Work Text:
A languid hand passing through Astarion’s curls woke him up in the middle of a wonderful dream. He stirred, still half-asleep, unsure of where he was or what was happening around him. A flash of pain immediately shot down his spine. He let out a gasp of pain and immediately remembered where he was. In response, the hand in his hair closed itself like a claw and violently lifted him off the ground. Astarion struggled at first, purely out of reflex, before remembering who was holding his hair. He had the reflex to go limp like a rag doll, praying it wasn’t too late to appease Cazador. His master’s anger was quick to arise and slow to dissipate. Astarion risked opening his eyes and shuddered at the delighted glint in his master’s.
“What do I hear, darling?” Cazador purred in a vicious voice. “A wail, after the favor I granted you?”
“No. No! Not a wail. It was... a moan of pleasure. I swear! I was dreaming of you!”
Cazador laughed and viciously pushed him away. Astarion fell to the bedroom floor. He stifled a second cry of pain, thanking the god who had a moment to spare to watch him help him land on his butt rather than his back, whoever they were. The contact with the icy floor may have been uncomfortable for his bottom, but feeling that same cold on his lacerated back would have been worse. Cazador’s nails were long and sharp. Last night, his master had had some fun with him. Cazador’s amusements always left their mark. Astarion was lucky Cazador was in a good mood last night. There were worse things he could have done than scratch his back until he bled. Astarion had fallen asleep in a pool of his blood, but it could have been worse. With Cazador, there was always worse. Astarion knew that.
He wisely stayed in the same position, his head bowed like a supplicant. Cazador liked it when his children begged. He liked it even more when they shook in terror. What he didn’t like was being lied to. Fortunately, Astarion hadn’t lied. He liked it when Cazador made him bleed. Or rather, he liked it better than any other option and it had to be enough to convince Cazador, as long as his voice was sincere. Otherwise, Astarion wouldn’t give much for the rest of the skin on his back, among other parts of his anatomy.
“You liked it then?” Cazador asked, raising a perfect eyebrow.
Astarion held back his breath. From the corner of his eyes, he saw a hand come to him. Cazador slashed his throat with a fingernail, echoing the gesture he had made so many years earlier before killing and transforming Astarion. Astarion swallowed, a thin line of sweat trickling down his spine.
“Yes,” he breathed.
He didn’t dare raise his head to see if Cazador believed him. If he did, his master would think him guilty whether he was or not. After all, innocent people didn’t squirm in fear of their master’s justice.
“Better. I may even believe you, little insect.”
Astarion lowered his head even lower. Cazador always used these awful nicknames. “Insect.” “Worm.” They weren’t even the worst ones he could use. Others would hurt more. Astarion had some of his own. “Coward”. “Easily broken”.
At least his master seemed satisfied with his answer. Astarion hadn’t breathed for over a century, but he had never lost the reflex to hold his breath when he feared Cazador’s unpredictable reactions.
“I sometimes wonder what I’m going to do with you,” Cazador sighed, once again playfully passing his hand through Astarion’s hair. “You’ve been with us for over a century, and you still cannot show the respect you owe your elders and superiors.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s not an apology I want, but respect,” Cazador snapped, tugging harder on his hair. “I took you with me. You were nothing more than a worm, a scribbler barely good enough to do what he was paid for, a talentless magistrate with no future. Don’t you agree?”
“Yes, master.”
“I took you into my bed last night to thank you for bringing me this adorable street singer. She was so delicious you deserved a reward. I could have forced you to return to your bed through these icy corridors. Instead, I let you sleep at the foot of my bed. Isn’t that the very mark of a good master?”
“Yes, master.”
“You have nothing for you except that pretty face and that tongue of yours. If only you could keep in your pocket! You didn’t know how to use them before I took you in. I turned them into tools in my service. That’s more than you could ever have managed on your own. Will you dare say otherwise?”
“No, master.”
“Good. Maybe then it’s not too late to get a thing or two into your pretty, empty little head.”
The hand went back to stroking his hair with something that could pass for affection. Long ago, before Cazador transformed him, Astarion had known how to recognize the difference between affection and manipulation. He no longer could. He always felt something for the prey he brought back to his master, but this vague feeling was so intertwined with shame and self-loathing. Astarion no longer knew right from wrong, black from white.
Sometimes, he even wondered if he loved Cazador. His master was handsome and desirable. There was no denying that, and Astarion would have fallen to the ground like a dog if he asked. Was it love? Was Astarion genuinely happy to feel his master’s whip, dagger, or teeth pierce his flesh, or was he convincing himself just so he could convince Cazador?
Stop. It was dangerous even to think of that. Cazador couldn’t read his thoughts or he would have tortured him more often, daily, even. Astarion feared Cazador would read his emotions on his face and make him pay dearly for the little independence of mind he still had.
“I’ll try to do better,” he promised fervently.
Cazador pursed his lips in disapproval.
“I wonder why I still try to help and please an insect like you. I give you the affection you crave like a starving dog, I open you my bed, I bring you to orgasm when you beg me to, and yet you still whine and ask for more, always more. Tell me, don’t you find it unbearable when it comes from your one-night stands?”
“Yes.”
Cazador smiled victoriously.
“It’s probably because you hate yourself. What do you say to that?”
Astarion let out a short, nervous laugh. Cazador was right, of course. Astarion hated anything that reminded him of his weaknesses, especially his weaknesses towards his master. He wished he could stand up to Cazador, tell him his truths, that there was no true pleasure in reaching orgasm at the hands of his tormentor and spending the day sleeping in his blood on a stone floor at the foot of a comfortable bed lined with velvet and satin pillows. Astarion had never wanted this life. If only he were strong enough to say so, but he knew he would never be, not while Cazador kept the leash so tightly around his neck.
“I can change,” he said, practically crawling on the floor to get closer to the foot of Cazador’s bed. “I can be anything you want, anyone you want.”
He wanted to vomit, seeing himself crawling like that before his master. Sometimes it was like there were two men within him. The first one still had just enough substance to feel sick at the other’s actions, the one who lowered himself to crawl before Cazador, the one who would have groveled for a caress, for a word that wasn’t an insult, the one who was totally, irreparably broken, the one who preferred the comfort of Cazador’s fleeting favor to the punishment he might inflict. Astarion feared the day the first man would disappear forever. His voice was weaker every day. It was surprising it had survived for so long.
Maybe he should be proud a part of him had continued to fight for over a century, but Astarion doubted his will’s shreds would survive another decade. Only the broken one would survive to respond to Cazador’s whim. One part of him cried with relief at that thought, the other screamed in terror. Soon, Astarion would be nothing more than a tool without conscience or remorse in Cazador’s hands. He couldn’t wait to be here. It would be so much less painful.
“Enough,” Cazador interrupted him in his tracks. “You’re no longer funny enough to amuse me. Turn around. I want to see my work.”
Astarion complied immediately. He forced himself not to react when Cazador placed his greedy, icy hands on his mutilated back, tracing with a sharp nail the design he had been carving there for years. Astarion never knew when Cazador would call him to continue the drawing he had begun over a century ago. Sometimes, Cazador added a new line. Sometimes, he went back over an old one to make sure Astarion would keep a scar. Cazador never explained why he did that. The only time Astarion dared ask, Cazador forced him to beg for forgiveness while tearing his own nails with pincers. Compared to that, a night spent having his back cut before sleeping on an icy floor was close to paradise, but Astarion still hated every time Cazador put his hand on his back as if Astarion was the canvas to his genius. Astarion had long known how little value his life—or rather, his unlife—had in Cazador’s eyes, but he liked even less than this little value was concentrated almost entirely behind his back. Even dead, a man had his pride.
“Perfect,” Cazador murmured, gripping Astarion’s shoulder possessively. “We’re almost there.”
Astarion bit back the question that was burning his lips. All he knew about the filth carved into his back was the little he and his siblings had extracted from Cazador over the years. It was very little. They knew it was a ritual and that Cazador and Mephistopheles had a contract. Astarion would have killed to know more, but he only knew the engraving’s pattern on his back because he had seen it on the others’ backs. The same pattern, repeated seven times on their backs, with infinite variations that disappeared progressively as Cazador refined his design. Astarion hated them. The pattern on his back is as much as its designer. Cazador dared to call his work poetry. An ode to suffering, that’s what it was. Astarion would have gladly run a knife into his own back to cut his flesh and erase the design. He couldn’t. Cazador had been very clear with his instructions. They were not allowed to touch the design, nor to alter it, nor to ask anyone to alter it, nor to speak of it to anyone in town. And since Cazador also forbid them to leave the city, that left little chance of discovering the truth one day.
“Turn around,” Cazador ordered again. “And not another word. I’ve heard enough from you for today.”
Astarion turned mechanically. He had no choice but to obey. Such was the mental coercion Cazador had placed upon him. At first, he had tried to fight it. Such a struggle had proved futile. They only vaguely amused Cazador. It had been a long time since Astarion even tried. Sometimes he wondered if Cazador had stopped his compulsion long ago, knowing they would still obey out of fear and habit. His master liked to play this kind of mind game, but Astarion had never dared to test the validity of this theory. He feared to discover he was guilty of his master’s crimes.
Astarion turned and faced Cazador. He was completely naked, but he had given himself to too many people in his master’s service to be embarrassed by his own nudity. At least, that’s what he kept telling himself because when Cazador was looking at him, he felt like a rag doll, only fit to be used by others. He no longer felt anything beyond mechanical excitement when having sex with strangers.
“Look at me,” Cazador commanded.
Astarion raised his head. Sometimes he found his master handsome, sometimes he thought him as ugly as a three-quarters decomposed corpse. He wanted to rebel, to carve Cazador’s work into his skin. That would teach him, but Astarion wouldn’t put it on Cazador’s back so he could hide it. Oh no. He would put it on his forehead, on his cheeks, on his hands, again and again, a pattern repeated hundreds of times until Cazador begged him to stop, just as Astarion had so often begged.
A slap sent him flying three steps away.
“You forget yourself again, Astarion. You forget you owe your master respect. Now, show your gratitude for the night I granted you.”
Astarion once again crawled to kiss Cazador’s icy hand. At the last second, Cazador took his hand away with a low, evil chuckle. An equally white and cold foot appeared from under the quilt. Blood rushed to Astarion’s forehead. Ashamed, but unable to disobey, he kissed his master’s foot.
“Again,” Cazador demanded.
Astarion did what he was told.
“Good. Now help me dress.”
Astarion obeyed. He put on Cazador’s silk stockings, black trousers, and shoes, then his shirt and his doublet, before fastening his belt and placing his collar on his chest. Cazador even let him comb his hair. Astarion’s dead heart almost leaped out of his chest. Cazador only let Violet touch his hair. Even Leon, whom Cazador often treated like a favorite, never got that privilege. Cazador had just beaten and humiliated him, told him how his stupidity and insubordination saddened him, and now that?
Astarion didn’t understand. Had Cazador forgiven him? Was this just another game? Cazador’s half-smile could mean anything, but Astarion wanted to believe that he could get his master’s favor and the same privileges that others—Leon and Violet, again—had already reaped. He had worked so hard to satisfy Cazador’s demands. After all the humiliations and setbacks, he deserved a respite. Immortality and the vampire curse wouldn’t be so bad if he could have some privileges in return.
“Enough. You have other duties to fulfill tonight. But first, go to the kitchen. Tell the servants you can have a rat. My treat.”
Astarion bowed silently and quickly slipped away before Cazador could change his mind.
As he went to the kitchen, he saw his brothers and sisters preparing in the castle’s entrance hall, using each other as mirrors to check their hunting attire. Aurelia wore an almost transparent red dress and flashy makeup that identified her as a low-class whore. Tonight, she was hunting in Roncueil. Violette and Dayliria wore decent coats but with a pricy dress under it. They were to lure thieves, thinking they were dealing with high-class ladies looking for sensations in the Eastway. That was how Violet had an unfortunate encounter with Astarion, years ago. She still resented him. Next to her, Leon adjusted his linen shirt so that it revealed a little too much of his oiled chest. He played with feigned nervousness with a deck of cards, getting into the skin of his character of the night. Petras, on the other hand, wore dirty clothes made for going through the sewers. He glared at Astarion, who produced a wry smile in return. The day before, they had gambled for the dubious privilege of diving into the sewers to hunt Baldur’s Gate’s filth. It was rare to find food that pleased Cazador’s taste buds and the smell lingered for days. Petras had lost their bet. There was no point in holding it against Astarion. He barely cheated. Yousen, their last “brother” gave Astarion an annoyed glance. He was dressed in perfectly ordinary traveler’s attire. The Halfling didn’t like it, but it was his best bait. No one suspected a Halfling lost in a city too big for him would lure you into an alley, knock you unconscious, and drag you to his immortal master.
“You’re late,” he said.
“Cazador held me back,” Astarion replied, smiling languidly and forcing himself to ignore how badly his mutilated back hurt. “He was very pleased with me tonight.”
His answer made Violet and Leon exchange a worried look. They didn’t want their privileges to slip through their fingers and fall into Astarion’s greedy hands.
Petras sniffed and looked Astarion up and down.
“I don’t believe you. You look like someone who’s been hiding and crying somewhere instead of being useful. If I was you, I would put on some make-up. Someone will see your cheek and think you’ve met an angry lover. You don’t want to miss an opportunity to bring the master some prey, don’t you?”
Of all his brothers and sisters, Petras was the one Astarion would have been least displeased if he learned he had disappeared in flames in the full sunlight someday. Astarion smiled at him, showing his teeth.
“Imagine what you will, dearest ‘brother’, but I think your prey often escapes you, even when you’re not lurking in the sewers, unlike me with mine.”
“Enough, you too. We’re already behind schedule for the night, and you still have to get dressed. Besides, Petras is right; a little makeup wouldn’t hurt you.”
Astarion’s smile faltered at Yousen’s interruption. He should never have pushed Cazador to hit him by being insolent. It was his fault. Fortunately, Cazador had been in a good mood with the progression of his work on Astarion’s back or he would have done worse.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to wait for me a little longer. Cazador told me to go get a rat from the kitchen.”
His brothers and sisters stared mumbling between themselves. Astarion was pleased to hear that and to see their jealous looks. Cazador fed them only at dawn, and only if he was happy with their progress for the night. Empty-handed returns meant they fasted and received only a rat every three days—just enough to keep them from collapsing mid-hunt. Being able to eat a whole rat before even leaving the palace walls was unheard of. Astarion’s newfound favor was clear for all to see.
“What did you do to get this?” Violette asked angrily. “Your lover from yesterday taught you a new blowjob method that pleased him?”
“Such a fool language, dear Violette! It is unfit for a lady’s mouth. And for the rest... I’ll leave you to imagine what could have put him in such a good mood. You obviously don’t need me for that.”
Yousen angrily shoved his hat down on his head.
“Well, go stuff yourself in the kitchen. I won’t wait for you.”
“Well said,” Leon agreed. “The guy I’m after is practically ripe for the reaping, but he’ll be less available after his wedding next week. Everyone in town knows he’s tempted to flee with the first caravan out of Baldur’s Gate to avoid having to marry his crazy bride-to-be. I will not have a better chance of making him disappear, and you won’t deny me that victory.”
The others nodded vehemently. Astarion ignored them and practically danced to the kitchens to enjoy Cazador’s gift.
Like his brothers and sisters, the servants gave him incredulous looks when he informed them of the master’s gift. Astarion wanted to shake them. How dare they be so surprised. Everyone knew Cazador was a lunatic who would humiliate someone by forcing them to kiss his feet and then treat them to a king’s feast. Astarion no longer questioned himself. He lived in the moment, happy to get the crumbs of his master’s fleeting favor while it lasted.
He sipped his rat’s blood with a famished man’s delight. He hadn’t felt so good in... what, forty, sixty years? Astarion couldn’t even remember. It went back to the last plague, at least. Cazador was always in a generous mood when the plague invited itself to Baldur’s Gate. The widespread fear made it easier to abduct people. Usually, Cazador offered a rat to everyone to celebrate the plague. Of course, Cazador’s gifts were often dangerous. Infected rats could give the plague to the undead. It wasn’t deadly to them, but Astarion always felt nauseous drinking from an infected rat. He’d caught the plague twice and never liked it.
Fortunately, this rat would not give him any disease. It just warmed him inside. Today was a good day. There were few of those. Astarion sucked every drop with delight. He couldn’t hold back a groan of disappointment when he was done. A rat, like a drunkard’s glass of wine, was always gone too fast. Astarion forced himself to leave the kitchen and head back to the palace’s entrance. Whether or not in his master’s favor, he had to chase tonight or pay the price.
He felt quite drunk with this fresh blood in his veins and couldn’t help but smile when he passed the cellar that served as Cazador’s offspring’s quarters. If he retained Cazador’s favor, Astarion could hope he’d get the right to sleep in the favorite offspring’s bedroom. Because, of course, Cazador was the kind of person who said his offspring were brothers and sisters and had to work together for their master’s glory, just before pitting them against each other. Everyone wanted the privilege of sleeping in that room. Astarion would have sold mother and father just to spend one night there if they were still alive. It was an actual room, with a proper bed, a bathtub, a desk, a chair to sit and read, and a table to eat alone. Astarion had never slept there in all the time he had the tiny joy of being Cazador’s guest, factorum, and scapegoat. Astarion’s status as the oldest of Cazador’s children should have allowed him to sleep there. Of course, Cazador refused him that privilege just because it amused him. However, now that Astarion had his favor...
Astarion dreamed of this room. In all his time in Cazador’s service, he only entered there to clean it, when Cazador wanted to treat him like a servant, or when Violette wanted to show her favor by “inviting” them to watch her eat dinner. Astarion should have broken a leg and choke on his tongue the day he brought her to the palace.
But he wouldn’t get too greedy, even in his wildest dreams. Even the guarantee he could sleep a whole month in the dormitory would be nice. Or even better, getting to sleep one full day in the guest room, the one where Astarion was to keep the men and women he seduced until Cazador arrived. He’d never been allowed to sleep in this room either. He would even take the distinguished “honor” of sleeping at the master’s feet. Anything was better than the kennel.
Enough dreaming. If he wanted to avoid the kennel, Astarion had to hunt. It was a moonless night, good for hunting. He was feeling lucky.
At night, everything in Baldur’s Gate was grey, houses, people, everything except the black sky above their heads and the faint glow of torches hanging in the nicer neighborhoods of the Lower City. Astarion had long forgotten how bright it was by day, the colors of the sails in the harbor, of the stained-glass windows of the Magic Bazaar, even the color of the roofs and houses in the posh neighborhoods. He wondered what it would be to walk these familiar streets without meeting only people who like him only came out at sunset, the worst society had to offer. It would be nice not to wonder which passerby would make the best target.
Astarion bit his lips. To seduce a prey, you had to find one, which wasn’t that easy. Even in Baldur’s Gate, it was difficult to find a complete moron. Surprising, indeed, but true. You had to be an absolute idiot to not tilt when you entered a palace with closed windows, paintings depicting death scenes and infernal farandoles, red everywhere on the walls and paintings, all this to arrive in a guest room in a windowless basement. Sometimes, Astarion found someone like that. But, while normal idiots were happy to follow a handsome man like him into an alleyway for a quickie, they were generally much less keen on accompanying him into the sewers or a decrepit palace. It took time. It took coming back to the same target again and again to gain their trust. Sometimes, it took a few days, sometimes a few months. Astarion had needed three weeks to seduce the young singer Cazador liked so much the day before.
Tonight, he had no one in sight. This was a problem. Astarion needed to keep Cazador’s favor for more than one night. It meant he had to find a suitable prey. Cazador tolerated the occasional drunk taken off the street, but he had a high opinion of himself and what prey was worthy of his distinguished palate. They avoided people of high birth. Their disappearance would attract unwanted attention, but Cazador hated to drink from beggars or drunk. In any case, even in Baldur’s Gate, dragging an inanimate body attracted unwanted attention, above ground and under it. Discretion was key.
Sadly, tonight wasn’t a good night. It was raining cats and dogs, and Astarion doubted he would find even a drunk to take back to the palace. With this weather, Baldur’s Gate’s scum had collectively decided stayed at home. Astarion wanted nothing more than to do the same, but he had to keep looking. He had to find an idiot. He had no time to waste on pity for the victim he brought back, tonight even less so than usual.
Astarion ventured out of the shelter he’d found under the front of a butcher’s shop and cast a dark glance at the sky. It was hard to tell, but he thought he was making out the shapes of the city’s rooftops, which meant it would soon be daylight. He had no more time left and was about to give up when he saw a tiny figure hurrying through the rain. He bit back a curse as he recognized a child trying to protect the bundle of newspapers he was clutching against his chest as best he could.
That was just his luck. The first potential victim to pass by, and it had to be a kid. Astarion hated these nights, but at least the disappearance of children who did this kind of work before daybreak usually went unnoticed. The kid’s boss would fume at one more kid who abandoned him at the drop of a hat and wouldn’t report him missing. The Flaming Fist wouldn’t care, anyway.
“Kid!” Astarion shouted. “Over here!”
The street urchin gave him a suspicious look, but the lure of a place to get out of the rain overcame his suspicion. Astarion waved a copper coin between his fingers to further entice him.
“I just want a newspaper, kid. Don’t worry. I have better things to do than eat kids your size, and I already had dessert tonight.”
The kid took refuge under his shelter and handed him a water-soaked newspaper. Astarion opened it and pointedly scanned it.
“Attempted robbery of the Chamber of Accounts,” he read aloud. “Geez. I hope they arrested the culprits.”
“I hope they’re hanged. Hangings are always fun.”
“I like you, kid. Of course, I usually have slightly more sophisticated hobbies. But tell me, you’re shivering. Are you cold? You should get somewhere warm.”
The kid shrugged.
“I’ve got to make the rounds.”
“What a true devotion to your work. I’m impressed. Here, I’ll tell you. I am a rich man, you know? Kind of rich, at least. I owe five bakeries in the neighborhood, which I inspect them every first of the month. Come with me, and you can buy yourself a freshly baked pastry and warm yourself. Wouldn’t it be nice?”
Seducing a prey and bringing them back to Cazador’s lair was all a matter of details, whether the prey was a banker’s son or a street kid. The kid would have immediately run away if Astarion had offered to buy him food, but because Astarion suggested the kid pay for his own food, the kid trusted him enough not to betray him. The kid nodded, blew his nose in his sleeve, and hid his batch of newspapers under his ripped shirt.
“Would be nice, sir. I’ll follow.”
Astarion hid a sigh of relief and gestured for the kid to follow. There was a sewer hole nearby. With the lack of traffic due to the hour and the rain, Astarion wouldn’t have any trouble disappearing down it with the urchin. Street kids were fast, but Astarion was a vampire spawn. The kid was smart enough to walk twenty paces behind him, but Astarion was faster. They passed the sewer hole Astarion had spotted. He began silently counting the seconds until he could jump on the child and make him disappear quietly.
“Hey! You’re not foolin’ me! There’s no bakery around here, and this is Freeloaders’ territory; I don’t go there.”
“Trust me, I know where my shops are,” Astarion protested, half turning around.
He shouldn’t have tried to argue. The kid was already springing in an alley. Cursing, Astarion fell into step with him, but with the rain, the neighborhood’s cobblestones were turning into a deadly skating rink. This wasn’t Astarion’s usual hunting ground, and the kid probably knew every last brick of it. Astarion slipped on a loosely embedded paving stone and fell forward into a mud puddle. By the time he got up, cursing, the kid was long gone.
Astarion went back to the manor through the sewers. He was dripping with mud. Excrement and other filth caked his boots. Dawn was breaking outside, but not a single ray of light passed through the heavy drapes and the planks nailed to the windows. Astarion still felt like he was suffocating in the palace. He breathed easier in the putrid sewers below. He could feel claws closing on him and Cazador lurking just behind him.
“You’re late.”
Astarion stopped in his movement and closed his eyes hand on his boot. He swallowed.
“Tell me you didn’t try to run away. Do you still believe you could survive alone in the sewers, hunted by everyone, treated like an animal, even by the most vile scum of this city?”
Someone stifled a laugh somewhere in the room. Astarion dared to open his eyes. Near the stairs, his brothers and sisters had gathered to watch the show. Petras looked much less dirty than Astarion, and he spent at least five more hours in the sewers than him. He was the one laughing at seeing Astarion in such a sorry state. Astarion hated him and his ridiculous haircut.
“Well?” Cazador asked impatiently behind him. “Did you?”
His master’s hand gripped his hair, the only clean part of him.
“No!” Astarion yelled in a high-pitched voice. “Of course not!”
He had tried running away once, during the first week of his enslavement. Cazador’s order, given just after his biting, had stopped him from taking over ten steps toward the door. Of course, Cazador had punished him anyway. Astarion told himself not to worry, that it was better to live as Cazador’s prisoner than to wander in the street famished all night long and sleep in the sewers all day. At least in the palace, he was entitled to a proper bed and blankets.
Most night. Some nights, at least. When Cazador felt like giving it to him.
“I hope you brought me something to eat to apologize for your lateness. It better be a prey worthy of a king!”
Astarion thought back of the deserted streets, the escaping child, and the rain. Cazador would accept none of his excuses. He shook his head, unable to find the words. Cazador let go of his head and pushed him. For the second time that night, Astarion’s chin hit the ground.
“Nothing?” Cazador screamed. “Nothing! Children? Tell me, what did you do last night? “
“I infiltrated a group of thieves planning a heist in the sewers,” Petras said quickly. “I didn’t bring back any prey, but I’ll break into a Patriar mansion tomorrow night and find blackmail material that will convince the Upper City nobility to look the other way from your home, Master.”
“We didn’t capture any prey either,” Violette said, “but we did better. We’re invited to the Gist’s heir’s birthday party. That family thinks they’re worth more than they truly are. The place will be full of fake nobles, true thiefs and upstarts. No one will remember who was here, which will help us make a social parasite or two disappear. Perhaps even a lesser nobleman no one will miss.”
“As for me,” Leon boasted, “I brought my wayward fiance back to the wedding subject at the gambling den. Everyone heard him talking about his fiancee and expected him to run to the first boat out of the city at dawn when I left just after him. His disappearance will surprise no one, not even his fiancee. He is right there, in the guest room. To top that, I already have my eyes on a new target.”
“Good work, all three of you,” Cazador purred. “Leon, my dear, you can spend the night in the favorite room. As for you, Astarion... What a shame. No prey to bring back, and no target in sight either. My poor Astarion... you truly are incompetent.”
Only Leon had brought back anything, Astarion wanted to shout. He wasn’t that worse than them. He noticed Yousen’s pursed lips and Aurelia’s pitiful expression. Those two had come home empty-handed, and they weren’t getting punished. It wasn’t fair. As if anyone could bring home a prey every night. Well, they could, but the crowd would soon arrive at the palace gate with torches and stakes. No one wanted that. They needed to be discreet and make do with rats on lean days. That was Cazador’s order! Not that it didn’t stop him from making them pay for their lack of success whenever he wanted an excuse to torture them.
A kick landed in Astarion’s ribs. He forced himself to remain still.
“Idiot. Incapable. Filthy little worm who takes advantage of my hospitality without ever making himself useful.”
“I brought that woman back yesterday, Master!” Astarion couldn’t help but defend himself. “You found her delightful!”
“And you thought that would absolve you of your failure tonight? Of serving your master? What must I do to open your ears and finally make you obey? What punishment will finally make you react? Should I order you to be stabbed until I feel your regret is sincere?”
Cazador kicked him in the ribs with each question. Astarion finally understood. That was Cazador’s plan from the start, to make him believe he was rising in favor, that he was going to enjoy privileges usually reserved for others, all for the sake of immediately crushing his hopes.
“Take your dagger,” Cazador ordered.
Astarion obeyed automatically. He could hear a ringing in his ears that muffled all the surrounding noise, even Cazador’s voice. He didn’t understand how he could be so stupid, how he could still believe that Cazador could love him enough to stop treating him like a dog.
“Where should you stab yourself?”
“In my left forearm,” Astarion replied in a dull voice.
“Why there?”
“I mainly use my right arm for stabbing. A bandage might attract the pity or interest of potential prey, but I need my lung capacity and the ability to run if it tries to escape, and I must keep my handsome face to attract prey. You don’t feel sorry for a disfigured man; you consider him dangerous and run away from him.”
“So you can think. It is sad you didn’t use your judgment at all before now. Go ahead.”
With a swift, precise movement, Astarion planted his dagger exactly where it would cause the most pain while healing as quickly as possible.
“Again.”
Stupid. He was so stupid. He always wanted to believe he wasn’t being treated so badly, that his situation could improve, that things could be worse, that at least he had a roof over his head, something resembling a family, but it always came back to this, to the pleasure Cazador took in torturing him more than all the others combined. Cazador said his screams were like a harmonious song he could never live without.
“Again.”
Stupid, stupid, stupid. He had to stop believing these lies. Cazador was a manipulator. He loved nothing more than using Astarion as a puppet, flattering him and rejecting him again and again. And Astarion fell for it every time. Stupid. He was so stupid.
“Enough.”
Astarion’s hand froze in the air. He could feel a curtain of sweat on his forehead. He tried to forget the pain. This was nothing. He had felt worse. Cazador had done worse to him. He could do worse again and would. Had it been just this morning that Astarion had dreamed of a ray of sunlight falling on his face and warming it without burning him? It was such a beautiful dream, but it was just a dream, and Astarion didn’t deserve to have dreams.
“Have you had enough, Astarion?”
Another trap. If Astarion said yes, Cazador would use that as an excuse to punish him even more severely. If he said no, Cazador would punish him too, letting his imagination run wild.
“No,” he sobbed. Cazador forced him to get on his knees and kissed his forehead, smiling.
“You see, you can learn when you want,” he said in a fatherly voice. “Now, to the kennel.”
Astarion clung to his wrist.
“No,” he whimpered. “Not the kennel!”
Cazador sighed in annoyance.
“What was I saying? Always demanding, always begging. You’re lucky I’m so lenient with you. Aren’t I more lenient with you than I should be?”
“Yes! I don’t deserve it, but have mercy, master, not the kennel.”
His master ignored him. He untied Astarion’s hands from his wrist and grabbed him by the collar. With a gesture from his hand, he told the other offspring to disperse and return to their respective rooms, then dragged Astarion toward the kennel without giving him a chance to stand up.
“I would have let you sleep at the foot of my bed tonight if only you had been obedient and respectful, but you had to be insolent. You always have to be insolent. You’re lucky I only sent you to the kennel, I hope you realize that. There are worse things in store for disobedient children.”
Astarion nodded frantically. One of Cazador’s children had once displeased him enough that their master had him tied up in the center of the palace’s inner courtyard on a feast day. The celebrations outside may have prevented honest citizens from hearing his howls of pain, but not Astarion. Cazador was right; his fate could be worse than a night in the kennel, so much worse.
“Godey! Open Astarion’s coffin. He needs a quiet night.”
Desperate sobs escaped Astarion. He had hoped Cazador was going to let him lie chained in the kennel all night. His master had done that to him before, and Astarion could bear it, but not the coffin, not since Cazador had left him locked in it for over a year, without food or water, for trying to refuse an order to bring him a child to feed on. After that, Astarion never again tried to disobey Cazador’s order. Since then, he couldn’t stand the smell of rosewood either. He could still smell it constantly in his nostrils, even a century and a half later.
Astarion didn’t even try to struggle or beg. He was terrified at the mere thought of spending a minute in his coffin. When he heard Godey open the coffin, he barely managed a pitiful whimper. Cazador dropped him back on the floor and twisted a strand of Astarion’s hair around his finger.
“You’re the one making me treat you like this, you and no one else. But I’m not a monster. Go back into your coffin, stay there quietly until dusk, and I’ll let you back out. Maybe I won’t even punish you for the rat you stole from the kitchens earlier, supposedly with my permission. Can you do that for me? Stay perfectly still, like the pretty little corpse you are.”
Astarion nodded frantically and kissed Cazador’s other hand. His punishment could have been worse than a night locked in that horrible rosewood prison, and Astarion had truly been disobedient by not doing his best to bring the street urchin back to him.
“I will be respectful. I swear I will.”
“I know. After all, who else could show you such leniency? You have nothing that could make someone want to love you. Poor Astarion, you only have me, and you will never have anyone but me. You’re nothing but a miserable runt, a thief, and a liar, but you’re lucky to have me, you know that, do you? Another person wouldn’t be as lenient as I am.”
Had he really stolen the rat? Astarion was so terrified he wasn’t even sure anymore. He kissed his master’s hand again, just to be sure.
“Thank you, master. Thank you.”
Cazador withdrew his hand with a grimace of disgust, probably at the smell that hung around Astarion and stood up. Astarion, for his part, quickly stumbled into his coffin and held his breath when it closed. He found himself locked in darkness, surrounded by an overwhelming smell of rosewood and garbage. After two seconds, he was already suffocating and had to bite back to keep from screaming or begging Cazador to let him out when he heard Cazador’s shoes moving toward the kennel door.
“On second thought,” Cazador’s muffled voice said, “let him rot in his coffin for a week or two. I’ll remember to let him out occasionally, but it will help him learn this lesson quicker, I think.”
Cazador’s servant let out a rattle that sounded like both laughter and agreement to him. Astarion didn’t even notice. He was too busy screaming in fear and begging for forgiveness for all his misdeeds.
Cazador was right. He was a failure, a coward, and a murderer, unworthy of love. He deserved his place, locked between those four planks of fragrant wood. He would never deserve anything else, and he was lucky his master was so lenient with him.
Still, he screamed.