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When all is said and done, Wyll stands on the edge of the platform, watching as ash rains from the empty cages dangling over the abyss. Each held five vampire spawn, all crammed together, too weak to even cry out for help when their souls were ripped to shreds in the ritual.
Seven thousand innocent lives who had been unlucky enough to be in the wrong place at the wrong time—who’d been living in confinement for decades, perhaps longer. No matter the outcome, their future would’ve been bleak. Released into the under dark, or sacrificed for a cruel master.
But Wyll had a heart, and it tugged in response to the pleading in Astarion’s voice, the desperate look on his face as he begged Wyll to help him with the ritual—to complete it would mean true freedom after two hundred years. After everything they learned, Astarion deserved it.
But none of them were prepared for what came next.
It hadn’t been easy watching the rage take over Astarion; to allow him into his mind in order to see the scars, but Wyll had been overcome with that shared sense of monumental loathing. In that moment, he felt everything. He wanted what Astarion wanted. Freedom. Power. Ascension.
It went against his moral compass and personal code of conduct. For once, he’d listened to his heart rather than head and it backfired spectacularly. The guilt gripped his chest right after the ritual was completed, observing Astarion bathe in red wisps of magic, power visibly curling around and throughout his body.
Then, he’d laughed. Hysterically, like a feral hyena—like someone already driven to madness. And as Astarion slowly came back to himself, his gaze swept across the others without a trace of warmth until it found Wyll. He felt a bone-deep sense of dread coarse through his body.
Nothing about Astarion’s face had visibly changed. No permanent alterations like Wyll had earned from a broken contract, but something was missing. Despite being exhausted, there had still been a light in his deep, red eyes. No longer. It was hollowed out to make room for depravity.
“Wyll?”
Behind him, Karlach’s voice is soft, yet cautious. She’d been adamantly against this ritual, seeing it for the soul-corrupting sham that it was. He should have—and normally would have—agreed with her. Where Wyll found his own judgment clouded, she proved to be good counsel. To think, he’d wanted to kill her mere months ago.
“What in the hells have I done?” He murmurs, eyes panning over each empty cage dangling over the abyss.
Karlach steps closer. “We. Any one of us could’ve stopped it, but we didn’t. We’re all responsible for this.”
The thought does nothing to alleviate the weight threatening to crush his soul. He’s never been one to share a burden when it could easily be shouldered by himself. Why drag others down with him?
“I don’t know if I trust what he’s become.”
“The feeling is mutual. I don’t think he’s the same person we knew, but for now, we’ll keep him close, yeah?” She puts a hand between his shoulder blades. “We know how to take vampires down—It might be the same for lords. Let’s just hope it doesn’t come to that, though.”
The very idea feels like a betrayal, but he nods. “Let’s get out of here.”
Finally turning away, Wyll makes a beeline for the grand staircase, footsteps echoing throughout the massive room. Tav lingers at the outer edges, lips drawn in a thin line as they survey the scene but take Wyll’s approach as an instruction to scurry up the stairs. Anything to avoid the new Astarion.
While crossing the dais, he feels the weight of powerful, dark eyes following his every move. Being the focus of Astarion’s attention is not something he’s ever relished, and certainly not if it’s because he’s the only one who helped with the ritual. He can only pray it doesn’t come with favouritism.
Problems only multiply when they reach the elevator. Somehow a dozen heavily armed Gur Hunters had arrived with their leader—Ulma—at the front, ready to confront them. She steps forwards, scanning Wyll’s exhausted, repentant, demeanour, and it tells her everything they need to know.
Wyll doesn’t want a fight with these people, but Astarion’s newfound arrogance provokes one—eager to test his new abilities, he grins while ripping into the nearest hunter. Arrows fly, spells are cast. Wyll takes no satisfaction in striking down those who attack first but he still has survival instincts.
Only when he turns around too slowly—and receives a blast of magic to the chest—does he truly realize his mistake. Pain erupts, shooting through his veins as the impact sends him flying across the room. The air is knocked from his lungs when he slams against the concrete wall and the world goes dark.
Unconsciousness only lasts a few moments, however. He spots Astarion near the empty cell, frozen to the spot. As soon as they make eye contact—perhaps with the confirmation Wyll is still alive—absolute malice twists his face, followed by his lips curling to bare newly sharpened fangs.
“How dare you touch him.” Comes out as a vicious snarl, voice low and dangerous. Blood coats his teeth and chin. “He’s mine.”
Wyll has no time to react or beg for Ulma’s life; he wants nothing more than to move her out of harm’s way, but can only watch as Astarion lunges forward. A gut-wrenching chorus of screams echo though the room as he descends upon her in a storm of fangs and claws.
It’s horrific. Wyll’s vision is blurry, but the scene playing out before them will be the subject of nightmares for years to come. The screaming slowly turns into wet gurgling, drowning out whatever Karlach is saying; she’d rushed over and knelt down, desperately trying to get Wyll’s attention.
Cazador’s necromancer had targeted him specifically for being the one to rescue Astarion from his spot in the ritual. Their magic had practically reached inside and scooped out his life force, draining him for the last half of the fight. Ulma’s bolt of fire to the chest at such close range further weakened him.
“Open up, solider.” Karlach gently tilts his head back and brings a glass bottle to his lips. There’s a distinct aroma of mango and peaches. “And down the hatch.”
It helps. Soothing warmth flows down his throat, weaving through muscles and skin alike to entwine things back together. It’s a temporary reprieve that should last long enough to return to camp. As he watches the bones in his hand slowly shift back into place, background noises start fading, along with the dark patches in his vision.
All physical wounds close as soon as the magic touches them, but the same can’t be said for the internal, psychological and emotional damage sustained here today. It’s going to take a lot more than a few elixirs and herbal remedies for that—can it heal the hole which once held blooming admiration and affection for Astarion?
As the ache fades, footsteps click across the marble floor and Wyll’s gaze lifts to see Astarion approaching. Drenched in so much blood that the liquid squelching can be heard in each step; soaked clothes sticking to his body, even his hair is mixed with pieces of gore. Of whom the fleshy scraps belonged to, he’d rather not know.
Astarion speaks first. “Still with me?”
The gentle tone would be a relief to hear, had Astarion’s eyes not betrayed his intentions. There was a deeper hunger there, like he wants wyll to be incapacitated in order to have an excuse to slaughter more—and they’re currently locked on Karlach’s protective grip around his bicep.
“I’ll be fine—” Wyll says, inching away from her. “—once we get out of this gods-forsaken place.”
“Why, I couldn’t agree more, darling.” Astarion practically purrs, voice lowered to a sensual murmur. “Shall we?”
He offers out a hand, but it’s more than a simple gesture. To take it is a show of acceptance of this new reality—to show he accepts Astarion in this new state, or worse, likes it. Yet, to deny it would potentially trigger the fragile ego that lead to the deaths of all these hunters in the first place.
To be seen as a possession by someone warped by power is something Wyll would have to rectify sooner rather than later. He doesn’t want Astarion tearing into anyone he sees as a threat on Wyll’s behalf. They aren’t together. Unlike Tav, they hadn’t slept together, nor had he even let Astarion feed on him.
So, the sudden switch-up and obsession is entirely unwarranted and he struggles to understand where it’s coming from. Is this the price to pay for choosing to see the good in everyone, in choosing to remain at Astarion’s side while he slowly recovered from a lifetime of enslavement?
How dare you touch him. He’s mine.
Deciding to play it safe, Wyll reaches out and takes his hand. It’s a strong grip. Ice cold. They stand face to face, tension thickening, resolve unwavering as Astarion tilts his head. Calm, analytical contemplation, as if he’s being seen for the very first time.
Before all this happened, Wyll knew with absolute certainty that Astarion would never purposely harm him, or anyone else within their group. He didn’t even feed on Tav without consent. It’s unnerving to admit, but now.. he isn’t sure. What if someone at camp acts in a way Astarion deems disrespectful?
Wyll has faced countless foes, unimaginable horrors. He’s not one to submit and run away with his tail between his legs, and it won’t start now. Whatever Astarion has become, it will not frighten Wyll. It won’t. Placating him does not require blind submission and obedience.
That being said, Wyll still chooses to turn and offer a hand to Karlach; though she’s only crouching and could get up without aid, it’s the principle of the matter which counts. For once, she’s a little hesitant but takes it. In stark contrast to Astarion, her grip is warm, and soft, yet firm.
The room is silent aside from the dying, desperate wheezes of those still clinging to life, and still, Astarion stares at him. Something that comes with knowing he’s now the most powerful being in this room—perhaps even the city, adds to the tense, ominous atmosphere.
It won’t frighten him.
Wyll squeezes her hand and they share a similar expression—one that conveys the same idea, no tadpole required. They’re in this together. And so, they both brush past toward the elevator. Before the ritual, Astarion had mentioned claiming ownership of the palace, so he doesn’t follow. Not yet.
Every breath and heartbeat is under scrutiny from that ceaseless watching while it begins the ascent back to the surface. Wyll makes eye contact—and in doing so, damns himself to a lifetime of grudgingly yearning. Astarion’s lips slowly curl into a smug smirk, as if the bastard somehow knows it too.
The rite had taken Astarion’s soul, that much is clear—but as the scene fades from view, he wonders if it had taken his too.