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Astarion should have known he would end up back where he started. Alone. Starving. In the dark. Cold, slender fingers grip his jaw, forcing his face upward toward dark red eyes.
“This is the price for disobedience, child.”
But he tried so hard… The fingers tighten. Nails dig into his skull. Tearing at his skin. Pushing him down… down.
How long does it take for a dead body to die? It’s a well‑known lie that vampires need blood. They don’t, not really. They can exist without it just fine. Not live, of course — but exist. Their soul (or whatever remains of it) won’t leave their body. Their senses will dull, yes, but never enough to keep the pain away. Never enough for the darkness to swallow them into blissful nothingness. They can exist just fine in endless hunger and agony.
He still has his dagger and he tries to drive it into Cazador’s chest before his master could close the tomb. But it’s too late. He can feel the shadow reaching for him, darkness enclosing him, trapping him endlessly…
….
He opens his eyes in a bar. It’s dark; only the dim glow of candles flickers across the faces of strangers, carving hard edges into every silhouette and casting every expression in shadow.
Astarion tries to slow his breathing. Just a dream. Whatever he just saw… It wasn’t real. Just what his tiny, starved brain comes up with when he is on a regular hunt. There are hands on his body, gripping his hair and a drunken voice murmuring some nonsense in his ear. He tries to relax. This really is just standard routine.
But something isn’t quite right. The hands are too aggressive, too forward, and forceful for a drunken idiot who just wants some fun (the kind of idiots that Astarion usually goes for). No, these hands demand to be served suffering and humiliation.
Shit. Maybe he miscalculated on this one. But it’s too late now. He will not find another target so easily. So, he just closes his eyes and tries to drift away.
It’s not as easy as it should be. Especially as the drunk licks his ear and an unwanted shiver runs through body.
Fuck. No. No. He hates this and hates his stupid body. He tries to learn away but the hands just follow him, holding him in place. Unrelenting.
“What do you say, Beautiful? Want to go somewhere more private?”
“Sure. I know just the right place, darling. Right at the lower city wall. Not very far from here…”, the answer is on his tongue but before he can say anything, another voice cuts in.
“Astarion, there you are! I’ve been looking for you, my friend.” The face that emerges from the crowd is clearer than anything Astarion has seen all evening.
Warm, dark skin. One eye a fiery red, the other is made of stone and white. His smile is sharp and barely walks the line between courteous and dangerous.
He walks to them like a man who knows where he belongs and as he leans one elbow on the bar, a rapier glints under his coat.
“I have to insist that you take your hands off my friend, Sir.”
The drunken fool hesitates. The man reaches for the rapier. Suddenly that hands on Astarion’s body are gone and his chosen target slips away, back into the crowd. Astarion thinks he should worry about that (that was his master’s meal and his master really doesn’t like going hungry) but all he feels right now is relief.
You found me…
“You won’t have to do this any longer,” the man says. He reaches for Astarion’s hands, slowly like he is waiting for permission. Astarion lets their hands slide together. They fit together perfectly. This feels right.
He knows this man’s name. It’s on the tip of his tongue…
Wyll…
Wyll. That’s right. Wyll with a y because his father and grandfather couldn’t spell. Wyll – selfless, righteous, naïve, perfect…
Gods… Wyll had been the perfect target. Astarion knows that Wyll would be gentle. That they could have had a perfect night, right before he would lead this beautiful man to his death…
But he couldn’t do it. He just could not.
I once met a darling boy….
So, they had talked through the night. And they had met again. In many taverns through most of the lower city. Wyll always found him. And he had seen him. Gods, Astarion had tried to push him away. He had tried to show him that there really wasn’t anything left to save. That he shouldn’t fall in love with a man who only knew how to use people. But… by the hells… Wyll had stayed.
And for the first time in over a century… Astarion had felt hope. Maybe he could save they could escape together. Maybe there was a life worth living ahead of them.
Even tough Wyll mostly knew how to make swords rather than use them (something about that didn’t feel right…), they could use the cover of the night. Cazador wouldn’t expect him to return before sunrise. He wouldn’t search for him until then. They could slip through the gate and just run.
It was a simple plan but in Astarion’s opinion, those were the best ones.
Wyll pulled him out of the bar, along some back alley into a small park. Astarion knows this path like the back of his hand and he knows that the gate isn’t far from here. Only a few streets away from freedom.
That’s why he is surprised when Wyll suddenly stops and turns to him.
“What are you doing?” Astarion hisses when Wyll pulls him into his arms, slowly moving their bodies together like in a dance.
“We have hours left until sunrise and we will never see this city again. So, let’s enjoy it while we can.”
“We will have all the time in the world after we leave this place,” Astarion retorts. He has that sinking feeling that something horrible when they stay here a second longer.
He ignores Wyll’s sigh of expiration and just pulls him along, put of the park, to the next street and now he can see the gate that leads out of the city.
A sharp pain, more powerful than anything he ever felt, shoots through his brain. Vaguely he hears someone call his name but the pain is so all consuming that he can’t speak, let alone scream.
“You really thought I wouldn’t notice? You really thought I wouldn’t see?”
“This is the price for disobedience, child.”
He wakes up in the kennels. He doesn’t want to look but he can feel him. Cazador materializes out of the shadows and Astarion’s body react without his input. He kneels down at his master’s feed.
“Oh, Astarion, I thought you were smarter than this. You belong to me. There is no escape. But it seems, you still haven’t learned your lesson. Come.”
Astarion’s legs follow his master down to the dungeon.
And there is the tomb.
No. This couldn’t be. It had been just stupid imagination. His brain liked making up punishments before they even happened. This was nothing.
This was…
Beside the tomb lies the mangled corpse of Wyll.
“He will keep you company,” Cazador says as he lifts the lid of the tomb, “Get in.”
There is no choice. The tomb closes over him and darkness welcomes him.
It’s not long before he feels them. Creatures nagging on his dead flesh. Tearing away his skin…
Then nothing.
….
He opens his eyes in a bar. It’s dark; only the dim glow of candles flickers across the faces of strangers, carving hard edges into every silhouette and casting every expression in shadow. There are hands on his body, fingers tangled in his hair, and a drunken voice murmuring nonsense into his ear.
What. In. The. Hells.
“I have to insist that you take your hands off my friend, Sir.”
What? No, this couldn’t be. Astarion had finally lost it. This was a trick. A cruel joke… or maybe the best thing that happened to him…
Because there he stood. Living, breathing… Wyll.
Like in a trance, Astarion moved towards him until he was in his arms.
“You’re here.”
“I’m here,” Wyll replies, tightening his arms around Astarion. He doesn’t feel trapped at all. He feels safe.
A hope that he hadn’t felt in years, swells in his heart. Maybe the gods did listen after all. Maybe they gave him a chance.
The moment they are out of the bar, Astarion looks his love dead in the eyes and tells him:
“You have to knock me out. I can’t go with you willingly.”
“Astarion… What?”
“He can’t control me when I’m unconscious… I-“
“You are a monster, you know that?”
“What…”
This is not Wyll’s voice. Or is it? Suddenly he isn’t so sure. Faces swim before him. Are there red eyes? Brown… golden… blue?
“You can’t willingly come with me? You soul is already bound to someone else”
“No… You have to listen to me!”
“I have been listening too long to your endless prattle, boy.”
It’s no use. No amount of pleading or begging helps. His love won’t believe him.
Eventually Cazador finds them and kills Wyll before his eyes. The tomb already waits. Astarion welcomes the darkness.
…..
He opens his eyes in a bar. It’s dark; only the dim glow of candles flickers across the faces of strangers, carving hard edges into every silhouette and casting every expression in shadow. There are hands on his body, fingers tangled in his hair, and a drunken voice murmuring nonsense into his ear.
No. No. No.
“I have to insist that you take your hands off my friend, Sir.”
No, this can’t be happening. This is a trick. He tries to ignore the voice of the man he tried to run away with and concentrates on his target.
“Can’t see that he’s right where wants to be, huh?” his target slurs.
“That’s right, darling. You wouldn’t mind giving us some space?” Astarion says without looking at Wyll.
He pulls his target out of the bar, following the familiar path back to the Szarr Palace and ignores Wyll calling after him.
It’s a quick affair after that. He barely feels the hands on him… or in him. He tries to drift away but something won’t let him. The shadows on the walls of the palace are creeping up on him, they are hungry and they take… they take…
Cazador drains his target and then orders Astarion to follow him. As they reach the tomb, Astarion’s heart drops. His vision swims.
He doesn’t want to look. He doesn’t want to see. But it doesn’t matter what he wants. It never did.
“You will look, child.”
There lie the remains of Wyll, fully drained of blood.
“He tried to follow you, it seems. Poor fool, indeed… Thinking he could save someone like you…”
Astarion isn’t listening anymore. He barely feels it when the tomb closes over him.
…………..
He tries everything he can think of to save his love. Wyll. He really, really tries.
He ignores him. He kisses him senseless and begs him to leave the city without him.
It’s still the tomb. Every time. It’s still Wyll’s dead body at Cazador’s feet. Maybe it really is fate.
Then Astarion realizes something. It really didn’t matter.
So, one day, just for fun: He tries to kill himself. It really would be the easiest solution, he thinks. Cazador never forbid them directly to kill themselves. Maybe he always knew that his spawn were cowards.
It’s easier than Astarion expects and for a moment he really hopes it works as he plunges the stake into his heart. As he feels the little splinters of wood reach the organs that haven’t been working for centuries…
He still wakes up in the bar.
………..
“What in the hells was that?” Wyll has never seen Karlach this shaken. She throws her axe to the ground and braces herself against a nearby tree stump.
“The place contains more psychic energy than I have ever seen,” Tav replies. He doesn’t look shaken at all — only fascinated. His hands don’t shake, holding the silent moon lantern steady above them.
After all the horrors they’ve witnessed in the Shadow‑Cursed Lands, this might be one of the cruelest.
Not far from Rethwin Town, they had discovered a strange cave. Tav, of course, insisted on exploring it. The cave turned out to be deeper than expected, branching into several tunnels.
As soon as they entered, it became clear that this wasn’t just an ordinary cave.
In a land already steeped in despair and loss, this was another dark sanctum of Shar. Astarion had gone even paler than usual, his hands curling into tight fists. For a moment, Wyll had considered reaching out to take his hand — but he knew Astarion would have hated it. Would have hated any sign of weakness.
Sometimes Wyll wondered if he had imagined those precious weeks after the tiefling party — after that kiss by the shore. Astarion had seemed lighter then, and even though Wyll had declined all his advances toward sex, he still stayed. He teased Wyll endlessly, spent almost every evening with him, reading together and sometimes even curling up beside him at night.
Astarion had immensely enjoyed their raid on the Creche, and even though Wyll knew he should be worried about how Astarion seemed to relish every act of violence, he couldn’t help the warm glow in his chest whenever he glanced over after a battle and Astarion met his eyes with a blood‑smeared smile.
It was as if Wyll had finally begun to see the man behind all the masks Astarion had so carefully crafted.
But then they had entered the Shadow‑Cursed Lands, and Astarion’s walls had slammed back into place. None of his smiles reached his eyes anymore. He didn’t even try to flirt with Wyll, and he seemed to grow thinner by the day.
The one time Wyll had dared to ask whether Astarion was finding enough to eat, the spawn had lashed out at him. “I’m perfectly capable of fending for myself, thank you,” he had hissed. “Really nothing to worry your pretty little head about.”
Astarion had ignored him for almost three days afterward.
Since then, Wyll hadn’t wanted to overstep again and tried to respect his boundaries.
Still, Astarion seemed… off. Unfocused. He missed his attacks more and more. And if there was one thing Tav truly despised, it was inefficiency. Tension in the camp had been rising as a result.
Needless to say, moods were not exactly high when they found that strange cave.
“If we’re to lift the curse, we’ll have to understand it,” Tav had reasoned as they walked deeper inside. The protective shield of the moon lantern was the only source of light against the complete darkness that surrounded them.
Even though no one spoke as the ventured forward, Wyll could hear voices echoing off the walls. Screaming. Crying. Begging.
“Do you hear that?” Karlach asked.
Their leader nodded. “Lost souls. Lost to the curse. Lost to Shar. We will avenge them.”
“No,” Karlach shook her head. “No, this doesn’t sound like a soul… I know what they sound like. This is more—”
Before she could finish, the Shadows attacked. It was fast. Sudden. They were almost overrun. Tav pulled an protective aura around them, smiting shadows with his sword in one hand while keeping the moon latern safe in the other.
One of the creatures forced Wyll to retreat into another tunnel. He could feel the curse biting at his skin. Infecting every cell of his body with necrotic energy. Drawing the life out of him.
The Shadow’s claws nearly sliced him in half. He ducked and managed to hit it with a well‑placed blast, and the Shadow dissolved into nothingness. Still, the curse remained strong and Wyll knew that he had to find the others – fast.
It took Wyll longer than he liked to find his way out of the cave and back to the others.
Every dark corner seemed to watch him, and he could swear he heard a very familiar, high‑pitched laugh echoing through the tunnels. It wasn’t her. He knew it couldn’t be her. And yet the hair on the back of his neck stood on end.
He could only breathe freely again when he saw the entrance and Karlach standing with Tav outside, the sphere of light surrounding them.
“Something really is wrong with that cave,” Karlach said, sounding as if she had run hundreds of miles. Her eyes were wild. “That… that…”
“It seems to be using memories,” Tav said, still only curious. “That is a very powerful spell. I wonder how one could learn that…”
“Where is Astarion?” Wyll asks, realizing that his rogue was nowhere to be seen.
“Oh, he must have fallen behind.” Tav replied nonchalant. Wyll didn’t like that tone. At all. It was the same tone of voice the paladin had used when he had told them what had happened to the first moon lantern and it’s noisy inhabitant.
“It was an accident,” he had shrugged back then when he had presented them with a smashed lantern and the crumbled body of a pixie.
“She really was quite annoying,” the paladin had added wryly. And that was that. Surely a paladin was more worthy to lead them than a man who had sold his soul to a devil years ago. Wyll had looked away then. He had looked away when Tav had tried to convince him to kill Karlach and only Astarion had stepped up to plead her case. He had looked away when Tav had them raid the Creche without a second thought.
He hadn’t even been able to step in when Tav had forced Astarion to drink that rancid blood of the blood dealer. Shame brews deep in his stomach.
He had failed then. He wouldn’t now.
“Astarion is still in there. Without any protection from the curse. We will go back for him.” It’s not a request.
“The curse affects the Undead differently. He will not die so easily, you see.” Tav answered, sounding almost bored.
“We will not leave Astarion behind.”
“He will or will not find his way back to us. He was a liability long enough.” The paladin dismissed.
Wyll’s hand already was on his rapier.
“Do you want to challenge me to a duel, Blade?” A rare smile spread over the paladin’s face. It wasn’t a nice smile. It was like Tav had waited for a moment like this.
Before either of the men could move, there was a bonk sound and Tav crumbled to the ground. Out cold. Only Wyll’s managed to catch the moon lantern before it shattered on the hard floor.
“Let’s go, get Fangs,” said Karlach.
….
He wakes up in a tent. Astarion stares. There are hands on his body, but they are neither demanding nor gripping. They’re using healing magic.
“Lady Shar wouldn’t approve of that cave,” Shadowheart says. “My Lady takes memories. Takes suffering. She doesn’t relish in it.”
“Are you sure about that?” His voice feels like it hasn’t been used in ages.
Shadowheart doesn’t acknowledge his snide remark, nor the pointed look he gives the scar on her hand. Instead, she reaches for a cup beside the bedroll.
“Drink,” she orders but Astarion isn’t listening any longer. The moment the scent of the blood hits his nose, all thoughts leave his brain. He gulps down the blood hungrily and only stops when every drop is savored.
“You’ve been in pretty bad shape,” Shadowheart tells him. “He hasn’t left your side for a moment.” She nods toward the other side of the tent. Wyll is sleeping a respectful distance away. Astarion can’t even begin to name the feelings that rise inside him.
“You need to rest,” the cleric says. “Tomorrow we’ll plan.” She gives Astarion a searching look, then nods to herself and slips out of the tent.
For a moment, it’s silent. Silent in the way only the cursed lands can be.
Then Astarion is moving before he even realizes it. He lowers his head onto Wyll’s chest, listening to the steady, rhythmic beat of his heart.
He doesn’t let tears fall. He doesn’t think he can cry. The last time he cried was…
I once met a darling boy…
Astarion can’t even remember that boy’s face anymore. He doesn’t remember his name or his voice. So the cave used another face.
He knows this feeling — the one that threatens to restart his unbeating heart. It terrifies him.
Wyll stirs beneath him, still half‑asleep, and his arms come up around Astarion, pulling him closer.
“’Starion.”
Astarion’s plans never go the way he wants. He should have tried to seduce Shadowheart, or hells… even Gale. Then he wouldn’t be in this situation.
But as he lies here in Wyll Ravengard’s embrace, he can’t say he regrets it.
“So glad you’re here,” Wyll mumbles into his hair.
Astarion knows that feeling in his chest. Instead of answering, he presses a gentle kiss to Wyll’s temple.
Maybe someday soon, he’ll find the words for it.