Chapter Text
Astarion's hands hover above the keys, slightly trembling with anticipation. The cane holds heavy over his bruised knuckles, only growing the anxiety growing in the young man’s gut. He's trying to hold back the frustrated tears that threaten to escape his beautiful eyes so he can properly read the sheet music. His eyes keep stinging; the tears that well up are desperate to pour down his cheeks, seeking some relief. He can't let them fall—not now, not while Cazador is watching. He’s already messed up the same arpeggios three times, and there will not be a fourth.
“Again, from measure forty-four,” Cazador commands with a subtle snarl.
Astarion nods, taking a deep breath to recenter, before counting himself off, and playing the first notes. His fingers dance along the keyboard, his left hand painting a foundation of glistening waves that rippled upward, while the right hand floated above, tracing the contours of a melody so tender it felt like a gentle kiss from a caring mother.
Astarion’s hands glide over the keys with hesitant precision, the faint tremor in his fingers betraying his attempts to stay composed. Each note emerges like a confession, delicate and raw, and for a moment, he believes he’s regained control. His right-hand flows smoothly through the melody, the song blossoming into the tender lullaby it’s meant to be.
But then, it happens again—a wrong note.
The dissonant sound is a dagger through his composure, sharp and unforgiving. Astarion freezes, his fingers hovering mid-air as if the instrument itself had betrayed him. The silence that follows feels heavier than any mistake.
“Stop.” Cazador’s voice slices through the room, cold and venomous. The word reverberates off the walls of the dimly lit practice space, a space that feels more like a gilded cage than a sanctuary for music.
Astarion pulls his hands away from the piano instinctively, folding them in his lap as if to shield them from what he knows is coming. Cazador’s cane—a sleek, polished rod of dark stained wood with a silver rat’s head at the top—lifts from its resting place against the chair.
“Your left hand is dragging,” Cazador says, his voice dangerously calm. “It ruins the phrasing. If you are incapable of maintaining tempo, you are incapable of mastering Liebestraum.”
“I—I can do it,” Astarion stammers, his voice cracking slightly. His throat feels tight, constricted by the shame rising like bile. “I just need—”
Crack!
The cane comes down on the back of his right hand, sharp and stinging. The sound of it echoes louder in Astarion’s ears than it should. His knuckles scream in protest, but he doesn’t flinch—flinching would make it worse. It always makes it worse.
“Excuses,” Cazador says coolly, leaning back in his chair with the detached air of a man correcting an errant child. “Again, from measure forty-four. And do not waste my time.”
Astarion nods stiffly, his gaze locked on the ivory keys before him. The sheet music swims before his eyes, the notes blurring together as hot tears pool at the edges of his vision. He blinks them away furiously, not allowed to wipe his filthy pathetic streams away lest they get on Cazador’s piano. Taking a shallow, uneven breath as he places his hands back on the keyboard. The ache in his knuckles flares with every movement, but he pushes through it, determined to prove he can do this.
He begins again, the opening notes of measure forty-four cascading through the room like raindrops on glass. This time, he forces himself to focus harder than before, visualizing the sequence of notes in his mind. His hands move with more certainty, each finger a soldier following strict orders.
The melody begins to take shape, its tenderness laced with the pain of its execution. Astarion’s left hand sustains the ebb of the accompaniment, while his right hand weaves the delicate melody. It’s not perfect—he knows it’s not perfect—but it’s better. Then his fingers slip again, fumbling the arpeggios’ slur. It’s subtle, almost imperceptible to an untrained ear, but Astarion knows better. And so does Cazador.
The cane strikes before the sound of the mistake has even fully faded. This time, it lands across both hands, the force of the blow rattling up Astarion’s arms. He bites down on his quivering lip to keep from crying out, the metallic tang of blood mixing with the bitterness of humiliation.
“Do you think Drizzt made such errors?” Cazador’s voice is sharp, cutting through Astarion’s mounting frustration like a bullet. “Do you think he was as clumsy as you? Sloppy playing is an insult to the music—and me.”
“I’m sorry,” Astarion whispers, his voice barely audible. He places his trembling hands back on the daunting keys. He can feel the welts rising beneath his skin, the pulsing pain a constant reminder of his pathetic failure.
“Sorry means nothing,” Cazador snaps. “Perfection is the only apology I accept. Now, again.”
Astarion exhales shakily, his shoulders rising and falling with the effort of suppressing the storm of emotions brewing inside him. Anger, shame, fear—they are so overwhelming, but he knows better than to let them out. He’s learned to bury those feelings deep, to lock them away where they can’t interfere with what’s expected of him. They sit locked in a safe, buried in a bottomless pit for no one to find until he snaps or does.
This time, he doesn’t count himself in. He just begins, his fingers moving automatically to the opening position of measure forty-four. The notes spill out of him like a broken dam, the melody raw and aching, tinged with the desperation that simmers just beneath the surface.
He makes it through measure fifty without a mistake. By measure fifty-five, his hands are cramping from the strain of maintaining control, but he doesn’t stop. He doesn’t dare. Despite the vicious protests from his potentially fractured knuckles, he plays the rest of the piece with a stubborn determination.
When he reaches the end of the passage, he freezes, his battered hands cowering above the keys as he waits for Cazador’s judgment. The room is silent save for the sound of Astarion’s labored breathing, hissing through his clenched teeth.
Cazador leans forward slightly, his cold, black, calculating eyes examining Astarion like a special sample under a microscope. “Better,” he says finally, though his tone is anything but approving. “But not adequate. Play it again, from the beginning.”
Astarion’s heart sinks, but he doesn’t argue. He doesn’t protest. He doesn’t even look at Cazador. He simply nods, placing his hands back on the keyboard, and begins again.
Hours pass like this, the cycle of mistakes, punishment, and repetition grinding Astarion down to a husk of himself. By the time Cazador finally rises from his chair and announces the session is over, Astarion’s hands are swollen and bleeding from his broken skin, his body trembling from exhaustion. He sits paralyzed in place until he hears the door close and the distinctive sound of his mentor’s leather shoes clicking against the floor fades.
Only then does he allow his tears to flow, slouching down and curling into himself, definitely fucking up his posture. Astarion remains slumped at the piano, the darkness of the room pressing heavily against his battered frame. The dim candlelight on the walls barely cast enough of a glow to fight the shadows pooling around him, but it illuminates the bloodied crescents his nails have dug into his palm. The air is thick with the bitter tang of sweat and copper, and the faint hum of the piano strings vibrates as if mourning with him. His chest rises and falls too fast, a futile effort to steady his synthetic-like nerves, though no breath can fill the hollowness inside.
He lifts his hands to the keys once more, the pain is a white-hot lance shooting up his arms. The bruises on his knuckles throb in protest with every movement, and the swelling has made his fingers stiff. He can almost hear Cazador’s voice whispering in his mind, cold and cutting. Do you think this is enough?
It isn’t. It never is.
Astarion’s shoulders hunch, his usually perfect posture crumbling as the exhaustion eats at him. His lips tremble, but he sets them into a determined line, forcing his fingers to hover above the piano once again. He knows he has to play—needs to play. If he can just get through Liebestraum No. 3 one more time, maybe he can stave off the disappointment, the sneer that will greet him come morning. Maybe he’ll earn a fragment of silence instead of mockery.
But the keys blur in his vision, the black and white merging into gray. His stomach churns as he fights back another wave of frustration. He bites the inside of his cheek until the metallic taste of blood floods his mouth, grounding him.
He plays.
The melody limps forward, each note like a confession of weakness. His right-hand tries to soar, to weave the delicate, aching lines Drizzt demanded, but it falters. His left hand stumbles in its support, the foundation unsteady, and the sound collapses under its weight. A wrong note slips through—a mistake so glaring it silences the room like a sharp intake of breath.
Astarion slams his hands down on the keys in a dissonant crash, the noise loud and ugly in the suffocating quiet. He grips the edge of the piano, his head bowed as if to apologize to the instrument itself. His pale hair clings to his sweat-slicked forehead, his lips parting as he gasps for something—air, forgiveness, relief—but none comes.
“Pathetic,” he whispers to himself, his voice raw and breaking. The word feels heavier than the cane that struck him, carving deeper into his chest with each repetition. “Pathetic. Pathetic.”
The sound of footsteps—slow, deliberate, and all too familiar—echoes from the hallway. Astarion freezes, his entire body going rigid as though his bones are made of steel. The footsteps grow louder, the measured click of Cazador’s heels on the polished floor drawing closer. Each step tightens the ball of dread coiling in Astarion’s gut. He doesn’t dare turn to look at the door.
When Cazador enters, his presence fills the room like ice creeping into cracks. The air feels sharper and colder. He says nothing at first, his gaze sweeping over Astarion’s hunched form with the weight of a predator sizing up its prey. Astarion doesn’t lift his head; he keeps his eyes on the keys, his trembling fingers still resting against them.
“You’re still here,” Cazador says finally, his tone deceptively mild. “Practicing. How… commendable.”
The words are a noose disguised as a compliment. Astarion knows better than to respond.
Cazador steps closer, the tip of his cane tapping against the floor in time with his steps. He stops just behind Astarion, his frigid hand wraps around the back of his neck. “And yet,” he continues, his voice soft but laced with venom, “it sounds as though you’ve made no progress.”
Astarion swallows hard, his throat tight. He wants to explain, to promise he’ll do better, but he knows it won’t matter. Cazador’s expectations aren’t meant to be met; they’re meant to push and then break him.
“Play,” Cazador commands, the word cracking through the air like a whip.
Astarion’s fingers, stiff and aching, return to the keys. He doesn’t dare hesitate. The first notes stumble out, fragile and uncertain. He tries to focus, to remember the shapes of the chords and the flow of the melody, but his body is betraying him. His hands shake. His vision blurs. Another wrong note slips through, and then another, and then another.
“That’s enough,” Cazador snaps, slamming the cane’s spiked ferrule down on his Astarion’s. He moves to stand beside his pupil, his sharp eyes locking onto the trembling hands on the keys. “Look at me.”
Astarion hesitates, his body trembling with the effort to stay still.
“I said, LOOK AT ME,” Cazador roars, grinding the cane against his foot, shredding the surrounding skin.
Astarion cries out, his puffy blue eyes meeting Cazador’s scrutinizing gaze. The older man leans down slightly, his expression a mask of cruel disdain.
“You disappoint me,” Cazador says softly, the words cutting deeper than any blow. “All the time and effort I’ve invested in you, and this is the result? A pathetic, shaking creature who can’t even play a simple piece properly?”
Astarion’s lips part, a desperate apology forming on his tongue, but the words die in his throat. He stares at Cazador, his chest tightening with something too tangled to name. Fear, anger, shame—it all collides inside him, leaving him hollow and aching.
Cazador straightens, his grip on the cane tightening. “Perhaps you’ve forgotten your place,” he muses, his tone conversational but dripping with malice. “Perhaps you need to be reminded.”
The room spins as the cane swings down again, the sharp crack echoing off the walls. Astarion’s vision blurs as he gasps, his hands flying to his side where the blow landed. The pain is excruciating, but it’s nothing compared to the weight of Cazador’s gaze, watching him crumble.
He doesn’t cry out. He won’t. Not again. He clenches his jaw, his nails digging into his palms as he forces himself to stay upright. The blood dripping from his nose stains his face, it’s laced with the bitterness of defeat.
Cazador steps back, his cold smile a mockery of satisfaction. “You’re done in here for tonight,” he says dismissively. “Clean yourself up. I won’t have you sullying my piano with your filth.”
Astarion nods, eager to clean his wounds and have some time to himself. The door shuts behind Cazador with a finality that feels like abandonment. He pushes himself to his feet, trying to regain his balance as the room spins. Astarion drags his battered frame down the hallway, the rhythmic clicks of his shoes echoing in the silence, each step dragging the weight of the evening’s torment behind him. The sting of pain still clings to his hands and soul, but it’s nothing compared to the aching hollowness that seems to grow deeper with each passing second.
His room is empty, a quiet haven in a storm. He steps inside, the door closing with a soft click behind him, sealing him off from the world. He doesn’t bother to light a candle. The darkness is a comfort, a reflection of how he feels on the inside. In the absence of light, he allows himself a moment to breathe.
He sinks onto the edge of the bed, his body trembling from exhaustion, his hands shaking from more than just physical strain. Astarion curls into himself, pulling his knees to his chest as if trying to hold onto some semblance of himself, the remnants of the fragile dignity he had fought to maintain all evening. His breath is shallow and ragged, but he doesn’t dare let the tears fall just yet.
They’d been building up all evening—caged, desperate to break free—but he can’t give in. Not now. He’s been taught to fight, to survive, to endure. The sharp burn in his chest threatens to overtake him, still, he wills it away, forcing it to retreat into the dark corners of his mind.
But it’s no use. His shoulders shake with the force of the sobs he’s trying to stifle. He bites down on his thumb, his teeth sinking into the soft flesh as though the pain of it can somehow drown the emotions surging inside him. His eyes squeeze shut, the sting of tears pushing against his resolve.
Finally, they spill over. Hot and relentless, they streak down his face, marking him with the rawness he’s so desperately tried to hide. Each tear is a silent admission, a surrender to the weight of the night, to the weight of everything he’s endured. He has no strength left to fight them.
Astarion doesn’t wipe them away. There’s no point. He knows better than to try and erase the proof of his weakness. Wiping the tears away would only enforce the reaction and he had just learned to leave them be. Instead, he lets them fall, each drops a silent confession to the nothingness that surrounds him. His chest heaves with the effort of trying to breathe through the pain, through the feeling of being lost, of being broken in a way that’s too deep to ever fully heal.
The room is silent, but it feels like it’s pressing in on him, suffocating him with its emptiness. His hands tremble, the raw, distended flesh still throbbing from the day’s mistakes. He looks down at them, searching for some kind of explanation in the blood and bruises that taint his skin. But there’s nothing. No redemption, no comfort, no escape.
Astarion lies back, his lithe body sitting heavy against the mattress. The weight of his exhaustion finally overtakes him, and he closes his eyes, surrendering to the darkness that offers no respite, only the promise of tomorrow—a new day of mistakes, punishment, and endless striving for something that will never come.
He needs to be perfect. He can’t afford to make a single mistake. Not when Cazador’s name and reputation will be on full display during the competition this week.
He will prove to everyone Cazador made the right choice picking him.