Chapter Text
The battle ended with Cazador Szarr fleeing to the safety of his coffin. Astarion strides up to it and pushes back the lid.
‘No, no!’ he cries. ‘No healing sleep for you! Wake up!’
He reaches in and grabs Szarr. His anger gives him strength and he lifts the vampire easily, throwing him onto the floor in the centre of the platform.
Despite his wounds, Szarr manages to get to his knees.
‘Get your hands off me, worm!’
Astarion gives a short bark of laughter. He leans towards his erstwhile master.
‘I’m not the one in the dirt.’
Still covered in gore from fighting Szarr’s minions, Astarion stands over him, dagger in hand. Szarr raises his hands. It almost looks like he is about to beg for mercy but when he meets Astarion’s eyes, he says nothing; he can see Astarion will not stay his hand.
‘One last thrust,’ Astarion tells him, ‘and I’ll be free of you. I’ll never have to fear you again.’ Szarr flinches and then braces himself for the final blow but it does not come.
Astarion looks around the room. The scent of blood hangs so heavy in the air he can almost taste it, his six siblings are all still bound in position for the ritual. There is one place left empty, the place he so recently occupied. ‘But if I finish the ritual you started,’ he muses looking down at Szarr, ‘then I’ll never have to fear anyone, ever.’
He looks over to Divarra. This will be her triumph as much as his, but instead of the confirmation he expects, her expression is horrified. She shakes her head, silently pleading with him not to do it.
Astarion frowns, he has been thinking about completing the ritual ever since he discovered the truth about the scars on his back and the bargain Szarr had made with Mephistopheles. He had never discussed this with Divarra, but he thought she would understand, completing the rite is the only thing that makes sense, as long as he is the one to ascend.
‘All those lives,’ she whispers. ‘You can’t.’
When Astarion and his comrades entered the lower levels of the Crimson Palace earlier that day, they had made a terrible discovery. Szarr had secretly created seven thousand spawn and kept them imprisoned in these dungeons for the sole purpose of sacrificing them in the Rite of Ascension. By condemning their souls to the Hells, Szarr would become the Vampire Ascendant, the most powerful vampire that ever lived, able to walk in the sun and with all his mortal appetites restored.
Astarion had been surprised by the scale of the ritual, the number of souls demanded, but he was not surprised by Szarr’s actions; the powers offered by the ritual were something every vampire craved. He was surprised his master had successfully petitioned Mephistopheles for so great a boon, but then, seven thousand souls was a prize that any demon would covet, so maybe Mephistopheles had come to him.
Astarion’s thoughts are interrupted by Szarr’s laughter, a sound so unexpected that every eye turns towards him.
‘You think me a fool?’ he asks. ‘That I would allow anyone to usurp me, to speak the words and ascend in my place? The runes I carved into your flesh bind you and all seven thousand souls to the ritual. Complete it and those bearing the scars will be sacrificed, you included. You are simply a means to an end. I made you to be consumed.’
Strange how much those words stung. Szarr has used Astarion, tortured him, occupied his thoughts and haunted his dreams for so long, and now, he tells him he meant nothing.
‘I am so much more than what you made me,’ Astarion says eventually. He looks across to Divarra and is relieved to see that she is smiling now, even giving him a nod of encouragement. Astarion manages a weary smile in return. Perhaps she was just tired earlier, the battle had been gruelling. Now she has had time to think, he is sure she will aid him.
‘I can do this,’ he says, ‘but I need your help. Your eyes, so to speak. Use the parasite, show me the scars on my back so I can carve them into his flesh, so I can do to him what he did to me.’
Szarr whimpers and Astarion looks down at him with contempt. It is hard to reconcile the pitiful creature grovelling before him, with the cruel master who tormented him for almost two hundred years.
‘No,’ Divarra says. ‘I’m not doing this.’
She is finding it hard to meet his eyes, but it seems she is determined. Astarion appeals to her once more; he cannot believe she would deny him.
‘Please Divarra. I can’t do this alone. If I ascend, I won’t have to rely on the parasite to walk in the sun. I’ll be free... truly free. Isn’t that what you want?’
Divarra seems to waver for a moment but then she looks at his siblings, bound and helpless, waiting to hear their fate. The very siblings who had stolen from him, betrayed him and, on Szarr’s orders, tortured him. That she would even consider them, galls him.
Their comrades say nothing, they are watching Szarr, weapons at the ready, making sure he stays where he is while this awful drama plays out.
Finally, Divarra looks at him.
‘No,’ she says again. ‘I won’t do it.’
‘You promised...’ Astarion’s voice is a raw whisper.
Divarra tries again, honeyed words meant to persuade. Hurt added to hurt that she would try and use her bard’s tricks on him.
‘Astarion,’ she says softly. ‘I know you think completing the ritual will free you, but it won’t. You’ll lose yourself.’ She points to Szarr, cowering before him. ‘You’ll become like him.’
He had thought she could not hurt him any more than she already had but that last sentence proves him wrong.
‘How could you say that?’ he cries. ‘To me?’ His voice rises to a shout. ‘I am nothing like him!’
Astarion turns from her and looks at each of his companions in turn. ‘Somebody, help me. Please.’ They look down, every last one of them refusing to meet his eyes. He makes one final, desperate appeal. ‘This is foolishness! We face The Absolute! If I complete the ritual think of the power I’ll have. We can save the city... We can save ourselves.’
Nobody moves.
Astarion finally accepts that he is defeated, he hangs his head and lets his shoulders drop. Then, he turns away from his comrades and back to Szarr, still kneeling before him. His companions can deny him a future, but they cannot deny him his revenge.
‘Fine!’ he snarls.
He grabs Szarr by his hair, forcing him to bend back as he stabs him over and over. Szarr’s doublet turns from black to crimson, Astarion’s dagger-hand is gauntleted with his blood and still he continues to stab him. Only when he can raise his hand no more, does he stop.
As Szarr lies dying at his feet, Astarion lets his dagger fall, he drops to his knees and lets out a cry of utter despair. He sobs uncontrollably, well beyond caring that his companions are watching or worrying what they might think. This is too much to bear, to have everything he ever wanted within his grasp, only to see it snatched away, betrayed by the only person he had ever allowed himself to trust, the only person he had loved.
Szarr’s death has bought him nothing beyond a tiny sliver of freedom. He is still a spawn, and now, he will remain a spawn forever, condemned to live in the shadows, shunned by the living and hunted like a beast. Divarra's betrayal has cost him everything and the knowledge is agony.
As Szarr’s life ebbs away, the bonds holding Astarion’s brethren weaken and fail. One by one they drop softly to the floor.
Dalyria approaches him.
‘Is... is it over?’ she asks.
Astarion rises to his feet; as he raises his head to look at her, she takes a step back, suddenly afraid.
‘It’s over,’ he says bitterly. ‘You can do whatever you want.’
Tentatively, she stretches out a hand to him.
‘Brother, you’re hurt, I can heal you.’
Astarion waves her away; the hurt he feels inside is far worse than any physical wound, and there is no curing that.
Astarion picks up Szarr’s staff and turns to his so-called comrades.
‘But as for those wretches in the cells...’ he says. ‘If I don’t get my freedom, then neither do they!’ He breaks the staff over his knee, its magic dissipating in a cloud of crimson mist. He turns to Divarra, throwing the broken pieces at her feet. ‘I’m done with this,’ he says. ‘And I’m done with you! I would say good luck out there, but honestly? I hope you die screaming!’
He walks past them and back towards the lift. Nobody speaks and nobody tries to stop him.
Astarion feels numb. He thought this day would end in triumph, another victory to be shared with the first friends he has known since he was turned. A joyful celebration and a night that would mark the end of his old life and the beginning of the life he was meant to lead, the life he deserved.
He would have shared it with her, the power, the wealth. He would have given Divarra everything, but she rejected him.
Now, all he has are shattered illusions.
Astarion has never felt so alone.