Chapter Text
Astarion meticulously mends a small tear in his clothes. It has to be presentable since Cazador is planning on hosting some nobles in the Szarr manor soon. The vampire lord has a reputation to uphold, and despite his perceived reclusiveness, having no presence wouldn’t do. What better way to take measure of the current blue bloods than to have them gathered in one building for a single night?
But of course, the bastard isn’t above involving his spawn in his charade. Astarion and his six “siblings” have to be present, posing as common servants. Sure the actual servants would do the work, but it’s about appearances, and that means the spawns have to be presentable. Or at the very least they have to pretend they’re not undead puppets cruelly commanded and tortured by a sadistic lord. Not that hard really if they’re unable to speak the truth under compulsion of Cazador’s thrall.
In his growing frustration, Astarion accidentally pricks himself with his needle and quickly pulls his hand away to avoid bleeding on the tunic. Cursing under his breath, he applies pressure to stop the bleeding. He has to focus. If he doesn’t get his act together, he’ll likely be locked in the Kennel with Godey. Perhaps that would be preferable to being a decoration for some farce.
Then his thoughts drift a bit. Faust is at least some form of nobility. There’s a chance, however slim, that he might show up. It’s been some months since their first encounter in the Elfsong Tavern, since he had tried to lure him to Cazador. He’s given up on committing to that as time wore on, and he’d simply enjoy his company for a night before returning to his miserable routine. Although, he’d missed the last night Faust would’ve been there, so it’s been well over a tenday since he’s last seen him.
Very well. It’s just one night anyway, so what’s an evening of veneered posturing if it means getting to see his… friend? No, acquaintance? Distraction? Astarion groans with irritation as he finishes the last stitch, trimming the end of the thread with his teeth. He can either keep internally debating what Faust is supposed to be to him or focus on preparing.
Focus. You have to. You’ve no choice.
Faust couldn’t help noticing the bustle at home. The servants were frantic while his half-brother seemed to be preparing for something. Of course, he couldn’t get an answer directly, but eventually through idle conversation, one of the maids let slip what’s going on. Seems the Szarr family is hosting a soiree, and this noble family is one of many permitted by the open invitation.
Anyone else in Faust’s position may demand answers why he’d be excluded, left out of the loop, but he already knows why. Being a bastard and worse, a devil’s child, his presence could risk tarnishing the family’s reputation by association alone. Normally he would try to not let this bother him, go along with being kept out of family matters.
But this time, he has to go. This party is going to be at the Szarr palace, and that means Astarion will be there. Any chance to see his friend again after a no-show last tenday is worth it.
So, he strides to a study in the west wing and knocks on the slightly cracked door. His tail swishes with anticipation as he waits for an answer.
Eventually, a stern voice is heard from inside, “Enter.”
Faust walks in, careful to not open or close the door too loudly. Across the room, an elf sits at a mahogany desk silhouetted by a large window behind him. His hair is pushed back, a bit of it tied up as some hair spills over his shoulders, the rest hanging down his back. His green eyes do not look up to acknowledge Faust’s presence, only pore over a document in the man’s hands. He sets the paper down, writes something on it with a nearby quill, and looks up at Faust. The irritation in his expression turns to contempt, seeing who intrudes.
“You’d best have an excellent reason for your poor manners, Ea.”
Faust silently groans at the man’s insistence on calling him by that name. Hard to say whether he’s just terminally old fashioned, intentionally slighting him, or both. He still tries to correct him all the same.
“It’s Faust , fath-”
“You forget yourself, devil.” The elf interrupts, standing up now several heads above the young man’s stature.
Faust swallows a lump in his throat. Right, old habits. “It’s Faust, sir .”
The elf steps out from in front of his chair, pacing by the window with his hands behind his back. “Surely you have better reason to come in here than to flaunt such nonsense?”
Faust grits his teeth for a moment. “No, sir. I’m here about the event hosted at the Szarr palace. Seems no one bothered to fill me in, or perhaps there was no intention of me knowing about it at all?”
He huffs indignantly. “Of course not. You really think I’d let you drag my family name through the muck with… this?” He gestures at Faust’s entire self like a pile of filth. “Whether your lapse in judgment is a symptom of madness or delusion, I will not entertain it.”
“Surely you can make an exception,” Faust protests, “or perhaps we can reach a compromise.”
“Compromise? Spare me, Ea, I already have compromised on your behalf letting you traipse about in the lower city. Every night you show your face there, you risk smearing my house’s reputation.” He pauses, considering what he’s just said. “Perhaps, I could allow one temporary compromise, but only if you agree to my conditions.”
Faust isn’t thrilled about there being conditions, knowing him, but it’s better than nothing. Fuck it, he’ll just take the chance while he still has it. “Okay. What conditions?”
“First,” The elf raises a finger as he lists off his restrictions, “You will not introduce yourself with my family name. You will arrive separately and the entire time you’re there, you are not to affiliate yourself with me nor my own. Second, you will dress in a manner more befitting a lady of your stature, however low. Third, you will keep your face concealed. As much as I could’ve prayed you only inherited your mother’s unstable magic and health, you had the gall to resemble her face as well.”
He turns to face Faust who had been tensing at each condition. “I will not be leaving the Szarr mansion with every noble and knave present knowing my wife tainted my household with a hellspawn.”
Gods’ piss, these conditions are terrible, but it’s just for one night. “Fine,” Faust answers tersely, “I’d best get ready then, m’lord.” He gives a mock curtsy before turning on his heel, leaving the study. He’s more than sure Bardren will already know what transpired by the time he gets around to asking for help to prepare.
Cazador’s party is going along as Astarion expected: smoothly, boringly. He stands by the edge of the ballroom, subtly watching bluebloods come in, go out, eat, drink, dance, talk on and on. Compulsion from Cazador keeps him from excusing himself and also keeps him from interacting with anyone unless approached or acknowledged first. His ‘siblings’ are kept in similar restraint, watching the guests or counting fraying threads in the faded carpet beneath their feet.
It’s honestly a wonder Cazador has stayed incognito for centuries, even before turning Astarion. Between the tacky decor, his reclusiveness, and his complexion that screams ‘insert stake here,’ to Astarion it feels all too obvious that the mansion is home to a vampire lord. Perhaps it’s assumed he’s just eccentric. If so, then the nobility in Baldur’s Gate are even more stupid than he could imagine. Perhaps the host in question not showing his face at the event is a factor. No matter, his will is carried out adequately by the fanatic mortal servants present.
A hushed voice from someone that just entered his peripheral vision interrupts his train of thought.
“Psst. Astarion!” He turns to whoever’s whispering at him. A guest, he assumes. The hem of their gown hangs just below the ankles, and their brown hair is mostly down, spilling over their shoulders with a bit pulled back into a braid. Then he notices a set of bone-white horns, two curved spikes with a smaller pair sprouting right next to the larger counterpart, curving up and back like a small crown. A sense of déjà vu hangs over him as he studies the horns then glances back to the guest’s masked face.
As if recognizing his confusion, they glance over their shoulder as if to check that no one is watching before lowering the mask for a moment. A glint of his fiery eyes, luminescent freckles, and that scar stretching over the bridge of his nose were enough for realization to dawn on Astarion’s face.
“Faust!” Astarion’s voice stays low as he also glances to the side, careful to not draw attention to them. “I wasn’t sure if you’d be here.” He omits that part of him was hoping he would.
“Took some work, but I made it.” Faust grins past the discomfort of the ordeal as he puts the mask back on. Just that peek alone was too close to breaking one of the set conditions. He smoothly sidles next to Astarion, watching his family mingle and rub elbows with other bluebloods with a side glance.
“Parties like this are always so laden with formalities. How anyone has much fun while kissing up to nobles is a wonder,” His dry remark is met with a quiet chuckle from Astarion.
“Well, if this scene is too posh for your tastes…” He takes the tiefling’s hand in his, just as he had with so many others. “I can think of a few spots better suited for two.”
Faust flushes as he holds the elf’s hand. “Lead the way.”
The two slip out of the ballroom and into a hallway several meters out. However, they’re still close enough to hear the music playing in the grand chamber. They lean by a part of the painted wall that isn’t quite peeling as much. Their hands stay loosely linked, but Astarion hesitates to get closer perhaps for fear of two centuries of habit to kick in if he did. Faust softly hums and sways along to it while Astarion watches, bemused.
The tiefling lifts their entwined hands with a small bow. “Now then, ‘saer,’ may I have this dance?”
Astarion sees the coy grin past Faust’s mask and cannot help laughing. The man’s play at deference as if addressing a lord is too silly to take seriously. Perhaps, that was the intention. Might as well play along. He extends one foot forward and his free hand splays back as he returns a bow. “I’d be delighted, darling. Lead on.”
Faust releases his hand as he takes a small step back then takes a large step to the side followed by a sweeping twirl. The skirt of his dress fans out, showing more of his tail drifting behind his movements. He turns on his toe, steps, slides forward, pivots, and his hands drift up and strike a sharp clap on beat with the percussion.
“Your turn!” The urging interrupts Astarion’s quiet applause who then contemplates what to do. He then decides to put his nimbleness to use with a light leap, pirouette, then flourish. His landing is unsteady though, nearly tipping over as his momentum nearly overtakes him.
Faust holds back a giggle before offering a hand to Astarion, inviting him to dance as one. The elf accepts tentatively, and– did his dead heart just skip a beat? Surely not.
Their dance primarily involves circling each other, pulling in and out, drawing closer, and parting for moments at a time. Astarion led the steps while Faust would hold him close by his lower back when they’d draw closer. A bit of an intimate move, but in all fairness, it’s just the two of them.
A minute in, they step closer, and Astarion places a hand over Faust’s as the step in a tight circle for a few seconds. Then he feels the tiefling gently pull him in, one of his hands sliding up to support his upper back, and his other hand flicks upwards casting a cluster of sparks flying around the pair as he finishes the dance with a dip and flare.They stay in place for a few moments, catching their breaths after having danced for several minutes, or perhaps an hour now.
Astarion breathily sighs before feeling something land on his cheek. A bead of sweat, he assumes before glancing up at Faust. With a chill, his assumption is proven wrong by the thin trail of red trickling from the tiefling’s nostril. Whether from the realization that something’s wrong or that there’s blood dripping in front of him , Astarion loses his footing, tumbling onto the carpet, stunned.
Faust doesn’t quite notice his grip had weakened and slipped as he sees his friend half prone. “Astarion? What’s wrong– ah.”
Upon taking a step forward to help him up, he sways a bit as the edges of his vision narrow and fog momentarily. He then notices the smeared droplets on the elf’s face then brings a hand up, swiping just below his nose. He pulls his hand back and sees that a generous smear of blood coats his palm. Shit. He overdid it. Was it from the dancing or was it that small bit of magic that’s doing him in now?
Before Astarion can do or say anything, he feels a warm and slightly humid breeze then sees a tall figure beside Faust. The stranger leans down, placing a hand over his shoulder and extending a handkerchief to him.
“Master Faust, your father was just earlier asking after you, and here I find you overexerting yourself again.”
“I’ll be alright, Bardren.” Faust wipes the blood on his face then quietly blows the rest into the handkerchief before returning it. “Was just having some fun before I might’ve let a little magic loose.”
“And this is exactly why I agreed to accompany you at your mother’s request.” Bardren folds the handkerchief, keeping the blood facing inward, before stowing it into a coat pocket. “Nevertheless, I’m sure she will be glad as I am to hear you’ve gotten to spend time with... your friend, I presume?” They glance at Astarion quizzically as the elf awkwardly gets up.
“Yes, right! This is Astarion, my friend from the tavern!” Faust sniffs as to draw in more air to help the blood clot faster.
Bardren nods to the elf. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
“Likewise, I suppose.” Astarion eyes the tall figure warily for a second, noticing their smile not quite reaching their eyes. “So this is, what, your butler?”
“Eh, he’s more like my mom’s butler, but, uh–”
Bardren adds, “I may serve Faust’s mother primarily, my service may also extend to the young master, as per the terms of my employment.”
“I see. Well, a pleasure either way, I’m sure.” Astarion assumes his more formal front as he feels studied, if not scrutinized under their gaze.
“Master Faust,” Bardren gently pats Faust’s shoulder, “could you wait by the foyer for me? I believe with your exertion, it’s high time you returned home to rest.”
“Ugh, hate when you're right.” Faust lightly rolls his eyes before slightly waving to Astarion as he heads down the hall. “See you later, then?”
“Of course.” Astarion watches Faust leave before turning back to the butler.
“Saer Astarion, I offer my gratitude for your companionship with Faust. As his first and currently only friend, I can only hope things remain amicable.” Bardren’s expression softens a bit as they say so.
The elf tilts his head. “Well, I didn't realize I had such a prestigious position.”
“Of course, to aid in preserving Faust’s bond with you, I am willing to overlook your nature for the time being.”
“My, my, sounds like you’re giving your blessing for a– wait, what did you mean by…?” Astarion feels the air chill slightly as he finally processes the last of what Bardren said. The hell did they mean by ‘overlook your nature?’ …Gods below, this butler can’t seriously already know he’s a vampire spawn.
Bardren chuckles warmly. “Rest assured, this stays between us. Which is why I will only say this once…” They lean closer, lowering their voice to a near whisper which Astarion could hear so clearly as if each word was breathed directly into his ear.
“For now, etiquette demands I remain a neutral party. However, should I find Faust imperiled by you or your master…” The humid breeze from earlier picks up again, this time cold. “No laws of the land nor of any plane will stand between me and protecting him from Lord Szarr or you. Have I made myself clear?”
Astarion grits his teeth as his suspicion is confirmed. “Crystal.”
“Splendid, I will take my leave then. Until next time.” Bardren gives a slight bow before silently striding down the hall and out of view.
Not a moment later, Astarion finally notices something warm and savory in his mouth. What in the hells? Then, he feels his body seize up as he detects an irony aftertaste. Shit. A bit of the blood must’ve dripped into his mouth by accident. It tastes so good too, if only he could have more.
Then he feels his limbs move on their own. Just as they would when under compulsion by Cazador. Shit. Shit. This counts as breaking the master's first law then? Godsdammit.
As much as Astarion wants to plead, beg even, to keep this small taste, he knows better. But that certainly doesn’t make his impending punishment any less bitter.
Then he hears that bastard’s voice echo in his thoughts. “First, thou shalt not drink the blood of any thinking creature.” It wasn’t even a drink, dammit. No. Stop. Please. Forgive me. I won’t do it again. I swear.
But it doesn’t stop. Nothing stops for Astarion as he feels his hand prod a few fingers into his mouth, jamming his throat until his gag reflexes overwhelm him, purging whatever contents his gnawing stomach would’ve had. Any taste of Faust’s blood is overwhelmed then drowned out by bile and stale rat blood.
Astarion coughs, blinking away tears as he’s left to wait out his retribution alone.
Faust noticed the crowd had all but gone from the ballroom. Seems the party is over, more or less. He enjoyed seeing Astarion again, but the latest of many nosebleeds has left him drained and ready to go home. As much of a stickler for his care as Bardren is, they’ve yet to be wrong. Perhaps taking care of mother for gods know how long lends them unique insight.
His drifting thoughts are interrupted when he sees a figure across the foyer, standing in a shadow cast by a curtain. The stranger is dressed in fine attire, and dark hair is slicked back, outlining pointed ears. Faust continues waiting for Bardren while quietly studying this man’s appearance. A few moments pass before he notices the pallor. It’s eerily similar to Astarion’s own complexion. So are the red eyes.
Before he can say anything, Faust hears from down the hall, “Pardon the wait. Hope you didn’t have to wait long?” He turns and sees Bardren a few paces away.
“Not at all. Was only a couple minutes.” He glances back where that figure was standing and sees no one there anymore. Odd, didn’t hear them leave.
“Something the matter?” Bardren leans down a bit, closer to Faust’s eye level, looking where he is.
“Hm? No. No, I just… thought I saw something.” Faust takes a step closer to the front door, tugging a bit at his corset. “Anyway, I’m ready to go home when you are. Sooner I get this off, the better.”
The two leave the manor, unknowingly watched.
Astarion is on his knees, dry heaving over the stained carpet. At least his body isn’t moving on its own anymore. He flinches, hearing footsteps approaching. Doesn’t need to look up to know who it is. Son of a bitch.
“Well, well. Had a fun night didn’t you, boy?” Cazador steps around the puddle on the floor, and firmly lifts Astarion’s chin, making him look up.
“I wonder… why I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting him myself. Yet you two seem like old friends.” He glances down at the spawn, nose upturned. “Why?”
“I…” Astarion glares up at his master then puts on a postured smile, perhaps to mask the malice brewing within. “I’ve been bringing you people to feed on diligently, master. What’s one person to you when my performance hasn’t faltered?”
Cazador tsks, swiping a bit of coagulated blood off Astarion’s cheek with his finger. “Oh, you simple dullard. Meeting your quota is hardly the issue at hand. But you, oh you… You’ve been lying to me, boy. Keeping something, some one from me. You’ve been misbehaving.”
Astarion says nothing as his master releases him. He’s really screwed up this time. Cazador snaps his fingers, and steps approach accompanied by a rattle of bone on metal. “Godey, Astarion requires time in the Kennel. Time to think about what he’s done.”
The spawn feels his will dampen as skeletal hands grab his arms, dragging him to his feet. He hears Cazador’s voice echo in the hall as he’s led away.
“Ah, one more thing. Should you see him again, you’ll be a good boy, and bring. Him. To. Me.”
Once the spawn and skeleton are gone, Cazador breathes deep the blood’s aroma before bringing it to his lips, helping himself to a miniscule taste.