needed for them to be trusted. But they wouldn't go anywhere.

"Alright," he simply said for now.

                Karlach was taken by surprise by his easy surrender. She frowned, not sure what to do now that she was not met with the opposition she had expected and had been ready to crush down.

"Really? You're not... I don't know... arguing or..."

"My infernal friend, you're on fire. And I am not talking about your fierce passion. You are literally in flames. I am not arguing shit."

"Well. Good. You shouldn't."

                Her flames slowly died down. She looked around, expecting opposition still but none wanted to be burned to a crisp, so they said nothing. An awkward silence fell.

                What were they supposed to add after that?

"Uh... does someone want a slice of the roast?" Gale asked, his voice too high and light to make his clumsy transition believable.

"Is that the meat that we took from the goblin camp and that has been left in the bottom of our bags for weeks?" Wyll asked.

"Possibly. Could be any of the dozens of pork legs we've been carrying around lately."

"Then, I'd love some, thank you."

"Give me your bowl."

"Here, Astarion could you...?"

"Do I look like a waiter to you?"

"Really?"

"I'm sure the Blade of Frontier will find his way around the table?"

"Lae'zel..."

"..."

"Forget it. I'll walk around."

                The meal resumed. Maybe a bit too hastily for it to be truly natural but, soon, the banters and the jesting, that were making most of their interactions when they weren't fighting for their life, were back and had settled into their usual pace, rhythming that peaceful moment.

                Sometimes, Astarion would take part in it. Sometimes, he would get lost in his thoughts. Bits of Karlach's words would echo in his head, he would think about them for a second, be puzzled, unsure, and then grab a chunk of conversation taking place around him and get back to it with a joke or a good word. The others let him slip in and out of the discussions, welcoming him without questioning him. They had to have understood that talking to them at all had taken a lot out of him.

                He felt tired indeed, as if a full day had already been lived, yet he wasn't craving a bed. He was happy to be exactly where he was.

                That was a strange concept.

                To just be happy to be.

                A new concept.

                He didn't know how he felt about it yet, but he intended to roll with it. The vague, persistent sadness that he had carried with him these last few days was melting under the burning rays of the sun. It would come back. It was strengthening again when his mind was dwelling on darker matters, the kind that would come to haunt him at the end of the day, but for now, it was manageable.

                He would live through it, he thought.

                He didn't see the meal come to its end and it was nearly a surprise to him when he realized the table had emptied. Wyll and Shadowheart were cleaning the dishes as Gale had conveniently remembered he had some spells to study and Karlach had in all good faith walked away without thinking about this chore at all. Lae'zel was putting back what had not been eaten into their bags, for later consumption. Halsin, however, had stayed behind for one last drink, his back against the wall, his eyes half closed, protected from the sun only by their lashes.

"Are you hungry?" Halsin asked, his hand playing with his glass, the wine turning inside without spilling over.

                Astarion still felt full from all the quality blood he had drunk a few hours ago but:

"I could always use some blood."

                Just in case.

                He was expecting Halsin to point out how much he had had already, and to say he truly had to stop being so hungry and needy for it. But Halsin simply nodded. Not only as if he had expected that answer but also as if it was the normal one to give.

"We will make sure you have easier ways to get blood, Astarion. We have been too comfortable with you having precarious access to food; we must try harder."

"I can take care of that."

"You are included in that 'we'. But we must help. The same way none would have been able to enjoy that meal if we hadn't worked together to get it."

"Maybe we work a bit too much together then. We have an indecent number of pig heads just lying around in our bags."

                Halsin laughed at that as it was undeniably true. They had been worried about food at the beginning of their journey and maybe they had overcompensated a bit too much. Astarion thought of what Halsin had just promised. That they would work together so that Astarion would be able to feed whenever he needed to. Would he ever reach a point where he would have so much blood available, he wouldn't fear to be deprived of it anymore? It seemed impossible to him... but it was very nice to think about it.

                The table was clean now and Halsin and Astarion were alone on the balcony. The rest of the group was inside, sitting around the foyer. Echoes of their voices and conversations were reaching Astarion but not enough to make sense of them. He would need to walk into the group and sit with them to know.

"How do you feel?"

                Halsin's question was soft, gentle yet it rang louder than Karlach laughter.

"I'm not doing that," Astarion said.

"Not doing what?"

"The whole 'how are you feeling' ordeal. That's a you thing, tree hugger."

"Fair enough," Halsin laughed. "To each their preferred topic."

                A cat, that had been jumping from window to window so far, landed on the balustrade. It was small and grey from the dirt of the street. It looked like it was appreciating the bright weather as much as everyone else. It started to lick its paws and clean itself.

                Astarion didn't want to startle it, so he simply admired it from afar, listening to the very soft purr that was escaping it from time to time. It was a beautiful creature.

                He wished that he could have a cat, one day. He would make a place on his bed just for it, so they could sleep together and it would be warm and comfortable. Just the two of them in that bed, no one else. Astarion would take care of it the same way he was taking care of the very few things that were his alone. This cat would have so much food, and Astarion would play with it all day long and he would show it every corner of Baldur's Gate. It would have the most fantastic of lives.

                He had thought about it often. Finding an unloved street cat, one of those who were shooed away from every doorstep. And that would be his friend and he would stab any of his siblings that would try to pet it or snack on it.

                But he knew Cazador would never let him have something like that. Even thinking of it would grant him punishment for his stupidity. That would never happen.

                Oh.

                But he didn't have to listen to Cazador anymore, did he?

                He always forgot.

                He could have a cat, if he wanted to. He could have everything.

                Astarion felt dizzy just thinking about all the possibilities in front of him, all the paths he could walk. It was so hard for him to remember that freedom didn't just mean not having to do things he didn't want to do. It also meant being able to do what he dreamed of. And that was such a wild concept.

                He would get a cat, he promised himself as the one before him jumped off the balcony and landed on the next windowsill. When everything would be over, he would get a cat. Because he wanted to and because he could.

"You did a lot today."

                Astarion had nearly forgotten Halsin by his side.

"Did I?"

                He didn't think that waking up and sitting down somewhere else was a lot, but he also was mostly thinking about his future best friend, he could have missed something.

"Talking to us about what happened to you. It mustn't have been easy."

"Well, it was either that or letting Cazador or one of my siblings tell you all about it. And they wouldn't have been as stingy on the sordid details."

"Still. It being the best thing to do doesn't mean it is any easier."

                Astarion wanted to make fun of that naive kindness, there were much harder things to do than to talk. But it would sound forced, even to his ears.

"Yes. I guess so," he simply said.

                But there was still something on his mind and, unbelievably so, he decided to share it with Halsin. So far, when he had told things to Halsin, he hadn't been mocked or slapped, and he was slowly starting to wonder if he could just not expect those things anymore.

                He would need much more experience with Halsin to know for sure, but it was making speaking that much easier if he wasn't being humiliated for it.

"I still can't believe I got off so easy," he said and, indeed, Halsin didn't shut him off right away.

"What do you mean?" he asked instead.

"I did tell everyone about Cazador but I've been... a bit vague on the details. I'm surprised they didn't ask for them."

"The details are yours to give or to keep. You decide if and how you want to talk about what happened to you. We don't."

"Knowing exactly what kind of things Cazador is up to is important if they want to fight him."

"Nowhere near as important as not hurting you in the process, Astarion. You come first, not Cazador."

                Astarion didn't believe he could truly exist for as long as Cazador would be there, let alone come first.

"What do you think they gathered?" Astarion asked, his eyes lingering on the group inside. "From... all of it."

                Halsin turned around to look at them, briefly, before going back to Astarion.

"They know the Baron raped you," he answered, and his blunt choice of word was mitigated by the softness of his voice. "I guess they may think Cazador did as well, or made others rape you."

                As the words were reaching him, Astarion crossed his arms over his chest again, putting some distance between them and he.

"That's not really what I said."

                He had never said that word aloud. Not to any of them. He didn't think he had ever said it at all. Halsin had used that word before, and Astarion had not really corrected him, just taking in the sound of it. Mostly because, back then, he had had other matter on his mind than vocabulary details. And even then, it had sounded… weird. Off. Wrong in some ways. Astarion had thought that word before. Of course, he had. But in the privacy of his own mind. Where it couldn't be confronted and debated.

                He couldn't even picture what Cazador would have said if that specific word had ever gotten out of his mouth.

"Maybe not. But you didn't have to say it. It's what we understand happened."

                Astarion wasn't sure how that was sitting with him.

                It was one thing to think it. It was another to say it. He didn't think he could defend the use of that word, if someone were to doubt it was the right one.

"I think it may give you a wrong idea of the whole situation."

"How so?"

"It's not as if I fought back or they restrained me or anything like that."

                It had happened a fair number of times. But always because the guests wanted it that way, because that was what would get them going. Not because Astarion was truly trying to run away.

"I would do it on my own, most of the time."

                And it wasn't even mentioning his own victims from the taverns. Cazador didn't care about those. Astarion had slept with them because it was making it so easy for him to bring them back to the Master. He didn't think Leon or Violet had ever slept with any of their victims.

"What would have happened if you had refused?"

"I couldn't refuse, my body obeys his words. Obeyed."

"Do you see my point?"

                Astarion wasn't sure he did.

"What if he tells you I enjoyed some of it? What if he is not lying about it?"

                There was nothing he remembered with more shame than the very few nights with Cazador that had made him feel special and protected. Or that one guest that had been gentle with him and had slowed down and apologized when Astarion had winced in pain. Or that other one who had cleaned him up after they had been done.

                Astarion would have given everything so that every second of the last two centuries could have been an unending hell. It was easier to deal with that than having to accept that some moments had been tender.

"There were nights that... weren't too awful."

                Oh, so few. And so tepid. But they wouldn't get out of Astarion's head, and they were enough to make him doubt everything else that had happened to him.

"Of course there were. Two hundred years, Astarion. You're bound to stumble upon one or two moments of peace."

"Do you think I should have said that to them?"

"What does it change?"

"To tell them?"

"No, what does it change that some moments were not as awful as others."

"Well... everything. Doesn't it?"

                Halsin sighed and Astarion wondered if he was reaching the end of the Druid's patience. That would be more than fair.

                But Halsin didn't seem annoyed. Just... profoundly sad.

"Astarion, you're struggling so much to even speak about it."

"I'm not. I feel like I do nothing but that lately."

"After centuries of not speaking."

"Just because I didn't have anyone to speak with. It doesn't mean anything."

"It means a lot. But alright. You said you didn't give the sordid details. Why? I thought you loved everything sordid. I'm pretty sure you said so several times."

                Astarion lowered his eyes, his jaws clenched.

"Exactly," Halsin pointed out. "The shame, the anger, the pain. It is what happens when you are not fine with what is being done to you, Astarion. Some good moments are to be expected but they mean nothing. And they certainly don't cancel any of the bad ones."

"Cazador would say..."

"But I am not interested in what Cazador has to say to me, Astarion," Halsin kindly cut him off.

                And it felt as if it was Cazador himself who was being cut off in the middle of his sentence.

"I'm interested in what you say and, because of what he did to you, you're not able to say much for now. But you've tried today. And it means a lot to me. I just also hope it means a lot to you."

                There wasn't much that Astarion could add after that. What Halsin was saying, what Karlach had said before, it just wasn't the kind of thing Astarion had the tools to handle. He would, one day. But for now, they would just sit with him, in the back of his mind, just like Cazador's words did.

                Certainly having sensed that Astarion had heard enough for now, Halsin stood up.

"I think I'll get inside. Try to enjoy the freshness while it lasts. Join us when you feel like it, my friend."

                Astarion let him leave without a word. Just nodding to himself.

                He would stay under the sun for a while. The warmth was far too nice. He looked at his companions, however. They had heard his story – his butchered, senseless story –, and they were still there for now. He thought of the strange pride he had seen on Halsin's face. He wished he could feel it as well.

                For now, it was beyond him. Cazador's whispers were still louder than the group's laughter.

                Despite the joy around, and the sun over their head, the fact that Astarion was still scared. And still sad. Of course he was. He would be for a while.

                But he realized it was ok. It was fine.

                For now, he was afraid. But it didn't matter. As long as he was still working on being a little less afraid tomorrow.

                Everything else could wait. It had always been his motto. And it was not a bad one.

                For now, all that Astarion had to focus on was that simple achievement. Being less afraid than he had been the day before.

                Today was a bright day, no matter how yesterday had been and how tomorrow would be.

                Today was a day of rest.

                Everything else would wait for him.

Chapter Text

Epilogue

      The bed sheet was slipping between his fingers like liquid silk. The mattress was soft, welcoming him in its warm embrace. The walls were adorned with art and the ceiling with crystal. The orange glow of the candles was painting golden reflections on the dark wood, highlighting it with ethereal riches.

      Astarion, lying on the bed, looked around him. With great care but little mind. He detailed everything of that senseless decor.

      It was a luxurious room.

      It was a fake room.

      None of it was true.

      The bedsheet Astarion had clawed, the mattress that had smothered his cries, they weren't real. He could see them, he could feel them, and Gods, he could remember them, but they had all been an elaborate stage for a tasteless farce played by an unknowing actor.

      Astarion rolled on his stomach and pressed his face against the pillow. A very well-rehearsed scene. The gem of his limited repertoire.

      Cazador was dead.

      Underneath the bed sheet and the mattress and the wood highlighted with gold, underneath the floor and the hard stone, hundreds of feet directly under Astarion, Cazador's bloodless body was lying. Never to rise again.

      Astarion had won.

      The Palace was empty. No more Godey, no more siblings, no more servants. In a few hours, the night would fall, the clock tower would ring the bell for the vampire hour, and no vampire would walk out of the Szarr Palace. Tonight, no drunkard would disappear, never to be seen again. No blushing youth would follow their heart to their death.

      The sun would rise again, and no shadow would hide from its rays.

      In the Palace, the whips would rust, rot would grow over the bloodstains on the floor of the kennel, rats would find a bed where their hunters once slept, and the silence would drown into oblivion the many screams that would haunt the corridors no more.

      All that, because Cazador was dead.

      Fully, irrevocably dead.

      The Master was dead, long would live the stillness now.

      Cazador was dead.

      The world was anew.

      And all Astarion could think about was this room. Where nothing was true.

      He had bled here. He had cried here. He had begged here.

      And it wasn't even Cazador's bedroom.

      Just a decoy to hide the basement and the big project Cazador had been fomenting for centuries. Had he even trance once on this bed? Or was it all just for his time with Astarion?

      Cazador was dead.

      The words kept echoing in Astarion's head, but it was all so... secondary.

      The whip rusting, the rats returning, the siblings fleeing, all of that was unimportant. What he wanted to know, the only thing he found himself thinking about, was whether or not, when Cazador had asked his boy to lie on this very bed, he had thought of it as his bed or Astarion's.

      That was important.

      That mattered.

      Had there been anything of Cazador given to Astarion? Had there been anything intimate from the Master? Or had he died without having to ever cede anything to his Spawn?

      Cazador was dead.

      And he was leaving everything unfinished.

      There was no answer in the guts Astarion had spilled, no payment in the screams he had ripped from him.

      Cazador's death had left Astarion unsatisfied. Just like his cock.

      That parallel amused Astarion and the pillow that had smothered his cries for so many decades now silenced his joyless laughter.

      Far away from here, foreign sounds echoed in the silent Palace, disrupting death's absolute stillness. Astarion didn't react to them.

      They used to rule over his days. When he was spending hours in this bed, every sound would startle him, every echo would terrify him. He would lay awake, listening to what was coming, fearing the silence and fearing the noise.

      Now, it wasn't reaching him anymore. Something was moving in the corridor, and he simply didn't care.

      It could well be Cazador, coming back from the dead, Astarion didn't have it in him to be afraid.

      He was just as empty, just as silent as this Palace was meant to be tonight.

"Astarion?"

      That low, rich voice.

      Halsin's.

      The Druid had no place being here.

      He didn't belong to that dead Palace. Unlike Astarion.

"Astarion? Are you here?"

      Whether or not Halsin belonged, the fact was that he was there.

      Astarion straightened up, leaving the pillow behind and sitting back on his heels. He only then noticed he was naked. He looked around and saw his clothes in a pile on the floor. He didn't remember taking them off, but he wasn't surprised. Habits.

      With slow gestures – everything was slow since Cazador's death, everything was lethargic – Astarion sat on the side of the bed. He grabbed his pants and put them on, one leg after the other. The familiar gesture. But, this time, he did not make a show of it for once. Did not rush either. He simply dressed up.

      He was buckling his belt when Halsin, still calling his name, walked past the door.

"Right here," he said flatly, slipping an arm in the sleeve of his shirt.

      When the door opened, Astarion was lacing up the white fabric, gradually hiding his torso under an elaborate jabot. A deceivingly expensive one also, hiding the cuts, the tears and the whored-out skin. Not unlike that room.

"What is it?" Astarion asked.

      Halsin seemed surprised by the fact that Astarion was dressing himself up, and it took him a couple of seconds to answer, though he was still frowning as he did so.

"We were looking for you. What are you doing here?"

      Astarion finished the last knot of his lace and his eyes lingered over the frame of the door Halsin's broad silhouette was filling, as well as the corridor behind.

      Astarion had no idea what he was doing here. What was more, he had no memory of walking himself here. It was just where he was.

"Cazador's dead," Astarion told Halsin.

      It was his last clear memory.

      Cazador's body twitching on the floor, centuries old blood staining his ugly clothes.

"I know. I was there."

      Had he? Maybe. It was hard for Astarion to remember anything precise apart from the weight of the dagger in his hand.

      Bits and pieces were coming back to him, vague shadows among the mist that was his memories. He had talked to his siblings. He had walked back to the Elfsong tavern with everyone. Then fragments of faces and words. Nothing he could make sense of.

"I don't remember," he simply told Halsin, not trying any further.

"What don't you remember?"

"How I got here."

      Halsin hesitated for a moment. It was obvious he had planned on fetching Astarion and leaving right away. But Astarion had no intention to leave, and rush had no place here. Even Halsin, who didn't belong, had to feel the impossible weight of stillness that crushed any shoulders under that roof.

      So, the Druid looked at the corridor from where he had come one last time, and he then walked into the room. He sat on the bed, by Astarion's side.

"We got back to the tavern, you remember? After everything."

"Something like that."

      The busy streets, the bright sun. Karlach had bought some apples on their way.

      It had been so long ago; it had happened so far away.

"We got to the tavern, you fed, and Wyll helped you clean yourself up."

      He could see the bucket of warm water. Someone talking to him about things that didn't matter. His hands had been too shaky to hold the soap and Wyll had helped him with it.

"We asked if you wanted to celebrate, and you said you would. You just wanted a moment alone."

      Astarion didn't remember saying such things.

"I checked on you a bit later and you weren't by your bed. You left without telling anyone."

"Maybe..."

      It wasn't coming back to him but, in all honesty, he wasn't trying to get it back either.

      Halsin waited a second but, when he understood that Astarion was not particularly bothered by his fuzzy memories, he moved on.

"What are you doing here?" he asked instead.

"Why did you search for me here?"

      Halsin had to have an idea what he was doing here. And if it was a vague one, well, so was Astarion's.

      Halsin detailed the room around. Astarion wondered what he was seeing. Probably something as foreign, as unintimate as Cazador had seen.

      The damn bastard.

"How are you feeling, Astarion?" Halsin wondered after a moment of silent observation. "Truly."

      Astarion's eyes were lost on the empty corridor he could see on the other side of the door left open.

      He felt very much like this home.

"I feel..." he breathed in, trying to clear up his mind, answering the question this time around, "... nothing. At all."

      No fear. No sadness. Not enough anger to deserve the name. It was strange. To not feel any of those things. It was like losing some old friends. He knew he would see them again, but he wasn't sure how to fill his day without them.

"I'm fine, I think," he added. "Better than I have been in a long time. I feel empty. And it is not a bad feeling."

      He half-expected Halsin to protest. To tell him he was lying to himself, that he was actually in the deepest pit of despair. But Halsin said no such thing. He simply nodded, as if what Astarion was saying was making perfect sense to him.

"You deserve a break," he simply said.

"I believe I do."

      For a while, the two elves stayed here, sitting together, on that bed whose owner's identity was uncertain, like Astarion's. They listened to the silence and the stories of that place that weren't told anymore.

"What now?" Astarion ended up asking, not having a clue about the answer.

      Halsin thought about it and sighed deeply.

"We will go back to the tavern. We will celebrate if that's what you want. Or we can get some rest. Then... we will continue with life."

      That was the puzzling part.

      What life was Cazador leaving behind? All that Astarion could picture himself doing was lying down and letting the dust fall on him, letting it cover him like it would end up covering the whole Palace.

      There had never been anything past Cazador. Nothing beyond Cazador.

"We will deal with the Elder Brain. With Gale's orb, with Karlach's engine, with Wyll's and Shadowheart's parents. And then... we will find something else to do. Something to be happy about."

"I can't see anything past that point."

"For now, you can't. But you will find something. And, if you need anything, I will do whatever is within my power to help you find it. I won't just leave you to fend for yourself, Astarion. We will make sure you end up being alright as well."

      The void in front of him was vertiginous. Knowing that Halsin planned on standing on the edge with him, on giving a hand to fill it was reassuring.

"You've helped me," he said, looking at Halsin at last. "You've been... kind to me. Even when I have made it harder for you to be."

"There is no reason why people wouldn't be kind to you, Astarion."

"That is rarely how it works."

      He observed Halsin's face. And, as empty as he was currently feeling, when his thoughts began to lose themselves in the echoing corners of his slow mind, they didn't bring back any recollection of shame, pain or torment. There were no ghosts waiting for him to be distracted enough to let them in. Astarion simply thought of the past weeks. Of Halsin's promise in the bathroom. Of the bandage around his wrist. Of the soft lulling through the night.

      He thought of the taste of his blood. And of his frustrating patience. Both boundless.

      It was everything Cazador had never given him.

      So, what Astarion did next, he did it without a thought, without a fear.

      Out of pure, unprocessed instinct, born from what he had been taught to do and from his biased understanding of what was right.

      He did the only thing he knew for certain he could control. And the one thing of value he could give.

      He leaned in for a kiss.

      Of course he did.

      Halsin leaned back.

      Keeping the exact same distance between them.

      Leaving Astarion hanging.

      The Druid's pupils were widened by surprise. But the Spawn could read something else if he so wished.

"You will love it," he promised, not stepping back, still half into Halsin's space. "I can be very pleasant."

"I... don't doubt that you can be. But no, thank you."

"See it as payment for your good deeds."

"I don't need such payment."

"Not needing it is not the same thing as not wanting it."

"Astarion, it is a no. A definitive one."

      That made Astarion laugh.

"As if that ever matters."

      He said those words, but he didn't lean any closer to bridge the distance between him and Halsin.

"It matters, my friend. It really does."

      Astarion sighed and straightened up.

"As you wish. You will never know what you're missing out on."

      That had been the right moment. Astarion still wasn't feeling anything. He could have fucked Halsin out of his mind without a shadow of reluctance. He could have done so without hurting himself in the process. Or not too much.

      But Halsin had refused. His loss, really.

"Why not, though?" Astarion asked, placing his hands behind him on the bed to stretch the muscles of his back. "Am I too unnatural for you? The wildlife is fine but not too fond of decay?"

"It is nothing of that sort."

"Not into used goods, then."

"You are no goods, and I am as used as you are. In many ways. It is not about you or about me. It is about the situation. You are very endearing, Astarion, but if I go further with you, I give up the chance of ever helping you again, with anything. No ephemeral pleasure is worth that. I want to help you through it all, Astarion. Don't make me a part of the problem."

      That last sentence stayed with Astarion and sat with him for a while.

      Not part of the problem. Astarion's whole existence was the problem. His very being was the problem.

      If Halsin wanted to be other, then it was making him a part of that nebulous unknown that was a world without Cazador.

      That brand new, vertiginous world.

      And Astarion had to admit, even if only to himself... he would be very glad if he didn't have to sleep his way through that new world.

"Sorry," Astarion said to the ceiling, even though he wasn't sure he felt any guilt at all.

"It is alright. All forgotten. I guess everything must be very confusing right now. Your feelings and wants even more so. Things will get clearer with time."

"I don't know that I will not mess you up."

      For once, Astarion felt numb enough to be truthful. Not fearing consequences was a wonderful, wonderful thing.

"You say you don’t want to be a part of the problem… I am pretty good at messing up, actually."

"You don't know that," Halsin said. "You never had a true chance at anything."

      He was right. Astarion really had no idea who he was now.

      He had so much to discover.

      And he was already exhausted.

"What are you thinking about?" Halsin asked, after a moment of silence during which Astarion had been lost in the contemplation of the ceiling.

"Do you want something deep and insightful or something true?"

"I will go with the truth."

"I am a bit down that my body cannot produce waste. I would love to go piss on dear Master 's corpse."

      Halsin laughed at the futility of that desire and, for a second, both of them decided to ignore the darker, heavier suffering hidden behind those words. Astarion expected to feel uneasiness follow them, like a bitter aftertaste. But nothing came.

      Cazador was dead and, for the first time, Astarion's heart and mind were out of his reach.

"The rats will take care of his body," Halsin said.

"That they will. Good for them."

      Dizzy, high on freedom but still so very empty, Astarion stood up from the bed.

"Do you want me to give you a tour, Druid?"

"Sure, show me around."

      Taking the whole space of the room, Astarion embraced his surroundings with a large gesture of his open arm.

"Let's start here. The Master bedroom. Fitting name you would think. Nice ceiling height. Facing neither west nor east nor anything, which some can appreciate. Centuries old marquetry, perfectly maintained. And this..."

      He pointed at the bed.

"This is where he would rape me."

      Even if he had had a beating heart, it wouldn’t have pounded in his chest, as that word had gotten out. Nothing was moving in him. Nothing was feeling. And no word seemed to have any consequences. So Astarion planned on letting them all out.

He pointed at the floor by the side of the bed.

"This is where I would kneel and pleasure him with my mouth when I was too disgusting from torture for him to want to touch me."

      He walked to the cupboard.

"Those..."

      He grabbed a handful of the fabrics inside and threw them on the floor. A few garments, large and ample tunics and robes of dark colors and ostentatious gilding, were scattered around.

"…are the ugly things he would be wearing while fucking me. Because his body is too sacred, too dignified to be exposed to my sight. Now, if you can turn your attention toward this..."

      He had walked to the bed, stepping on top of the pile of clothes and he was now letting his finger run over deep cuts on the wood of the headboard.

"... this is where his children broke their nails and teeth while a contract for their soul was being carved into their back. Of course, they were punished for the deterioration of that poor, poor bed."

      He grabbed Halsin's sleeve to guide him up.

"Come, there is much to see."

      Halsin didn't resist and he stood up from the bed. He didn't look uneasy or horrified. He was listening, taking in what Astarion was saying. Not interrupting him. Knowing that he was not really the one of them both that needed to hear all of that the most.

      Astarion crossed the corridor and passed by the couple of boudoirs to get to the ballroom.

"You will notice, I am sure, a very spacious room," he commented, selling this place with all his glorious gab. "You can easily fit fifty of your friends or so. Suits every type of party. The public kind, to grow your network. And the more private kind, for your close allies, where you can have your very favorite Spawn put on a little show for everyone's pleasure. Make sure the supporting roles are played by actors who are big where it counts, for maximal enjoyment of course."

      He walked to Cazador's throne and, seizing it with both hands, threw it on the side. When it hit the floor, a part of its back broke in splinters that were sent flying everywhere. Without minding the violence of his gesture, Astarion reached behind where the throne had stood and grabbed the metallic hook fixed into the wall, giving it a few pulls to show its solidity.

"Perfect for a leash. And turns out..."

      He vaguely gestured toward the space between where the throne had been and where the second chair was still standing.

"Cages fit. If you were wondering. Very convenient, uh? Keep every kind of dog where they belong. On that theme..."

      Astarion crossed the ballroom, his careless steps scattering the wood chunks further away. He got to Cazador's adjacent office. Without a glance for it, he pointed at the elevator while passing by it.

"The entrance to the basement. Where he was being his most evil self. That's where his body is. Oh, and his bedroom. Yes, he didn't actually rape me in his bedroom. That would be far too intimate. We weren’t at that stage yet. If you are curious, you will find down there notebooks with everything he has ever done to us meticulously listed. If we had left him enough time, I am sure he would have added an index. For easier browsing."

      He hadn't slowed down, and he had now reached the chair of the desk on which he let himself fall.

      He opened one of the drawers and grabbed a handful of papers that he threw behind his shoulder.

"Blackmail," he described matter-of-factly.

      He took another wad.

"Blackmail."

      They were flying behind him, waltzing lazily in the air like dead leaves.

"Blackmail. Blackmail. Blackm... Oh. What do we have here?"

      He took from the drawer an object that he then dropped on the desk. The leather made a soft noise, an inconspicuous one.

      A muzzle was now waiting there, between Astarion and Halsin. The both of them detailed it in silence.

      Then, Astarion grabbed the whole drawer, ripped it out of the desk and turned it over to let its content fall on the floor.

"Blackmail, blackmail and blackmail again. The whole of Baldur's Gate. Everyone with an ounce of power."

      Astarion stood up and, as he was on his way to get out of the office, he grabbed one of the glass bottles in the cabinet.

"Not wine," he told Halsin.

      He bit the cork, pulled it out and spat it on the floor, before taking a mouthful of the drink and swallowing it.

"Fuck, it's good."

      He let the bottle fall on the floor and the glass shattered, the red liquid splattering everywhere.

"Do not worry," he told Halsin, "no Spawn will lick it off the floor. They only do so when it's vermin's. Or their own. One and the same."

      Some of the pieces of paper had fallen far from the desk and were now slowly soaking up the blood. Leaving the office in that poor state, Astarion went back to the ballroom and out of it by the main entrance. He stopped by the door and waited for Halsin. He then tapped the large panel a couple of times.

"A rat king," he named the symbol engraved in the door. "A sharp mind such as yours will know that rat kings die in nature. None of the rats can disentangle their tail and they will all perish, one after the other. We are the rats, if you didn't catch the subtleties of that very deep metaphor. He is the king sitting on the throne of knotted tails."

      He walked a few steps, but it took Halsin a moment to detach his eyes from the engraved rats, his fingers softly drawing their shape.

"The entrance door," Astarion continued once Halsin's attention was back on him. "On the other side, sunlight and death by incineration. Careful to keep it well closed during the day, or a Spawn could well try to kill themselves by walking out, forcing another Spawn, who has much better things to do with their day, to drag their sorry ass back inside. But, when faced with someone who wants to live, it becomes a fantastic way to keep them in line. After all, if they misbehave, you can make them spend the day outside... You can have the worst home imaginable; they will beg not to be kicked out."

      Astarion, the ballroom behind him, turned on the left, away from the entrance door, and down a set of stairs.

      He knew every plank of wood here, every tear in the wallpaper, every crust in the paintings. He opened the door of the dormitory.

"A cozy room that can be shared by as many adults as you may fancy. The walls are thick enough, so you won't hear them scream in their sleep, smash their head against the stone, and kick the shit out of each other. When you want your house to be slave free, you just put a nice little lock here, and you can forget all about them. The candles will last for about sixteen hours. After that, darkness, but, once again, you don't hear them, so who cares? Careful though. Some may develop the conviction that they are no thinking creatures and thus, after a while, some Spawn could start biting the others. Or themselves. But, thick walls, I guess."

      Astarion walked to one of the beds, the farthest away from the door.

"My bed. I recommend that location. You don't have far to crawl to get to the bathtub."

      He grabbed the bedsheet and pulled it off the bed, revealing the mattress underneath. It was covered with blood. Layers and layers of stains, for years and years of wounds.

"The smell isn’t the best. But it makes the mattress much firmer. Good for your back."

      He seized the mattress and dragged it out of the frame, on the floor. On top of the slats, there was a thin leather-bound notebook. He took it and threw it at Halsin who caught it in the air.

"All my thoughts and feelings. Everything that is private."

      Halsin hesitated to open it. Astarion turned around. He didn't care. The notebook was blank. Not a single word written. He had drawn a cock on one of the pages though. That had made him and Petra laugh. Dalyria had just rolled her eyes.

      He walked out of the dormitory to get to the room of the favorite Spawn.

"Do you know what this is?" he asked, opening the door for Halsin.

"No..."

"Me neither, I never went there."

      He closed the door.

      Then the next stop.

      Astarion had no hesitation and no fear as he opened the door of the kennel.

      Damn, emptiness was awesome.

      The room reeked of old blood and cold sweat. Chains were hanging from the walls, implements were lying on a table by the corner, mattresses covered in mold were littering the floor.

      He took in the sight.

      There were so many things he could say about this room. Which implement hurt the most. Which chain was just high enough to make sure the Spawn would dislocate their shoulders before the end of their flaying. Which wall was the roughest against bare, sore skin. He could show in which corner he had bled the most and in which one he had screamed the most. He could point to where he would kneel to ask Godey for his punishment, and where he would have to stand to show its results to his Master.

      He could show on which mattress Aurelia and he, after hours of torture, driven mad by the pain and the rage, had fought and fucked and fought some more, growling, biting, clawing as their minds had been collapsing into pure, bestial insanity.

      He said nothing however. He pointed nowhere. He let Halsin enter the room and explore it at his rhythm. A slow, respectful one. Astarion walked to one of the mattresses and let himself fall down on it. He rested his back against the wall and stretched his legs before him.

      He followed Halsin with his gaze, observing each of his movements, as he was brushing over the many implements lying on the table or drawing the shapes of the bloodstains on the wall.

      It was such a surreal sight. To see Halsin in this very familiar room. As if two worlds, that should have never even heard of each other, were suddenly colliding. And Astarion wasn't too worried as the blow of that cosmic explosion was burning his face.

      Firstly, because he was beyond caring.

      And secondly, because he was fascinated by crashes of all kinds.

      He liked seeing Halsin walk among those walls. As he was sitting on the mattress soiled by centuries of torture, he thought that it would have been nice, if Halsin had come to save him during one of those days of torture.

      It hadn't happened, but the fantasy was very fun to entertain.

"What did you think of the tour?" Astarion asked, when Halsin was done looking around.

      The Druid took the time to join Astarion and sit down next to him. His eyes were lost in the brown stain right in front of them. Astarion didn't believe it was his.

"I feel humbled that you shared that with me."

      Astarion scoffed.

"You would have been better off not hearing about it."

"Maybe," Halsin admitted. "Probably even. But you didn't get the chance to be 'better off', did you?"

      Astarion didn't answer. The chain hanging above the brown stain was the one that was perfect for dislocating shoulders. It was not the one Astarion hated the most, though. On its right, there was one that was placed in such a way that, if Astarion had both wrists chained to it, then there was a rusted nail right against his left nipple. Very uncomfortable. And, in two hundred years, he had yet to find a position to not get scratched by it.

"I knew you had survived through a lot," Halsin continued. "I just have yet to learn how much that 'lot' actually is. Maybe, one day, you will tell someone everything. Maybe you will never. But, in any case, I hope you know that, whatever you want to share, I will listen to it."

      Astarion mindlessly patted the dirty mattress, watching the dust rise and fall.

"What does it change? To talk about it."

"I don't know. Maybe it doesn't help. You are the only one who can tell. But I do think that, from time to time, you may need someone to remind you that nothing you lived was normal. And nothing was deserved."

      Astarion tried to repeat those words in his head, but they sounded just as empty as him.

"I don't think I will be able to feel much, today," he acknowledged.

"You've felt plenty already. The rest can wait. And when you will feel, I will be there if you need."

      Astarion nodded. He wasn't good with thanking.

"Do you think I will ever be sad?" he asked, though he wasn't sure he wanted an answer. "That he is dead, I mean. Do you think I will ever miss him? There were sometimes... Not many. But sometimes... he could be tender. He could be forgiving. Sometimes, he fed me."

"I don't think you will miss him. But you may miss parts of him. Moments of your story. It will likely happen, yes. It won't mean that you miss what he did to you. It just means that we need to find silver linings where we can in order to survive and that you are better than most when it comes to surviving. The moments of your past that you link to some form of joy, they are nothing to be ashamed of. They are simply a testament of your resilience."

"There really weren't a lot of them."

"I know, Astarion."

      The Masterless Spawn sighed, exhausted:

"I want to go home now," he said. "To a home. Any home."

"Then let's get you home," Halsin stood up, leaving the mattress and the dirt behind.

He extended a hand. Keeping it open and offered. Astarion looked at it for a moment. And, maybe because he was too exhausted to know any better or any worse, he grabbed it and let it pull him to his feet.

“Thank you,” he said for the pull, and maybe for a bit more than that.

“You are very welcome, my friend.”

      Crossing the threshold of the kennel, on the way out, was always a good moment. This time was no different, despite Astarion's fatigue.

"I really want to celebrate the old bastard's death," he said, as they were walking up the stairs. "But I think it may take a moment for him to truly die. At least for me."

"We will celebrate then," Halsin promised.

"I'm sure Karlach already put some food together."

"We can have a feast for no other reason than we are alive to enjoy it."

      That sounded like a nice thing to do.

      Astarion wanted to celebrate being alive.

      He thought vampirism was death. But maybe it was just Cazador.

      Maybe Astarion could celebrate living. Maybe he could celebrate being.

"Fine. But I want some quality blood then. I care not for your roasted pieces of flesh. There must be a fair number of bottles in the bastard's office. I don't want to go back there but if you could..."

"I will fetch some for you."

"Fetch them all. I will find a far better use for them than him."

"Of that, I am sure."

      They had reached the entrance door and Halsin, who had turned around, was about to walk away when Astarion called him.

"Halsin?"

"Yes."

      Astarion pushed the heavy panels of the entrance door, and he opened them wide.

      The sunlight burst into the hall, poured into the corridors, splattered against the walls. The wind, carrying the scent of the wild flowers of Bloomridge Park, blew the dust and stillness away. It was bringing with it the warmth of the afternoon and it laid it on the floor of the cold Palace.

      Astarion breathed in that useless, fantastic air, his eyes tearing under the direct light of the sun.

      Right now, he could see nothing of the city, but he had no other choice than to trust himself to find his way through it.

      For too long, he had been so afraid of that other side of the door, of that sunlight and of that death Cazador had promised them.

      No more.

"Much better, don't you think?"

"Much."

Chapter Text

/!\ ANTEDATED CHAPTER TO NOT CLOG THE FRONT PAGE /!\

Posted the 03/31/24

This is a message to inform anyone interested that there is an update.

A prologue and first chapter of a second part can be found here:

A Dog's Retreat

Taking place a year after the end of the game, Astarion realizes that just one week of healing does not erase two hundred years of trauma.

With no more fight for his life, he is quickly spiraling and decaying, until Halsin forces him to accept some help.

Then begins a longer, more in depth journey toward healing.

.