Work Text:
The room is pitch black save for the faint light of a lonely candle atop a nearby table. The table, a finely crafted piece of mahogany with delicate filigree, stands in sharp contrast to the barbaric tools laying atop it: blades of varying sizes dripping with rubies.
His master's current tool is a thin dagger. Various symbols in a language Astarion cannot comprehend decorate the pommel; he's spent enough time around the arcane to surmise that the symbols are enchantments. When Cazador has his mind set on something, he ensures that he goes above and beyond what is necessary. If his goal is to leave scars, to torment him, then of course the blade would be enchanted; his wounds heal too fast and too clean otherwise.
Like an artist drafting his work, he traces a pattern along his back with a finger—lines and whorls and more symbols he cannot recognize. The fingers of his master feel like ice against his already frigid skin. The chill seeps into his lungs, and Astarion’s breath catches. There is no warmth behind his touch, just as he has no warmth in his heart for Astarion. Without a shirt separating him from the vampire, he feels all the more exposed, all the more vulnerable. The design Cazador traces takes up almost the entire expanse of his back, from his shoulder blades to just above his tailbone.
A whimper escapes Astarion’s lips. He's trying to put on a brave face—oh, how he's trying—but God he's terrified. He has never had a particularly high tolerance for pain and knowing Cazador, he will make sure that he feels every second of that blade carving into his back. It would be one thing if it were just going to a simple cut. The carving of initials, even. Yet the idea of having an entire sprawling poem along his back makes every muscle in his body tense in anticipation.
His mind screams at him to flee, yet Astarion knows that he cannot. Were he to run away from this foul place, Cazador would certainly catch him. He always does. Even if he could work up the courage to run, his mind wouldn’t allow him to disobey his orders; the mental bond between a vampire and his thrall, a cruel rite forged through blood, would forbid it. Even thinking about the consequences of his actions is enough to keep him kneeling on that floor. Were he to run away, Cazador would just repeat his little act of creative mutilation; if his master's little poem were to take up the entirety of his back now, it would undoubtedly wrap around his front and onto the pale expanse of his chest were he to resist.
No, he can be strong. Not because he wants to, but out of necessity. A need to survive. Astarion swallows down another whimper and steels himself.
The blade digs into his flesh. He's been cut before, stabbed even—one did not enter this line of work without getting into a few altercations. But this pain is new. This pain is agonizing and unlike anything else he has ever felt. It is as if the blade is poison, sending pure malice straight to his veins. The blade has to be deep enough to scar, after all. It's dizzying, having inch after inch of his skin split apart. Thick rivulets of his blood begin to dribble down his back, far slower than if he were not a vampire spawn.
Cazador’s hand shakes as he works. Not out of guilt or shame, but from the intricacy of the lines. It's delicate work—finding the balance of cutting deep enough to scar but not so deep as to mangle the flesh. Each errant slip of the blade sends a fresh wave of pain rolling through Astarion’s nerves, and each slip of the blade is met with a muttered curse from the vampire lord. Astarion feels like he's going to be sick. He mentally berates himself; if he causes his master to err, he'll flay him and begin anew. The bile rising in his throat is quickly swallowed down.
Four lines are slashed into the skin just beneath his left shoulder blade in quick succession.
A sob is ripped from his throat because God, it hurts.
Cazador clicks his tongue in disapproval. “Silence, boy. This work is most delicate. Unless you would like me to start over…?”
Another line. “N-No, Master...” Astarion sniffles, unable to keep his voice from twisting with emotion. His bottom lip is drawn between his teeth, and he bites down until he can taste the metallic tang of his own blood in an attempt to keep quiet.
The blade curves down his back in a mockery of a circle before it is wrenched into a sharp jag.
He mustn't scream.
More cursing. His master is apparently displeased at the mark he's made. As if on instinct, Astarion flinches and catches himself moments before apologizing. Cazador tries again, moves the blade just to the right before wrenching it again, far, far deeper this time.
Inches of the blade sink into his back. Deep into his non-beating heart and twists .
This time, Astarion cannot hold back his scream.
...
He jerks out of his trance so hard that the muscles of his neck cramp in pain. Astarion takes a long, gasping breath—more out of habit than anything.
No longer is he in Cazador’s quarters with the cruel stone flooring biting into his knees. No longer is there the touch of fingers along his back, the bite of a blade. He's back at their campsite. He's back with his companions. The heat of the campfire burns away at the cold sweat beading up along his brow.
Frantic eyes scan the horizon, looking for a sign that any of that was real, that he is somewhere in the distance looking to drag him away kicking and screaming for his disobedience. He once took solace in the night, but now… Each flickering shadow sets him on edge, each rustle of a branch; this time of day isn't safe. He isn't safe.
No. No, no, no—there was something to that trance. A vision sent by Cazador, perhaps. Why would his mind linger on that memory of all things? Yes, it must have been a vision.
He needs to get away. He needs to get back to his master before he flays him for his impudence. He needs to fall to his knees before him and beg for forgiveness. Perhaps if he goes back on his own accord, his master shall show him mercy.
No. No. No. A stupid idea! If he does that, then Cazador wins. He can't go back. Here he stands a chance! He has at least one companion here that would fight with him. He won't be a slave again. For once, he has freedom. He has something that Cazador doesn't—the ability to stand in the sunlight.
But there are still so, so many hours before sunrise…
The scars on his back burn like the Nine Hells—ghosts from a time long gone yet still so fresh in his mind.
“Astarion?”
Astarion jumps, pain shooting through his muscles once more, and bares sharp teeth at the threat, a hairpin trigger away from ripping out its throat.
He won't go back.
Wild, unseeing eyes take in the concerned face of Shadowheart and just barely is Astarion able to restrain himself. His nails dig into his palms hard enough to leave marks.
She takes a step forward as if to squeeze his shoulder. “Are you all ri—”
“Don't touch me!” he snarls.
Shadowheart leaps back as if his words had burned her. A look of confusion—hurt, anger, he can't really tell—crosses her features for the briefest of moments before settling into her typical impassivity. Yet at that moment, with his head filled with poisonous thoughts, it all looks like damned pity to him! He can't deal with it—not now, not ever. He needs no one’s pity! He needs no one!
With a growl, Astarion pushes himself up to standing, being careful not to meet Shadowheart’s gaze lest there be more of that pity in her eyes, and runs. There is no destination in mind; he just knows that he has to get out of there, away from them, anywhere but there and away from that damned trance and those impossibly cold fingers tracing lines down his back and the searing pain of a blade in his flesh.
He runs and runs until his legs can no longer carry him. It feels like hours, but he recognizes the abandoned cart he stops beside—perhaps seven minutes away from camp. This is the forest where he’d killed a boar the night prior. His trembling knees, no longer able to support his weight, buckle beneath him. His lungs heave ragged breaths. Not from physical exertion—he could run for hours without tiring—but from the sheer exhaustion of everything feeling like it’s crumbling around him. Yet no matter how much he heaves, his lungs still burn as if deprived of oxygen. That very same oxygen the logical part of his brain knows he doesn’t need.
Trembling fingers push sweat-slicked strands of silver hair away from his eyes and trail down to linger on his cheeks. The tips of his fingers feel numb, and he can barely feel the chill of his skin beneath them. It’s freezing outside. He should be able to feel something, damn it!
The wind howls, and the sound of tree branches clattering against one another and the rustling of leaves is impossibly loud in his ears. A perfect time for someone to sneak up on him. He tries to pay attention to his surroundings, but it's all just so overwhelming— the trees, the leaves, the wind, the writhing of his gut, the moon’s shadows reaching towards him like spindly fingers hungry to drag him back. Hungry for him. To hurt him.
A sob catches in his throat. Astarion crosses his arms and curls in on himself. Loose pebbles stab into his knees through his trousers, yet the pain hardly registers in his brain.
“Astarion?”
He doesn’t know how much time passes. To him, it feels as if time has come to a mocking standstill. During the minutes—hours? Days?—he sits there, there is never an indication that the sun is beginning its slow ascent above the horizon. Just more of that smothering darkness interpreted as shades of gray by his darkvision.
“Astarion?”
His name doesn’t register. It’s not until he finally picks up on the nearby sound of leaves crunching beneath boots that he turns his wide-eyed gaze from his trembling hands and towards the source of the threat. “I’m sorry!” he cries out, unthinking.
His eyes take in the sight of steel armor, of a woman standing not twenty feet from him. After a moment, it clicks: it’s that damned cleric! Come to mock him again for his weakness!
He bares his fangs at her, yet even then he can feel his bottom lip quiver. He can’t muster the strength to put any malice behind the gesture, not now.
Shadowheart raises her hands in a gesture of supplication. “I was concerned when you didn’t come back to camp. I thought that perhaps the boars might have enacted their revenge on you for drinking their blood.”
His head feels as if it is filled with cotton. He doesn’t want to be seen like this. She would tell the others and they would think that he’s weak and abandon him and he would be alone to face him.
When Astarion doesn’t offer a snide remark back, her brows furrow in concern. There must be a certain expression on his face—it’s not often that Shadowheart drops her standoffish front. “May I—“
“Don’t touch me,” Astarion mutters again and gulps a mouthful of air. He quickly scrubs at his eyes with the back of his hands before wrapping his arms tighter around his thin frame. God, he can’t be seen like this, but every inch of his body is screaming at the idea of turning his back to her. He both does and doesn’t want her to leave him alone.
She takes a crouched step forward. “If you need to talk—“
“ Don’t touch me!” His words are like thunder even to his own ears.
Shadowheart raises her hands higher. “Okay! You need space—I get it. Just…” her tone softens. “If you need something, I’m here, alright? I won’t move any closer. I’ll just... sit here, I suppose.”
The last of her words are lost on Astarion. Once more, his attention turns to the sounds of the forest. Scannings for any signs of a threat. It feels as if he's going to be sick, yet there is nothing in his stomach to give—his single saving grace. He takes another gulping breath in an effort to calm his revolting stomach.
True to her word, Shadowheart keeps her distance. Astarion’s red eyes take in every slight movement as she adjusts to sit cross-legged on the forest floor. Her gaze falls upon a fat cricket sitting atop a leaf off to her side.
“...That light-colored dog that followed us to camp, Scratch, has been an... interesting addition to our little group, to say the least. I went to rub his ears earlier, and he dropped a present at my feet: the sun-bleached thigh bone of some animal. Needless to say, I wasn't at all thrilled to receive such a gift, yet Scratch was absolutely thrilled. You should have seen the way he looked at me, his tail wagging…”
Shadowheart’s words cut through the fog of his mind for a brief moment. It takes Astarion a few moments to realize just what in the Nine Hells it is she's prattling about—something about a dog. The one with the dead owner. Her voice is low, and eventually Astarion finds himself trying to focus on her words rather than the howl of the wind. Honestly, he could care less about whatever it is she's talking about; she could be talking about what she had for breakfast for all he cares. He just needs something to distract himself.
Astarion swallows heavily. “The, um, the-the-the thigh bone. What was it from?” He interrupts the story, yet Shadowheart does not seem to mind.
“I couldn't tell. I'm no nature expert, but if I had to guess, it came from some sort of elk. It wasn't man-sized—I made sure of that.” She smiles. “Scratch likes to bring me all sorts of little gifts: bones, pieces of meat, discarded junk. There was one time in which he even brought me some sort of healing potion! I think it's his way of trying to thank us for giving him a place to sleep. He's a good dog. I think even you would like him, Astarion.”
“I don't… I don't like animals much.”
“You may like this one. You should give him a pet when we get back to camp. If you're lucky, maybe he'll start bringing you some gifts.”
The corner of Astarion's mouth twitches just the slightest. He sniffs. “That sounds awful.”
“It's not so bad.” Shadowheart risks a furtive glance at him and quickly looks away when Astarion catches her eye. She uncrosses her legs and goes to stand. “Let's go back to camp. I'll show you one of the tricks I've been teaching Scratch.” Once more, she looks to Astarion. “Alright?”
Feeling rather mute in the moment, Astarion simply nods his head. Yes, it would be better for him to be at camp—safety in numbers and all that. And perhaps he could feign interest in whatever terrible trick Shadowheart had taught the mutt. More distractions could do him some good because he doubts his mind will find rest that night.
With a shaky breath, Astarion pushes himself back onto his feet.