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If, mere months ago, during the whole crisis with the Absolute, if one had asked Astarion what he would do if he was freed from both the tadpole and Cazador, he would have responded with a humorless laugh and assumed he was being mocked. The tadpole itself was a miracle; the idea of being able to kill his master, let alone in the brief timeframe their little party had before the Absolute had to be dealt with, seemed like a ludicrous pipe dream for him.
But, if he ever had contemplated the glorious possibility, in the brief moments that allowed for it – which hecertainly did not – he never envisioned he'd go to live in the Hells. Willingly. The fact that he would care so much about not just one, but two people, that he would follow them into the Hells, is a novel concept to him.
But he had. And somehow, he's reasonably content with his lot.
Karlach, Wyll, and Astarion have made a camp in a relatively sheltered crag. It's just as hot and horrible as the rest of Avernus, but they're shielded from hostile eyes on most sides. Astarion is on watch, again, as his partners try to sleep; being an elf, he requires less rest than the human and the tiefling.
It's quiet as Avernus can be, for now. Astarion takes a moment to admire his company.
Wyll and Karlach are snuggled together, the man curled into Karlach's bigger, stronger arms, head angled so his horns don't uncomfortably bump up into anything. Wyll's ridged, scarred face is smooth and relaxed in his sleep, and tucked into Karlach's chest, illuminated by her pulsing engine. Karlach leans on the side of her broken horn, hand laid near Wyll's horns, as if she was petting them before she fell asleep. Karlach's tail is draped over the tangle of their legs, twitching lightly in her sleep.
Before very recently, Astarion would have repressed the surge of affection he feels at the sight.
Wyll's pact had been broken. Mizora had presented him with an impossible choice back in Baldur's Gate: his soul, or his father's life. Wyll would have sold his soul to Mizora permanently had Astarion and Karlach not objected. Astarion knows he saw his own struggle for freedom reflected in Wyll's choice, and he thinks Karlach had a similar train of thought, and they could not let Wyll squander his only chance at freedom, the selfless fool he was (also, Grand Duke Ravengard seemed like kind of a bastard and not worth it in Astarion's eyes).
But it turned out that Mizora had severely slacked off when it came to killing Wyll's father, and they found him alive in that underwater prison nearly a tenday later, and while the experience of trying to free as many captives as possible and escape the actively collapsing Iron Throne was horrific, it might have been worth it for the euphoria of having outplayed a devil.
And maybe the dazzling smile on Wyll's face, warm as the sun during the brief time it had been kind to Astarion.
But since the pact was broken, Wyll had to rapidly learn a new method of fighting if they were to survive in Avernus. Having a ranger in their three-man party turned out to be incredibly useful in the unforgiving land. Wyll quite quickly learned some basic healing spells, could conjure goodberries to supplement the severe lack of food and water, and even learned the same lesser restoration spell that Shadowheart and Halsin would use to restore one's blood after Astarion drank from them.
So, due to Wyll's quick learning, the trio is able to sustain themselves: Wyll and Karlach having the food they need, and Astarion being able to feed on them.
And with them, it is an intimate thing.
When Astarion feeds from Karlach, she likes to sit upright, allowing him to sit in her lap with her arms securely around his torso. He normally grips the shoulders for a steady grip, but Karlach likes to do the holding herself, tail loosely wrapped around his torso for good measure, so his grip is looser with her as he finds a soft spot on her scarred neck to bite into – usually on her right side, so her intact horn doesn't get in the way. When he drinks, her blood is as hot as the rest of her, just shy of scalding, savory with a strange aftertaste that he has a suspicion might be from the infernal tubing replacing her veins – but it's not bad, and he relishes the unique taste. She likes to tease him when he laps up the blood with his tongue, petting his hair and likening him to a cat. He tends to nuzzle into her neck, hiding his blush that he's fairly certain he can only get after feeding. She likes to kiss him afterward, claiming she wants to know what she tastes like, and Astarion reminds her she needs no excuse if she just wants kisses. He especially likes it when their fangs click against each other. It’s cute.
When he drinks from Wyll, they're usually lying on their sides, facing each other so Astarion doesn't accidentally get stabbed in the eye by the tips of Wyll’s horns. Astarion likes to trace the ridges on Wyll's skin, gently, as he finds a place to grip in his shoulder, and bites down in the space between ridges on his neck. Wyll tastes sugary sweet, like honey, reflective of his overly selfless and do-gooder nature, but with a distinct smoky flavor, too, no doubt owed to the touch of the Hells. Wyll tends to push his nose into Astarion's hair, and gently massage circles into his back, and Astarion likes to kiss the bite mark when he's gotten his fill. Wyll tends to get woozier from the blood loss and numbing venom than Karlach, so Astarion usually has to remind him to cast the restoration spell before coming back to cuddle, and they often end up falling asleep.
So, he's in Hell with his two most favorite people in any plane, and those moments of tenderness keep them all going. Wyll insists they don't have to stay forever, that they can find a permanent cure for Karlach's heart, and they can return to Faerûn. That's their main goal, besides “survive.”
But really, things aren't all that bad in Avernus for a vampire spawn. The only major problem is finding blood, and Astarion has that covered. There's no sun to disintegrate his skin, just a blood-red haze over everything in the region. No running water to worry about wading through, only rivers of blood (too bad they're too rancid to drink). And for someone as bloodthirsty as he, plenty of demons to cut through with no consequences that he particularly cares about. The uncomfortable heat doesn't particularly bother him; in fact, it almost makes his insides feel warm again. And the horrendous air quality isn't much of an issue either, considering he has no need to breathe.
But while he won't be able to walk in the sun on the surface anymore, he still misses the stars, the cool night breeze, and green things. And maybe, he misses their other formerly-tadpoled friends.
Time feels as if it doesn't pass in Avernus. With no sun, moon, or stars, there is no day or night, and Astarion has no idea how long it's been when he hears the sounds of Wyll and Karlach waking behind him.
Their “morning” routine is to have a meager breakfast of scavenged fire fungus and conjured goodberries, then pack up their camp and keep moving. Currently, their destination is Zariel's forge, which had been mentioned in a note they found on a higher-ranking demon. Karlach thinks it might be a lead to a permanent fix for her heart, and it's the best one they have.
They always follow a more secluded path when they can, rather than staying out in the open, but it’s no surprise when they encounter attacking demons anyway. Their teamwork in fights is instinctual by now: Karlach draws the attention of most enemies, Astarion stabs them while they’re distracted, and Wyll attacks from afar. This works surprisingly well most of the time they’re faced with low-level demons, but they have also honed the skills to deal with other situations.
Astarion is wrenching a dagger out from the rear of a hellhound attacking Karlach when he hears Wyll’s shout from behind him. A cambion has disarmed Wyll, who is trying to fend it off with his horns. Astarion sprints over to latch onto its back, stabbing into one shoulder and hooking his claws into the other, to rip its throat out with his teeth. Foul blood sprays Wyll, Astarion twisting his head to spit it out, but Wyll just meets his gaze with gratitude. Astarion supposes his companions have gotten used to him killing things in the most monstrous ways. He shoots Wyll a bloodstained grin while he recovers his bow.
Then, as Astarion watches Karlach cave in another cambion’s skull with a blazing fist, he figures maybe they don’t have any room to judge.
Maybe that’s why they all gravitated towards each other. They all intimately knew what it was like to be twisted into something monstrous against their will, and then having no choice but to embrace it.
The battle ends quickly after that, in a spray of guts and gore from devils and demons. Wyll produces a handkerchief to wipe their faces and hands clean, at least, until the handkerchief itself was drenched in gore.
They continue onward, and find it is quiet for a while.
“Hey, I know you don’t want to get your hopes up too high, Astarion, but what should we do if this forge thing works? If we actually manage to… fix me?” Karlach asks.
“Well, we’d return home, wouldn’t we?” Astarion says. “I admit, I haven’t given much thought to the specifics.”
“Thought you liked being able to kill so much here,” Wyll teases. “And the lack of sun besides.”
“Well, it’s certainly an upside,” Astarion says. “But it is still literally Hell down here. It really doesn’t have the same charm as the material plane.”
“Well, glad to hear you wouldn’t mind returning sooner rather than later. If we find our solution soon. Yeah, yeah, don’t get my hopes up,” Karlach grumbles.
“I wouldn’t mind going back to visit our old friends, in any case,” Astarion admits.
“So you do have a soft spot for them,” Wyll says. “I’ll be sure to tell Gale when we see him.”
“He did grow on me. Like a parasitic fungus,” Astarion mutters.
“I could say the same about you,” Wyll retorts, a smile playing at his lips.
Karlach barks out a laugh.
They end up finding something of a tavern, a rare sight in Avernus. It has real beds, some edible food, and alcohol strong enough to knock out a devil.
The problem is that the patrons are all devils and demons, and while Wyll and Karlach are able to blend in well enough with their fiendish features, Astarion sticks out like a sore thumb, pale as death and decidedly hornless. As Karlach and Wyll enjoy eating meat after living off berries and mushrooms for tendays, Astarion scans the room, feeling the distinct prickle of discomfort that comes with being stared at.
“Do you think Zariel knows by now that you have a pale elf traveling with you?” Astarion mutters to Karlach, maintaining a mutual glare with an orthon across the bar.
“I dunno,” Karlach replies. “Sure hope not. We haven’t been attacked here yet, though.”
“Comforting,” Astarion growls.
“We’ve lain low enough,” Wyll murmurs. “None of our attackers have been targeting us specifically, as far as we can tell. Just bloodthirsty devils killing anything not part of their pack.”
“We shouldn’t linger, all the same,” Astarion says. “That orthon’s eyeing me.”
“Maybe because you’re eyeing him,” Wyll notes. “You’re right, though. We’ll rest in a bed for once, and then we’ll be off.”
When they enter their room for the night, Karlach insists Astarion doesn’t have to keep watch, but he convinces her to shove a dresser in front of the locked door anyway. They clean up more, as much as they can, as they undress, and fall into bed. Astarion squeezes between Wyll and Karlach, and it’s — nice, to feel their gentle touch, and to listen to Wyll’s heartbeat and Karlach’s engine.
“Aw, you’re not as cold,” Karlach whines.
“I’m cold-blooded, not a cooling pack. I warm up,” Astarion mutters. “And it’s bloody hot here. I almost feel warm on the inside again.”
“We’ll cool you down, Karlach.” Wyll’s voice comes out as a soothing rumble when he’s tired.
Astarion holds his tongue, but Karlach says softly, “How can you be sure?”
“I thought I might never get out of my pact,” Wyll admits. “The two of you saved me, and my father besides. Astarion thought Cazador would be impossible to kill, and we proved that wrong.”
“You talked me down from sacrificing seven thousand souls, too,” Astarion points out. “Including my own.” Recalling that debacle, he feels like a fool for not realizing it beforehand. If he had managed to pull off the ritual, he would hold such power – but as a soulless husk.
He’s very grateful, now, to have companions that are smarter than him.
“Yes, indeed, and I’m very glad we did,” Wyll says. “The point is, both Astarion and I attained our freedom when we thought it impossible.
“We’ll free you from Zariel, too. We’ll fix your engine, for good, and return home. To Baldur’s Gate.”
Karlach leans in closer, and Astarion thinks he feels her tears in his hair as she just says, “Gods, I hope so.”
The orthon doesn’t end up picking a fight with them. Nor do any other patrons of the tavern as the trio leaves.
Astarion’s still paranoid, though. It’s perfectly reasonable to be so in Avernus, especially when they start to trespass on Zariel’s private property.
But, by some miracle, the plan works.
The forge is huge, bigger than any modest blacksmith forge on the material plane. It’s carved into a mountainside under a rocky overhang, with multiple stations to work from. It takes quite a while to scout the area without being caught, but it’s not especially difficult in the long shadows of mountain and under the clanging and roaring of smithing.
Karlach recognizes one of the smiths working infernal metal on the forge. Wyll and Astarion have to hold her back when she does, growling, “That’s him. That’s the fucker who put this thing in my chest. Zariel ordered it, but that cunt did the operation.”
“We need to wait until he’s alone,” Astarion hisses. “Then we can overpower him, make him work for us.”
“It’s not a particularly solid plan,” Wyll says. “We should try and find some blueprints for what we’re looking for.”
After some more snooping, Astarion’s light fingers eventually land on something that looks promising: blueprints for an infernal engine, implanted in a living person’s chest, strikingly similar to Karlach’s, but improved, more insulated, built to last.
“That horrid bitch,” Karlach growls. “Making more living weapons after me. I bet I was one of the first guinea pigs. I bet none of those people asked to have their hearts replaced with a machine, either.”
“At least they improved on the design,” Astarion notes. “We just have to get that smith to apply those upgrades.”
“It’s still made to be a weapon, though,” Wyll points out. “It’ll need to be modified, still, to function more like a heart.”
“From what I know of this fucker, he’s also fixed up some high-ranking soldiers with mechanical ‘improvements,’” Karlach says. “Built to travel the lower circles of the Hells without blowing up. We’ve got to get my hunk of junk to last.”
“Then we should make our move,” Wyll urges. “As soon as he’s alone.”
Their opportunity strikes soon enough, when the other smiths invite the target to go out for drinks and he declines, choosing to work instead. Astarion rolls his eyes, before slinking up behind the smith to hold a dagger to his throat.
“Don’t try anything,” he growls. “We killed Raphael; you and your friends would be nothing.”
Astarion worries for a second the smith wouldn’t believe him, but he cooperates, nodding slightly.
“Remember me, fucker?” Karlach announces, and Astarion nudges the smith’s face with his knife, urging him to pay attention to her.
“The first to undergo the engine surgery,” the smith says, voice wobbling. “Yes. I remember. An inefficient design.”
“Which is why you’re going to fix it,” Karlach demands. “Make it durable. Fit to function as a heart in every damn plane.”
Under threat of painful death, the smith agrees.
“I can’t do much about the pain,” he warns. “Please don’t kill me for it.”
“I’ve got high pain tolerance. Survived the first time, didn’t I?” Karlach retorts, but there’s fear behind those golden eyes. “Just get it done.”
“Astarion,” Wyll speaks up.
Astarion turns his head slightly, ears tilting towards Wyll.
“Your bite – it has a numbing toxin, doesn’t it?” Wyll asks.
Astarion licks the tips of his fangs, tasting a bit of the venom. “Yes, why?”
Wyll raises an eyebrow at him.
“Ohh,” Astarion smirks. “You’ll have to take over hostage duty, though, dear.”
“Of course,” Wyll says, and the two carefully swap positions so that the smith is never not threatened.
The smith groans.
Astarion has never bitten anything for the express purpose of using his venom to numb pain before.
Well, new experiences happen all the time.
The whole ordeal was rather comical from an outsider perspective. The smith, working to engineer Karlach a new heart, sweating from exertion and occasionally asking permission from Wyll to move. Wyll, who started telling strange stories from his years as the Blade of Frontiers as he held the blade steady by the smith. Karlach, laid out on the operating table, who seemed conscious but in a bizarre trance from being hammered on and numbed by the bite. Astarion, who was just on his knees next to the operating table doing nothing but sticking his fangs in Karlach’s arm and resisting the temptation to suck her blood.
“It’s done,” says the smith, eventually, when he picks the last piece of old infernal metal out of Karlach’s flesh.
Astarion finally releases his bite with a grotesque sucking sound, and leans back to look at his partner. Her chest seems to have more metal on the outside, now, but the glow in her chest is gone, as are the flickers of flame that once danced over her body. She’s breathing lightly, eyes staring upward, a smile slowly growing on her face.
“I can live, right?” the smith asks with trepidation.
“Yes,” Wyll says, slowly drawing his blade away from the smith’s gut. “But tell anyone of this, and we will return to the Hells and bathe you in your own blood.”
Astarion’s always a bit caught off guard when Wyll says violent things.
The cowardly smith sighs. “Yes. I will tell no one. I have no real friends, anyway.”
Astarion shakes Karlach, who is limp, but giggling softly. Wyll catches his gaze and moves to help Astarion lift her up off the table.
“Thanks, old fucker,” Karlach drawls out at the smith, waving weakly, as her two boyfriends carry her to safety.
They camp in Avernus for the last time.
Karlach fell asleep at some point while the men carried her. Wyll and Astarion cooperate to lay her heavy body out on a bedroll as she sleeps off the pain and the venom, and then wordlessly decide to sit next to each other as they wait for her to wake.
“Surely you didn’t really wrestle a hill giant,” Astarion murmurs, pressing into Wyll.
“I sure did.” Wyll links his arm with Astarion’s to hold his hand. “Shirtless, with nothing but my fists. At the tender age of nineteen.”
“We had to share the burden of our huge tiefling girlfriend between us,” Astarion says. “The Blade of Avernus, what a dirty liar you are.”
“I didn’t say I won,” Wyll says, and Astarion snorts a little.
“I’m tired,” Astarion complains. “Biting for hours on end, while focusing on not drawing any blood, is exhausting.”
“Do you need blood?” Wyll asks.
So generous. Two hundred years of torment, and Astarion feels as if luck is finally catching up with him.
“Yes,” Astarion replies simply, and he leans in to bite Wyll’s neck.
He reminds Wyll to cast the restoration spell on himself, and they sit in silence after that.
Wyll seems to be falling asleep when Karlach finally wakes. Her eyes flicker open, stare upward as she blinks a couple times, and then turns her head to look at Astarion and Wyll. Astarion nudges Wyll to wake him.
“I feel good,” she says weakly. “Did it work?”
“From what I can tell, you’re not on fire anymore, at all,” Astarion tells her.
“It worked. Oh my gods.” Karlach pulls herself up, a big grin spreading across her face. “I’m gonna go home. I’m gonna go home and live.”
“Yes, Karlach,” a slightly groggy Wyll says gently. “We’re going home. You’re free.”
Karlach lunges at Wyll and Astarion, pulling them into a tight hug. “I didn’t think it would ever happen. I love you. I love you both so much. You’re incredible.”
A laugh bubbles out of Astarion’s chest, a bit strangled from Karlach’s chokehold on him. He’s… happy. He’s happy for Karlach. Why does his face feel wet?
“I told you,” Wyll laughs into Karlach’s shoulder. “There is a future for us.”
“You’ll stay with me?” Karlach asks.
Astarion laughs again, leaning back to look into her eyes. “We followed you into the literal Hells, dear. Of course we’ll stay with you.”
“Of course,” Karlach swallows. “I’m – just not used to… the idea of finally getting something good, with no drawback.”
“Believe me, I know,” Wyll says. “I think we all do. I already feel as though I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop. But, for the first time, I can’t see it.”
“Gods, there’s so much to do once we get back,” Karlach says, still grinning from ear to ear. “We have to tell Shadowheart, and Gale, and Lae’zel, and the rest. Oh, there’s so many places I haven’t had the chance to visit – we should visit Gale in Waterdeep!”
“We still have to get out of the Hells first,” Astarion says.
“The House of Hope isn’t far,” Wyll says. “We can travel straight to Waterdeep from there using the portal network.”
“Oh, and I can tell Hope the good news, too!” Karlach exclaims. “I just want to tell everyone!”
Hope. What a peculiar feeling.
To have bonded so closely with others due to their shared violation of freedom, the feeling of powerlessness, the assumption that their little fling would be short-lived because they would end up as a slave, a lemure, and a pile of ash, because their fates felt impossible to escape. To then achieve the impossible, somehow, for all of them. To think they might have a future.
Too many times, over two hundred years, Cazador had tempted Astarion with just a shred of hope, only to rip it away when it seemed the most promising, because it would hurt him that much more. To grind him under his heel. To force him to accept that this was eternity.
But it wasn’t eternity. Cazador is dead. And the ones Astarion had bonded with over their shared suffering have also broken free. And he quite likes them.
So he leans into that feeling, into Karlach and Wyll’s warmth, and he thinks he feels more alive than ever.
And after a short while, they pack up to leave for home.