Chapter Text
Astarion’s eyes opened to darkness instead of sky. Ah, this old scene again , he thought dryly and fought to unclench his fists. We know the drill, just breathe, and it will pass. The mingling smell of incense and grave dirt taunted him while the vampire worked to orient his mind. He strained his ear, expecting to hear Karlach fussing over the owlbear cub or Shadowheart and Lae’zel pointedly not flirting with one another. He squeezed his eyes shut and focused. Where was the sound of Withers clattering around camp? Wren strumming away on the lute?
Panic picked at his mind. This particular dream was stubborn. Focus, Astarion. We are at camp. He risked allowing his fingers to touch the ground, but where he expected dust, he touched a sickeningly familiar velvet plush. No, we are at camp , he protested. Any moment now, Scratch might pounce on his chest. Maybe Karlach would nudge him with her boot.
But several moments passed. No dogs came. No chatter or bickering or anything penetrated the darkness. Astarion kept his eyes screwed tight. He’d bested this nightmare before, and today would not be different. He tried to imagine Wyll offering him coffee and the chance to make his little joke about coffee not being his drink of choice. He tried picturing Wren tilting her head from side to side while she tried to talk him out of a sensible, profitable idea. He even tried picturing what boots Gale might have chosen for the day, but the darkness persisted.
Okay Astarion, we just need to follow the thread back. His mind protested against the evidence of his senses as he strained to remember his way back to camp and the night before. However, the harder he reached, the more the memories fled from him, as slippery as fish. Cautiously, he reached his hands forward. Thud- they met the lid of his- no, I’m not here. I can’t be. No, I’m at camp. With the others. They’re waiting for me to just….wake…up. He wrenched his eyes open once more.
Instead of sky, his eyes saw only darkness above him. “No,” he whispered aloud as a cold, sick feeling trickled through his chest. With his hands firmly pressed against his coffin lid, he begged to be hallucinating. I’m afraid that I only seem to remember killing because I’m the hallucination, the dream, the memory of Wren’s voice answered his pleas. “Hardy har har,” Astarion muttered bitterly, his voice muffled within the plush coffin. Not even his imagination could have created that particular group of weirdos, right? Then again, a dream would be the only way to escape his master’s clutches. At least until Cazador figures out how to play with those . He pressed his hands upward, hearing the same familiar creak which had greeted him at every sundown for the last 200 years as a spawn.
As he sat up, there was no denying that he was back home. He glanced down, patting at the laced white shirt and black pants he would have worn at the camp. No, the clothes must have been in his dream since it was his usual at-home attire. Astarion roughly ran his hands through his hair, trying to jostle his senses into working order. The other coffins in the room were already open. Of course he must have overslept trying to suck every last drop out of the dream.
As he had so many innumerable nights before, Astarion clambered out of his coffin and stretched. He couldn’t guess at how long Cazador must have been waiting, but he wasn’t going to push his luck further. Astarion grabbed a nearby jacket and shrugged into it as he left the spawns’ room. He nodded curtly to the enthralled human guards who waited outside the room before he had to double-take.
“Gale? Wyll?” He stared hungrily into their faces, but both men steadfastly stared ahead. “C’mon, it’s me. Guys? What’s going on? Is there a plan?” Wyll didn’t so much as flick his eye down to Astarion. Gale’s mouth was stone. “Guys,” Astarion’s voice deflated. He couldn’t have just imagined these guards in his dream, could he? The guards’ silence smothered the flicker of hope, and Astarion walked on.
The deeper his feet carried him down the hallways of his gilded prison, the more absurd his dream life began to feel. Friends? Astarion didn’t have friends. Only he would be so pathetic as to hide in an imaginary world where he could pretend he was worth companionship. An echo of tiefling laughter tickled at his mind, reminding him that he had dreamed of more than friendship. Disgusted with himself, he fished gloves from his jacket, pulling them on like additional armor against his tantalizing fantasy. The only fantasies that mattered here were Cazador’s, after all.
Astarion gathered with his siblings in Cazador’s decadent parlor. His mask of cool, aloof competence fell on, and he clasped his hands behind his back. Ever the dutiful spawn, he waited for Cazador to make his nightly appearance. The seven were arranged around Cazador’s throne on its raised platform, and torches set into the wall sconces threw their shadows around the room. The spawn did not have long to wait before Cazador swept grandly into the parlor, swishing the end of his black and gold robes as he went.
“Blessed evening,” he deigned to nod to the arranged spawn before dropping into his throne. “My children, before I send you on your hunt tonight, “ Cazador droned while Astarion concentrated on holding his face, his posture, his thoughts, just so. “I think a few words are in order for our little princeling.” Cazador’s smile was venomous as he held a hand out towards Astarion. “Come child, don’t be shy now.” Astarion started and knelt to kiss his master’s ring. Cazador gestured impatiently for Astarion to take his position on the right of the throne for whatever spectacle was to come.
Being singled out by Cazador was never a good thing. Astarion focused intently on maintaining his mask while fear roiled in his stomach. He clasped his hands tighter now behind his back, only half listening while Cazador spoke about the prey Astarion had brought home, “Despite his inherent worthlessness, our little princeling managed to do something worthwhile.” Cazador laughed at this cruel nickname and produced a small golden bell from one of his pockets.
Cazador rang the bell, his pinky lifted in the air. Astarion could only watch as its tone summoned two more guards, their eyes as blank as dark ice. One was a slight, red-headed woman with yellow-green skin, a gith? The other was a larger red-skinned tiefling woman with a broken horn. Something about the emptiness in their faces bothered him. Astarion stared at them, amazed at the cast of his dream. Had he summoned these guards into his pathetic play-pretend, too? What was wrong with him? A part of him was sure that one of them beamed or burned hotter than the sun. The other was swift and lethal. How could he know that?
“Now, there’s no way Astarion here could have fathomed what he brought us home at the edge of dawn.” Cazador gestured expansively, signaling to the guards to part and reveal what they had brought to the parlor. Astarion had been so glued on their not-right faces, he missed the gold chains the guards carried. “Then again, I don’t keep him around for his wit!” Cazador’s high, cold laughter invited the other spawn to respond in kind. Astarion couldn’t blame them. It was more than unwise to stand out when Cazador was involved.
When the guards parted, Astarion thought his knees might give out. Between the guards stood a green-skinned tiefling woman who wore a cold expression. White fabric, more the suggestion at clothing than anything practical hung about her chest and hips. Her amethyst eyes glittered like ice. She wore a high gold collar which stretched from her shoulders to her chin, and this was connected to one of the chains in the guards’ hands. The other connected to the manacles which bound her wrists in front of her. Her dark hair was arranged on top of her head so that no loose strands would fall near her neck. Cazador held his hand out expectantly for both chains, and he pulled the woman close.
“Astarion, you could have had no idea what a gem you’ve brought me,” Cazador repeated. “But even broken clocks show the correct time now and then, yes?” He sent another wave of compliant laughter around the room, but Astarion didn’t laugh. Neither did the captive. “It’s been ages since I’ve had Bhaalspawn, but it’s a delicacy never forgotten once sipped.” Astarion clenched his jaw shut as Cazador jerked the chains, pulling the woman onto an arm of the throne. He was losing his mind, clearly. Cazador rested an arm on one of her thighs, leaving his hand to casually dangle between them. She sat upright, forced into the position by her collar to gaze directly ahead of her.
Astarion softened his focus as much as he dared to keep from staring at the taunting hand dangling between the woman’s thighs. A mad thought wanted him to lunge forward, to snatch her and run from Cazador without a look back. At this rate, his mind would get him killed before dawn started to lighten the sky
“Would you like a little taste, Astarion?” Cazador asked him now as if sensing the spawn’s mutinous thoughts. The elder vampire’s voice oozed graciousness, and he jingled the woman’s chains enticingly. “Don’t you all think Astarion should have a taste?” he asked as if any of them would protest. Astarion’s siblings couldn’t help but assent, and Astarion couldn’t blame them. If he could, he would be down there urging on the humiliation of any of them in a heartbeat. What alternative was there? For any of them?
“My lord is gracious,” Astarion replied, touching his lapel with a shallow bow.
“I didn’t ask you to tell me things I already know, boy,” Cazador replied peevishly. “I asked whether you would like a little taste of the prize you somehow stumbled on.”
Astarion’s brow felt heavy, as he was acutely aware of the surrounding expectant faces. He loathed this almost-nightly game. What was he supposed to say? “I-”
“Come now, you’re abusing my generosity, Astarion,” Cazador warned with another shake of the chains. “We may be ageless, but the night is not.”
Astarion swallowed. Say yes, and he was sure to have a rat that was bloated and putrid. If he refused- his back tingled in memory of other attempted refusals. He felt a nagging little flutter in his mind that this was wrong , that there was supposed to be a different outcome that didn’t result in his mortification. But what in all the hells could that be? “I, thank you, my lord.” He mumbled, the back of his neck burning.
“I am in a giving mood tonight, Astarion. You can have a taste of this pet,” Cazador released the chains in an expansive gesture. “No tricks tonight. No rats.”
Astarion stepped back from the throne, stunned. “I, I thank you,” He breathlessly knelt and kissed Cazador’s rings again until he was waved off.
“Of course, my child.” Cazador nodded. “You may have a taste, if you can take it .” His voice was light as the other spawn backed against the walls. In the corner of his eye, Astarion watched the woman slide off the throne and glare down at him. Astarion straightened, holding his face as neutrally as he could while he wanted to throw up black tar. Panic clawed at his throat now, and he fought the urge to scream until he passed out. The ceiling was not going to develop kindness and fall on them. The floor continued to refuse to swallow him whole.
The elf felt like he was watching himself cross to the front of the throne and offer the green woman a bow. What was he supposed to do? Her neck and wrists were sealed in gold. What exactly does Cazador want from him? What would Cazador do if his pet of the moment were damaged? The others were waiting, shifting uncomfortably in the corners. Well, the guards are holding stone still. It’s wrong , the mad, fluttering voice just had to add. He needed to do something, and fast.
“May I?” Astarion asked after what felt like a year. He held out his hand as if asking her to dance. Not a drop more than you need? The whisper crashed into his mind, jostling his mask of composure. He blinked quickly; he would not fall to pieces like this in front of them all. When she didn’t move, he bent for the chain. Something in him recoiled, but he could not afford failure. Not here, and not now.
“Come now, princeling!” Cazador barked and clapped his hands together. “No one wants to spend all night watching you play with your food!”
Astarion flashed a practiced smile. “Very well. Miss, may I?” He held the chain firmly but refused to pull her. Her tail slashed the air as she allowed the line to grow taut between them. Astarion cursed under his breath and closed the distance himself. “Just a drop,” he reached for her face.
WHACK! She raised her manacled hands and struck him in the face. Astarion stumbled and clutched at his jaw. He was dazed, and a sharp ringing pierced his ears. Cazador’s riotous laughter flooded the room. Before Astarion had a chance to gather his wits, she wrapped one of the chains around his neck and pulled. Astarion’s fingers fumbled to get between the chain and his neck.
“W-wait!” He gasped and clawed at the metal around his neck. His fingers slipped uselessly against the metal as pressure built behind his eyes. Just as black dots filled his vision, he was able to barely sneak his fingers in and pull against her. When he had enough space, he ducked under the chain and rolled away from her.
“Wren, STOP!” He cried and spun to face her.
“What did you say to me?” She snarled and advanced on him. Astarion scooted backwards away from her. I don’t want to hurt you….but she does. “You rat-breathed, spineless creature,” she knelt, her torso unnaturally straight as she sank to his level. “If you’re trying to appeal to her , you’re too late.” she raised her arms up for another blow, but the tinkle of Cazador’s bell cut through, and she froze. The woman spat at Astarion and returned to her perch on the throne.
“Master, t-thank you,” Astarion covered his face with his hands as shudders wracked his body. Cazador towered over him and laughed.
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“Halsin, isn’t there anything we can do?” Karlach asked in a low voice. Worry creased her face.. “He’s not actually going to….you know?” She folded her arms tightly as she watched the druid. Halsin frowned in concentration as he passed his hands over horizontal form on the table. He peeled the bandage off of Astarion’s eyes and winced.
“How long did you say he’s been like this?”
“Dunno for certain- few hours?” Karlach guessed. “We were down in the ruins. Can’t exactly keep time, y’know?”
“It’s been getting worse,” Wren reported from the end of the table. She dipped a fresh bandage in a bowl of milky, light blue liquid before smoothing it over the vampire’s eyes. “He’s been moaning.” She added softly and stroked his hair.
“I’ll need to see what did this,” Halsin said, and the others could hear the promise he wasn’t making.
Lae’zel rose from her seat. “I can show you exactly where we found it, and swiftly.”
“We had better come, too,” Wyll said, gesturing between himself and Gale. “More minds get an eyeful of-” he winced at his word choice. “Point is, we need to figure out a solution, and we cannot waste time.”
“Then we should already be leaving,” Lae’zel headed out of the tent. She paused long enough to nod to Wren and Karlach. “The cleric will stay here with you. This will not be long.”
“We’re going to get Fangs back, you’ll see.” Karlach dropped into her metal chair opposite Wren, who gave her a tight smile of thanks.
“You just need to hold on, Astarion. ”