Chapter Text
“The Heroes of Baldur’s Gate.” That’s what everyone was calling their little band of misfit fuckups. Somehow, they’d been able to pull their act together enough to muddle through cults, conspiracies, and cock-headed mind flayers without dying. In the process, they’d managed to save the Gate, the Sword Coast, Faerûn itself, and potentially all of reality. That’s what the broadsheets said, at least.
It all seemed a bit much, Astarion thought. Yes, the situation had been dire, but really? Claiming they’d saved multiple planes of existence felt like a stretch. Surely if they’d failed and Baldur’s Gate fell, the other so-called heroes of Faerûn would have finally stepped up and handled the situation. Maybe even the gods would have bothered lifting a finger.
Still, it felt nice to be called a hero. It would feel better if everyone was still around to enjoy it with him. Instead, they’d been scattered to the four winds.
Dashing, charismatic, and driven by an insane need to save everyone, Wyll had been the unofficial leader and face of their little party. He’d talked about celebrating and then helping everyone get back on their feet after all the giant brain bullshit was over, but instead he’d fucked off to Avernus with Karlach. Lae’zel was off starting and/or fighting a civil war against her bitch of a lich queen. Shadowheart retreated with her ailing parents away from the commotion of the city to find somewhere quieter in the countryside. Halsin went back east to follow up with the whole not-so-shadow-cursed-anymore-lands situation. Gale stuck around for a month, only long enough to fish the Crown of Karsus out of the Chionthar for a pat on the head from his hypocrite goddess, then he’d vanished off to Waterdeep. He’d offered Astarion a room in his tower, but the whole thing sounded sickeningly domestic and Astarion politely declined.
Fuck all of them for leaving.
He hoped they were safe.
The only members of their little gang still in the Gate were Jaheira and Minsc. Of the two, Astarion much preferred the High Harper’s company. Minsc was good for a laugh, what with the whole head trauma and ludicrous rodent dependency, but Astarion would rather laugh at him from afar. Actually having a conversation with the man was enough to drive Astarion to insanity, not to mention that proximity to Minsc was also proximity to an unpredictable wall of muscle. It didn’t help that the damned hamster took a chunk out of his finger once, too.
Jaheira was much better company. Her dry sarcasm was a lovely compliment to his scathing wit, and she came with the added bonus of being incredibly useful. With his newly regained severe sunlight allergy, Jaheira had offered a Harper safehouse for shelter, a lovely little furnished cellar underneath a butcher’s shop. She’d made his condition known to the gruff old half-orc woman who owned the place, and the butcher left him a bucket of blood every evening. Cold animal blood was piss in comparison to the fresh blood of his enemies, but with the crisis now over, Astarion had to make do with what he could get. If nothing else, he wouldn’t have to worry about going hungry.
“And what vintage do you have the pleasure of enjoying this fine morning?” Jaheira sat across from him, picking at a breakfast of cheese and dried fruit.
Astarion swirled the goblet of blood and took a sip, considering.
“A mix of beef and mutton, if I’m not mistaken,” he replied. “I’d ask if you have a finer vintage to offer, but I fear if I were to take a bite out of your withered old neck, you’d shrivel up and crumble into dust.”
“An old joke is rich, coming from you. You’ve got at least fifty years on—” Jaheria gave a wheezing, exaggerated gasp and clutched her chest. “Gods above… my heart… my time has come…”
She gave a fake cough and Astarion looked impassively at her.
“About time,” he said, taking another sip of blood. “I can finally go to bed in peace without you pestering me like this every morning.”
“Astarion… tell my children… they were adequate…”
He snorted a laugh into his goblet.
“I bequeath to you… my Harpers…” she wheezed, pretending to crumple back into her chair.
“All of them?” Astarion asked. “Excellent! I’ve always wanted a buffet!”
“Hah!” Jaheira cackled and sat back up. “You can try, little vampling. You may find some of those throats less willing than others, and quite capable of fending off oversized mosquitoes.”
“Now, that just sounds like a challenge.” Astarion smirked over his goblet.
“Although, that does remind me of something interesting I heard yesterday,” Jaheira said, her voice just a touch too casual. “There are some fascinating rumors going around.”
“Is that so?” Astarion said, feigning disinterest.
“It seems some rogue vigilante has been roaming the streets at night, hunting for criminals,” she paused, eating a slice of dried peach and letting the words linger in the air between them before continuing. “And then leaving the exsanguinated corpses in an alleyway.”
Hells, she knew. She better not ride his ass about this.
“‘Vigilante’ seems like a strong word,” Astarion said. “Seems to me that this undoubtedly dashing rogue is just someone with better taste than sheep’s blood. I could hardly blame them for seeking out victims no one will miss. In fact, the Flaming Fist might actually find them helpful, as they can’t seem to fucking do their own jobs.”
“The Flaming Fist will turn a blind eye to a vigilante while their ranks are thin, but once they’re back on their feet, they’ll target you.” Jaheira said, giving him a stern look. “Deciding to name yourself judge, jury, and executioner doesn’t go over as well in this city as you might think.”
“Even after Gortash’s Steel Watch did exactly that same thing?” Astarion sneered.
“Especially after Gortash,” Jaheira sighed and leaned back, folding her arms. “I won’t tell you to stop killing, Astarion. It is in your nature. I’d sooner ask a wolf to stay its bite than you. I am grateful you’ve turned your fangs to those who would harm the innocent people of this city, but it won’t last you for long. Have you considered applying your skills in a more professional sense? A bounty hunter or assassin, perhaps?”
“What, and work for Nine Fingers? Gods, no. She’s got that market in the city cornered,” Astarion scoffed. “I’d either have to answer to the Guild or run afoul of them. I’m not interested in either. No, I won’t answer to any master other than myself. Athough…”
He trailed off and fell silent, looking into the murky depths of his goblet. He felt Jaheira’s eyes on him, but didn’t look up. Gods, was he really doing this? He wanted to. Fuck, he wanted it so badly. But could he really take the plunge?
“I want to leave Baldur’s Gate,” he said. “Two centuries in this wretched city is more than enough. I’ll go south. Candlekeep or into Amn. Not as far as Calimshan, the desert sounds wretched.”
Jaheira gave him an evaluating look. Astarion felt himself bristling, readying a response to her inevitable disapproval.
“I think that would be good for you,” she said.
Astarion’s words died in his throat, the wind taken right out of his sails.
“…You really think so?” He asked after a moment.
“I do. You’ve been trapped here for too long. Go. See the world. Explore. Expand your horizons,” she said. She took her last bite of fruit, and her face took on the very picture of innocence, a sure sign she was about to say something he didn’t like. “How do you plan on keeping yourself safe from the sun while on the road?”
There it was.
“I’m still working out the finer details,” Astarion said.
“You are going to burn if you don’t have a plan,” Jaheira scolded, her eyes sharp. “This is not something you can bullshit your way through. How will you hide from the sun? How will you cross running water? What are you going to do if you run into trouble? If you can’t find prey?”
“I’m working on it!” he snapped. “What do you expect from me?”
“I expect you to think this through!” Jaheira slapped the table for emphasis. “I expect you to actually use that brain of yours and make a plan! And if you can’t find a solution, then see if someone else can! You have an excellent network of skilled friends. Use it.”
Doubt clenched at Astarion’s chest.
“And if they can’t help?”
Or if they don’t want to?
“You give them too little credit,” Jaheira gave a wry smile. “At least give them a chance before you dismiss them.”
“What about you, High Harper?” Astarion asked, redirecting the request into less uncomfortable territory. “Can your little spy network get me what I need?”
“Besides the free room and board you already enjoy? I will ask around.” She rose to her feet and retrieved her cloak. “And on that note, I have much to do today.”
“Is the weather still wretched out there?” Astarion asked.
“The snow stopped about an hour before I came in,” she replied. “I expect the sky to clear sometime today. It’ll mean tonight will be bitter cold, so take that into consideration if you go hunting.”
Astarion raised his goblet to her. “You have my thanks.”
“Rest well, Astarion. I will see you tomorrow morning.” Jaheira flashed him a grin and climbed the ladder out of the cellar, leaving him alone.
Astarion drained his goblet and dressed for bed, Jaheira’s words rattling through his mind.
Call on his friends? He didn’t doubt their capability, especially now that the tadpoles holding them back were gone. But could he really trust they would answer his call for help?
He sighed and curled up on his cot under a veritable mountain of blankets. Why would they help him? He had nothing left to offer them, unless one of them wanted someone dead or needed a lock picked. There was no reason for them to help him.
Then again, was there a reason they helped him kill Cazador? His freedom had no bearing on obtaining netherstones or defeating giant illithid brains. In fact, one could argue it was a waste of time and resources to go confront a vampire lord in his own stronghold. And yet they’d done it, without question. Afterward, Karlach told him she was proud of him. Jaheira said he was a good man. In the privacy of his tent, Wyll held him as he wept tears of rage and anguish and relief. They’d all been there for him. And, he supposed, he’d supported all of them through their own personal trials, too.
Maybe reaching out to them wasn’t such an unreasonable idea.
Astarion sighed and burrowed into his nest of blankets and pillows. The floorboards creaked above him, the butcher going about her day. Occasionally, his elven ears picked up the indistinct murmur of voices or the chop of a cleaver.
Tonight. He’d start looking into how to contact the others tonight. With some semblance of a plan, he pulled two blankets over his head and surrendered to his reverie.
Some hours later, the sound of the cellar door opening roused him. It wasn’t unusual for the butcher to come down and retrieve supplies or equipment. It was her cellar after all, even if it was also a Harper safehouse.
Astarion stirred and pulled the blankets further over his head. He didn’t know what time it was, but it must not be too late if the butcher was still here. She typically started her day early and left before nightfall. The footsteps reached the bottom of the ladder and stopped. They paused for a long moment, then carefully padded across the floor, each muffled scuff of leather on wood made with deliberate slowness.
Odd. The butcher typically didn’t give a damn if she was quiet or not, much more concerned with finding what she needed and getting back to work. He’d scolded her for waking him once, but she’d only given him a curt response, telling him he could find somewhere else to sleep if it bothered him. He hadn’t complained after that.
The footsteps padded closer. Come to think of it, they weren’t as heavy as the half-orc butcher’s. These were lighter. Softer. Not as delicate as an elf, but something in between. Hidden beneath his blankets, Astarion tensed. He slithered one hand beneath his pillow, but found only cotton sheets and stuffing. Fuck. He’d failed to hide a dagger beneath his pillow before taking his rest. He was getting too relaxed. Soft. He knew there were weapons hanging from the wardrobe. If he could just—
A hand snapped out toward him, but only caught a fistfull of blankets from Astarion’s nest. Astarion burst into motion and launched himself out of the bed in a flurry of blankets. He lunged for the wardrobe, keeping the intruder in the corner of his vision. He was tall, human, and armed with an axe. All that mattered was he wasn’t someone Astarion recognized, and didn’t announce himself as one of Jaheira’s damn Harpers.
Astarion ripped his blades out of their sheaths and pivoted on one foot, reversing his momentum and lunging for the intruder. He raised his blades, expecting the man to charge forward and meet him, but instead the stranger darted backward, putting the bed between them, and hurled a small object.
Astarion flicked a dagger upward to deflect the object, and realized too late that it was a glass bottle. The bottle shattered upon impact, spraying Astarion with a clear liquid and shards of glass.
Astarion snarled and wiped the liquid from his eyes. He raised one hand to throw his dagger at the man, only for his fingers to spasm. The blade fell from his fingers, clattering to the floor. Both his arms convulsed, and his dirk joined the dagger on the floor.
“What… did you…”
His chest seized, robbing him of breath, and he could only look at the intruder in shock before he collapsed, paralysis taking hold of him.
Slow, heavy footsteps stomped around the bed toward him, no longer trying to be quiet. A thick boot nudged him in the ribs. Astarion’s mind whirled, screaming at himself to get up, get away, stab him, bite him, flee, fight, fucking anything! All he managed was a twitch of a finger and nothing more.
The boot nudged him again, then pulled back and kicked him hard enough to knock him against the wall. Astarion shrieked and spat and swore in his mind, but didn’t move. Who the fuck was this bastard? He’d never seen him before in his life, what in the Nine Hells could he have possibly done to piss this man off?
The intruder gave a grunt of satisfaction, then crouched down beside Astarion. He slid on a pair of gloves made of thick, coarse leather. His entire wardrobe was of a similar make, now that Astarion could get a good look at him. He didn’t come from wealth, but wasn’t wearing the threadbare rags of poverty. His clothing was well worn, but looked like it had been put together with a dozen scavenged bits and bobs, along with crudely tanned animal hide, indicating someone familiar with the wilds.
Tymora’s Shit-for-Luck Tits. It was the fucking Gur. Again.
Rage and indignation swelled within him. After killing Cazador and saving their little spawn bratlings, Ulma said the Gur would leave him be! That lying cow!
The Gur tugged on the gloves, checked they were secure, then smeared the remaining droplets of paralyzing potion into Astarion’s skin, roughly rubbing at his face and neck. Astarion imagined biting him, ripping right through his hand and tearing his fingers off, but he wasn’t able to do so much as snarl. The Gur nailed him with enough paralysis that if he’d been a living creature, he’d have suffocated by now, as his lungs had failed him. As more and more potion settled into his system, he found he wasn’t able to even move his eyes, staring blankly ahead.
From the corner of his eye, Astarion watched the Gur pulled a hunting knife off his belt. He held the knife tight, lifted Astarion by his tunic, then proceeded to cut the shirt off him. He continued and cut through the waistband of Astarion’s trousers and smallclothes.
A different type of dread clutched at Astarion’s chest.
The Gur’s face remained cold and impassive as he worked. His hands didn’t wander from his task, no groping or fondling, and he stripped Astarion of his clothing with indifferent efficiency, like he was doing nothing more than shearing a sheep. He tossed the strips of clothing aside and pulled a blanket from the bed. Despite his fear and fury, Astarion felt a surge of indignation that the man had the absolute fucking gall to take one of his nicer blankets. He laid the blanket out on the floor and lugged Astarion onto it. His elbow cracked hard against the floor.
The Gur looked down at him, considering. Astarion screamed within his own mind, throwing himself against the unrelenting barrier of his paralysis. With a monumental effort, Astarion managed to blink.
A scowl darkened the Gur’s face. He crouched beside Astarion, knife still in hand.
“Cain’t have y’gettin’ loose on th’ road,” he growled in a voice like crunching gravel.
He plunged the knife into Astarion’s stomach. Astarion twitched in response and a weak grunt escaped his throat. The pain only fueled his rage, willing his limbs to move, imagining pulling the knife out of his own gut and sinking it into the man’s throat.
The Gur withdrew his knife and Astarion braced himself for another stab, but it didn’t come. Instead, the man reached into a pouch and pulled out another bottle. He popped off the cork, then pressed two gloved fingers into the wound in Astarion’s stomach. He spread his fingers, stretching the wound wide and drawing another agonized twitch from his seized muscles, then upended the bottle into Astarion’s gut.
The liquid was cold, colder than the room-temperature chill of his undead body, and Astarion felt every drop as the potion poured into his abdomen and spread through his innards. The Gur jammed the neck of the bottle into Astarion’s gut, letting every drop of the paralyzing potion seep through him.
His twitching muscles stopped. Everything stopped. Astarion stared blankly at the ceiling.
The Gur grunted in approval and stepped on the bottle, shoving it deeper into the wound until the bottle was almost entirely inside him, the wound stretching around the glass.
The Gur moved out of Astarion’s line of vision, then Astarion was rolled onto his stomach, the bottle sticking in him like a cork to prevent any of the potion from escaping. His vision was taken up entirely by grey blanket as the Gur rolled him up like a rug. A beat passed, then he felt the Gur heft him up and sling him over a shoulder. He jostled as they made their way up the ladder, then fell into a rhythmic bounce as the Gur started walking.
What the fuck. What the fuck?! Where were they going?
Astarion’s eyes burned, unable to blink anymore through the paralysis. The wool blanket scratched against his exposed eyes, and the thrice-damned bottle pressed against the Gur’s shoulder, punching deeper with every excruciating step. They walked for a while, long enough that they’d surely left the butcher shop, then everything pitched sideways once again as the Gur threw him off his shoulder onto… something. Astarion landed hard, and agony exploded through him, rolling in waves through his tortured gut.
For a moment, nothing else seemed to happen, and Astarion wondered if they’d reached their destination. The burst of pain dulled, settling into a gnawing, constant ache within him. The floor lurched beneath him, then settled into a bumpy jostle. He was in some sort of cart or wagon.
Fear clutched at his chest, the dread in his gut almost as unbearable as the bottle. Within his own mind, Astarion screamed and thrashed and cursed his helplessness, unable to so much as twitch a muscle. As he continued beating his consciousness against the unyielding wall of paralysis, questions rattled through his mind.
Where was he being taken? Why?
And how was he going to survive?