Archive of Our Own ^beta

The rays of light shimmering through the giant windows were golden in the morning sun. Little particles of dust sparkled, drifting in and out of them. Soft piano music was drifting through the air, setting the background for the dancer twisting and arching in the middle of the studio.

He felt the warmth of the benevolent sun as he turned and turned in the middle of the polished wooden floors, a slight but confident smile on his lips. His movements seemed effortless and elegant, free and perfect. The moment itself seemed timeless, ethereal in its beauty.

But even all good things must come to an end.

The last pirouette was coming to a close. He assumed end position with a content sigh, chest heaving, illuminated by golden light.

Hard work, but the kind that pays off. Pain of exertion that in the end is crowned by reward.

With one knee on the ground and his torso bent back so far it seemed like he’d been decapitated, he remained in his position. Only the rising chest was now a sign of life.

Like a wind up puppet in a music box at the end of its little show, its head already torn off, waiting for someone to wind it back up again or close the box - because there was nothing else it could or wanted to do.

With the loud clack of the door to the studio falling closed, Astarion was violently whipped back to the real world. His head swivelled around to see Petras enter; late as always. His fellow dancer threw him an annoyed look as he caught the other staring. Astarion stared back, nose scrunched up in distaste at the lack of diligence.

Gone was the golden, serene scene in his mind already, replaced by grim reality once more.

He had been up for a good while already. A quick freezing shower after a handful of hours of sleep and it had been back to work: training in the mostly dark studio, only lit up by the emergency lights and his phone flash. Trying to get in as much training before someone else arrived.

Hours later, he was standing at the barre in the windowless room, crammed between the other dancers. The only light source were the harsh halogen tubes up above. Even the piano playing as the ensemble of dancers warmed up for a long day of training sounded shrill, every note a violent reminder of the rhythm they were supposed - no, forced - to follow.

Astarion looked at himself with his hand gripping the wooden bar, stretching to warm up for the ensemble work. He realised the bright relentless light from above cast the circles beneath his eyes even darker than they already were. It fit the drawn down corners of his mouth, the flat look in his crimson eyes and the hollow of his cheeks - all painted in shades of grey rather than gold after all.

He went into another stretch, fingers still tightly around the barre, bending at the waist so his gaze dropped from his gaunt face to his feet.

Better not to dwell on things, neither past nor future. Like dreams he allowed himself to have sometimes, foolishly. Or remembering when the last time was that he had smiled, when he had slept more than five hours or his body had been void of pain.

He stared at his feet as he felt the burn of his muscles groaning under the impossible strain he put them under, sinking deeper into his stretch. Eyes were trained on his feet, trying not to think at all.

But it wasn’t working. Looking at his feet made him self-aware of the constant pain they were in. And what mutilations were neatly hidden beneath the white satin.

Remaining low, he stared at his unmoving feet, not ripping the gaze of his unblinking eyes off them, up until they began burning uncomfortably. He didn’t even know if that or the ache in his toes was the reason behind almost tearing up.

At least this made the pain of other parts of his body disappear for a moment.

With a sigh he eventually closed his eyes, sinking deeper into his stretch still. He tried to ignore his surroundings as much as possible, just like he had done before, dreaming of a better, alternate universe. One in which dancing still brought him the joy he had once felt.

But Astarion’s somewhat tranquil state was quickly disturbed.

Beneath the shrill piano music he heard a familiar, rhythmic tapping. It became louder steadily, closing in.

Immediately, the atmosphere in the studio changed as if a switch had been flipped. Dancers quickly changed out of their street clothes, redid their hair into tight buns, took up a spot at the barre and began stretching eagerly, shoulders squared so much, it hurt to even look at. All conversations had stopped, replaced by a tense, anticipating silence.

Everyone knew what the increasing sounds meant. The polished ebony with the silver tip and the bone handle that made them. And whom it belonged to.

It was the same rhythm every morning, a cruel sort of routine.

Astarion had made the habit of counting along: Tap, one two , tap, one two , tap. At least it was reliable in the cruelty it brought.

Only, today it wasn’t the same rhythm: TAP, one tw-, TAP, one t-, TAP.

This already meant very bad news. Astarion felt the lump that immediately clogged his throat. Still in his stretch his brows drew together. An echo of pain ran down his spine and he felt how, along with his hands getting clammy, his heart began to gallop. His breath became ragged from the tapping growing louder, much more rushed and even more threatening than usual.

The door to the studio flung open with a force that made everyone flinch more than was normal.

In rushed the tall, imposing figure of Cazador Szarr, immaculate down to the last hair on his head. Szarr, known formerly as Vellioth’s star pupil, dancer extraordinaire, light of a new generation of ballet. And now after his tragic maiming injury, famed as acclaimed choreographer and teacher of his own ballet company.

A star, a genius, a legend beyond everyone else’s league.

His dancers and students though only knew him as the thing that plagued them, every night and every day. A constant shadow trying to grip their ankles. Even when he wasn’t there. 

But truly it was worse, when he was there. When those eyes bored into you and you heard the clacks of his omnipresent cane. And it was worse still when he was angry. Like today. Or like that night several weeks back, Astarion remembered all too well.

Cazador had taken exactly the right amount of steps so the door fell closed just behind him, the loud noise of it closing almost remnant of the lid of a sarcophagus sliding in place, dooming someone still alive to be forever entombed.

He was wearing a fine red coat today, fur trimmings at the hems, the same colour of his eyes that were already wandering around while his coattails still swung to a halt around his slender form. He had placed the cane before himself, long, spindly fingers wrapped around the bone handle.

The cane had belonged to his “master” as he liked to tell people. Albeit not with this kind of handle. Although, as he enjoyed adding, while watching the listener’s creeping horror, the bone had very well belonged to his own teacher as well. After a bit of stunned silence people then usually laughed uneasily, not deeming it true, while Cazador remained silent, caressing the handle of his stick.

Even with the injury that had permanently crippled and left him needing that cane, Szarr knew how to cut an imposing figure to most and a frightening one to few especially. His tall frame alone, the always perfectly slicked back black hair and the seemingly all seeing eyes, the barely hidden threat.

All his dancers knew this well.

But unfortunately, Astarion, his favourite dancer, his prodigy, knew it all best; from the blazing eyes posing a threat to what could manifest into unbearable pain. He still felt the phantoms of the last time he had to endure it.

Perfectly on time, another wave of aching ran through the pale dancer as he, along with everyone else, was staring intently at his master . Teacher surely was too light a word for the power he held over him and the others.

Cazador kept eyeing his dancers, fingers starting to tap on the bone end of his cane while around Astarion the others got restless, not knowing how to feel about this somewhat unfamiliar silence from their master.

Astarion knew though. It meant trouble.

When eventually someone at the back had the audacity to start whispering, Cazador broke his silence:

“It is only a few weeks until the debut of the production,” Szarr began flatly.

More silence, more tapping of his index on the bone.

“Is there a reason behind why I don’t see you train already?”

A well portioned dose or rage had entered his voice while his brows drew together, eyes glaring. But everyone still seemed under a spell, not daring to move.

“Do I need to lash at your feet before you will start dancing?” Szarr shouted then, making his dancers flinch.

His words stung sharply like a whip - or the end of a cane.

Quickly, everyone scurried around to get into position for training now. Everyone knew exactly with which part to start with, where to stand. Cazador had made sure of it.

While Szarr’s eyes narrowed, impatient about the last people getting in place, Astarion fought with his ragged breath as he assumed position among the others.

It had been weeks since Szarr had entered the training studio with so much barely contained rage. The last time it had meant a visit to the ER for Astarion and flashes of pain down his spine ever since, no matter if he was standing, dancing or sleeping.

Then finally the master waved to the pianist to start with a single twist of his index.

It began.

Astarion immediately forced his mind out of its increasing state of panic as best he could as he followed through his steps. At least he could feel the echo of what this once would have felt like. The stretching, turning and arching, at least it still quieted down his mind as he concentrated only on the music and his body in accord with it. Even if it didn’t gift the same warmth anymore. There was only cold, honed, lethal precision left.

Too late he realised that the music had stopped along with everyone else. Coming out of a turn, Astarion noticed Cazador’s ruby eyes burning into him while he stopped with a jolt. His squared shoulders folded in immediately, slouching, wishing he could disappear instead of having to face his master.

The atmosphere was tense and ready to snap, the dancers awaiting the verdict for their performance.

Szarr’s form of feedback was quite easy to decipher: three taps with the cane “good”, two “acceptable”, one “unsatisfied”, none - there would be consequences. 

The silence was deafening today.

Szarr’s eyes wandered over his dancers, while Astarion felt the drumming of his heart up in his throat. The pain in his back was almost unbearable now. But best not to draw more attention to himself.

“Astarion.”

His pulse increased by what felt like a tenfold.

Cazador’s voice was terribly silent, one could have almost mistaken it for something less than deadly.

“Astarion, will you come here?”

It wasn’t a question.

As if controlling himself from somewhere outside his own body, Astarion stepped forward while he heard silent gasps around him. With every step feeling like he needed to rip them off the floor, the pale dancer stepped in front of his master. He saw the small, cruel smile play on his lips while he awaited his pupil. The way his fingers drummed on his stick now seemed almost cheerful.

“Don’t slouch before me, boy, turn around,” Szarr purred when Astarion had come to stand before him. The tone nearly sounded like he was whispering a sweet nothing to him and not a threat. He obeyed immediately, no matter what, feeling more uneasy with Cazador’s threatening presence behind him, but out of sight.

“Remove your shirt, boy.”

The dancer flinched, throat closing up completely as he sensed the intention behind his master’s words. But his arms moved of their own accord while his mind screamed at him to run. But his body was too attuned to obeying blindly by now.

As he pulled up his thin shirt over his head, his mind raced.

Truly, he wouldn’t harm him in front of the others, would he? Usually this part was reserved for behind closed doors. For when he was called to Szarr’s office alone, and the others sent home for the day. Everybody knew what happened behind closed doors. It was just that no one ever dared to address it.

The sigh leaving Szarr’s lips truly shouldn’t have been this content when his eyes fell upon his previous work. Neither should the smile have been as proud as he eyed the scars, the still healing bruises.

“Now, turn again for me. You do that so well, don’t you?”

Barely able to swallow with how parched his throat felt, Astarion turned around again, breathing shallow. But yet again his body was way quicker than his mind. Just obeying, turning, moving, arching, aching - that was what he was best at. It was true.

Cazador welcomed him with a toothy grin. Then he stepped closer. So close, in fact, that Astarion could smell him. The same unpleasant, musty smell that hadn't left his nose ever since that night several weeks ago. The last time Cazador had come this uncomfortably close.

He kept staring straight ahead, trying not to notice how the way his master looked at him had become almost lovingly as he reached out with long, boney fingers, as if trying to reach for his chin. Only shortly before making contact, he stopped. Instead he threw up his cane, catching it again, gripping further down, making Astarion wince.

He kept staring straight ahead, right over Cazador’s shoulder as his master and tormentor leaned to him, even closer than before, musty smell becoming almost unbearable.

But what made his heart almost stop, was when he felt the bone handle wander down his back - and the scars there. Almost caressing past traces of injuries that would leave him marked forever. And fresher ones that still must be a sight to behold. The sickeningly gentle touch made his muscles spasm and burn more than the actual pain from being touched there.

“See how well the little lamb dances?” Cazador spoke silently as Astarion was thrown back to when the cane had last made contact with his skin, albeit with the other end and wholly different fashion. It took every last bit of his power to not collapse. His eyes were torn wide, yet again unblinking and burning.

He was barely aware of his present surroundings by now. Only his master’s voice still connected him to the present, oddly enough, as his mind was doomed to relive a night from before.

“See how well he does after I have given him a much needed reminder of how he ought to be grateful and work hard to achieve his dreams?” Cazador murmured.

Another stroke of bone on skin. Astarion’s back twisted unwillingly.

Cazador cocked his head to the side, noticing his reaction. So he used his cane pressed against Astarion’s back to make him step even closer, leaning down to him. Until they almost seemed ready to embrace each other.

Astarion forced himself to endure it, fearing the consequences if he shouldn’t. He knew this was a test.

And Szarr took his time testing him before he took a step back with a click of his tongue. The master glanced at the rest of his timid sheep.

“You better give me no reason to give you the same reminder,” his master finished, cane withdrawing, taking another step back.

Finally. With more shallow breaths, shoulders slacking and eyes watering so much so he couldn’t see clearly, Astarion couldn’t believe his luck of having gotten off the hook. Until-

“Why are you almost wailing?” Szarr snapped. The edge to his master’s voice betrayed how cheerful seemed to have found something to latch onto after all. Once more he stepped close, noticing his pupil’s state. Cold, sinewy fingers gripped his chin forcefully, bruising his pale skin immediately by how violently he tugged on his jaw.

He didn’t dare breathe as his master leaned close, passing every line from before. Way too close to be anything but desperate love or blazing hatred. Fingers were clawing into his skin.

“Didn’t I just praise you, boy? This is how you thank me?” His voice was almost a growl now while Astarion felt his heart hammer in his throat. The fingers dragged him closer to Cazador’s face until their faces almost touched.

“Look at me,” he demanded. So he did.

Cazador’s eyes were burning. Astarion didn’t flinch.

Through the haze of tears he saw a wild mix of emotions in his master’s eyes: loathing, hate, rage - and deep down, even a kind of twisted admiration? Adoration? He didn’t want to think about it. But he didn’t break eye contact either.

“Ungrateful,” Cazador exclaimed and shoved him away, tone almost unbelieving to Astarion’s own surprise.

“Again, from the top,” he barked at the pianist while Astarion with stiff limbs assumed position again.

Pain kept searing through his back, his scars now on full display for everyone. Astarion didn’t even bother putting his shirt back on. Instead he held his back straight, chin stretched high.

He kept dancing. His own rage was dulled by lingering panic. But it was there. And it kept him going.

Rage and a bit of undying, defiant pride. He felt it as he turned, eyes landing on Cazador with every time he came around again. But his master didn’t dare meet his eyes for the rest of the day.