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With a final, powerful blast of sunbeam from Shadowheart’s mace, the last wraith disappeared from existence, leaving the mason’s secret hall empty and far less ominous than moments prior.
Lae’zel had – as always – done an admirable job of keeping enemies away from their cleric while she’d cast her spells. Meanwhile, Astarion had taken advantage of the darkness and stone pillars on the raised flooring surrounding the hall to shoot from a distance, out of sight and speeding their victory along.
But their foes were tough. By the time the battle was over, the three of them each felt their strength drained, with Lae’zel needing to rest at the table for a moment, and Shadowheart out of spell slots thanks to their arduous journey there. Astarion stayed where he was up above, uninterested in examining the dusty tomes and letters that they’d come here for.
As he leaned against the wall to metaphorically catch his breath, his shoulder nudged into a hard extrusion, and he startled back away from it expecting a trap. With a soft snick the wall started to move with a surprisingly quiet grating sound.
The short passage opened to reveal a small chamber with a low ceiling, containing two gilded chests just begging for him to get his hands in them. He chanced a quick glance behind to see the other two engrossed in something to do with Selûnites and Thorms, and decided it would be best to leave them to it.
He padded down the stone floor into the hidden room, noticing how it got colder than even the rest of the shadow cursed lands. He supposed that was to be expected, being so far underground. Suppressing a shiver of unease, he got to work quickly rifling through the chests.
As he pocketed the more valuable items he felt the ground shudder minutely, and looked up just in time to see the stone door near-silently sliding back into place.
“Fuck- wait!”
He dropped the lid of the chest in an instant and ran towards the exit with a string of curses, alarm shooting through him, but the gap was now too small for him to squeeze through, and getting smaller still.
In desperation he slipped the blade of one of his throwing axes into the doorway, but it was futile – whatever was powering the door was either much heavier or much more powerful than a sturdy piece of metal. As he ducked out the way of the steel splintering into shards, he felt his un-beating heart sink with fear. The last faint sliver of light from the larger room cut off abruptly as the way was sealed shut – with him inside.
Silence engulfed him. Not even a rush of blood in his ears or the echo of his own breaths. More worryingly, he could no longer hear the distant conversation of his companions.
He pushed down the instinctive urge to panic – perhaps there was another button inside, some kind of safeguard against this kind of situation? He could see into the room regardless of the darkness, though it was still shadowy and greyscale. There were no gaps around the door as far as he could tell, not even a light draught against his fingertips as he felt around for any weakness. A quick circuit around the room revealed a lever, and he quickly wrapped his hands around it, relieved.
The lever did not move.
As much as he pulled against it, felt around for any blockage or button, nothing happened. He kicked it in frustration, hoping to dislodge something useful, but only ended up with a smarting foot. Likely it was rusted shut after years of disuse, and Astarion didn’t have the strength to force it to move. He cursed and headed back to the door.
“Hello?” Astarion called out, trying to hide the worry edging into his words, and waited for an answer. Nothing happened. He waited for several beats, trying to detect a hint of movement of sound beyond the door but was unsuccessful, and his patience was wearing as thin as his nerves. He shoved down the displeasure at having to rely on someone else and tried again.
“Can you hear me out there? Shadowheart!”
Holding still for a moment, he strained his ears to listen past the echoes of his own voice. There was no answer, not even footsteps, and it started to dawn on him that he might be in bigger trouble than he thought. He wondered if they’d even noticed he was gone, whether they were searching for him or unbothered by his loss. It was uncharitable of him to think so, especially after all they’d been through together and the burden they shared, but putting his trust in others – allies or not – had never worked out for him before.
Heroes didn’t exist for him – he had two hundred years of proof.
Something skittered behind him and he whirled around, blade already in hand, but the shadows remained unmoving. He half expected to see the beady eyes of a rat despite the complete lack of wildlife in the entire area, but assumed it was more likely some loose stones or dust being disturbed for the first time in many years. He put his dagger away with an unnecessary huff and began to pace, threading a harried hand through his hair.
Unbidden, sense memories of being trapped alone came to the forefront of his mind, and his fingernails began to ache with remembered agony. He clenched his trembling fist in his hair, feeling his palms sting as his nails dug into them. Not again, he thought, please, anything but this. With renewed desperation he ran back to the door.
“I’m in here! Someone-” his throat closed up as he hammered against the stone with his bare hands, uncaring of the sharp pain. “Someone get me out of here!”
Was it just him, or were the corners of the room closer than a moment ago?
No, that was nonsense. It was merely his mind playing tricks on him. A relic of his time in servitude, but one that he could never forget. The silence outside of his own frantic screams, the darkness, the cold stone surrounding him... it was all far too familiar.
Was the smell of mildew always present?
He’d stopped crying out at some point, his mouth still open but unable to make a sound. Just how long had it been? An hour? Days?
Had he been forgotten?
Somehow, he was on the floor, kneeling on cold stone with his forehead bowed against the door. The line between past and present was growing ever blurrier, his fear feeding into the memory of starvation and solitude and making it stronger. Was he waiting for somebody else behind the door, or was it all imagined, and Cazador would be waiting with a disappointed sneer when it opened?
If it ever opened.
He didn’t know how long he’d sat there shaking in place, unable to separate today from back then, when a sudden blast erupted from the wall in a shock of red light, sending him flying back several feet among a cascade of rubble.
Pain lanced through him as something impossibly heavy landed on his shoulder before rolling away, and he barely had the chance to gasp at the feeling of something going terribly wrong inside before being pelted by more rubble. He was quick to curl into a ball, protecting his head from damage as best he could. Dust clogged the back of his throat and stung at his eyes as he choked involuntarily and tried to squint towards the blast area, his frazzled nerves ramped up with wariness of a new danger.
A figure formed a golden silhouette in the dissipating cloud, broad shouldered with curling horns and a familiar cough as it fanned at the air in front of it.
“Astarion! Are you alright?” Wyll called, and Astarion sagged in sheer relief, though he’d not admit it to him.
The human’s voice was concerned and apologetic at the same time. If he was in a better state, Astarion would be charmed by such an entrance. Instead, he plastered an easy smile, doing his best to embody unbothered despite being on the floor, covered in stone dust and old blood.
“Oh, hello darling. I suppose I have you to thank for nearly blowing me up?” He batted his eyelashes in contrast to the light bitterness to his voice, and struggled to get an arm beneath him whilst waving off Wyll’s rueful apologies. He didn’t get far trying to prop himself up before Wyll was pushing him back down again with a gentle but firm hand, eyes narrowed as he assessed the damage.
“Don’t move, we need to make sure nothing’s broken. Can you feel all your toes?”
The young warlock was clearly trying hard not to pat down in search of obscured injuries, having maybe the best social awareness out of all of them, but he hovered all the same, frowning at the large gash where the stone blast caught him.
“As charming as you are, I can assure you I’m fine. Let’s just get out of here, there’s no need to fuss,” Astarion tutted, hiding his relief with the usual prickly exterior. Actually, he couldn’t feel all his toes, but he was certain it had more to do with cold (and perhaps shock) than anything worse. His shoulder was a more pressing concern, freely bleeding what little stale blood was in his system, and the entirety of his left arm was numb and unresponsive as he sat himself up against the wall.
“Where were you this entire time, anyway? Did you all stop for tea at the inn, or something? Have time for an impromptu concert with that little bard, mayhap?” He attempted to joke past the tightness in his voice, but it came out more barbed than intended and he winced internally, preparing to be left alone. Wyll paused from where he’d started casting a healing spell with the aid of a charmed necklace.
“I'm sorry you were in here for so long,” Wyll began, his face so earnest that Astarion had to turn away. “Shadowheart and Lae’zel tried all they could, but the door was stuck, and they couldn’t even get through to you with the tadpoles. But when I-”
Astarion looked up at the cut off words. Wyll was usually so smooth with them, but now his face was pinched with a strange mix of regret and sadness.
“What is it?” Astarion asked, frowning. Wyll bit his lip and drew in a breath.
“I... saw what you went through. Back then, I mean.”
Astarion froze, jaw clenched tightly, looking slightly to the side of Wyll’s painfully open face as he continued.
“I felt it, too, everything you were feeling. With the tadpole it seemed to- I don’t know, spill out?”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Astarion snapped, making to leave – wound be damned.
“Astarion, please.” Wyll looked imploringly at him – looked, but didn’t touch, didn’t keep him there. Just hoped that he would listen out of virtue of being friends. And for some reason, Astarion stayed.
“I know it hasn’t been long since we all started travelling together. I know a lot of us find it hard to trust one another – I think we all have our fair share of baggage. But believe me when I say that as soon as we get to Baldur’s Gate, we’re going to hunt down the bastard that hurt you and make him pay.” There was fury in his eyes, battle hardened but still gentle enough to care so deeply. Astarion found he couldn’t look away, as a flicker of hope began to burn away the constant, deep-rooted terror that followed him.
“That’s a promise I’m making you, not as the Blade of Frontiers,” Wyll smiled wryly, tentative, “but as your friend.”
Astarion was, for once, lost for words, caught off-balance by his companion’s genuine words. He swallowed around the strange lump in his throat and blinked away the dust in his eyes.
"And I’m truly sorry you had to go through this, Astarion.”
Astarion knew he wasn’t just talking about that day, but he was too tired to keep his normally unflappable façade and pretend everything was fine. Instead, he tipped his head back and sighed heavily, allowing Wyll to finally cast the healing spell on his aching shoulder.
“Me too,” he murmured. His heart didn’t beat with his emotions like a living creature’s did, but he imagined it slowing down anyway. The fear and tension that had built up gradually dissipated, leaving him feeling hollowed out and raw. Wyll sat quietly with him for a moment, within reach, the sound of his breathing and, beneath that, the rush of blood in his veins a welcome reminder that he wasn’t alone. He hadn’t been forgotten.