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Astarion remembered little of his life before the change. Cazador had relentlessly reshaped him until all that was left was his Astarion. When his tether to his master was snapped by the tadpole burrowing into his brain, Astarion had initially only felt a yawning void in its wake.
Who was he without Cazador? For over two hundred years, he’d belonged to the vampire lord in mind, body, and soul. Any attempt at rebellion had been ruthlessly punished by Cazador culling the facets of his personality he deemed responsible. If he’d bowed to his master from the beginning, would there be more than a few shreds of the original Astarion left?
But distance from Cazador and his influence had convinced him he’d been right to fight back. Mindless obedience would have left him the same in the end, if not worse. After all, even on his best behavior, Cazador had always found him wanting.
The tadpole, inevitable Ceremorphosis aside, had given Astarion a new lease on life. Time to learn who he actually was, without Cazador pulling his strings.
When he’d seen the sun for the first time in so many years, he’d been grateful he was alone. That no one had seen the stunned tears that escaped him despite his best efforts. His sole regret in the beginning was that Tav, Shadowheart, and Gale had found him before he’d begun to process his newfound freedom let alone enjoy it.
Every moment with them in the early days had been a its own form of torture. Hiding who he was, hiding what he was. He’d struggled not to reveal how difficult it was to answer even their simplest questions, increasingly convinced he hadn’t truly thought for himself since Cazador had entombed him.
The omnipresent terror of being buried for good, of being discarded again, had snuffed out what little resistance he’d had left. The realization Cazador was all he had allowed new, worse fears to blossom. For years after his entombment, Astarion had been consumed by debilitating panic when away from his master for too long. The night he’d been reclaimed, Astarion had sat at the vampire lord’s feet, crying bloody tears of utter relief as Cazador ran his fingers through his hair.
He’d stayed as close as his master had allowed, his silent shadow, except when his master wanted to hear him scream. His sweet screams, Cazador had called them. His master had reveled in this newfound quiet, however he’d been determined to wring every last sound out of him otherwise. That the pale elf was a vocal lover had always pleased him, yet Astarion felt the only time his master showed him the merest fondness was when he begged and pleaded while choking on his own gore or screamed his throat raw. Cazador’s appetite in the following days, every time he heard what little voice Astarion had left, had been insatiable. Astarion had even been allowed to lay with him after, his master’s fingers once more running through his short silver hair.
His brothers and sisters never forgave him for the favoritism Cazador showed then. Astarion had never been permitted to stay in the Special Bedchamber, but none of others had ever been allowed to remain with the master after his needs had been slaked.
As the days after the nautiloid turned to weeks, Astarion had tried his best to learn what he could about himself. He found he much preferred the Chultan Fireswill they looted to the fine wines filling Cazador’s palace. That the blood of their enemies sated him in a way that left him almost giddy. That he didn’t have to pay the cruelty of his master forward onto everyone they came across. Most of all, he enjoyed the way the sun’s rays soaked into his skin, banishing some of the everpresent chill of his condition.
His newfound companions treated him as an equal. Although Tav had become the defacto leader of their motley crew, Astarion wasn’t consumed by the need to compete with the others for their favor. He wouldn’t go so far as to say any of them cared about him or vice versa, neverltheless they’d built an acquaintanceship on the foundation of their shared affliction. Sometimes he dared to consider the others his comrades-in-arms, even if he’d never admit as much.
It had all come crashing down when they’d run into the damned Gur, who’d laid his lies and omissions bare before the others. The high he’d felt after they narrowly defeated the hag had been knocked from him as if by a blow to the gut. Although Tav hadn’t sold him out, they had allowed the treacherous snake to live. And of course they’d all had questions after the encounter. Questions Astarion had been too rattled in the moment to deflect.
“Can he do that? Just walk into our camp?”
Conflicting emotions flooded him at the question. Astarion had already been struggling with all of the feelings that had come roaring back as the numbness Cazador had left behind faded. Now he felt as if he were drowning in them.
Disbelief, anguish, anger… The worst had been the fear. While Cazador only tormented him now in memories, the ludicrousness of the question reminded Astarion the sole reason he remained free was because the vampire lord didn’t know where he was. Not even the protection offered by the dream guardian could save him if Cazador found him, and that terrified him.
When they’d bedded down for the night, Astarion hadn’t even tried to trance. Though the bone weariness from the fight threatened to pull him under, he sat in his tent, knees pulled to his chest and his arms wrapped tightly around them.
He would have preferred to stay by the fire, but he couldn’t bear the weight of the others’ eyes on him. He’d nearly fled to his tent when they made camp just to get away from them all.
They’d seen behind his carefully crafted mask of flirtation and deflection, all because he’d been too godsdamned weak to keep it in place.
Distrust, he could handle. But pity ? Wyll had recognized Cazador’s name. He was from Baldur’s Gate after all. Astarion couldn’t tell if he’d known the notoriously reclusive noble was a vampire, but the way he’d looked at him… The monster hunter clearly knew enough about vampire lords and their spawn to guess what his life with him had been like.
Astarion had wanted to tear the warlock’s remaining eye from its socket.
Despite his best efforts, Astarion’s physical and mental exhaustion must have won out at some point. He didn’t know how much time had passed when the surprisingly gentle run of fingers through his hair roused him again.
It was a sensation as familiar as it was alien. He’d yearned for this touch, arguably the one true indulgence his master allowed him, yet he hadn’t felt it since he’d left his side. Confused, he lifted his head, gasping when the fingers in his hair tightened to the point he felt it would be torn from the roots.
Terror swept through him as he strained to look up from his seated position, his chin still resting on his knees. If his heart could still beat, it would have stopped upon seeing the dark figure crouched before him, a pale finger from his free hand pressed against his lips.
“And you’d be lucky if death was the worst thing that happened to you.”
It was as if his very words had invited Cazador back in.
Astarion struggled to form coherent thoughts as his master smiled coldly down at him.
He didn’t smell fresh blood on the air and the steady breathing of the others continued around them. He heard the distant turn of a page. The current watchman was even still awake and alive.
He could see his blooming dread reflected in his master’s claret colored eyes.
The grip on his hair loosened and Cazador’s sharp nails drawing small pinpricks of blood as he absently scratched Astarion’s scalp.
“What is it, boy? Surprised to see me? Concerned for your playmates?” He spoke too softly for the others with their dull senses to hear.
When Astarion didn’t answer, Cazador drew his fingers along the side of his face before cupping his chin and forcing his head up.
“I was beginning to worry you’d gotten lost when you didn’t come home. I’m glad to see you safe and well.”
Astarion couldn’t stop from trembling at his words.
It had been months since he’d seen his master. It shouldn’t have surprised him, still he was gutted to realize Cazador didn’t need their obstructed tether to wield his control over him.
“You can call for them, if you like,” Cazador continued. “I would so love to meet them.”
They were acquaintances, nothing more. He traveled with them purely out of convenience.
Yet Astarion remained silent.
“Should I call for them instead?”
Astarion clenched his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering. There was no right answer. Cazador would do as he pleased with them, or more likely have Astarion do it for him. Pleading for him to spare them would be signing their death warrants. So would saying nothing. He racked his brain, struggling to find an impossible solution.
There was a breathlessness to his voice when flippantly replied, “Whatever you would prefer, though I can’t imagine they would amuse you for long. They’re well on their way to becoming Illithids.”
Cazador’s face betrayed nothing as to whether or not he’d known about the infection. He didn’t speak, instead tilting Astarion’s head further back, studying each of his eyes in turn.
Four, thou shalt know that thou art mine.
Cazador’s fingers tightened around his chin, threatening to crush the bone beneath.
Astarion barely suppressed the hysterical laugh bubbling up at the thought his master had clearly forgotten to inform the Mind Flayers of this rule. How negligent of him.
Cazador’s grip shifted to Astarion’s throat as he forced him onto his back, his momentary insanity crushed as easily as his windpipe. Although he didn’t need to breathe, the pain was no less real and Astarion’s lips parted in a silent scream. He clawed uselessly at his master’s hand, his movements becoming more frenzied as Cazador’s eyes darkened with rage at his impudence.
With his other hand, Cazador caught him by both of his wrists, pinning them effortlessly above Astarion’s head. The pressure on his throat tightened and Astarion’s eyes burned as his lips moved in wordless pleas to his master. He didn’t even know what he was begging for. Death? Mercy?
Would Cazador risk bringing a ticking time bomb back to his palace?
The vampire lord released his wrists, the fresh bruises he left behind a sufficient enough restraint. Astarion didn’t move them from above his head. He lay perfectly still as the other hand left his throat.
Cazador stared down at him, his expression unreadable. After what felt like an eternity, he finally said, “I can see you need to be reminded of your place.”
Dozens of scenarios flashed through Astarion’s mind, each more sadistic than the last. Cazador could fill libraries with his knowledge of torture tactics. Unbidden, the memory of being buried alive returned and along with it came white hot panic.
Cazador cupped his cheek, his thumb brushing absently back and forth across the tear stained skin. He leaned in, pressing his lips to his spawn’s in an alarmingly gentle kiss.
Astarion’s muscle memory took over, his lips parting to allow his master entry. His damaged throat ached as a protesting whimper tried and failed to escape him.
Cazador mounted him, pinning him in place. While he slid one hand beneath Astarion’s shirt, the other moved to his forehead. He shoved it into the ground with enough force that, through the haze of excruciating pain, Astarion wondered if his skull would cave in. The agony of his ruined throat barely registered as a soundless hysterical laugh did escape this time. The others had spent months searching for a way to rid themselves of their tadpoles. Now the only one of them who’d embraced the parasite was about to be freed of his permanently.
But his skull didn’t cave in. The pressure on it eased and he came back from the verge of unconsciousness, his master’s true motive now painstakingly clear. Cazador had thrust him into the earth with his brute strength.
Disturbed soil fell into Astarion’s mouth and eyes, but the scent of the freshly turned dirt left him bucking and thrashing as Cazador effortlessly held him down. Blood tinged froth poured from the corners of his mouth as scream after inaudible scream tried to claw their way from his mutilated throat. Cazador watched him come undone with passing interest while his hand slid languidly down the flat plans of Astarion’s chest and stomach. His fingers delved beneath his waistband as Astarion’s vision began to tunnel and then everything went black.
Amiable chatter and the clang of cookware brought Astarion slowly back to awareness. He sucked in a sudden breath, coughing and retching when he sucked earth down with it. Adrenaline shot through his system and he jerked upright before the panic could freeze him in place again.
He blinked automatically at the sun shining through the fabric of his tent, more dirt scratching his eyes. His shoulders burned as he brought his arms back down to his sides, staring unseeingly down at himself. Some distant part of him realized his clothes had been neatly folded and placed on his bedroll. He’d been left wearing only a few inches of soil.
“I suppose now we know why he’s lying in,” he heard Gale say. “A bit of overindulgence.”
This drew a chuckle from the others.
The nauseatingly familiar combination of Cazador’s cologne and stale sex lingered in the tent.
Astarion leaned forward, his shoulders creeping up toward his ears.
“Do not slouch, boy.”
The voice in his head was just an echo, yet he straightened immediately.
Astarion’s hand shook as he reached for his clothes.
Against all odds, the others were still alive. He should have been relieved. His fists tightened in his shirt until the skin of his knuckles split.
He should have been relieved.
They were still alive. Unmolested. Blissfully unaware of how close they’d been to joining him in a nightmare they would never wake from.
His chest tightened. His eyes and throat burned .
He shoved his fist into his mouth to muffle the sudden sob that rocked through him. His fangs further tore into his skin, the pain the only thing preventing him from coming apart at the seams.
He should have been relieved.