Till Lies Break Our Hearts

by Kalmiaphlox

Summary:

I am Astarion Szarr. Who I was before is dead and gone.
Don't talk too much.
Don't smile with your teeth.
Don't be you.

-

A vampire spawn subservient to his master's will, Astarion is forcefully married off to the Zau'viirs, a reclusive noble family living on the outskirts of Baldur's Gate. Expecting a cold reception as a sacrificial lamb, Astarion is stunned to find a household filled with laughter and warmth from everyone - except his new wife.

How is he supposed to bend her to his side when she holds him at a distance? Cazador expects a steady flow of family secrets, but Astarion is realizing that the mines beneath the Zau'viir manor are shallow compared to what this family is hiding.

 

Arranged Marriage AU set before BG3's events.

Chapter 1: Bound Together

Notes:

I love, love, love Otome Isekai's, and Arranged Marriages are like the #1 trope within those stories that I eat up every single time.
A couple manhwas that inspired this fic (if you have read any of these, you might see where the inspiration comes from):
-Roxana (How to protect the Heroine's older brother)
-How to get my husband on my side
-Beneath the surviving princess' joyful facade
-My In-Laws are obsessed with me

Also very loosely inspired by pallasitedaydreams fic The Curious History of the House on Dusthawk Hill. This is a phenomenal fic, and if you are a fan of haunted houses/more modern AUs with deep and intricate backgrounds, I cannot recommend it enough.

-I do have a playlist for this fic.

Here he stands before the black marble altar, for a wedding he doesn't want with a blushing bride he's never seen. Hells, has her name even been uttered in his presence?

The cold and ever watchful gaze of his master pierces Astarion’s back like a carefully placed dagger as he waits for his bride and her family to arrive. This wedding is taking place on the Zau'viir estate, yet Astarion and his entourage are the ones left waiting.

Everything needs to go as Cazador planned, or Astarion will pay the price with his flesh and blood. Not that Cazador has ever needed a reason to beat his favorite ‘son’ senseless. 

He just wants to vomit from the thought. Astarion, now the alleged heir to the Szarr family fortune, at least as far as his bride’s family is concerned. Just being tied to Cazador through the ‘bond’ of Master Vampire and Spawn has been wretched enough, but now he plays the part of adoptive son to his wonderful, long-lost uncle. 

If Astarion weren’t experiencing it firsthand, he’d think this would make for engaging theater.

There are no clocks, but he hazards that at least forty minutes have already passed; they were supposed to begin the ceremony at ten o’clock sharp, per Cazador and their hosts’ request, and while not the most uncomfortable position he’s ever been stuck in, he’d prefer to sit if he must wait like this. The sun set almost two hours ago. It’s a stroke of luck that the Zau’viir’s are disinterested in the sun, even for surface drow, and the small temple dedicated to Eilistraee that he is waiting in is completely devoid of any outside light, even from the moon. Don’t the Dark Dancer’s followers enjoy the moonlight?

Upon entering, Astarion had no chance to even look around before the eilistraean drow priestess dragged him over to the altar, commanding him to stand in silence and stare straight ahead. What he could glimpse of the entire temple was carved from the same black marble as the altar, striated through with gleaming silver streaks. The altar has a disk carved into the center painted silver, probably in relation to the moon, and it glows with an unearthly radiance from the dim candles that line the edge of the altar, dripping wax down the sides. The striations in the altar’s marble… they form together like a spider's web.

He has been stuck here far too long. 

How much longer until even Cazador cracks from the disrespect? His master made the right choice to bring Leon and Aurelia, and without looking Astarion knows they are still as corpses. If Petras had accompanied Cazador, he would have already slipped up multiple times with unsophisticated huffs and shuffling of feet. That insufferable idiot couldn’t stay still even if it meant a ten-day stint with Godey.

Ah, there’s another blessing of this sham marriage: no more Godey and fear of his lash.

No more fighting for favored spawn, not that Astarion has ever earned that spot, but now he won’t even have to pretend it’s a goal. 

No bringing ‘home’ any wretched souls for Cazador to whisk away, never to be seen again.

There might be a whole other hell awaiting him in the Zau’viir manor, but Astarion is finally out from under Cazador’s thumb. 

Escape was naught but a dream he gave up on barely fifty years into his slavery, and he’ll be damned now if he’ll let this chance slip through his hands. Whether by his soon-to-be wife or her family, Astarion doesn’t care who or what he has to do, he will be free. 

It can’t be too hard to manipulate a spoiled drow princess that never leaves her mansion. Any whispers of sweet little nothings will be magic to her pointed ears. 

The Zau’viir’s are well known among the elite these days, and while exceptionally wealthy from mines they own in the Underdark and weapons trades, they hold only a minor title within Baldur’s Gate. There are rumors they have the favor of Dillard Portyr and Thalamra Vanthampur, though apparently a rising star by the name of Enver Gortash has been loosening their hold from Duke Portyr.

Cazador became obsessed with the Zau’viir’s alleged sway and has sought any avenue to worm his way into their good graces these last fifteen years. To Astarion’s never-ending misfortune, that opportunity presented itself by marriage. Normally, Cazador wouldn’t entertain such requests, “My spawn shine brightest by my side!” He says, but something about the Zau’viir’s has the Vampire Lord taken, either by their elusive nature or ties to the elite. 

All Astarion knows is that the Zau’viir’s have something Cazador wants, and it’s Astarion’s mission to find it. Not that he knows anything about this thing since Cazador has been tight-lipped on the matter for fear that any word of his search might slip. Business deals? A family artifact? Proof of tax evasion?

Astarion isn’t interested in what Cazador wants anymore, though. The keys to his exit are in hand, and all he needs is to find the right door. He can placate his most odious vampire lord as long as possible, and suffer the strike of his hand along with it for this chance at freedom.

The priestess straightens abruptly; her pink eyes leveling Astarion with a look that makes him smooth out his midnight blue tailcoat and trousers—the newest and nicest things that Cazador has gifted him in decades. Astarion even got a stray cat to drink from earlier in the day, and it’s the best thing he’s eaten in months—though it was riddled with sickness because Master can never be too kind.

From behind, the large marble doors to the temple grind open and footsteps of many people entering echo across the room. 

Again, the priestess looks at Astarion, and in a low whisper, says, “Stay as you are. Do not turn nor look.”

Will he have to stand facing forward the entire time? What kind of ceremony is this?

Based on the noise, the whole family must be in attendance, and barefooted by the slap of their feet on the marble floor, not that it is too surprising for eilistraeans with their proclivities for dancing in the nude.

Oh gods, please don't make me flit about with no clothes on. Have I not suffered enough in my unending life?

He’s met the heads of the family, Barlyn, the patriarch, and Iimithra, the matriarch; they seem as standard as they come for wealthy nobles, with their cold and detached demeanors. The two eldest sons, Malacath and Stendarr, have attended a Red Palace soiree or four in the past, and whether by foresight or luck, Astarion never had to service them. Aside from his wife-to-be, who is rumored to be the middle child, there are two more younger siblings that Astarion can’t quite recall at the moment, not that it matters—he’ll know them soon enough.

He was the only option to begin with for this farcical marriage, and all of Cazador’s plans would have fallen through instantly if Astarion or another spawn had been entangled with the sons, and punished for it regardless of whether Cazador was the one who forced them into bed with the sons. The Zau’viir’s requested a groom, so all the female spawn were crossed off instantly. Yousen was a no go since he’s… gnomey, and drow tend to not like that. Leon, while capable and hardworking for their master, has only been with the ‘family’ for a year and having a pre-existing child made him ineligible. There was not a snowball's chance in the hells that Petras would have ever been an option, so that left Astarion.

It’s perfect. 

He’ll break free with his new wife’s—or her family’s—help and never look back. The rest can rot for all he cares. 

A warm body moves into place on his left side and his focus renews upon the silver moon engraving on the altar, etching its candlelit gleam into his mind. From the corner of his eye, Astarion can see this person is veiled and clothed from head to toe. 

Gods below, she’s ugly, isn’t she? 

The Zau’viir’s that he’s seen are all stunningly beautiful, which isn’t all that surprising for drow. Just my abominable luck to be stuck with the odd one out, he thinks. 

No greetings are exchanged between parties, and once everyone is seated in silence, the priestess speaks, addressing Astarion and the bride directly. “On this night of the full moon, the Dark Maiden smiles upon thee and this union.” Doubtful. All the gods turned away from him in his undeath. “While these supplicants know not their bodies and minds, the room for their love will expand ever on under our Lady’s guidance. In peace and in hardship, may they grow and intertwine, seeking out their own Land of the Great Light fashioned by love. I offer thee a drink, blessed by our Lady,”

Retrieving a silver chalice filled with some dark liquid from beneath the altar, the priestess holds it out toward Astarion. “Hold it with both hands.” He takes the cup as instructed. Will a drink blessed by a goddess turn to moonfire and burn him from the inside out? That would be exceptionally humiliating to Cazador if his ‘son’ turned to dust on the altar. Astarion hopes it will kill him.

The priestess continues on. “Take but one sip, slaking thy thirst for the night to come.”

A sip shouldn’t burn too badly. Bringing the chalice to his lips, Astarion takes one quick drink. It’s a wine, deep and sweet that coats his throat going down. It’s—well, he’s had worse. There’s something about wine that tastes better than any other mortal food and seems a god's blessing does this wine some good, and there’s no celestial fire burning him inside out.

He hands the cup back over to the priestess who passes it to the bride, and she takes her drink as well, slipping the cup under her veil—from what he can see without turning his head. 

Once the wine drinking is completed, and silver chalice returned under the altar, the priestess holds her arms out. “Face each other, supplicants.” They do, and he can finally see her, or her clothing, that is. The bride is covered by a long-sleeved, floor-length dress made of a thick white silk, and draped over it is a sheer black gossamer layer that he swears is embroidered with spider webs. Her veil is made of the same material, so not a single feature of her face is visible. Why would drow who have escaped the tyranny of Lolth want to have her motifs woven into their lives?

Maybe he’s overthinking it. It doesn’t matter. He's already a prostitute for Cazador, selling himself upon this altar. If they are Lolth-Sworn, what worse could they do to him that hasn't already been done?

“Take thy supplicant’s hands in thy own. I will bind thee.” 

His bride's hands—it would be really nice if they said her damned name!—rise up and Astarion takes them in his own. Her pale gray, unblemished skin is supple and soft, and perfectly filed nails have a clear varnish over them without a chip or break in sight. Of course, the sheltered lady has never had to do any hard labor in her life. The luxury of it all. He is careful not to grasp her hand too hard, but the slightest tremor can be felt beneath her skin.

So she doesn’t want this either. 

As they stand hand in hand, the priestess places her hand atop theirs, speaking a prayer to Eilistraee in drow to bind them together. It’s near imperceptible, but Astarion swears there is a tightening across his wrists, drawing him closer to the bride. 

The priestess looks at him. “Astarion Szarr, our Lady binds you.” Is it binding if that is not his true name? The priestess then turns to the bride. “Hircine Zau’viir, our Lady binds you.”

Hircine Zau’viir. Finally. 

If only he had a face to go with such a name. It’s not like he needs to enjoy looking at her, it would just be nice to know.

“With these bindings, our supplicants are joined. May your place in the Land of the Great Light be all you have wished for.” And with those words, they are released. It takes all his power to not yank away his hands in disgust. They slowly release and his arms are back by his side.

Having never been to a wedding—or one that he can remember—Astarion isn't sure if they are supposed to be this dull. Not to be a romantic, but shouldn't their marriage be sealed with a kiss or something? 

He doesn't want that at all, it's just the expectation for these things. Maybe this means they won't have to consummate the marriage, either. That would be an agreeable change of pace for once. His entire being has now been sold for this marriage. What more could they need?

Clapping from the pews has them all turning to the noise, which is excessively loud and echoey in this marble temple. Barlyn, the head of the family, wears a proud smile on his handsome face. His skin and long, slicked back hair are a dark gray and his eyes are the same shade, giving him a monochromatic look that’s rather appealing. “It’s always a fortuitous day when I see one of my children joining hands with such a dashing man. You make a magnificent couple.”

Astarion and the walking blanket make quite a pair, don't they?

With a bow of his head, Astarion puts on his most gracious smile. “Thank you, Lord Zau'viir. I—uhm, I am honored to… become a part of your family.” How embarrassing to not get any words out properly.

“‘Lord Zau'viir’? Hah! The formality of the Szarr's is strong in you, Astarion. Please, you may call me Barlyn, or Father, or Ilharn. I care not. Do as you wish.” 

He bites back the gag at being referred to as a ‘Szarr’. Astarion sticks his smile in place, though his cheeks are smarting. “Thank you, my—uh, Barlyn. ” 

The patriarch is surprisingly carefree. The few times Astarion has seen the Zau’viir’s in public they always carried an arrogant and dismissive air around them. Maybe they're more relaxed at home.

Or maybe they are trying to lure Astarion into a trap if he isn't careful. Being free from Cazador does not mean free, especially around so many unknown variables.

“I think it's about time for dinner, Father. I'd wager our guests—and new brother-in-law—are quite hungry.” The eldest son, Malacath chimes in. He's the spitting image of his father, even down to how one side of his lip curls up higher than the other when he smiles.

Astarion knows they won't have food befitting his palate. He hopes there’s a chance later tonight to expel it all from his body when no one is around. Mortal food makes him so sick sometimes. 

The Zau’viir's and their attendants lead them outside into the gardens where it is comfortably warm, with his new wife, Hircine, being pulled along by one of her siblings. They wouldn't need to drag her around with that embroidered towel covering her face. They exit the temple, and as the doors are pushed shut, Astarion is hit with the finality of his situation. 

He's fucking married, to a woman he has yet to see or hear, now trapped outside of Baldur’s Gate with a bare bones plan of escape with people he knows very little about.

The Zau'viir estate is located in the outer city, situated over the mines that bring in their immense wealth. They deal directly with many of the Dwarven blacksmiths working in Blackgate, so keeping their business close has been advantageous to them.

Or so Cazador has told Astarion. Only the gods know what is actually true, and even then they turn a blind eye to what's not.

Hedge mazes and sprawling gardens with night-blooming flowers surround the manor, which looks grand enough to house a dragon or two. The Szarr Palace pales in comparison now, no wonder Cazador is after the Zau'viir's, if this is how they live. 

Silver spires cap the four towers that are positioned atop each corner of the manor, and for adornment, silver cast bastard swords stand resolutely in honor of their goddess, Eilistraee. Is everything going to be done up with silver and swords for their Dark Maiden? 

He shouldn't complain when anything is better than blood red after all these miserable years. 

Wait, can Astarion and the other spawn enter? They haven't been given explicit permission. As Astarion falters, realizing that the ruse may be up soon and their vampiric nature revealed, Cazador sneers into his ear as he passes. “Move along, boy. Do not hold us up.”

His body obeys the command before Astarion can even consider the words, and he follows dutifully up the steps. 

The grand entryway is cut again from that same black marble, but once the entry doors are opened upon their approach—and easy passage inside, maybe marriage gives a blanket acceptance for vampires to enter homes—the room gives way to more typical furnishings expected of nobility. Oak paneling lines the walls with midnight blue and silver banners hanging from the vaulted ceiling. High-quality furniture is placed about, giving the foyer a comfortable lived-in aura. Further in is a large double staircase. 

Turning left from the foyer, they follow down a large hallway where servants stand off to the side with their heads bowed as the family passes. Unfamiliar to Astarion is that look of almost pleasantness on the servants' faces. The ones from the Szarr Palace are compelled to act with happiness, and everyone can tell its fake, or the spawn stare down at their feet in fear.

They enter a powder blue dining room with a large table arranged for twelve. Three paintings of couples hang in the room, one is of Barlyn and Iimithra, while the two others show portraits of Malacath and Stendarr, with their respective partners. Does this mean Astarion and Hircine will have a portrait made? 

That would be a sight. Astarion standing regally next to a blanket woman, immortalized on canvas. He would finally get to see his face though, so he won't mind. 

More silver fixtures and decorations line the wall, and worst of all, a large mirror hangs from the wall by the head of the table. Hopefully, no one looks into it, and sees the very obvious missing people in their presence. 

Cazador is wholly unfazed. Leon and Aurelia don't matter when they've been compelled to be seen, not heard. 

And it strikes Astarion then. Do the Zau’viir’s know they are vampires?

A ponderance for another time. 

Her silver-gray hair is braided and coiled atop her head, and with lavender eyes radiating with happiness, Iimithra graces them with a smile befitting a hostess of her caliber. “Normally with guests, we dine in the formal hall, but since we have joined as a family, we wanted to honor that bond by sharing a meal in our private dining room, the Blue Room, as we call it. I hope that is alright?”

“Most wonderful, my lady. Thank you for… bringing us into your magnificent home.” Cazador simpers in a manner wholly unusual for him. What a suck up.

Barlyn takes the head of the table, and Hircine, in all her covered glory, is placed at his right side. He urges Astarion to take the spot beside to Hircine, with the rest finding seats on their own at random. Cazador seats himself right next to Astarion, much to his dismay. 

The wine flows, and chatter livens up the room. The family is exceptionally close as they talk among themselves about the past day, interrupting each other constantly to make a correction to a story or call someone out on any embellishments. 

Is it an act or are they actually like this? 

Astarion understands the ‘family’ that Cazador forces them to perform as is nowhere near normal, but nobles are reportedly cold even among the notoriously tighter knit families.

Appetizers come and go, with Astarion nibbling on what he can to appear as human as possible. It all turns to ash on his tongue and it's such a tiring activity when putting on appearances for his targets. 

The Zau'viir's take no notice of their vampiric guests’ picky appetites, gorging on the food like they've never eaten before.

All except for Hircine, who sits still as a statue, having not moved once since taking her seat with her hands clasped in her lap. 

Is… Astarion supposed to be helping her as the husband? No one has given any sign that he's doing something wrong, and her family is ignoring her completely, which is at odds with their boisterous and jovial nature.

They are given a break between the appetizers and main course, leaving Astarion in relief that he won't have to keep filling himself with food. It already feels like a boulder resting in his stomach.

There is a lull in the fast-paced conversation, and Cazador finally strikes. “Lord Zau'viir—”

“Oh, gods, Cazador! Haven't I said there's no use for formalities between us? Barlyn, please.” The patriarch waves his hand, as if Cazador's formal address is a bug he can swat away.

A smile creeps onto Cazador's face, the kind that Astarion has seen many a time when speaking out of turn, though no harsh rebuke slips from the master vampire mouth. “Ah, of course. Forgive me, you know how habits are and all, Barlyn.” Cazador adjusts in his chair, rolling his shoulders back to sit up straighter. “The Tourmaline Depths, I would—”

Barlyn's face turns stoney and Iimithra makes the quietest “tsk” sound. “We don't speak business or politics in this room. Are we in agreement?” Astarion's new father-in-law says.

Gods, if only Astarion could paint a portrait of Cazador's face. He'll remember that look of shock for the rest of his days, its sustenance for his defiled soul. 

Finding his shrill voice once again, Cazador concedes. “We are. I apologize, I do not wish to… tarnish such a blessed day.”

A glance Astarion's way sends a tremor of fear down his spine. He will be the one to pay for this humiliation.

His joy at Cazador being brushed aside did not last long—not that it ever does.

As dinner is mercifully brought out, the Zau'viir's fall back into their comfortable conversation. The two other siblings Astarion forgot are named Kynareth and Arkay, who favor their mother more in looks, though they’re all unfairly beautiful, even Arkay, who has a deep scar marring his youthful face and a silver-embroidered eyepatch hiding his left eye. 

With Astarion’s looks, he fits in just fine with this family. 

Where Malacath and Stendarr are more outgoing, bulling their way through stories, the two youngest are reserved and thoughtful. They try to include Astarion in conversation and he just has to play dumb or make up something on the spot. 

It's sweet—and naïve—that they think he has any hobbies or things he likes. 

And even if he does, Astarion wouldn't admit to them in front of Cazador. 

Some roasted bird and sauteed vegetables are plated before them. It smells disgusting—and before putting a forkful of food in his mouth does Astarion realize there are copious amounts of garlic spoiling the dish.

Oh, he will be sick through the next day. The Zau'viir's are supposed to be nocturnal, and if that is true, he might hide away in his room during the day without too much fuss.

And what is this? Hircine has decided she would like to eat too, placing her left hand, palm flat, on the table while she picks up a fork the way a child or uncouth plebeian might, wrapping her whole fist around the stem. Her hand shakes with the effort.

Is she lacking dexterity? What could—

With a deft jerk of her arm, the tines of the fork are embedded into the back of Hircine's left hand.

The room’s silence becomes deafening as everyone stares, no longer chewing on food or speaking. The family looks surprisingly unconcerned, though Arkay's mouth twists slightly before smoothing back into place. 

Are they not going to do anything? Do I have to do this?

When Astarion reaches forward, Iimithra coughs and shakes her head at him. She then speaks directly to her daughter. “Hircine, why don’t you go turn in for the night?”

There’s no hesitation as Hircine yanks the fork from her hand, tossing it down so it clatters metallically against the tile flooring and as the delicious smell of blood permeates the air, she leaves the room.  

Stendarr laughs awkwardly. “Apologies. Hircine has not been feeling well for the past few days.”

So, Astarion’s new wife is possibly ugly, mute and experiences fits of insanity if she isn’t insane all the time. How is he supposed to squeeze information out of her if she’s unable to communicate?

Cazador won't leave Astarion be if he realizes the Zau’viir bride they are now tied to is useless. 

Astarion didn’t want this to begin with, but if this is the start to his marriage, then it’s surely all downhill from here. 

---

Other than his wife’s freakish outburst, dinner passes uneventfully for everyone else. It's past three in the morning when Cazador decides he has had enough of the lovely family experience. 

If only he could learn a thing or two from the Zau’viir’s on how not to be an irredeemable bastard.

A laughable notion. 

“Astarion, come, my son. Let us speak before I go,” Cazador beckons to him patiently. 

“Of course, Father.” Swallowing acid would be better than speaking reverently to Cazador as he does now.

No good words are going to be shared between them, and Astarion futilely wishes for his new family to hold him back. As is his fate, no one is here to save him, and they encourage him to have some parting words with his ‘family’. 

Following Cazador, Leon and Aurelia out the front doors and past some hedges where they can longer be seen, Cazador whirls around, crushing Astarion’s throat with his hand so the spawn can’t speak out of turn. Nasty red sores have appeared around Cazador’s lip from consuming so much garlic. “They dare to look down on me! I do not care what you have to do to that invalid, you will get every drop of information out of her, and if not her, then a brother.” Spittle flies out onto Astarion’s face as Cazador leers over him, pushing him down to his knees. “Report back to me every fifteenth and thirtieth with your findings, starting next month, and if you find information that should be immediately acted upon, return that day. I will send for you under the guise of business dealings, otherwise.”

With an unceremonious shove, Cazador drops Astarion to the ground, pressing his heel into Astarion’s hand. “Do not disappoint me, boy. I would like to experience any other emotion towards you for once.” His red eyes glow nefariously in the full moon’s light as Cazador assesses the lowly spawn beneath him. “What is my first rule?”

“Thou shalt not drink the blood of thinking creatures.” Astarion croaks out.

“The second?”

“Thou shalt obey you in all things.”

“You obey me.” The compulsion in Master's words settles around Astarion's neck like the ever-present shackle it is. “Third?”

“Thou shalt not leave your side unless directed.” 

“And you have been directed.” His heel grinds harder into Astarion’s hand. “The fourth rule, boy?”

Astarion swallows. “Thou shalt know that thou art yours.”

“You are just a means to an end with these people. Heed those words.” 

“Yes, Master.” Astarion whispers.

Turning heel on Astarion’s hand, Cazador leaves with Leon and Aurelia right on his coattails. They spare no glance back for their supposed brother. He’s lucky his coat’s collar will cover any bruises on his neck. His hand, not so much, but Astarion can pull his sleeve down lower if need be. If only Cazador could have been considerate enough to leave him unscathed. What if the Zau’viir’s don’t take well to their property being dirtied?

He picks himself up, dusting off the dirt and detritus from his clothing. 

There’s no time to feel sorry for himself when he has to resume his position in the play.

Holding his head high, Astarion reenters the manor where the parents and Arkay wait for him. They smile warmly at his entry, as if his presence is something they were looking forward to. Those are not looks he’s familiar with, and it leaves uncertainty twisting in his gut.

Or is it the food?

Iimithra steps forward with an emotion he can’t decipher in her lavender eyes, holding her hand out and Astarion places his unharmed one hesitantly in her waiting palm. “I am sorry for the… less than favorable matters that occurred today. It will get better.” She lets him go, taking a step back as a young maid, a sun elf with cropped blonde hair and doll-like black eyes, appears. “Your belongings were moved to Darkfire Hall. That is where you and Hircine will share your future together. Lexi will show you the way. Rest comfortably and let us know immediately if you need anything. Have a good day!”

They exchange good days among the group, and Arkay even pats Astarion’s shoulder affectionately as they part. The maid moves swiftly, guiding Astarion down a central hallway and up one of two grand staircases carved of more black marble, with silver-coated railing and navy blue velvet lining the steps to ease the walk up. Under the stairs leads somewhere that is currently blocked off by two oak wood doors. 

The maid, Lexi, turns her head to speak once they reach the top of the stairs. “Darkfire Hall is the name of the north-west hall of the manor, my lord. Lady Hircine named it after Eilistraee. We prepared all the usuals, but as Matriarch Iim said, please let us know if there is anything more you might need.” 

Odd, the servants address their master’s familiarly. Is the Zau’viir household truly that lax?

Astarion does not wish to think of what punishment would await him were he to address Cazador in such a way.

Blue faerie fire sconces line the way, washing the wood-paneled walls in a hazy light that he can’t decide if it gives him a headache or looks ethereal. Maybe both are fair assessments.

They reach double doors, and pulling a key from her dress, Lexi unlocks one side, swinging the door open silently on well-oiled hinges. She gives Astarion a bright smile and holds out the key to him, which he slips into a coat pocket. “This is your copy, my lord. We recommend that if you leave for any amount of time, to lock the doors behind you.” Maybe sensing that it’s strange to lock the doors when only family lives here, she clarifies. “Occasionally guests get lost—or snoop!” She giggles into her hand cutely. “It’s to the benefit of you and Lady Hircine.”

Continuing on into Darkfire Hall, they enter a large sitting room decorated in maroons of varying shades and smells of a citrusy spice and dried ink. The dark wood floor is covered by a well worn, flower-bordered area rug, and burning wood crackles in the black marble fireplace. Gods, they can’t get enough of this marble, it's everywhere. A burgundy suede loveseat is placed directly across from the fireplace, and has a silver-threaded blanket haphazardly thrown over the back, while pillows of gray and silver are scattered around on the floor. A large desk is cluttered by scrolls of parchment and opened ink pots, most likely dry from never being capped. 

Lexi waves a hand over the room. “Lady Hircine likes this room a lot, and as you can see, she’s a fan of dark pink.” It’s maroon, but Astarion won’t correct the girl. “I’d say she spends most of her time here when not out for business.” So his wife leaves the estate grounds then? Interesting. 

She points to a doorway that leads west. “That’s the kitchen, primarily used by me or Dagoth, the butler for Darkfire Hall, but it’s always open to you and Lady Hircine.” Her hands clap over her mouth in shock as her eyes go wide. “Oh goodness, I’m getting ahead of myself! Would my lord prefer a tour or to explore in your own time? You must be tired, and here I am, talking you to death!” There’s an airy, child-like quality to the way she speaks. She must be young, and grown up confined in this castle to serve her lady.

Well, isn’t this perfect? The maid couldn’t have handed him a better opportunity to snoop like those nosy guests they’re so worried about, and that food he forced down needs to come back up. Astarion puts on a tired facade, heaving a deep sigh. “Now that you say it, the… night feels heavy on my—my shoulders. Could I—” Gods, this compulsion is so restrictive. “I’ll look around tomorrow.”

“Yes, my lord! I will show you to your room though, so you don’t get lost.” Lexi titters and heads north through a hallway. “Only other thing I will point out is the servant’s quarters, but there’s an enchanted bell in your room that we will hear at any part of the manor. Give it a ring and we’ll come running!” Her nails run along a blue door as they pass, creating a light scratching noise. “This will take you to the servant’s quarters, and there’s another entrance from the kitchen. They’re always unlocked should you need us.”

After passing a few doors that Astarion is delighted to explore without supervision some other time, they reach the very end of the long hallway that branches off left and right where he can see more doors along the way. Warm lamplight floods each and every corner of the hallways. Lexi stops before dark wood double doors painted with whorls of silver and opens them with a flourish, waiting for Astarion to step inside before she follows.

“This room belongs to both you and Lady Hircine.”

His stomach drops. Is Hircine here then? It feels eerily empty at present. 

There’s another black marble fireplace that is unlit, and more furniture upholstered in maroon and gray surround it. Against the right wall a massive canopy bed sits, made with layers of sheets, blanket and duvets that could drown a small village should they become trapped under it all. Has he ever slept anywhere so extravagant? To the left is another door, and Lexi takes notice of his gaze. 

“The bath, my lord.” She crosses over to an area hidden behind folding screens. “Your closet is the silver door behind the screens. Lady Hircine’s is the pink.”

Maroon.

As Astarion stares in awe of this room that is now his—and his wife’s—the quiet padding of feet approaches him from behind. He turns around, fearing the worst, that maybe Hircine has returned but—

Well, no one is there.

“Uhm, excuse me, my lord. Down here!”

Astarion looks down. It’s a gnome. Apparently some drow do tolerate them.

The gnome bows, giving Astarion a full look of his thinning gray hair. Dagoth’s voice is high and carries little confidence. “My lord, my name is Dagoth, and I have been the butler for Darkfire Hall for thirty-seven years. Any whim and whatsit you may have will be carried out faithfully, even if it’s challenging one of the young lords in your honor!” Astarion doubts Dagoth could harm a flower, let alone a master of the house. “It is my understanding that you have had a long night, so I dare not pester you too long.”

“Agreed.” Lexi returns, taking her place beside Dagoth, smiling bashfully. “I forgot to introduce myself… Ah, don’t tell Lady Hircine, she’ll be so cross! My name is Almalexia, or Lexi, but call me as you please, my lord. I’m the maid of Darkfire Hall, but I have been with the Zau’viir’s since…” She counts her fingers. “Well, it’s been two hundred and thirty-eight years since I’ve started! I even helped deliver Lady Hircine when she was born, along with every child except Lord Mal, but—” Lexi giggles. “Lady Hircine’s my favorite, and you can tell her I said that.”

It’s always hard to tell the ages of elves, but this scatterbrained maid is older than Astarion. Hells, if he can’t seduce his wife, maybe buttering up the maid might be his next best option.

He blinks, feeling at a loss for what to do next. “I—Uh, thank you, for all your help… I’m very tired, as you know, so I think I’ll—uhm, head to bed now… if you don’t mind?”

They stand at attention, and Dagoth immediately excuses himself from the room in a hurry. Oh, thank the gods the gnome isn’t interested in chatting. Lexi gives Astarion an energetic little wave and turns, but stops abruptly, as if she forgot something. “May I give you some advice, my lord?”

Great, now what? “Of course!” He chirps.

Her face turns somber. “If you take care of Lady Hircine, she’ll take care of you.” Is that a warning or is she speaking of… matters in the bedroom? Her black eyes are glassy and devoid of any prior liveliness. “Stay in Darkfire Hall between six a.m. and three p.m.. It’s for the best.”

Before he even has a chance to ask ‘Why?’, Lexi is shutting the door silently behind her, leaving Astarion alone in the bedroom.

‘It's for the best’?

And who exactly is it best for?

Notes:

End notes:-Yeah, I went wild with the names from the Elder scrolls because I love them so much. I thought Hircine was fitting for a follower of Eilistraee who is a goddess of the hunt like Hircine being called lord of the hunt.
-names for the parents and last name came from this list.
-So I made a very, very shitty handdrawn floorplan of the Zau'viir manor/Darkfire Hall, but I am not an architect, nor a good artist, so the layout and building probably make no sense. If you would like to see it, lmk. I'll clean it up and post it in the notes on the second chapter.

-I'll just be uploading chapters as I feel like it, so might be doing every other week or so for now.

Chapter 2: In-Laws

Notes:

update because i felt like it

What weighs heavier within him now?

The key resting in his pocket, the bubbly maid's ominous warning, or the garlic filth burning a hole in his stomach?

Definitely the garlic. 

Astarion sprints for the bathroom, throwing the door open with a slam, barely making it in time to a bucket stashed away in a corner before the food he unwillingly ate comes back up. It burns even worse having sat in his stomach for hours, and the smell of bile mixed with all that hells-sent food makes him retch even harder.

It feels like an eternity passed by the time he lowers himself to the cool tile floor, wiping sweat off his brow and feeling the sting of his abdominal muscles from the last fifteen minutes of dry heaving. 

Gods, please don't let Hircine come now. I'm in no position to service her tonight. And what would happen to Astarion if Cazador caught wind of his non-performance?

But Cazador isn't here and as long as Astarion can pry bits and pieces of information out of his wife's family, his master should leave him alone.

Or in one piece afforded by his master’s mercy. 

With a shuddering groan, he sits up, taking in the surrounding bathroom. It's clean and, he doesn't know, peaceful? It seems this is the one place Hircine has forgone her overuse of maroons and grays. The tile is a cream color, with earthy green towels and robes lining a wall. The large claw-footed bathtub is a dark green with gold fixtures, and a table filled with trays of colorful bottles in all shapes and sizes stands next to it. There is a dark wood cabinet carved all over in different flower motifs, most likely filled with more towels and body products.

Astarion will clean up his mess later. Crossing to the sink that matches the tub in shade and fixtures, he rinses his mouth with water, hopeful to ease the burn of the garlic and freshen up. 

He looks at the mirror hung up over the sink, finding everything but him in its reflection. While still a beauty among beauties, Astarion knows he must be near lifeless right now, and he can only hope the garlic didn't touch his face or he'll be dealing with sores that are hard to hide. 

Cazador was lenient this time, giving Astarion until next fifteenth to dredge up information. It's the twentieth of Summertide—well, twenty-first since it's a few minutes past six in the morning if the clock is set correctly in the bathroom.

Nearly twenty-five days to find anything of use for Cazador. That shouldn't be so hard, right?

He checks the clock again. Past six, hmm? 

Let's see what the fuss is about.  

Entering back into the bedroom, everything is as it was, not that he touched anything to begin with. No insane wife to be seen, either. If Astarion could avoid her forever, that would be great, but that's not in the cards. If he is to be the rake, then he will play that part diligently when the opportunity presents itself. 

It's worked for almost two hundred years. What's one more body on the pile?

The bedroom door opens quietly, clearly the servants make sure every hinge is oiled into submission, and he peeks down the hallway. No Lexi or Dagoth stalking the halls, waiting for him to sneak around. Are they not suspicious? Or perhaps they are lulling him into a false sense of security, awaiting any slip up.

More silent than he's ever been, Astarion creeps down the hall, coming upon the sitting room where smoldering coals rest in the fireplace. Even in the dark, this room feels homey, so he’ll let the color scheme slide. The door to the kitchen is still closed and pressing his ear up against it leads only to silence. 

So far, so good. 

Pulling the key from his pocket, Astarion takes the time to inspect it. It fits along the length of his hand, and while dull in the darkness, it probably shines silver in any light. The bow of the key is a solid circle with a rune of some kind etched onto both sides, and the bitting is rounded and curved at the end, where normally they are rectangular for the turning mechanism. Maybe it's drow design—or gnome.

A test of an entry door handle reveals it's locked, so Astarion slides the key into a keyhole, feeling the slightest resistance as he turns it. With a click, the door is unlocked, and he turns the knob, pushing outward to peer into the main hallway. 

The blue faerie fire sconces have been put out, leaving an unsettling darkness beyond. He hadn't noticed before on the walk up, but the two windows he can see from here are covered completely, allowing no natural light to seep in, not that he wants it to, with his vampiric disposition and all.

Are surface drow that sensitive to light? 

Astarion returns his gaze to the hallway, surprised at how little he can see. His dark vision is better than this, unless a darkness spell has been cast over the hallway—to keep him in, perhaps. 

There's no sound that he can determine. No manor settling, the scurry of rat feet or servants tidying up. 

Devoid of life and light.

The temperature difference is quite stark, as a stagnant cold bites into his cheeks while the hand pressed against the unopened door is a comfortable temperature on the inside of Darkfire Hall. 

He looks down, realizing he’s taken some steps out into the hallway, though his hands still have a grip on both doors, unwilling to let go even in unconsciousness. The cold is more oppressive now that Astarion's out, and his joints feel stiff, as if he were stuck outside in the snow for too long. It's summer though. How has a chill like this settled in the manor? 

A thread snaps within him, and he returns to Darkfire Hall, closing the door. Astarion fumbles to get a good grasp of the key, but finally he turns it home, locking the door again. When he pulls the key from the door, his hands are shaking.

He hates being cold. 

Fine. He'll listen to that ditzy maid for now. No leaving Darkfire Hall between the hours of six a.m. and three p.m..

Back in his bedroom, Astarion seeks his closet, which is—and he can't believe he's thinking this—unreasonably large, finding it almost bare except for the small amount of clothing Cazador prepared in advance. None of it is to Astarion's taste, and even by normal standards, these clothes are horrid. Of course, he wasn't consulted on the matter or for any of this. Why should a spawn's opinion carry any weight?

He pulls a lounging shirt and pants from their hangers, hastily changing out of his suit and throwing them into a pile on the ground. He never wants to see those again. 

For a moment, he thinks on what side of the bed he wants since his wife isn't here to dictate how she sleeps. If Astarion takes Hircine's side, that’s not his problem. She should have been here.

Choosing the side furthest from the door, Astarion pulls back the many covers—gods below, they're heavy!

As he sinks into the mattress, which must be made of deva feathers with how heavenly it feels, he pulls the blankets over him, adding a soothing weight to his body, and Astarion thinks back on this day.

He's married. Legally and in the eyes of Eilistraee. 

This is his life now, to escape or die trying. 

---

“Oh, Three is so, so pretty.” A cold breath puffs onto his face, and he turns over with a groan, pulling the blankets up around his neck. He’s already drifting back to sleep, Violet won't bother him this time.

Lips press up against his ear. “Thank you for letting us in.”

---

Other than Violet invading his dreams like the sadistic weirdo she is, that had to have been the most restful sleep of his undead life. A lack of Master, Godey and some spawn does an Astarion good, apparently. 

And still no wife to be found. If he gets to relax in peace while going through every room of Darkfire Hall, then so be it, and with so many days available until Cazador sends for him, he may as well live it up for a bit before getting down to business. 

In his bedside table, Astarion finds matches to light candles around the room, setting a cozy glow upon the furniture and walls. He'll ask the maid later about keeping the fireplace going when that chill from the morning still sticks to his skin.

Gods above, it's almost one in the afternoon, meaning he slept for a little under seven hours. He could have tranced, but then that brings up the whole reliving terrible memories thing, and sometimes a wild dream or two, and being stuck in bed for longer is worth that. 

He's going to treat himself to a little spa day since he has the time.

While the water is heating, Astarion takes stock of his body. The back of his hand has yet to heal fully, and the purple bruises webbing over it look worse than they feel. Most importantly there are no broken bones. The bruises on his neck from Cazador’s iron grip are probably still there too, so he’ll need to wear a high-collared shirt again.

The bottles on the standing table are all neatly labeled on the underside, and he drops some salts and oils into the water, along with a fizzing soap. If these are as expensive as they look, then this might be one of the most luxurious baths to date. 

He prefers a handmade blend of rosemary, aged brandy and bergamot, but everything here is a mix of spices and berries. It will just have to do for now.

They said Astarion could request anything, and perfumes and products for his curls will be first. Most of the Zau'viir's seem to have straight or wavy hair, so it's doubtful they might carry products that are to his benefit.

Once the water is steaming hot, does Astarion strip his clothes and lower himself into the bath, groaning sinfully as the heat encases his body. Now this he could get used to.

Unfortunately, his mind has other plans even as he begs to just relax and not think. 

He needs to keep his story straight. One mistake and this plan could all come crashing down. 

Astarion Szarr is Cazador Szarr's long-lost nephew. There’s drow heritage in the Szarr line, and Astarion’s ‘father’ was drow to explain away the red eyes. Fangs should never be shown, so Astarion is forced to only give tight lipped smiles. 

Cazador had a sister he loved dearly, who ran away from their oppressive parents to be with the love of her life, a servant boy… How cliché. The sister had a child she named Astarion, and then she and her lover died of plague. Oh, boohoo. Cazador, the great and kind man that he is, took Astarion under his wing, and since Cazador has no direct children of his own, he named Astarion his heir. As if!  

It took many years, and poor Cazador only found his darling sister right before the plague consumed her. He swore on her deathbed that he would take care of her child in her honor. Gag me.

Yet now he's sold that heir off to another family. Hmm, almost like he didn't think that sob story through. Whatever. In the end, it got Cazador what he wanted: closer ties to the Zau'viir's. 

“Be meek and servile. You are a boy who has received everything, yet deserves none of it. Do you understand?”

Astarion needs to play the part of a dutiful son without revealing too much, especially the blood sucking bit.

Easier said than done now that he thinks about it.

How am I going to eat? Cazador never gave him instruction.

Is he supposed to go out on his own? He's always eaten what he could get his hands on, which is quite meager with how starved Cazador leaves the spawn. Mostly rats and bugs, rarely cats.

But what are the woods like here? What if Astarion gets mauled to death by some giant beast? 

He's good for a ten-day before the real weakness sets in. Should he create a stockpile? There should be a stable close by where he could sneak a nibble from the horses occasionally. They aren't in Baldur’s Gate proper, so large animals are allowed here.

Maybe the manor chef could get him some fresh blood. Bribery or blackmail would be Astarion’s only options, since ‌he’s not sure where the Zau’viir’s fall on the infidelity scale yet were he to bed the cook. He does not wish to incur the wrath of a woman or family scorned, especially when money is no object.

Just play your part, Astarion. He sinks under the water, staying there until the heat runs out.

---

There isn’t anything of interest in the bedroom. Either it was cleaned of any important documents before Astarion was unceremoniously moved in, or Hircine is not someone that mixes business with pleasure. 

And to no one’s surprise, her closet is filled to the brim with maroon clothing. 

She truly is mad. 

There's a dresser in her closet that revealed rows and rows of folding fans, mostly maroon but there was one whole drawer of differently colored ones.

Lexi knocked on the door around four-thirty, letting Astarion know she left food out for him on the hallway table. He took that food and dumped it down the garderobe—there will be no more repeats of the morning’s food poisoning. 

Outside of that disturbance, he’s left to his own devices. 

He’s spent the last ten minutes knocking along the walls, looking for any secret passages, but so far, nothing has been revealed. All that’s left is the north-west wall. 

The fireplace is settled dead center, with two large, covered windows on either side of it. Starting from the right corner near the bed, Astarion raps his knuckles low to high, listening for any hollow sounds. When he reaches the windows, Astarion runs a hand along the thick velvet curtains that are dyed in a color he is growing to loathe. The sun won’t go down until eight, so he isn’t all that interested in enjoying the view at present. Is it by magic or boards that they keep it so dark? 

Moving out of the way in case any light slips through, Astarion pulls the curtain aside—and it stops fast. He spreads the folded fabric, finding nails hammered through the fabric everywhere. He checks the other curtained window, and it's the same thing.

What the fuck? Is this because of me?

So they know he’s a vampire, or at least the main family does, because why else would Lexi be feeding him?

But why? Why would they—

A light knock startles him, and Lexi speaks in a sing-song voice. “Lord Mal is here to see you, my lord. I can send him away if you are resting.”

Astarion jumps back from the window, running his hands through his hair and straightening his clothing, making sure his collar is in place. “No—No, I’ll meet him. Give me a moment. Er, thank you… Lexi.”

“Of course, my lord! He will wait for you at the entry.”

Slipping on some shoes, Astarion inhales deeply through his nose, holds it in his chest for a few beats, then releases it out his mouth.

I am Astarion Szarr. Who I was before is dead and gone.

Don’t talk too much. 

Don’t smile with your teeth. 

Don’t be you.

At the entry to Darkfire Hall, Astarion pauses, wondering how it will look now during the day. What if it’s only his bedroom that has the curtains nailed down? Is he going to open the door and burn to a crisp?

He doesn’t have a choice. He pushes a door open with a tentative hand, finding Malacath waiting off to the side with his arms crossed, brows knitted together as if in deep thought. His brother-in-law perks up instantly when he notices him. “Astarion! Good afternoon.”

 A glance around his brother-in-law shows him the windows are covered just the same as in his bedroom. Strange. “Afternoon, Lord Malacath.”

Malacath’s eyes narrow and he snorts. “Word of advice, and I mean this for everyone , address us by our first name only. Mother will have a fit if you call her ‘Lady’. That said, please call me ‘Mal’.”

Astarion smiles weakly, lips drawn tight. Has he made them uncomfortable? Cazador told him he must show as much deference as possible, but that has been wrong at every turn. “Of course. I apologize for—”

“Oh, nothing to be sorry for. We understand the Szarr’s are, uh—” Trailing off, Malacath scrunches his nose. “Don’t take this personally, you were only raised this way, but you Szarr’s are a little uptight. Worry not though! We’ll help you loosen up.”

How generous. If it weren’t for the compulsions and his absent wife being, well, absent, Astarion could open up a bit more and have a laugh. From what he's glimpsed, the brothers and sister are all eager to get to know him, and he may as well exploit that.

Maybe Astarion can appeal to their compassion if he lets slip that Cazador isn't the kind, generous man he's made himself out to be. For now, it may be too early to lay it on thick when they don't know Astarion all that well, and it’s not like he can just give out any information since he’s bound to the strict compulsions of his master.

He’s patient. He can wait. 

“Ah, Father only wants the, uhm, best for me. I understand his… strictness is for my growth.” If ripping his nails out one by one is for growth, then Astarion should have ascended beyond the mortal planes by now. 

“Is that so?” Mal hums in thought. “Anyway, I know you are in the midst of adjusting here, but thought I'd give you a short tour of Central Hall, if that's all right?”

Astarion needs a map of this place. A mental one will have to do for now until he gets his hands on some parchment and a quill. “I would greatly appreciate it.” And realizing that he has never once asked about his wife, Astarion pivots. “Uhm, how is, er, Hircine?”

Mal looks at him blankly. “Fine.” His short response leaves little room for followup. Ok, so Astarion will not ask about Hircine again. A smile flashes back onto Mal's handsome face, returning to his usual pleasant demeanor. “Then let's begin! Oh, and one thing to note, the family is incredibly sensitive to light, so please don't go opening the windows, they are covered for a reason. I've heard the Szarr's are the same, so it's quite a good match.” With that, Mal leads on.

How convenient.

With the sconces lit once again, Astarion can easily see all the way down the hallway since it's not that long. How was he unable to see it this morning? His self-preservation screams to keep that information to himself.

They reach the grand staircase, but instead of going down, Mal strides by the balcony, stopping in the center so they can look over the railing. He gestures to the surrounding walls. “Central Hall, where we are now, was built in the thirteen-sixties when our parents decided they wanted to be a part of the surface world—made for easier business, even with our sun sensitivity. It's been renovated a lot though, so the original manor no longer stands. The east and west halls, where I, Kyne, Arkay and Stendarr live, were built in the early fourteen-hundreds as the family grew.

“The north-west hall, where you and Hirce live, and the north-east hall were built around forty years ago. They're built at an angle, for fun… or looks, I think?” Mal laughs, incredulous at the thought. “Everyone has their own floor with something special. Since I'm on the first floor of my hall, my wife and I have a basement dwelling. You're on the second floor, so you have a tower. Have you been to it yet?”

“Oh, no. Not yet… I haven't had much of a, er, chance to look around.” Well, isn't that fancy? They make Cazador look like he's living in squalor. 

“Fair enough. Take your time, it's not like you're running out of it.”

It takes all of Astarion's power to not stiffen up at that statement. Is that because he's a vampire?

Mal takes no notice of his momentary panic, moving on to point out the rooms behind them. “The grand library, study and whatever else you feel like doing room. They’re free for anyone to use as they please. Hmm, what else?” He squeezes the silver railing, looking over it as if it might jog his memory. “I'm terrible at these kinds of things—Hirce will be more thorough, I promise.” So is his wife capable of ‘normal’ function without stabbing a fork through her hand? What if Astarion becomes the target of her next psychotic break?

“The downstairs isn't all that interesting. Mother and Father's quarters are directly below, and then there's the dining halls, some meeting rooms, an entrance to the mines and plenty of other stuff.” Mal gives a lazy smile. “Let's go to the library and hang around for a bit.”

Passing under a wide archway, they enter a short hallway with doors on each wall. Mal points out the study and ‘miscellaneous’ room, before heading through black double doors. 

The library is indeed grand. It’s a massive room, shelves line the walls with books packed floor to ceiling, all organized by genre and then by author with little markers to denote where books belong if they've been removed from their place. Order is held in high regard here. A magnificent chandelier hangs from the ceiling, and cut gemstones of all different colors dangle from unseen thread off the sculpted silver scrolls and chains. Faerie fire flickers between shades of green, blue, violet and red on the arms of the chandelier for a dazzling look, while regular candles and lamps are lit around the library for more practical uses.

Scattered throughout the room as if dragged around to wherever a person wanted best are a hodgepodge of sofas, chairs, chaises, desks and what have you, all upholstered for maximum comfort instead of style, though they appear to be of excellent quality.

This family knows how to relax. 

He wanders to the nearest bookshelf, searching out the names of titles. Oh, and they have all four volumes of ‘The Adventures of Tenebrux Morrow’! Violet burned the third and fourth volumes before Astarion could get to it.

“Are you a reader?” 

He jumps in his skin, turning to find Arkay, the youngest child who appears to not even be twenty yet. Curiosity shines in his single lavender eye. “I, uhm—sometimes.” Astarion answers, his words stiff.

“If you take a book at all, mark it with your name and the date you are taking it on a tag over there.” Arkay gestures to a desk, where a box is placed on it filled with paper tags. “Sotha’sil is the librarian, and he gets a little bit, er—” Arkay grimaces. “Let’s just say he’ll take a hatchet to all the doors in the manor until he finds a missing book.”

Astarion blinks. “The librarian… would do that?”

Arkay’s eye goes wide as he nods fearfully. “Yeah. Don’t underestimate him just because he has a limp. Everyone does and then they’re sorry. He’s sweet on Hirce though, so if you do mess up, hide behind her.”

There’s a temptation to ask if that’s how he lost his eye, but Astarion stifles the thought. “Noted. Thank you for telling me.”

Mal and Arkay delve into some argument about dog-earing pages in a book and the best ways to mark one's place. Just use a bookmark, no need to ruin the thing.

Staying out of their spat, Astarion moves around the library in peace, running his finger along leather book spines, and cracking one open here or there where a title has been rubbed off from wear. While the library is a lovely place, it’s certainly not big enough to warrant its own librarian. Is it another show of wealth?

‘He’s soft on Hirce.’ His wife seems to be held in high regard by the servants he’s encountered so far. Is it because she is not sound of mind? The family speaks of her passively, and seem resistant to sharing how or where she is. Could this be some family drama or do they just not like telling an outsider their personal matters? 

When he returns to Darkfire Hall later, Astarion will attempt some feigned curiosity about his wife’s whereabouts. If Lexi is eager to please, then surely she could tell him that much. Or maybe cornering Dagoth would work. The gnome is clearly a weak link if Lexi wriggles her way out of talking.

He notes a tag labeled ‘Hircine - 18 Flamerule, 1483’ in delicate script, left in a blank spot where a book should be. His wife was here just a few days ago.

When rounding a corner of an aisle he leisurely made his way down, Astarion finds a svirfneblin on his hands and knees, removing books so the shelving can be cleaned. A cane is propped up against the shelf. 

The deep gnome looks up with pitch black eyes, baring his crooked, yellowed teeth with a growl. “Who you?” He sounds like he chews on gravel for a living, and maybe he does. He scrabbles for his cane and rises to his feet, barely reaching Astarion’s hip as he glares up at the taller man. “You do not be here.”

“Sotha’sil!” Arkay bounds over to intervene in whatever is happening. “This is Hircine’s husband, Astarion. He can be here.”

Ah, the librarian. He’s a nasty little bugger, isn’t he? Sotha’sil’s scowl deepens as he looks Astarion over, harrumph-ing aggressively before getting back down to his task without another word. 

Arkay laughs nervously. “Sorry to bother you, Sotha.” He waves Astarion over to him, and when he steps closer, Arkay leans in to whisper. “Sotha can be a crotchety bastard, since he takes his job seriously. Everything could be perfect and he’d still be snappy, so don’t mind him. Anyway, Mal and I are playing Swords. Do you want to join?”

“I’ll watch.” Astarion is in no mood to play cards, but if he can get them talking while they're distracted, he could glean some information for Cazador.

They already have a table set up with multiple chairs, and Astarion takes a spot perpendicular to the brothers, who face each other. Mal is preparing to shuffle when Arkay’s hand shoots out, stopping him. “Whoa, let Astarion do that. You always shuffle in your favor.”

Mal’s lips twist ruefully. “Only if you roll your sleeves up, you grabby little goblin. Could you shuffle for us, brother?”

Taking the cards, careful to hide his bruised hand, Astarion performs a few swing cuts, shuffling once in luskan style, followed up by a riffle shuffle and bridges them together in his hands. He’ll give them some fair shuffles this time since he isn’t sure what side to take yet. “Shall I deal as well?”

Both men’s jaws are hanging open and Astarion knows he made a mistake. He wasn’t thinking, just diving straight into shuffling with no regard for how it would make him look. The meek man he’s pretending to be would not do that. 

Though he’s surprised he could do it to begin with, the compulsions Cazador put down must be a little too broad. 

“Hah!” Mal barks out a laugh, and the tension drains from Astarion. “Thank the gods, someone who knows what they’re doing. Please teach us how to do that, Astarion, we’ve ruined so many decks.”

Arkay closes his mouth, grinning happily. “Maybe Hircine will play with us again now. Stendarr gave her a nasty paper cut last time because he squeezes the cards until they explode out of his hands.”

That’s… alarming. 

Astarion takes their excitement at his meager talent as a good sign. He knows what Cazador said, but he’s been wrong so far, and giving the brothers some crumbs to follow here or there may not be all that bad. 

And no one wants to be friendly with a timid do-nothing.

He deals their cards, watching as they take turns playing their tricks. The first round ends quickly with Mal in the lead much to Arkay’s irritation. Astarion deals again.

“So, I assume you like cards then when you can shuffle like that?” Mal asks as he sets down a King of Flames that makes Arkay frown—the youngest son could use a lesson on keeping his emotions in check. Anyone can read his face and know what card will be played next.

“Yes, what kind of… person would I be if I didn’t? And some—uhm...” The compulsion tightens around his neck, stunting his speech. It’s too limiting. How is Astarion supposed to hold conversations like this? “I just enjoy playing cards.” Cards are one of the easier pastimes to cheat at. Slip a card up a sleeve, shuffling so the game plays out exactly as one wishes, counting cards… Astarion has spent so much time in taverns and festhalls honing those sleight of hand tricks, not that they really matter when surrounded by drunks who can’t even read their own cards.

Nodding with a grin, Arkay places down a card, winning the turn. “My favorite is Three-Dragon Ante. Kyne gave me a deck that was owned by Fzoul Chembryl for my last morn day. I’ll let you shuffle it since you won’t ruin the cards.” 

Astarion chuckles and sees an opening to learn more about them. “How old are you then, Arkay?”

“I’ll turn seventeen on the twenty-fourth of Uktar.” So young, and easily manipulated if a simple card shuffle awes him like this.

“Ah, what about you, Astarion?” Mal asks.

Cazador gave him a whole fake background, including age. His master is thorough about some things. “One-hundred and ninety-four.” He’s actually two-hundred and thirty, but who’s counting?

“Another baby in the house. How nice.” With a laugh, Mal tallies up his points, winning once again. He shoots a wink at Astarion. “Nice shuffling, brother.” Arkay pouts, sitting all the way back in his seat with his arms crossed. It wasn’t intentional on Astarion’s part for Mal to win every time, but the chips—or cards fall where they may.

Mal speaks again, listing off everyone's ages. “I’m two-hundred and forty. Stendarr is… two-hundred and twenty-two, maybe? He hates tracking his age, so you’d need to look at the family archive for an exact number. Hirce is one-hundred and forty-six, and I know Kynareth is ninety-five, but she stopped tracking her morn day around twenty years ago. Me, Hirce and our parents will sometimes celebrate our decennials but we aren’t strict about it.

“Father isn’t sure how old he is because he was smuggled out of Menzoberranzan very young and then his parents died not long after. We think he’s around four-hundred and twenty, give or take a few years. Mother is four-hundred and fifteen.”

Astarion will not remember any of this except for Hircine’s age, and even then, it's not that important. Still, he nods his head encouragingly. “Is the—Is Iimithra from Menzoberranzan as well?”

“Yes. Silverhair knights saw her doubt in Lolth, and they helped her escape. She won’t talk about her time there, not that I blame her. So, maybe don’t ask about it.”

“Of course. I understand.” Astarion isn’t surprised to hear that. What he knows of Menzoberranzan sounds on par with the atrocities of Cazador at an ever greater scale. If only they liked power-hungry men as much as they do women. “Were you all born on the surface?”

Arkay jumps in now, excited to answer. “Yes! That’s why we don’t have drow names. Our parents wanted to conform to the surface as our Lady wishes, and they felt like giving us names was a good way to leave the Underdark behind, in case you were wondering.”

Astarion was not, but good to know. 

As he looks between the brothers while they speak, he notes that both of them have some kind of silver hair adornments. Mal’s hair is pulled back with a silver pin and Arkay has small silver cuffs clasped over his braids. It must be some kind of eilistraean thing.

They share some more information on the family with him. It’s worth nothing to Cazador, though the sister, Kynareth, or Kyne as they call her, is a bit of a shut-in, rarely coming out of her hall except for required events and her once in a ten-day trip for shopping in Baldur’s Gate.

Are they just the reverse of typical drow, with the woman hiding away and the men holding the power?

There is an interesting little tidbit about Mal’s wife, who apparently spends all her time in Baldur’s Gate proper, and similar to the sister, only comes back home when required. Mal doesn’t seem torn up about it at all, if not almost relieved that she isn’t around. That is tucked away in Astarion’s mind to look into later. 

She might be someone to keep tabs on.

The sound of books toppling over precedes the grouchy librarian hobbling his way towards the door at a surprisingly rapid pace, grumbling in what sounds like undercommon. 

A smile splits Arkay’s face as he jumps up at the commotion, following hot on the gnome’s heels. “Hircine! Astarion is here with us. We played Swords and you—”

Blood pulses in Astarion’s ears, drowning the youngest son’s words out. 

A wet blanket has arrived to ruin his fun.

Notes:

-Hirce is pronounced like Circe.
-The outside of the manor kind of looks like this chateau but more symmetrical and BIGGER, black marble,
etc
-Swords is a card game in universe thats like Euchre apparently. I’ve never played so I tried to vaguely describe it after reading the wiki and watching some videos. I don’t know why I went to that trouble when it’ll probably never come up again. Cards though absolutely will. People on Tumblr inspired me to give them a poker game, but that'll come later.

Chapter 3: First Look

So the wife has come home to roost, eh?

Or to keep a watchful eye on me.

Astarion stands, and Mal offers a reassuring smile before striding away, joining Arkay in greeting their sister. 

If Astarion could act however he pleased, he would stroll right up to Hircine, taking her delicate hand in his to plant a kiss that lingers just a touch too long on the back of it. A smoldering, thick lashed leer would be the final touch that can fell even the most prudish of maidens.

But he can’t do that, as Cazador forbade it. 

Keeping his injured hand out of of sight to not raise questions, Astarion turns with a shy smile upon his face and—

And he knows he’s fucked.

The woman before him is not someone easily manipulated, nor is she one to fall for bedroom eyes and the crook of a finger. 

Oh no, she devours men like him.

A hazy lavender enshrouds a shining golden ring around her constricted pupils, the light too much for eyes that are accustomed to darkness, giving Hircine an austere aura that leaves Astarion feeling like a child admonished. Her eyes are narrowed slightly, not in disgust but in scrutiny, as if inspecting a fireplace mantle cleaned by a maid that cuts corners. 

He’s unsurprised to see maroon eyeshadow darkening her eyelids, and it’s a dramatic mark against her pearly pale gray skin. Dark gray eyebrows frame her face, expertly groomed so not a hair is out of place. 

A silk folding fan—dyed maroon because gods forbid she exist without the color—with silver capped guards is spread out across her lower face, hiding her mouth and nose from his sight. She must notice his gaze sinking lower as she snaps the fan shut, revealing a straight, pert nose and full mouth stained a ruddy pink that is pursed near imperceptibly. Her hair is a slate gray streaked through by silver, similar to her mother, Iimithra, and pulled back, leaving a strand on either side to shape her oval face. Silver sword earrings dangle from her ears.

“Husband.” She states, her voice low and carrying the slightest rasp. 

Astarion bows his head, making sure his smile does not drop. “Wife.” He returns her statement.

“Hircine is fine.” Stepping forward, she places the cold tips of her fan under his chin, turning his head left and right as she gazes up at him for a good look. Such an action is normally accompanied by an invitation to bed, but Hircine is looking at him like she’s determining whether to shove the fan through his skull. That’s certainly not lust. “Hmm, pretty.” She says.

Pretty? Pretty?

The nerve of this woman.

Mal clicks his tongue. “What’s got you in a nasty mood, Hirce?”

She slaps the fan into her other hand, causing Arkay to startle and Hircine turns slowly, cocking her head at her older brother. “Unlike you, I don’t have the time to flail around doing nothing.” 

“If you need help Hirce, I can start going to the mines.” Arkay offers earnestly.

Her tone is noticeably softer when she speaks to Arkay. “I am fine, just giving Mal a hard time. Focus on your studies and then we’ll talk.” Arkay’s shoulders slump in defeat. She isn’t someone they talk back to.

Hircine looks back at Astarion. “If you have the time, could we go to Darkfire Hall?”

For his plan, he has nothing but time. “Of course. Lead the way.” 

With a curt nod, she heads out, but not before patting the shoulder of Sotha'sil, who grins like a madman at her attention. Walking briskly, Astarion rushes to match her pace after giving the brothers his farewells. 

Like her brother’s, Hircine has silver hair decorations similar to arrowheads woven into the braids of her hair. They sway lightly as she walks down the hallway. 

She smells…edible, like berries and spices, and Astarion imagines her blood must taste even better. He chides himself internally for thinking of her blood, it will lead to nothing outside of leaving his fangs aching to pierce her flesh—and that's just not allowed.

They move in silence, with Hircine seeming disinterested in starting a conversation. Astarion is fine with that, but he knows that won't further his goals.

He clears his throat as they come upon the doors to Darkfire Hall. “Erm, so… how is your hand?”

Producing the key, Hircine pauses, glancing up at him with a puzzled look that is quickly cleared away. “Fine. How is yours?”

How did she—? He must have not hid it well enough. “Oh, it looks worse than it is… Got it—A mishap with a door.”

She hums noncommittally, and before she slides the key home, Hircine tests the knob, finding it unlocked. 

Shit. Astarion forgot to lock the door. 

It's almost inaudible, that exhale of dissatisfaction from her nose. He braces himself for outrage, but she opens the door and waits for him to pass through. The lock clicks into place once the door is closed. 

“When coming and going, could you please lock the door? People wander around sometimes.” She asks it nice enough, though there's an edge to her tone that borders on harsh.

“I—Yes, I apologize. I forgot when—”

“It's fine.” Hircine skirts past him, heading through the sitting area and down the hallway. Not stopping, she passes the servants' door and not long after they walk by does Astarion hear the door creak open. They must wait by it for any hint from their master—a feeling he is all too familiar with.

Inside his and Hircine's shared bedroom where the candles are still burning from when he lit them in the afternoon, Lexi follows in right behind them, chipper as the sun is bright. She salutes them both. “What can I do you for, Lady Hircine, my lord?”

Looking at Astarion, Hircine speaks. “Are you fine with Lexi taking your measurements? In a month, Mother and Father are holding a soiree for the Parliament of Peers and some members of the Flaming Fist… Then there's the meeting with the Evmeolstone's from Waterdeep and Kyne's marriage in three months… You'll need clothes to match mine.”

Does she need his permission for that? And Kynareth is already getting married? “Ah, please do.”

Hircine waves to Lexi, who leads him behind the folding screens, and retrieves a measuring ruler from a dresser. It's strange there's no mirror here, but he's thankful all the same.

The scars on his back and neck bruises… “Do I need to remove my clothes?”

“Not at all my, my lord. I can eye your measurements, but I want to make sure for the first time.”

Hircine marches by them, throwing open his closet door to run her fan along the fabrics of his clothing with a grimace. She pulls out a suit jacket that is a terrible shade of brown and made of a material that looks torturously itchy. “This is to your taste?”

He could almost laugh at her disdain, not that he blames her. “Oh, no—my father purchased them for me.”

Hircine must not be good at hiding her emotions. She frowns, dropping the coat on the ground. “Lexi, just get him new everything, and Husband, let her know if you have any preferences.”

Husband? Is she going to always call me that? Whatever, if she wants to demean him, then fine. He's been called worse.

“Any colors you're partial to, my lord?” Lexi asks as she finishes up measurements. 

“Not really, no.” Astarion regrets that answer immediately. What if his clothing ends up in every nauseating shade of maroon? 

Lexi looks to Hircine, patiently waiting as her master taps her chin with the fan. Her sharp lavender eyes study him. “Blue. Any shades are fine. Oh, and we're meeting the Ravenshade’s on the twenty-sixth, so please make sure Vivec delivers the crest pin before that. ”

The crest? Probably a family crest. Astarion can't recall having ever seen it. He makes a wager with himself that it's silver and has a sword on it. The reward will be a day off from information sleuthing. 

Hircine continues to dig through his closet, tossing clothes that don’t meet her standards to the ground. “Is there anything in here you like?”

“I’m, uhm, not particularly… attached to anything.” He’s going to be the one labeled as unsound of mind now with his inability to speak with a normal cadence. Was this Cazador’s intent? 

“I see. I’ll leave your rest wear and the plain every day ones in here. If you change your mind on anything, tell Lexi and she’ll get it taken care of. There’s no reason to wear clothes you don’t like.”

Isn’t she kind? 

Astarion takes the time to study Hircine’s tastes in return. She wears a fitted, short-sleeved silk dress cut perfectly to her slender figure, and to the surprise of absolutely no one, it’s maroon. He begrudgingly admits that it suits her, but she should switch it up now and then. The standing collar is adorned with pink piping and silver lacing that follow the bust, and there are high slits to bare her thighs up to the hips. Exceptionally scandalous for a noble lady like her, but what does it matter if she never leaves the grounds? A silver band is wrapped around her thigh, and other than that, the earrings and her hair decorations, she is bereft of jewelry. Her feet are… bare. Interesting. 

Her brothers and all the servants had shoes, it’s just her then?

Hircine turning out to not be ugly isn’t problematic on its own; Astarion never remembers the faces of the people he seduces, anyway. It’s the fact that she carries a shrewd glint in her eyes that is the problem. Astarion needs to tread carefully.

After Hircine’s requests are noted, Lexi skips off, humming a cheery tune as she shuts their bedroom door. How is that maid so fucking happy all the time?

There’s a loud silence left in her wake while Astarion settles on a couch, correcting his collar in the hopes that his bruises have not been showing. Hircine has to be aware of the uncomfortable quiet between them, but she drifts around the room aimlessly, searching drawers for things and clicking her tongue when whatever she wants is not found. 

Someone made up the bed again after he left it in a tangled mess, and when Hircine steps over to the bedside table, Astarion stiffens. Did he take her side? “Erm, I slept on that side… if that’s alright.”

She waves her fan around to dismiss his words. The bedside table yields nothing further, and she straightens, rolling her head around followed by a huff of irritation, though something on the wall catches her sight, as Hircine steps closer, squinting her eyes to get a good look. “Has it only been you here today?”

“Uhm, yes? Well, other than… Lexi and Dagoth.”

“Hmm, and no one stopped by?” 

Astarion doesn’t understand what he’s done wrong. “Mal did around six to—to show me Central Hall.”

There’s a pregnant pause from Hircine before she turns to him, unfolding her fan and flapping it to create a breeze on her face. “Four times a ten-day the family gathers for a meal in the Blue Room. They’re very informal, and also mandatory unless you are unwell or out on business. We have a ten-day grace period before we’re expected to attend them.”

So she’ll just move on like that short-lived interrogation didn’t happen? Why would he let someone into their hall?

Am I that untrustworthy already?”

“Attire for family meals?”

“Like I said, informal, so whatever feels comfortable. Mother and Father like when everyone spends time together.” Her eyes are drawn again to a spot on the wall, and Astarion can’t see whatever it is she’s looking at. Did he dent a wall with all his knocking earlier? Hircine continues speaking. “The communal spaces like the grand library and hallways are… closed from six in the morning to three in the afternoon. Mother and Stendarr are very sensitive sleepers. I swear they can hear doors open from opposite sides of the house, so we try to be respectful of that.” He nods.

That’s why? Then why was Lexi so strange about it? She delivered that information like zombies stalk the halls, not that their matriarch is cranky when woken up too early. Good gods. 

“Mal was an exception earlier since I could not be here, but unless strictly called for, we do not go to other halls. They are our private homes and we expect everyone to abide by that.” It will be hard for him to gain access to their secrets, is what he hears.

Taking a seat on a chair across from him, Hircine crosses her legs and snaps her fan closed to lay it across her lap. Her chin is tilted down towards her chest and she stares unfocused at the ground. “Stendarr is taking care of the mines for a ten-day while we,” she waves her hand between them, “get acquainted. I’m quite tired today though, could I start showing you around tomorrow, instead?”

“Of course. I was planning to—to, uhm, maybe explore… Darkfire Hall for the night?” His teeth grind together, getting those last words out as his jaw is turning rigid. He has to endure more than twenty days of this stunted talking? Would the punishment of returning early to have Cazador lift the compulsion be worth it? How is he supposed to get these people on his side or serve his vampiric master when he can barely get five words out edge-wise?

“That sounds like a good way to spend the evening.” There’s no interest or any emotion at all in her tone now, like the life just drained out of Hircine the moment she sat down.

He’s been dismissed. 

Hircine doesn’t move when he rises and slinks out of the room to go snoop with permission. In the hallway, he closes the doors before placing his hands on his hips. Now where to start?

Probably the beginning. 

The sitting room is as it has been, with its maroon everything and the spicy citrus scent that lingers in the air. Double checking that the servants aren’t around, Astarion moves over to the desk, unfurling the parchment scrolls there. 

Words written in the elvish alphabet litter the pages, but they aren’t legible. Undercommon if he had to guess. There’s probably a dictionary in the grand library, so he’ll nab one when he has a chance. 

Why didn’t Cazador give him any hints? Astarion will have to remember every detail he comes across to pass it along, since he isn’t able to narrow it down to anything useful. 

And he will still get punished for Cazador’s lack of direction. Twenty five days not getting punished is worth it though. He hasn’t had a break like this in—Well, since he was turned. 

Nothing of use is found on any of the immediate surfaces around the room. Another day when he knows Hircine and the servant’s schedules better will he do a more thorough dress down. A peek in the kitchen gives him nothing so he steps over to a gray door at the beginning of the hallway. 

A dining room with a table seated for six sits squarely in the middle. No decorations hang from the walls and a fine layer of dust covers the table, telling him it isn’t used much, or cleaned. There’s another door that connects to the kitchen for easy serving. Boring.

There’s a door almost directly across from the dining room that leads to a washroom.

Moving on.

He passes the servant’s quarters, pausing for any sounds, but still nothing. 

One last door between the servant’s quarters at the end of the hall leads to a personal library. Now this is what he’s looking for. Astarion will come back to it. 

The left branch of the hallway leads to a spare bedroom that might be useful for lover's spats and the other room is a storage space filled with furniture draped in dust covers. Maybe there could be something interesting in the storage room, but it’s not a priority at the moment. Down the right branch is a single locked door at the end of it. 

Lock picks are added to his list of things to get his hands on.

He heads back to the library. Half of the walls are covered in shelving, but they're left incredibly bare, either Hircine opts to borrow from the library more often than not, or she isn’t a big reader. There’s a table by the door with a stack of books labeled ‘To Return’. A fancy desk sits in a nook at the far end of the room.

Perfect.

A parchment pile rests on a desk corner, unfortunately still written in undercommon, and there are two uncovered inkpots, dried and unusable. Rifling through the drawers, he finds more papers, capped ink pots—Astarion can’t believe Hircine doesn’t write in maroon ink—and unused quills. 

He searches among the books, hoping for an undercommon dictionary to turn up. Nothing. It might be a bad look to return to the grand library now when he should be spending the night getting to know his new wife since they have finally met. 

Knocking for false walls will have to come another time with the servant’s quarters so close. 

Has he missed anything? A scan around the library gives him nothing until he remembers: under. People love to hide things underneath desks, chairs and tables. 

Getting on his hands and knees, Astarion crawls under the desk, and— I’m a genius. 

There’s a sliver of parchment tucked between the slides of a drawer. He makes sure to mentally mark its position before carefully pulling it out. 

Unfolding the parchment, there is a list of names—or at least most are, he assumes.

 

Malacath — Chalrae — Stendarr — Jenassa

Kynareth — Arkay — Hircine

 

Boethiah — Vaermina 

 

Dibella — Mara — Tathzar

Clavicus — Molag —   █████ 

Anwen — Sanguine

 

Seventeen names—he thinks, with seven struck from the list and another crossed through so much it's no longer legible. Five names belong to the Zau’viir children, the other thirteen he has never seen before, with a handful he recognizes as drow-ish, but otherwise, they mean nothing. 

Astarion folds the parchment and tucks it back into place precisely where it was.

He’ll come back later to copy them down. 

---

Crawling around like a creature yielded no more hidden away secrets. 

For his first time snooping, Astarion did a damned good job. It’ll be even better when he’s completely alone and has the proper tools for the task.

And Hircine has her own copy of the third volume ‘The Adventures of Tenebrux Morrow’ that Astarion plucks from a shelf. He’s worked hard tonight, time to take a well-deserved break.

A place to read, though…

The black marble fireplace in the library is surrounded by some plush looking lounge chairs. He drops his book on one so he can light a fire for himself, but the turn of the library’s doorknob has him standing ramrod straight. 

Hircine enters, changed into relaxed wear with a light blanket draped over her shoulders, all in her signature color. Her face is bored, bordering on blank. “Husband,” There’s little life to her voice. “I’m having a late lunch—or early dinner, I guess. Would you like to join?”

Well, if the opportunity to bond presents itself, he shouldn’t turn it down. “Yes!” Oh, please don’t serve another meal chock full of garlic!

“We’ll eat in our room. I don’t like the dining room, unless you would prefer it.”

And be surrounded by all that dust? “No, that works for me.” He grabs his book and follows behind Hircine as she walks slower than an ooze back into their room. What was she doing earlier in the day that drained all her energy?

Though coming off a psychotic break tends to leave one weakened…

How is he supposed to deal with that if it happens often?

Dagoth is setting a table when they walk in, lining the silverware up perfectly on the cloth napkins. Just four days ago, Astarion had done the same for Cazador when he had a few Peers over for dinner. 

His fate remains unchanged due to still being bound by Cazador’s unbreakable compulsions, but instead of being locked in a box where the key has been thrown away, Astarion holds a key. 

Now the hard part is finding a lock it fits.

When the gnome finishes setting the table, Hircine glances in his direction as she takes a seat. Dagoth bows and departs. 

More awkward silence ensues when they are left alone. What can they even talk about? Astarion can’t use his arsenal of sultry pick up lines or come hither stares at the end of a darkened room, and even if he could, they would certainly have no effect on the brick wall before him.

Has Hircine smiled once since he’s seen her?

In his search of Darkfire Hall, there wasn’t anything that hinted at her hobbies or interests. Plenty of what he assumes is business documents that he is yet to translate, but that can’t be all there is to her.

Hircine stares at the wood grain in the table, maybe looking for any answers as to how she ended up married to some nobody who can’t talk right.

Relieving them of the uncomfortable weight settling between them is Lexi, carrying plates of baldurian mash and some type of seared fish. If there is garlic, it's very little. He won’t have to spend an excruciating hour throwing up.

Lexi doesn’t linger—he can’t decide if that's unfortunate or not, and they are alone again.

The scrape and clink of silverware on the plates is grating to Astarion’s ears and sets his nerves alight. Is this his last meal? His eyes unconsciously follow Hircine’s fork on its path from food to mouth, waiting for the moment she aims it at him instead. 

She meets his eyes, looking bored as ever. Astarion gives a tight smile, returning his gaze down to the table.

“Do you have questions about anything?” she asks around a bite of food.

Why yes! Tell me all of your secrets so I might placate my master while searching for a way to free myself from him. Also, could you fall deeply, madly in love with me so I can secure myself in your protections? 

If only it were that easy.

He has to do this the normal way. Disgusting. “You work in the mines?” Astarion will pretend to be so enthralled by this conversation that he'll ‘forget’ to eat. 

“Yes. I don’t do any hard labor obviously, though I’ve helped with a few cave-ins before. Primarily, I balance the ledgers, designate foremen, perform quality inspections, secure trade deals.” She shrugs as if it is of no consequence. “A bit of everything, really.”

Something about her dead tone tells him it’s not ‘a bit’. The second eldest, Stendarr, is apparently taking care of business on her leave. Isn’t the whole family involved? But then Mal and Arkay were here entertaining themselves with games…

Arkay is too young for the business, and earlier, Hircine shot down an offer for his help. Kyne doesn't leave her room, so then what is Mal doing?

“Do you… need help?” He asks.

Her eyes instantly sharpen. “Are you offering or making a statement?”

And how is Astarion supposed to respond to that? He isn’t trying to question her abilities, if that is what she’s thinking. “Both?”

Now one of her perfectly groomed brows raises. “You want to help with the business?”

“I’m a fast writer… and, uhm, I listen well.” Oh, yes, what a way to sell it. “I was a magistrate… once.” Not that anyone would believe such an absurd thing in his current state, but it is true.

“Well, I guess that’s fine. You wouldn’t need to work every day, a few times within a ten-day should be suitable.”

He blinks at her easy agreement. Hircine must be getting crushed under the burden of her work if she's letting him in so easily.

If the chips continue to fall into place like this, he might hoard a steady pile of secrets and information that he can pass on to Cazador in a slow drip. 

The only issue will be if this information is useful at all. Punishments will be meted out without mercy should Master deem any of it worthless. Working without a specific goal in mind is like searching for a needle in a haystack, it's— 

Did Cazador set him up to fail? 

Astarion doesn’t want to think about that. Cazador has never needed a reason to torture him. Why start now?

There's more pressing matters to attend to, anyway.

“I, uhm—regarding… intimacy, do you have any… expectations?” Time to do what he does best: sex. He might not talk all that well now, but his tongue still works just fine.

Hircine sets her fork down and dabs around her mouth with a napkin primly. There's no discernible change in her uninterested features, so if she's feeling shy or scandalized, she doesn't show it. “I don't feel any way about it. We aren't expected to have children and I'm not someone who… seeks such things out.”

What the fuck is Astarion supposed to do if she won't sleep with him? “You don't… like intimacy?” And if children aren't an expectation—not that he can give her any—then why have her marry a man, if at all? Being a man doesn't even matter! These problems can be magicked away for wealthy people like them!

“I didn't say that. Sex is just…” She looks around the room as if the right words are hiding in a nook or cranny. “It comes later for me once we've learned more about each other—if that's alright.” Hircine tacks on that last bit quickly, if not fearfully.

She is the one in control here, why should what Astarion wants matter?

“The smaller things like hand holding, kissing, you know, those are fine." She rubs a hand along her neck. "I'm not old-fashioned or anything, of course, and if you want to move faster I can… make do.”

Make do. That’s what he has been doing for two hundred years. What does this morose noble know of making do?

Astarion bites back any irritation. It will do him no good to hate the woman he must spend an indeterminate amount of time with. Being agreeable is best. “I see… Well, I’m fine to—to wait if that is… what you want. 

“Thank you.” She breathes out in relief. 

Was she afraid he would push for more?

Astarion is a lot of things, but a monster like that, he is not.

---

Dinner is cleared away, and he is once again left to his own devices. Hircine just turns catatonic on the sofa, staring up at the ceiling, the only confirmation that she hasn’t died where she rests is the steady rise and fall of her chest. 

Honestly, what is wrong with her?

Before receding into her mind, Hircine said they can go to the mines tomorrow, and Astarion can get a feel for the Zau’viir business. It’s not like he has anything else to do, so he readily agreed.

If touring the mines doesn’t take all of tomorrow night, then he will frolic about in the garden or small forest nearby for a bite—or two, or three, Cazador isn’t here to stop him from drinking til he’s sick with blood. With a family meal coming up and that Ravenshade business, Astarion wants to be as full as he can be, who knows how many opportunities he’ll have to slip away.

Having sank into a lounge chair with his book, Astarion tears through it with vigor. Tenebrux Morrow has found herself in the lands of Barovia, and at the mercy of the all-powerful vampire lord, Strahd von Zarovich, but she goes toe-to-toe with him, leading to an agreement of tentative peace. The captain is bold, Astarion will give her that. Though he has heard rumors that the real Captain Morrow is nothing of the sort, just some layabout in Waterdeep who wrote engaging literature. 

When Hircine rises from her mindlessness and readies herself for bed, he follows suit, not knowing the etiquette for these kinds of things. Will they go to bed together every night from now on or is today ‘special’?

There’s only one way to find out. 

Pulling back the covers on the unclaimed side of the bed, Hircine crawls in, having donned a flowy, long-sleeved nightgown that is shockingly not maroon. He can already see how her eyelids start to droop once her back hits the mattress and the blankets are pulled up to her chin. She’s a tired thing.

When he slips into his own spot, Hircine turns towards him briefly, uttering quietly, “Goodnight, Husband.” And then rolls over onto her side, facing away.

“Goodnight,” He says, a feeling of something calming and almost long forgotten flooding his body.

There is no memory Astarion can recall where he went to bed with someone just to sleep.

It’s a first, and he’s quite at peace with it.

Notes:

-In my head, Hircine has a mix of voice 8 from the game and Mia Farrow from The Last Unicorn.
-Here is Hircine

Chapter 4: So Below

The elevator to the mines is locked and guarded at all times—no exceptions. They don't want just anyone entering, which is to be expected when it's the lifeblood of their business. 

While not uncomfortable, the ride down is long. There are benches built into the side that they can sit on, and thick chain link fencing makes up a protective barrier of the elevator. Hircine stands near one side, fanning herself as she watches the rocky surfaces pass by, the bored look still stuck to her face. Astarion is absolutely befuddled that she is venturing to the Underdark barefoot.

The way down is brightly lit by magical lamps that she stated turn on with their approach, and the deeper they descend, the more stagnant the air becomes. 

For all his years trapped in the darkness, Astarion has never been to the Underdark. It's the perfect place for creatures rejected by the sun, not that Cazador would ever want to come down here.

Master believes he can walk among the living.

Bored holes leading to darkness branch off occasionally from the tunnel they drift down. Man or other made, Astarion doesn't have the eye to tell.

They must be nearing the end as Hircine adjusts her posture, running a hand along the scrunched fabric to smooth out the wrinkles in her dress there. She's wearing another sleek dress, this time in a lighter shade of pink embroidered with maroon thread, all complete with matching fan. Flashy clothes that bare her legs and arms, giving her unrestricted movement, seem to be her style. When not seated, Hircine is constantly moving or fidgeting where she stands, though there is a grace in her stride that gives Astarion the impression of a dancer. 

He's tempted to place a hand on her hip or elbow to measure her reaction at furthering their intimacy, but he finally has the chance to not throw himself at someone and maybe dragging it out might lead to her chasing him instead.

With a rap of her fan against the metal cage, Hircine turns to him. “How much do you know about the Underdark?”

It's underground, it's dark, and everything wishes to kill you. What more is there to know? “Not much.” Might as well get the full run down from an expert. He might learn something useful.

The Underdark could prove the perfect escape from Cazador if Astarion learns it well enough. 

“I don't think you need a whole lesson on the topographical and geographical makeup of the Underdark because… who cares. There are three layers: upper, middle and lower. Our mines are primarily in the Upperdark, with some deeper excavations extending into the Middledark for more precious materials. There aren't many large under-cities nearby, a few settlements of deep gnomes and a small one of… free… drow.” Hircine frowns, unpleased with her word choice. “‘Free’ is the wrong way to put it, some drow escaped Lolth, some were born here. Others are surface drow who want to return to the depths. We employ anyone from these settlements, along with dwarves and humans from Blackgate—really anyone looking for some work. If they work well, we pay well.

“Primarily we deal in gems, though black marble has been high in demand the past few years. Weapon-smithing is a small part of the Zau'viir business and I'm working to have it phased out entirely in the next five years. They said Abdel Adrian’s murderer wielded Zau'viir steel! It's factually untrue, but not a good look regardless, having bloodshed tied to our name. Drow are always easy targets for that kind of finger pointing, so better just eliminate it entirely.”

Ah, he remembers those rumors swirling around. The Grand Duke was murdered out in public by a bhaalspawn last year, as if a mad creature like that needed assistance from some measly dagger. 

She continues on, now incensed. “Could you imagine Arkay threatening anyone?” Hircine does not wait for Astarion’s response. “That boy is afraid of his own shadow most days! Kyne rarely leaves the manor grounds, same as I, and Stendarr… Well, Stendarr sees nothing outside of Jenassa. Mal's talented with a blade as we all are, but turning it on someone? Never. ” Her fan flashes over her face, hiding it from sight. “Apologies. I'm on a tangent, acting like a victim when the Grand Duke was murdered in cold blood. I forget my place sometimes.”

She's extremely protective of her family. Astarion can play into that. “You want what's… best for them. I don't, er, blame you for being… angry on their behalf.”

The fan drops, revealing her somber face as she stares at the ground. “They're all I have. Someone needs to take care of them.”

They wouldn't be if she went outside sometimes, but why does this burden fall to Hircine then? Astarion is puzzled by their dynamic. Is she holding the Zau’viir’s and their business together? And what of politics, since she never leaves the estate?

“Uhm,” her voice is strained, like she is swallowing back tears before picking her head up and waving him over. “We'll get off soon, if you want to come over.”

Comforts of the emotional kind aren’t really where he excels, so Astarion just stands quietly by her side and Hircine spares him her tears. 

The surrounding tunnel widens, and when looking over the edge, he can now see the landing platform. Hircine fans herself, and that citrus scent from Darkfire Hall’s sitting room wafts over to him. It’s smart, scenting her fan, especially when traveling to the mines that must be rank.

“Can I hold your arm?” She asks.

Testing the waters, I see. Astarion holds his out, and Hircine links with him so they are now pressed against each other. He’s not sure if she is tall or short for her family, with the top of Hircine’s head coming up to his jaw, but she carries herself like she’s twelve feet tall, ready to look down on anyone.

The wrought-iron gate opens automatically once the elevator has settled on the ground, sending vibrations through their bodies. They’re in a small cavern now with one opening that bends around a corner, leaving Astarion feeling claustrophobic. He hopes it will open up more. 

Tugging him forward, Hircine leads him through the stone brick hallway, every smooth surface cut expertly to uphold with any wear and tear. Along the bend, the hallway continues on, filling him with dread as they delve deeper. Hircine won’t just leave him here will she?

More of the magical lamps light the walls, missing the usual flicker of candlelight. Up ahead, some rubble mars the sharp lines of the stone path, and Astarion tracks movement beyond the debris. He stops, and Hircine looks at him in curiosity. “What is it?”

“There’s something behind that rock.” He says, jerking his chin in its direction.

Following his gaze, Hircine watches and waits, gripping his arm tighter. Tiny, knobby hands appear on top of the small boulder as a wart covered head pops up, beady black eyes gleaming in the light. The creature climbs up, revealing a naked, saggy body, very much male , crusted in dirt and gods know what else. It's like a gnome... but worse.

Astarion scoffs, turning his head away. “Disgusting. Why is it—Where’s its modesty?” 

"A jermlaine. Pesky things that hate creatures bigger than they are. Clothing is... optional to them. This one has been waging war on me for years, though the worst he's done is put a splinter in my foot." Hircine relaxes, pointing with her fan, and Astarion spots jagged pebbles and wood chips littering the ground.

Those wouldn't be a problem if his wife wore shoes.

The jermlaine glares at them from his perch, stomping angrily and waving his gangly arms around while squawking in a familiar yet not language. Astarion isn't one to be scandalized by nudity, but this heap of skin dangling its bits before him is just offensive.

“Oh, my…” Hircine covers her mouth with her fan.

He looks between Hircine and the nasty creature on the ground. “What? What is it?” 

“Can’t you hear him? Thirsk wants to shave your head.” It’s faint but there might be laughter in her voice. Does she find the thought of him losing one of his greatest assets funny? He should splatter that tiny man across the walls for even making that threat.

“You speak its language?” Astarion tunes out the uproarious shrieks of the jermlaine.

Her pale lavender eyes widen, pupils narrowing to pin pricks when the light hits her face as she studies him with a sharpness that leaves Astarion uncomfortable. “You don’t? It’s undercommon.” She lets out a little ‘ah’ of realization and nods. “You weren’t raised in the Underdark, I shouldn’t be so surprised.”

Will not knowing undercommon preclude him from being involved in the business?

“I–I can learn if it’s… a problem.”

“No, no. Not at all. We have plenty of translation devices and dictionaries. Language isn’t all that important, I just forget that not every drow will know it. I speak it more than common most days.”

Oh, right. Astarion is now drow, or half-drow. Whatever. 

Something thumps his shin, and looking down reveals the jermlaine has walked over to kick Astarion with its clubfoot. It’s a short beast, not even reaching his knee. They were too caught up in their conversation, though it’s not like the jermlaine hurt him. Why wouldn’t it go after the barefoot drow, though?

Its screeching begins again when they make eye contact, and Hircine gasps. “Now that’s just gruesome.”

“What’s it saying?”

“Too awful to repeat. Let’s go.” She links their arms together and hops over the debris, leaving the filth-crusted creature behind as it shouts after them. Pettiness takes over Astarion, baring his fangs at the creature before it disappears from his sight. 

“As far as I know, jermlaines aren’t native to this area of the Underdark. Thirsk and his companions just appeared one day twenty years ago. Stay upright and they can’t hurt you, for the most part. We leave them be, since they can be funny, and there's no joy in killing.”

That’s… surprising. Cazador wouldn’t let nuisances like those fester, but Hircine, even with her sharpness, seems soft of heart.

And soft hearts are always easily molded to his purposes.

The tunnel opens into a grand hub, bustling with activity. Mine carts full of rocks and minerals, slabs of marble lying about haphazardly, and dirt-covered people and strange animals pass by, maybe sparing a glance or grunt of acknowledgement Hircine’s way.

They’re all so… casual to their employer. Shouldn’t more respect be thrown her way? This family’s lax nature is unlike anything Astarion has ever seen, and it hasn’t even been two whole days since he’s been here. It feels wrong, though not because it’s fake—which it certainly could be—but because it's so, so unusual for the haughty noble types.

Bat-faced dogs stand guard at intervals, staring at nothing in particular while their ears twitch about occasionally, somehow drawn to a particular sound in all this boisterous noise. 

The architecture within the mines is distinctly dwarven, with its polished stone, metal reinforcements and function over form style. Probably for the best when cave-ins are a possibility. Dwarves seem pretty talented at avoiding those.

They reach a large doorway where another of those bat-dogs sits blocking the way, its velvet black skin wrinkling around its neck and legs. It perks up on their approach, and when Hircine sticks her hand out, it sniffs approvingly, moving out of the way. She turns to Astarion, explaining what it is. “A cavvekan, their hearing is excellent. Let Barbas sniff your hand so he can become familiar with you.”

When he reaches toward the beast, its wet nose presses into his hand and Barbas growls. Astarion yanks his hand back, fearing the incoming bite, but Barbas stays in place, letting out a whine with ears flattened back. Can it tell he’s undead?

Hircine stares down at the cavvekan, disapproval plain by the set of her mouth. “He won’t do that again.” She leads them inside the room, waving her hand around in a ‘Well, here it is’ manner. “My office, or ours now, I guess. A desk will be put in by month's end, I don’t want to throw you into anything before you’ve had time to adjust. It’ll be nice to have someone who speaks legalese though, I always have to pour over a document a few times to find everything.”

She really just takes him at his word, doesn't she? How nice.

The office isn’t anything glamorous, just a rectangular room with a domed ceiling and random decorations that must have been excavated from the mines. Hircine’s desk is covered in documents, and her signature open inkpots. If Astarion can accomplish one thing outside of his goals, it will be to teach this woman how to cap an inkpot.

When a lamp is turned on, a flash of movement draws his attention and those same black beady eyes peer around a statue in a corner. 

Astarion sputters, pulling at Hircine’s arm for her attention. “The—The jermlaine! It’s here!”

“Yes, Thirsk comes in here often. We have a truce while in my office, so he’ll leave us be. Just ignore him.” Hircine looks terribly uninterested.

The deformed gnome makes faces at Astarion and begins to—

Covering his eyes, Astarion says through gritted teeth. “He’s touching himself. What is—What is wrong with him?!”

Hircine takes Astarion’s hand, placing her fan in his palm. “For your delicate sensibilities.” She deadpans before turning away to search along a shelf, pulling out a cushion in a box and a small blanket. Laying it on the ground, Thirsk ceases his obscene actions and dives into the box, rolling himself into a ball of warts and nastiness.

“You just… let him do that?” Astarion is in disbelief, fanning himself. How is he the only one nauseated by that display?

“It’s been twenty years. I’m past the point of caring about little men and their little penises. Normally he does wear clothes… Must’ve lost them in a fight.” She shrugs. “Thirsk is cute in a, er, awfully disgusting way.”

Hircine is mad. She believes that thing to be cute, and Astarion is only pretty? The outrage!

She must sense he’s feeling slighted, and changes topics. “Have you heard of Throrgar?”

“Throrgar? No.”

“It’s also known as the Shrieking Abyss. Here, look at this map.” She shows him a large canvas map that hangs from a wall. “This is the Underdark throughout Faerun. We’ve tried to mark everything we know, but… I don’t think anyone can truly know all of the Underdark.” Pointing to a place where Baldur’s Gate should be is jagged purple marking covering the river Chionthar, and it stretches down south near Candlekeep. “This is Throrgar, laying far beneath our feet in the Lowerdark, and possibly some of the Middledark. We don’t like to get anywhere near it.

“Nothing good comes or goes from there. Portals to Cocytus lie within along with horrors from the far realms.” Hircine moves away, pulling a cloth from a glass encasing. It contains a perfectly spherical rock dotted with strange markings that seem to flicker and bend the longer Astarion stares. He tears his eyes away to watch Hircine run a finger along an edge of the glass, her voice taking on a distant affect. “This was found in the Lowerdark… and believed to be from the eldritch lair of an uvuudaum lurking around Throrgar. They’re horrible creatures with an iron thorn whip for a head that warps reality around them, draped in a cloak to conceal the fleshy crab-limbs they scuttle around on.” 

When she meets his eyes, the gold ring of her irises glow a sickly yellow. “Imagine—whispers of their unspeakable realities invading your mind, twisting the fabric of everything you once knew, oh and to be touched by their mania,” Hircine pauses, a look of wonder shattering her stoic face. “Is to be touched by the void of unmaking .”

Is this a hobby of hers, talking about weird creatures beyond their understanding? It’s better than torture methods, he supposes, though he’s not sure how a noble lady like this gets caught up with the strange and unknowable. 

Hircine quirks a brow, leaning towards him. “Do you want to see a drawing of one?”

“See—See what?” 

“An uvuudaum. Were you listening?”

“I—Fine, show me.”

Pulling an aged leather-bound book from the shelf behind her, she flips through it. “This is a drawing of one, as described by a person who had the misfortune of encountering an uvuudaum—allegedly. Who knows if it’s true...” Hircine turns the book around, letting Astarion see it.

The uvuudaum is exactly as she described it, but what his mind crafted by her words was nowhere near as disgusting as this cryptid monstrosity on paper, and she also didn’t mention the normal fucking arms it has. Astarion averts his eyes, having had enough. “Oh gods, I have—I have a complete and… utter horror of ugliness.”

That is what finally breaks her facade—his revulsion. A smile slips onto Hircine's face, though it doesn’t quite reach her eyes and she laughs lightly. “I'm glad we agree. Luckily, you should never see one.” 

“And what if—if I do?”

Her smile quickly drops, replaced by a far-away gaze. “Pray that your existence will end in its presence.”

Why does she talk as if she knows what to do? 

“Hirce, no one wants to hear your ridiculous stories. Stop trying to scare him.”

She snaps the book shut, mumbling, “Kyne does ." 

Stendarr stands at ease in the doorway. When he glances around the room, Astarion can see a silver band holds his hair back and he's wearing very simple cotton clothing with a yellow vest. “You’re not working are you?”

The book is returned to its place, and Hircine loops her arm back with Astarion’s. She wasn't lying, casual touch doesn't bother her. “Can’t a wife show her husband around?”

“To the mines?” Stendarr raises a skeptical eyebrow in Astarion’s direction. “Is she working?”

He’s not stupid enough to rat out his wife, even if she were. Astarion shakes his head. “No, just showing me around… I asked.” Not exactly true, but taking Hircine’s side will only endear her to him.

“And what about you, Stendarr? Or is Jenassa doing everything while you luxuriate at her feet?” Hircine needles her brother. Jenassa must be Stendarr’s wife, who he is utterly devoted to based on Hircine’s commentary.

“Hah! No, I am working hard today. Jena’s out hunting for a dress for Kyne’s wedding. You know nothing can stop her when shopping is involved.” Stendarr edges closer to them, cocking his head at Astarion. “I didn’t really notice the other day, but are you a szarkai, Astarion?”

Both Hircine and Stendarr scrutinize him now, and Astarion stands straighter. “A what?”

Hircine clarifies for him. “Szarkai, albino drow. Extremely uncommon. He’s not bald though?” And what a blessing that is.

“Or deformed. Do you have fangs? I’ve heard rumors that some look like vampires.”

Do they now? Or is this an attempt to have him reveal his monstrous nature? If these szarkai are as they describe though… Astarion won’t have to hide so desperately. Screw it, he can’t detect any deception in their words. “Is that—I do have sharper, uhm, than normal teeth.”

The siblings lean in, intrigued. “Can we see?” Hircine asks.

Astarion is committed now. He bares his teeth in what he hopes appears as harmless, and the Zau’viir’s look at him in wonder. Stendarr’s hand rises and Hircine slaps him away. “And how would you feel if someone gawked at you? I’m sorry, Husband. We shouldn’t stare.” It’s better than screaming in horror, or grabbing for anything that can be used as a stake.

Stendarr backs away with his hands up. “You’re right, sorry. Mother believes the reason she and Hirce have such light skin is because of some szarkai mutation. Who knows though with those Menzoberranzan freaks, it could've been experiments.” Hircine clicks her tongue in disdain at her brother and he continues on, ignoring her. “I will be telling Jena about this though, a flesh and blood szarkai! My day’s been fulfilled. Now, I’ll leave you to it, since I do have to work.” Shooting them a wink, Stendarr turns to leave. “Don’t let her take any paperwork home, Astarion. Hirce never knows when to stop.”

“I do!” She snaps at her brother’s retreating form. “It’s not like I want—” Her grumble cuts off when she smooths her hair down, as if any of it was out of place. Hircine sighs wearily, that interaction must have drained her energy.

Astarion can’t tell if she overworks herself or if other people do. Is this why she is so eager to accept his help?

“Oh!” Hircine rushes to a drawer, pulling an item out and holding it towards him. A gold ring drops into Astarion’s hand. “A ring enchanted with continuous prestidigitation—it will keep your clothing clean as we walk around. Ah… could I have my fan back?”

He’s reluctant to relinquish the fan back to its owner, Hircine has the right idea carrying that around, wafting fragrant air about and the breeze is nice in these caverns where everything is a bit too still. When he slips the ring onto a middle finger, a rustle of his clothing leaves it spotless. 

“Follow me, Husband. We’ll leave excavation sites and shafts for another time. I think for today, the ruby inspection room and general tour will do, since people find the gems the most interesting.”

Of course it’s the most interesting. Who doesn’t like gems? Maybe he can swipe some to hide away and barter once he’s escaped. 

After she wishes farewell to the disgusting jermlaine still tucked in its blanket, Hircine leads him through more claustrophobic tunnels, eventually ending up in an oval room with gnomes and dwarves rushing about. Counters are piled high with what has to be raw rubies, the red stone dull and unimpressive in its current form. Everything is labeled in undercommon, so Astarion cannot tell what each pile is being used for.

A few of the workers approach them and Hircine waves them off. “I’m just showing my husband around. I’ll be back in a few days if it can wait, if not, you all know where Stendarr is.” She turns to him, drawing their attention. “This is Astarion, my husband. Please treat him as you would me.” So she does know his name.

The workers offer their greetings in thickly accented common and lose interest quickly, returning to their work. It’s better than the alternative that they ask how they met, or what drew them to each other… Eugh. 

“We have in-house gem cutters, so a portion of these rubies will get shipped off to them, though a few of our business contacts prefer to buy raws in bulk and cut to their liking. Wizards and alchemists pay a pretty coin for high-quality gems as well, especially any that exhibit asterism since they hold extra magical properties. It’s not something we care about, but money is money.” Hircine explains.

“Asterism?” Astarion can feign interest.

“Yes, you’ve never seen a star ruby? Come.” She guides him to the end of the room where a gnome with a shock of white hair sits at a desk, wearing some magnifying eyewear that helps him inspect the rubies. Hircine speaks to the gnome in undercommon before he produces a small box of faceted and polished stones. Plucking a round one from the box, Hircine gives it to Astarion.

In the bright light of the room, a six-pointed opalescent star shines to focus on the opaque ruby. “Pretty.” He says.

The gnome looks up now, flipping his magnifying glasses up on his head as he studies Astarion with confusion in his eyes. “Lord Vorn’tyrr?” 

Hircine stiffens, the fan in her hand being squeezed so tight Astarion can hear the wood of its frame splintering. She turns on her heel and stalks out. “Let’s go.”

What in the material planes was that about? Lord Vorn’tyrr? That name means nothing to him, but clearly something to Hircine.

They wander around; it feels aimless to Astarion, and maybe they’re going in circles but he really can’t tell. Whatever that gnome’s words meant to Hircine struck deep, with her features pulled into a poorly disguised scowl. He could ask what has her all torn up, but why open that can of worms?

And that’s assuming she would tell Astarion anything.

In an empty corridor, a drow woman with dark skin and white hair devoid of any variation pulled tightly back from her face stops in their way. She doesn’t acknowledge Astarion at all as she addresses Hircine with arrogance. They speak back and forth in undercommon before Hircine holds her hand up, stopping the other drow's words as she reverts to common. “Maybe you will understand me better this way: I am not working today. Speak with Stendarr if it’s important.”

The woman is visibly displeased but offers no rebuttal, red eyes flickering towards Astarion. “Male slaves should always be leashed. They can’t be—”

Hircine snarls, pressing her fan against the other drow's neck to silence her words. “You aren’t in Guallidurth anymore, Alyna, remember it. He is my husband, and if you refer to him or anyone else as a slave again, I will cast you out myself. Do you understand?”

Alright, so his wife isn’t completely toothless. How exciting! And horrible… How does one deal with a woman like this?

Hircine backs away from Alyna, who stutters something out that Astarion can’t understand and runs away with her tail tucked between her legs. His wife pinches the bridge of her nose, letting out a quiet groan. “Everyone is irritating me today.” Remorse colors her eyes when she turns to Astarion. “I’m sorry for that display of… aggression. We don’t tolerate talk of slaves, especially when so many of our associates escaped the tyranny of Lolth. Just the suggestion of it… I could—Ugh, it’s disgusting.”

“Oh, that’s alright. She’ll, uhm, learn…”

How disgusted would his upstanding wife be if she learns she is maritally shackled to a slave then? If she gets that angry over such an insinuation, maybe Hircine will burn the Szarr manor to the ground if she learned the truth.

It’s too early to say since they might already know he is a vampire. They must know his place in the world. 

Are they taunting him, then?

Pitying him?

That sounds awful.

---

 The stables are a no-go. Horses don’t seem to hold vampires in high regard, the ill-tempered beasts, and one hoof to the chest would be devastating.

The woods, though… While small and sparsely populated, the woods held what he was looking for. A fox here, a squirrel there, all tucked away for the night, only to be disturbed by a hungry vampire in search of a drink. Astarion, not content or full by any degree, feels better than he has in a very long time. Gods, if he could hunt every few days, he would be stronger than he's ever known.

If only it could be a thinking creature's blood… Maybe one day—when Cazador’s dead.

The manor grounds are well kept as is expected, and Astarion wonders if the family goes outside all that often when there are no grassy paths worn down from the constant flow of feet or sun-bleached items left out by accident.

That could be because the servants do a thorough sweep of everything before the sun rises.

No blood stained his clothing, and a wash of his face and hands in a garden fountain leaves Astarion refreshed. If only he could see his reflection, he must look lively with all this blood. It's good to be… not starving.

Hircine was unconcerned when he asked to walk around on his own, perhaps she was even eager for him to be gone as she told him the directions to the outside doors. They spent most of the night in the mines, and then just sat quietly in their bedroom, until he decided he had enough. 

The meal was worth the short escape.

A snap of a twig has him tensing and cocking his head, ready to spring at the intruder's movements. There’s a cough to announce this person’s arrival, and Astarion turns, finding Mal with a sheepish smile upon his face. “Sorry, didn’t mean to sneak up on you.” It is legitimately impressive that he got this close without Astarion noticing, especially after having fed. “I’m taking my horse out for a walk. Do you ride?”

“Oh, no. I don’t like… large animals.” To ride, that is. 

“Hah, true upper city kid, yeah?” Mal gets closer, and Astarion notes his clothing, a light green cotton shirt and brown trousers. Wasn’t he wearing green yesterday, too? 

Are the Zau’viir’s required to wear certain colors at all times? He’ll pay more attention from now on.

Astarion gives his best closed-mouth smile. “Born and raised.”

“Were you now?” Mal tilts his head, perplexed as his gray eyes flash in the moonlight. Per Cazador’s handcrafted backstory, Astarion was not born in Baldur’s Gate. 

I’m an idiot.

“Well, from what I–I can remember. I’m more baldurian than… most people might think… I say.”

His brother-in-law shrugs, taking another step so he’s close—closer than he should be. He still has to look up at Astarion though, drow are known for being shorter than other elves, and these… surface drow are no exception. “Fair. You definitely spent more time in Baldur’s Gate proper than I have… I can’t believe we never crossed paths with all the parties I’ve been to at the Szarr’s, though, because I mean, look at you! Where was Cazador hiding you, Astarion?”

The tone of the conversation is strange, and it’s one Astarion knows too well. 

Is Mal… flirting right now?

No, maybe it’s his usual tone of voice, or he’s coy by nature. Astarion is married to his sister, he wouldn’t do that, surely.

“I guess… we ran in—in different circles.” This would be a perfect time to open the conversation up more, learn why Mal went to those parties so often, who he spent the most time with or what he was doing, but no, Astarion can’t string more than five words together at a time. “Uhm, I’m heading in. Have a… pleasant ride.”

Mal claps his back as Astarion walks by, his signature lopsided smile appearing on his face. “Oh, I will. If you ever change your mind about riding a large animal, let me know.”

That’s explicitly an innuendo. 

And what if a servant were to come by them when Mal is speaking like that? Astarion does not want to be caught between siblings when he asked for none of this, and after Hircine’s visceral anger towards that drow earlier, she doesn’t seem like someone he wants to be on the wrong side of.

He makes his way back inside quickly, no longer interested in enjoying his somewhat full belly and the warmth in the air. 

Before moving onto any of the other siblings for information, Astarion will wring out what he can from Hircine. Attaching himself to them so soon won’t be a good look and might lead to him getting kicked out and freshly divorced—and right back into Cazador’s death grip.

Astarion is to play the dutiful and… loving husband. That shouldn’t be so hard, and Hircine is pleasant in a bland, unemotional way, but she’s also aloof and uninterested in him. He’s never encountered someone so wholly unmoved in his presence. Are men not to her taste or is it Astarion that isn’t?

She also said he was pretty. 

Me? Pretty?

Unbelievable.

He enters Darkfire Hall, careful to lock the door behind him. In the sitting room, the couch has been pushed back and the surrounding area is completely clear of its usual pillows. The fireplace has been recently snuffed; the coals glowing a faint orange as they die out. 

Has he even seen Lexi and Dagoth once today? They are talented at being neither seen nor heard. 

Creeping down the hallway, Astarion opens the bedroom door, finding it empty, and the sound of running water reaches him from the bathroom. Hircine must be bathing. 

He changes to his sleeping clothes even though it's still a few hours until what he would consider bed. If Hircine wants to sleep early, then Astarion will oblige. The water is shut off in the bathroom, and as he settles onto the couch to continue his book, the door to the bathroom opens. 

“Husband?”

When he turns, Hircine is standing in the doorway, having pulled on one of those earthy green robes with the sash tied tightly around her waist. Her lips are pursed with frustration and her hair is… a tangled mess. “Might I ask a favor of you, if you are able?” Her words are clipped, like she might lose her temper if anymore is said.

“Yes, of course.” He sets his book down. Oh gods, what is she going to ask him?

“Lexi is out for the night and Dagoth… isn’t gentle. I can’t get my hair undone. Are you—Would you mind?”

Well, it could be worse, it’s not like she asked him to bathe her. Astarion stands. “Alright, I can—”

“You don’t need to move. I’ll come to you!” Hircine crosses over, seating herself on the floor at his feet. 

Why is she so—Ah, Astarion can see the pink coloring the tips of her ears. Hircine’s embarrassed. So she isn't completely unfeeling.

He gets to work quickly, sorting out the gray nest of her hair. It’s not apparent what exactly happened, caught in a gust of wind? 

As if reading his mind, she speaks. “I started at the wrong end when removing the arrowheads, and it all went downhill from there, I’m sure you can tell. I would normally wait for Lexi, but I just wanted them out.”

Downhill? Hircine will be lucky if they don’t have to cut the knots out. From the sight, Astarion can surmise she continued to pull and tangle it all further in her irritation. He hums in acknowledgment. “Is there a brush?”

“Bathroom.”

Retrieving a bristled paddle brush, Astarion returns to the couch, taking a deep breath to prepare himself for the path ahead. It takes some attentive work before he unearths the first silver arrowhead, and he’s able to follow along the braid to find where it all begins. Is this all Lexi’s handiwork? It holds up well even when a testy lady is pulling at the braids.

“The silver hair pieces… You all wear them?” He asks.

“Hm, you’ve noticed? Yes, we all do. They’re silver in honor of Eilistraee, but really it’s just something our parents started because it helped set us apart and it's a good way to advertise the silver of our mines.” Hircine sighs. “You could say it’s obnoxious and I would agree, but after almost a hundred and forty years of wearing them, I feel naked without. They also look good when we dance.”

How self-aware. “So you’re a dancer?”

She turns around, halting his work on the tangle of hair, and fixes him with a strange look. “Really? Are you not familiar with Eilistraee and her teachings? Our Lady would never turn someone away for being unable to dance, she welcomes all, but dancing is held dear in our hearts. I’m not a perfect follower—that’s Kyne—so things like the Evensong aren’t performed every night as they should be… Well, I do my best. If you would have returned a little earlier, you might have caught me in the sitting room, though I keep my clothes on…” She glances away, and mutters. “Most of the time. I’ll be respectful.”

He raises an eyebrow, wishing desperately that he could play into her banter. “I know of Eilistraee… I’m not particularly a—a follower, but… you can dance however… you wish.” If Eilistraee welcomes all , then where was she when he begged and pleaded to be saved from his Master? It’s all devil shit.

Returning to looking ahead, Hircine makes a noise of content and Astarion continues his quest of fixing the destruction that is her hair. Four arrowheads are extracted and her hair is brushed smoothed, fortunate that the scissors weren't brought out. Hircine all but skips to the bathroom after an enthusiastic thank you, and they return to their mutual quietude.

How lucky that she’s gained another servant.

---

SLAM

Astarion shoots up in bed. Has Cazador come for me?

No. No, how could he? It’s Hircine, standing in front of their doors, her hand holding a doorknob. 

“What—What are you doing?” He runs a hand across his face, feeling the cool edge of adrenaline course through his body.

Hircine doesn’t move from her position, but her eyes flash in his direction. “Sorry. I, uhm, had some tea because I couldn’t sleep and I… slammed the door on accident.” Then why keep such a death grip on the doorknob? Even in the dark, he can see how her hand is straining to hold it.

“Are you all right?” He asks, pushing the covers back. Is a servant there?

“Yes, I just—I just scared myself, is all.” She slowly releases the doorknob, backing away before returning to bed. “I’m sorry for waking you.”

Hircine wishes him a goodnight, then turns away from him. 

He can hear how her heart pounds like a drum in her chest. She got scared just from the door?

Astarion glances between the door and his wife, finding nothing out of the normal. 

Maybe she’s sensitive to loud noises.

Notes:

-Jermlaines and cavvekans
- map of the Underdark
-Has anyone watched Saltburn? Every time the mother, Elspeth, spoke, all I could think to myself was “Astarion would totally say that.”
uvuudaum seem pretty freaking scary. I’ve been obsessed since finding out about them.
-vote yes if you want Astarion to eat Thirsk

Next chapter: he shall speak again 

Chapter 5: A Family Affair

Notes:

Content Warnings

Anything Cazador
Implied/Referenced Torture
Warning for arachnophobes, there will be some spiders in this fic

The fast-paced chatter from the library reaches his ears as he relaxes in the den perusing his book. Hircine and Kyne are extremely close, with his wife disappearing every now and then to spend a few hours with her younger sister, or Kyne shows up at the door with a bottle of wine for them to share—an open invitation is always extended to her to approach their hall, and no one else.

They dined over breakfast today when his sister-in-law appeared, and then the women squirreled away into the library to talk about… demons. Strange hobby for well-to-do women, but when they’re stuck in the manor all day… It’s better than toturing the servants for their enjoyment, he thinks. 

In his two hundred and thirty years of remembered suffering, Astarion knows a few languages outside of common and elvish, having learned orcish and abyssal just for fun. Knowing that his wife takes such an interest in demons of the abyss is perfect. For now, he will keep this talent to himself for when he’s needing to hook Hircine’s attention—or redirect it.

Their ten-day of ‘rest and relaxation’ is finally up. The first, proper family meal Astarion is to join will be held at three o’clock in the morning. 

It changes every time, as Hircine has clarified, they’ll either have breakfast, lunch or dinner depending on the parents’ will. That’s all well and good as long as it’s not infested with garlic again—which so far, hasn’t appeared all that often. Hircine doesn’t seem to be a fan of pungent flavors.

The Ravenshade meeting was canceled at the last minute a few days ago and if Hircine was upset, she didn’t show an inkling of displeasure, just shrugged it off and returned to her daily sit and stare at the wall.

It’s also a ten-day of nearly no ground-breaking information that Astarion could dredge up. He did go back for that list of names in the library, finding a slight change. 

His name was added next to Hircine’s.

An ominous feeling settled over him when he saw it. Why is he on there now? It could be some kind of family tree, but that wouldn’t explain why Hircine is keeping it hidden, and the parents' names are missing. He copied it all down, keeping it tucked away under his nightstand along with any other notes he’s scribbled in haste, which are exceptionally sparse.

There's that locked door at the end of the hallway that he still hasn't been into. It takes them to the tower, but Hircine has said it's under renovations due to some bad weather that passed through earlier in the year. She and the servants linger far too much for him to attempt a break in.

As far as first impressions go, Hircine isn't as severe as he initially thought. She's what Astarion would describe as ‘overly professional’, leaving her work in the office and being resistant to talking about it at all. She’s let slip information on some trade deals and business partners in a limited capacity that he has no idea whether it might be useful to Cazador or not. For someone who is believed to be work-focused and driven, she doesn’t like talking about it—or herself. 

What does Astarion even know about Hircine by now?

She dances, sometimes through the room absentmindedly, and she can wield a sword apparently—not that he's been shown such a skill yet. Kyne and Hircine are closest, though Hircine seems to get along fine with everyone, even if she can be a bit more stiff than the rest. But that’s it. Hircine doesn’t hold much interest in reading or writing, she goes outside occasionally—per her words, not because she actually has while they have cohabitated. 

She just doesn’t do anything.

Stendarr has sent a few letters asking for advice and Hircine grumbled about making everyone's decisions… Fair enough since she is on break.

His wife is flexible, though. In body, not mind. It’s not all that interesting, he’s found her a few times on the ground stretching, a leg pulled up behind her head or in the splits with her stomach pressed against the ground, but it is very much not for Astarion’s benefit, and why should it be?

They’ve done no more than link arms when wandering around the manor, though rarely she might run her hand along his shoulders when passing by him as he reads. 

If Astarion is honest, it’s peaceful like this, ignoring the looming threat of Cazador. He’s never had dreams of marriage or family, and how could he when Master allows no such thing? It’s still not something that holds his interest, but if he pretends… Well, there are worse things. 

The Zau’viirs are close in an actually familial way as compared to Astarion and his… ‘siblings’, though he's yet to see them all together.

Mal is open and friendly, maybe a little too friendly, even with Hircine in the vicinity. It’s easy enough to ignore, and otherwise, Mal is good, lighthearted company.

Stendarr isn’t around much between managing the mines in his sister’s absence and ‘playing Jena’s footman’ as Hircine says, and while she means it truthfully, there’s no malice in her tone. Astarion has yet to meet the illustrious Jena that has the second son so enamored, but tonight he should learn what all the fuss is about. 

The younger sister, Kyne, is pleasant and a little shy, tending to lose her voice when she speaks directly to Astarion. There’s also the… barefoot matter that extends to her as well, but she’s much more devout in her worship of Eilistraee than Hircine, so it must come from that. She’s apprehensive about her upcoming marriage, and he overhead her hushed whispers meant just for his wife that Kyne hopes for a husband who is kind and quiet the way Astarion is.

It’s not a compliment that has ever been associated with him, but he’ll take it, nonetheless. 

Arkay seeks the couple out anytime they are out of Darkfire Hall, and more than once has the boy been caught skipping his lessons, earning an earful when the tutor finally locates him hidden away in a dark corner of the grand library, learning how to shuffle cards. 

It’s cute, Astarion admits. 

The parents are relatively absent, which is at odds with how tight-knit they presented themselves that first night of the wedding. Maybe they just like giving their children the freedom to do as they please.

A knock at the door jolts Astarion from his thoughts. He sets his book down—gods, he’s so close to the end, things are heating up between Morrow and Strahd—and unlocks the door. 

Sotha’sil, the librarian, stands clutching the handle of a wagon filled with books, and his face is pulled into its signature grimace that only disappears when Hircine is around. “Book.” He demands with his scratchy voice. Astarion stares down at him, waiting for more. 

The soft padding of feet behind Astarion alerts him to his wife and Kyne, and he moves out of the way. Hircine is holding those books that were labeled ‘To Return’ in their library. “Sotha, thank you for stopping by. Is this all of them?”

The gnome checks each one with a delicate touch that belies his rough nature. “All book.” He gives Hircine a snaggletooth grin, setting the books in his wagon and continuing on to his next pickup.

Astarion re-locks the door and turns to Hircine. “Why is he… so nice to you?” And no one else is left unsaid.

She blinks, surprised at his question and Kyne frowns, speaking quietly. “You haven't told him about Sotha? My goodness… Where's your brain?”

“Not in my head, apparently. I’m sorry.” Retreating to their couch, Hircine places his book on an end table and reclines back onto the cushions as if settling in for a story. “Sotha was one of our lead foremen in the mines, and he did exceptional work managing his team. Low turnover, high yield, they just excelled in everything. This was fifteen years ago, mind you, but he had called for me, they found this—oh, just an amazing sapphire deposit. If we weren’t rich already, we would have been with that kind of deposit.”

Her face falls, and she chews at her lip. “I don’t know how it happened. Negligence, I guess, but it was so unlike them…” Kyne nods in agreement as she takes a chair by the desk. “A cave in, just like that. Sotha pushed me out of the way, leaving him to be caught under the brunt of it. When help came and the rubble cleared away, only four survived, including Sotha and myself. He was left crippled and broken, the clerics didn’t get there in time to set the bones properly.

“His mind doesn’t work quite the same, but he’s still sharp, I tell you.” Hircine sighs, wringing her hands. “I couldn’t leave him to rot away when he saved me—Me! What am I good for except to make everyone else's decisions?” She shakes her head, as if she's disappointed they kept her alive. “Anyone can do what I do. It’s not perfect, but I made the librarian position for him. We don’t need one with its size, but he was struggling without purpose, and I think for the most part, he likes it. I don't really get it, being driven by something, but it's not about me, now is it?”

“Poor Sotha.” Kyne whispers.

That certainly does explain why the gnome treats her so well, but why does she feel guilty about what happened to him? She just happened to be there and he's just a gnome that works well. They're all like that.

She’s given Astarion some vulnerability though, that counts for something, even if it’s taken this long. He sits across from Hircine on the couch, preparing to speak when a key is turned and Lexi bursts through the front door, always making sure her existence is precluded by loud noise. Her smile is tighter than normal, what’s got the maid in such a tizzy?

“My lord, your father is here.” She says.

Anything that could have been said dies on his tongue. Why? It’s only been ten days, why is Cazador here?

“He’s with Lord Barlyn in the tea room. They have requested your presence.” Lexi excuses herself, dashing off to her quarters. 

Hircine stands, stretching with a groan as her joints pop. “I guess I should go meet my father-in-law properly. Unless you'd rather stay?”

The consequences for such an action would not be worth it. Astarion gets up, wishing more than anything that he could beg Hircine to cover for him, lie to Cazador, tell him Astarion is out on business, anything to spare him, but that only delays—and worsens—the inevitable. “Uhm, my shoes. One moment.”

In the bedroom, Astarion rips his papers from their hiding place and stuffs them into his vest pockets. He can’t show up to Cazador empty handed. With shoes on, he returns to Hircine, who awaits him patiently, holding out her arm when he draws close. 

Kyne bids them goodbye, running off back to her home.

Arm in arm, they leave the hall, descending the grand staircase, and with each step, Astarion feels the knot of dread pulling taut within him. 

What do I do? There’s still fourteen days left until the expected return time. Maybe—Maybe Cazador just wants to see him, make sure he’s doing as he’s been told. 

That’s all it is. That’s all it can be.

They enter the tea room, a quaint spot with an eclectic design that features curios from all over the realms. A calishite lamp here, a kozakuran standing table there… Barlyn is a collector of everything, for no reason other than to collect.

Cazador, imperious as ever, sits at the tea table with a white-knuckled grip on his cane, watching the couple enter as his red eyes glisten with pure evil. Barlyn smiles, looking between them all like the proud father he is, completely oblivious to the undead monsters sharing the room with him.

Not letting go of Astarion’s arm, Hircine bows her head in Cazador’s direction. “Father-in-law, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

His master’s lips curl up into a thing that might be called a smile, and as he stands, he takes Hircine’s hand, pressing a polite kiss to the back of it. “Cazador, please, and the pleasure is all mine. I hope my son has been… taking care of you.” 

Hircine smiles now, all business. She can smile at Cazador, but I only get one small smile after she tells me a weird story? Hah. “Astarion is wonderful, I’m very lucky.”

Oh, is she now? At least she isn’t spouting any drivel about how Cazador raised him well. That would be laughable. 

“Hello, Father. I’m glad to—to see you well.” Astarion has been punished in the past for speaking poorly in Cazador’s presence, and this time it isn’t even his fault. 

Cazador gives the barest acknowledgement of his ‘son’s’ greeting, turning to Barlyn instead. “Might I whisk Astarion back to the Gate? Our household misses him terribly, and I wanted his opinion on some internal matters.”

And by opinions, does that mean Astarion will have to determine which hand he values most before Cazador flays all the skin off it?

Say no, please. Please!

Hircine, gods bless her, tightens her grip on Astarion’s arm. “We’re having our family dinner tonight, it’s the—”

Barlyn holds his hand up, halting her words. “Would it be possible for Astarion to be back by two? Our family meals are very important to us, as you can tell,” He flicks his gray eyes at them and back at Cazador. “But I understand if not. We can send you to Black Dragon Gate on one of our carriages, and it will await your return, Astarion.”

If Astarion survives whatever is about to occur. 

“Of course! You have my thanks. I would not dare separate these two… lovebirds for long. Thank you for the meeting, Barlyn. Come, my son, I have much to tell you.” Cazador simpers, passing by them all to exit the room.

Astarion forces his lips up into what he hopes is a smile. “Yes, Father.” He looks down at Hircine, not sure of what he finds in her eyes. Anger? Irritation? Is she sad because she’s losing her new toy? Whatever it is, it can’t save him now. He presses a chaste kiss to her cheek, not caring if it looks natural for them. “I’ll be back soon.”

As they walk down the hall, Astarion can hear Hircine berating her father. “You were speaking about the Tourmaline Depths without me! You can’t be making promises of my workers! They’re already stretched thin as it is!”

So, she doesn’t care that Astarion is being dragged off to the hells. 

It’s all just business in the end.

---

The carriage ride and subsequent walk back to the Szarr manor was harrowing. Cazador said nothing, because why would he stoop so low as to have a conversation with his beloved spawn, and Astarion’s eyes became reacquainted with the ground, counting each step as they make it back to the manor.

The sun dipped below the horizon already, making their journey a safe one.

Hah. A safe journey to hell.

Five hours. He can last five hours, especially when he’s survived for much, much longer.

Inside the manor, Cazador allows Astarion to enter the ballroom first. No one ever wants Master behind them, unable to see what’s coming. 

And this time is no exception.

A thin, hard object—Cazador’s cane—is brought against Astarion’s calves, his trousers doing nothing to dull the shock of pain that rips through his legs, bringing him to his knees, muscles spasming.

He chokes on his breath only for a moment before the cane is slammed onto his back, forcing Astarion on all fours.

Just kill me, he begs internally, I can’t—

Cazador grabs a fistful of his hair, wrenching Astarion up painfully so he can meet his Master’s hateful gaze. “Insolent little bitch, isn’t she? How fitting for a waste like you.” Releasing him like a dirty rag, Cazador crosses to sit upon his throne, nose upturned like the tyrant he us, and Violet is there to take his cane, disappearing quickly back into the darkness. Suck-up.

“What do you have for me, boy?” It’s not a command, but there’s no use in refusing.

Astarion scrambles to his feet, ignoring the deep sting radiating through his back and legs from the caning. He pulls the folded parchments from his vest pockets, and Leon emerges now from the edge of the room, snatching the papers from Astarion’s hands, checking them for any magic, then passes them onto their Master.

While Cazador pours over the documents, Astarion looks down to the dyed red runner, counting the frayed threads and remembering the hundreds—no, thousands of times he’s stood here, exactly as he is now, awaiting reward, orders or a punishment. 

Punishments were the most common. His blood has stained this floor so often. 

He’s been too cocky, too sure that the Zau’viirs would just bend to his will so easily. No plan in place, it was all going to fall where it needed simply because Astarion wanted it to.

What a fool, but at least he didn’t come here empty-handed. 

It’s only been ten days. It’s fine, Astarion can—

The parchments flutter to the ground at his feet. A mess he will surely have to pick up. “This is all you’ve managed to find? What have you been doing with all your time?”

What does he even say? Will anything get—

“Answer me, boy,” Cazador commands, and the compulsion makes it happen.

Astarion speaks, stunted and slow. “I only have—have access to Hircine’s… home and—and the, uhm, library. In—In a… I—”

“I told you to come back to me with any information. You have had more than enough time to gather something of use. And why are you stumbling over your words? Has that woman broken you already?”

That is always Astarion’s biggest mistake, not listening. If Master said to come back early, he should have returned within days. That’s why he came to the Zau’viir manor. “The compulsion, Master. I can’t—I can’t speak like this!”

Cazador is before him now, clamping his hand over Astarion’s mouth. “Are you blaming me for your inability to speak succinctly? I thought it might be a pleasant change of pace for once, not having to listen to your inane ramblings. Can you not do anything unless you’re speaking the entire time?”

Idiot. Astarion begs for forgiveness around Cazador’s hand. “Mmph, Master—Please! It’s-It’s because I’m lacking, I—”

Cazador shoves him away. “Lacking? Tch, imperfect is more apt.” He returns to his throne, taking a chalice of blood offered to him by Dalyria. He sighs as if a child were throwing a tantrum before him. “Bore me, as you normally do then. Is there anything else you haven’t detailed on those scraps then?”

The speech restriction dissipates. Astarion can be himself again. “Yes, Master. Hircine returns to the mines tomorrow, since they gave us a… honeymoon period. She’s giving me a position so I can work with her, though I do not know what that will be yet, but I’ll have more freedom to move around. I just—If you could give me some direction, I would—”

“Must I hold your hand through everything, Astarion?” Cazador takes a sip from his chalice, scowling at whatever poor soul he is tasting. “You would be nothing without me, you stupid boy.” A clawed nail taps on his ornate throne, and he rolls his eyes. “Fine, but if you have no results to show next time… Well, you know the outcome.”

Master sighs, how weary he must be from dealing with his wayward spawn. “The Zau’viirs are working with someone. Whoever this person is gave them a lot of power in recent years and I want to know who… It’s muddling with my own grand design. You cannot speak of this.” A new command is set in place, but knowing that it's a person, something tangible, Astarion can work with that, though he doesnt know what this 'grand design' is all about. “Don’t fail me again, you know I don’t tolerate imperfections.”

“Yes, Master. Thank you for your generosity.”

“Hmm, have you laid with her?”

Hircine. “No, Master. She’s not… interested right now.”

That sets Cazador roaring with laughter. “Not interested? What good are you to me if you can’t even seduce someone?” His master finishes his chalice around his snickers, and flings it past Astarion’s head. He doesn't flinch. He can't. “Since you are so dull, let me reiterate my words: Use any means necessary to find what I need. Am I clear?”

“Yes, Master.”

“It's disappointing to see how much you slip up without me there to hold you accountable, but since I am so generous, come back to me on the twentieth of Eleasis with your findings, no sooner or later. I have business I would rather you not interrupt.” Cazador adjusts the rings on his fingers, splaying them out so he can admire them in the lamplight. “There’s still a few more hours until the Zau’viirs require your… presence again.” His cold eyes rake over Astarion’s body and it's a look he knows all too well. “Spend the rest of your time with Godey, he’s been very upset with how quiet the halls are.”

Despair wells heavy and tight in his chest, but Astarion does not let it show as he gets to his feet, concealing the quivering in his legs, his voice level like this is any other day talking to a friend. “Yes, Master. Thank you for guiding me.” Turning around, he makes for the ballroom entrance.

“Oh, and my son,” Cazador calls out and Astarion faces his master once more knowing whatever is to come will not be worth the shred of freedom he's experienced. Master wears a wickedly gleeful smile on his hateful face. “Do leave the doors open. I want to hear your lovely voice.”

---

After picking himself up from pools of his flesh, blood and spit, Astarion rinsed clean in the spawn dormitory, salvaging what's left of his body and sanity.

Every swipe of the washcloth, splash of ice cold water, and pull of his torn skin made him want to drive a stake through his heart. Having to clean oneself after a torture session is torture in and of itself. 

Dalyria and Violet lounge in the dormitory, if one could call it lounging when they are coiled tighter than a spring awaiting Cazador’s summons. When Astarion enters the room after pulling on his trousers, Dal perks up at his entrance.

“Astarion, is there anything—”

“I’m fine.” He interrupts tersely, sitting at the edge of his old bed to put on his shoes. Compared to the bed he shares with Hircine this one may well be a stone slab.

Violet moves into his periphery, her crazed smile already in place. “You get what you deserve, Astarion, serving Master so poorly. If it were me—”

“But it isn’t you, now is it?” He snarls. “They wouldn’t tolerate a psychotic freak like you, who spends all her time blabbing about skinning frogs instead of, I don’t know, being normal?” He crosses over to Violet, looking down into red eyes that must mirror his own—full of hate and self-loathing and maybe some feral insanity. “Grovel all you want, Leon will still be better than you.”

And the nerve is gouged open.

Her hand strikes across his face, but after the flaying he endured, it may well be the jermlaine attacking him. “I don’t know why Master tolerates your inadequacies. Worthless filth.”

Yes, yes. He’s been reminded plenty of times today. I’m worthless. I’m nothing. I don’t care.

His skin seizes and burns when Astarion pulls his shirt and vest on, clenching his teeth so not another unwanted sound slips through his lips. They won’t see him weak when he can actually help it. 

Out in the hallway, he passes the kennels, the scent of his blood and agony hanging thick in the air. Godey’s black eye sockets peer out at him, somehow smiling even though he’s a reanimated skeleton. “Do come back.” He wiggles a steel-tipped flog at Astarion, it’s stiff and dyed a rust color from all the dried blood.

Astarion gives no response, heading upstairs. Dufey, the chamberlain, is too immersed in his work of scouring the hallways for anything out of place to take notice of the passing spawn.

Petras and Yousen stand guard in the entryway. What kind of walk of shame is this?

With a sneer that does nothing but make Astarion raise an eyebrow, Petras blocks his way, fluffing his blond hair that could use a wash—or two. “Running back to your wife? Why don’t you share her with your brothers? I know I could make her dreams come true since you always fall short.”

Gross, Astarion does not want to think about Petras in bed with anyone, and why does this moron think Astarion is attached to his ‘wife’ in any capacity? He doesn’t give a fuck about Hircine. She has things he wants, that’s it, and if he’d had his pick of the litter, Mal was certainly more his type. Unfortunately, he’s off the table.

Yousen, poor thing, is covered in a rash, the most probable cause is Violet stuffing his pillow with garlic—he never learns to check. The gnome looks between them both, shaking his head. “Just leave him, Petras. He's had enough.” 

Cazador would disagree.

“Leon said she was draped in cloth the entire time. Is she that ugly? You've always been able to get it up for anything, but she must be terrible to look at, if even you—”

This nonsense isn't worth Astarion’s time. He brushes past them, ignoring the searing pain as pressure is put on his wounds. It's a long walk back to the Zau’viir’s.

Having any kind of break from the torture did not make it anymore tolerable.

There will never be freedom as long as Cazador lives. 

The jaunt back is arduous, and Astarion is lucky Godey left his feet alone. There would have been no chance of making it back before the sun came up.

True to their word though, the carriage is waiting for him outside of Black Dragon Gate. Sitting on the bench is extremely uncomfortable when most of the lashes are concentrated on his back. Astarion would love nothing more than to hunt, anything to speed up the healing process, but no, playing house it is.

He’s dropped off at the front entrance of the manor. It looms over him, making Astarion feel inconsequential and small in its shadow. A worthless spawn, unable to do anything right.

I don’t know what to do or where to start. 

As he walks up the steps, a door opens and Hircine, in maroon, maroon, maroon, greets him with her neutral tone. “Welcome back, Husband.” Was she waiting for him?

It must be nice to have this all so easy. No slave master cracking the whip when she does something unsatisfactory, no eternity of the worst hell imaginable. Poor Hircine, she has to work too much. Poor spoiled noble girl, having to marry a man she doesn’t know because her parents commanded it. Oh, woe is Hircine, being catered to hand and foot by servants that look at her like she’s the sun. How hard it must be for her to live in luxury.

Hircine gets a paper cut and everyone must throw themself at her to give aid. What does Astarion get? Ridicule and mockery, and more suffering heaped on top.

All it would take is wrapping his hands around her thin neck, squeezing until that eerie ring of gold dims in her eyes. Would they kill Astarion on the spot, save him from all this pain? No. They would hand him right back over to Cazador and the cycle would continue anew. 

Escape won’t come that easily. 

She is going to love him with all her being by the time he's through with her. Hircine will throw herself on any whip or cane directed his way, eager to hand her leash over to Astarion so he might save himself.

So, instead of killing his dull little wife in cold blood, Astarion smiles with all the charm of a man wooing his long time love. Holding his arm out so she can take it, he resumes his part in the play.

“I’m back.” He says.

---

Having only heard a few times about what Jenassa is like, Astarion isn’t sure what he had expected.

A sharp woman, sure, if she is to keep the more flighty Stendarr in line.

But not this. 

Jena is tall, taller than Astarion, and built like a soldier. She towers over her husband, who gazes up at her with so much adoration, one might think she was Eilistraee incarnate. Her midnight blue skin compliments her steel gray hair wonderfully, and she's draped in a fine silver-threaded gown that hugs her… muscles in all the right places. 

Good natured towards everyone except Stendarr, who she treats as a minor annoyance buzzing in her vicinity, Jena is eager to converse with all. Her husband is very into her indifference, offering her wine and bites of food anytime she takes a breath.

She was once a silverhair knight, vanquishing Lolth’s evil, but moved on as Jena wished to settle down with a family.

Good for her, I guess.

Mal’s wife, Chalrae, is in attendance tonight as well. She has the snooty air Astarion expects from nobles, and anyone can see that she and Mal are estranged, barely interacting or acknowledging each other.

She’s not particularly striking in her looks, just a typical drow with dark gray skin, white hair, and red eyes. 

It’s only been thirty minutes since Astarion has met her and Chalrae has downed her fourth glass of wine, maybe to drown all the chatter around her out. 

Alright, so someone didn’t get the memo to enjoy—or even pretend to like—mandatory family fun time.

At the head of the table is Barlyn, and going clockwise seated to his left is Iimithra, Mal, Chalrae and Arkay. Kyne heads the opposite side, with Hircine to her left, followed by Astarion, Jena and Stendarr.

Seeing them all finally interact with a… sane Hircine is very different from their wedding night meal. Barlyn is content to sit quietly with his meal, only interjecting occasionally. Stendarr does what he can to monopolize Jena’s attention, but she has none of it, switching between chatting with Mal and Iimithra about clothing trends and whatever high society party might be up next, to gleaning what she can about Astarion and his szarkai-ness, but he literally just learned of their existence for the first time earlier in the week, he has nothing to share.

He’s careful to maintain his prior stuttering and short sentences—such a drastic change like speaking perfectly after one evening away would raise too many questions that Astarion isn’t ready to answer.

Chalrae sits with a sour look on her face as she picks at her food, ignoring everything and everyone. Arkay tried in vain once to get her to join the conversation, but gave up quickly. 

Hircine, Kyne and Arkay playfully rib each other and chat about their days, even the stiff Hircine cracks a small smile too, though Arkay certainly likes to talk with everyone.

For the most part, Astarion is left in peace outside of Jena’s persistent questioning, and he eats as minimally as he can, pushing food around his plate to look like he consumed more than he actually did. It’s such a loathsome charade.

Thankfully, the meal is garlic free.

He makes note of some frostiness between Kyne and Mal when they interact, more on Kyne’s end where she deflects on any direct conversation they’re in, and Mal doesn’t encourage anymore than the bare minimum. 

Maybe they had an argument recently, but it’s nothing for Astarion to speculate on.

The mirror that once sat behind Barlyn was removed, now replaced with a painting of the family crest—a bastard sword sundering the ground. 

Gods, they’re predictable.

But why is the mirror gone? There’s this line where Astarion feels like they know exactly what he is, but no one wants to say it outright. It could be paranoia on his part, it’s so hard to say with this group and now that Hircine and Stendarr have labeled him a ‘szarkai’... Maybe it’s all coincidence.

Nothing else about the room has changed much, he thinks as he scans around, there's a spider web in the corner, but— 

Wait, a spider web? Why haven't the servants cleared it away? Every mantle and siding of the manor is always spotless.

Tucked above in a corner of the Blue Room and undisturbed by the clamor below it, is a shiny black spider, a bit larger than Astarion’s thumb from this distance. It works hard spinning its web, scuttling its way around, using the needle-like legs to sever the sticky threads from its spinnerets and attach them to anchor points and radii of its web.

It’s hypnotic, the way it spirals about, placing each thread with utmost care, sometimes doubling back to check on a part that wasn’t set properly. The spider goes on and on, spinning its web, ready to ensnare a meal in—

He tears his eyes away, finding Mal staring at him with a knowing, lopsided smile upon his lips. He raises his wine glass in a cheers to Astarion before taking a deep drink.

Hircine taps his shoulder. “Husband, what do you think?”

Astarion exits his stupor, locking eyes with Hircine’s expectant stare. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t—Can you repeat that?’

“Yes, would you like to join a sparring session in a few days? Arkay wants to show off.”

The younger Zau’viir sputters, his cheeks darkening. “I—I do not! I just think Astarion would enjoy it and when’s the last time we sparred, anyway? You’ve been lazy too, Hirce.”

Her hand rests on Astarion’s wrist as Hircine considers her brother’s words. She leans over to Astarion. “He wants to show off.” She repeats, sending Arkay into an embarrassed fit.

Why does anyone care about his opinion? Just make the decision for him, it'll all be the same in the end. Astarion agrees. “Of course. I look forward to it.”

He’s not sure what he did right in the moment, maybe it was his words or a culmination of everything until now, because it feels out of nowhere when Hircine tentatively slips her warm hand into his, like she’s approaching a spooked animal.

Maybe it’s just for show in front of her family, Astarion doesn’t care.

He won’t choke the life from her, because this time, Cazador made a mistake. 

His most meticulous master said Astarion could use any means necessary to achieve his goals, and did not reset the four core commands on top of that.

‘Thou shalt not drink the blood of thinking creatures.’

His little wife has been served up on a silver platter by Cazador.

He squeezes Hircine's hand, offering her a smile when she looks up at him. 

I won't suffer for nothing.

Notes:

-we're getting some act 1 Astarion dialed up to 11. He's angry, hurt and Cazador is crushing his neck. Why wouldn't he feel resentful that other people are living their lives pleasantly while he's floundering under an evil master?

Next up: All work, no play makes Hircine a dull girl

Chapter 6: Burnt Out

Being away from the mines and the decisions and the endless, overflowing piles of work was such a blessing, but there is nothing worse than that first day back from a break.

Did Stendarr do anything at all or did he push everything aside until she got back? 

There were two contract renewals that needed to get notarized last week, and also her marriage contract… Stendarr said he would take care of it! None of them were submitted. Hircine left a detailed task list of the things to be taken care of and what did she come back to? Not a thing crossed off. They weren’t even hard, just some paper pushing and deliveries.

He must have kept Jena out, when why? Who knows, because she is actually reliable and would have finished Hircine’s requests along with a little extra. Did he promise his wife he was going to get it all done on his own, no help needed? 

But he couldn’t finish one thing? Typical. 

Why should the men be held to any standard when the women will just do it anyway? 

A line of people waited by her door when she arrived, asking for shift changes, document reviews, reopening a shaft after further inspections for more deposits, the Ravenshade’s sent a new date for a meeting, ‘oh and lady Hircine, can we get an assignment of guards out to Sadrith? There have been reports of monsters in the area.’

Why do they need her approval on everything? Between her and literally everyone else, there’s at least twenty people who are better qualified to make these decisions. Fine, if they need her to sign off on shipments or be the face of the company for meetings with buyers—though that is mostly Mal's job, but no one needs her uninformed opinion on hiring another gem cutter or opening excavation to a new area.

Everything up to and including installing a door to her office and enforcing a rule that if someone has a question, they need to go through the entire chain of command before coming to Hircine have been used to deter their endless needs. None of it worked, it’s like the employee’s can’t handle doing anything on their own unless Hircine is overseeing it.

And for what? She could die tomorrow and everything would continue on as usual.

She leans her head against the chain fencing of the elevator as it makes the slow descent home, fanning herself with the delightful scent of cloves, jasmine and vanilla, willing the tension that clings to her body to be gone.

I sat at my desk the entire day yet my muscles ache as if I were the one digging. That might have been preferable to all the questions. 

A ten-day wasn’t enough. If anything, the time away made her return worse. Working nonstop like this doesn’t feel sustainable anymore when there’s no time for herself, her family or husband—not that he wants her around.

Shutting her eyes when tears threaten to fall, she ends all thoughts and Hircine ascends to the manor drained and reticent. 

 

저̵̼̹̜̫̜̩͕̻̥̂͋͐̍̈̂̕안̸̲̪̽̚타̵̧̞̘̮̠̲̜̣̺͓̘̯͑̈́̉̽ͅ나̴̻͇̼͇̺̼͖̼̜̘͎̿̑͌̃͊̇̐͘ͅͅ

 

Eugh, what bad timing. Herma-Mora has been so loud recently, his illogical and curious ramblings easily breaching her mind when her stress is boiling over.

Months have passed since she last heard him, but this forced marriage and the upcoming L’Alure d’Ulnen weakened the barrier Hircine set up between her and this mostly-unwanted and disorderly guest.

She presses her fingers into her temples, willing him to silence. Don’t cry. Nothing will be fixed even if you do.

Thirsk at least kept her company today, as one of the few, if only, highlights. A brown sack dress, though shoddily made, was back on his grubby body and he had brought some glowing mushrooms that ‘shine pretty on Hircine’. Such a sweet thing he is, even if some days he does try to get her to step on glass. 

Tonight feels like a ‘break open a bottle of wine and drink with Kyne’ kind of night. Should she go home and get to know her husband more? Maybe. Hircine looked forward to someone that could fill the dead air when smalltalk isn’t her forte and Mal said Astarion was a chatterbox who could charm even the most misandristic matriarch, though so far he’s quiet and spends more time digging through all the drawers in Darkfire, or looking at Hircine like he wants to gauge her eyes out like last night.

Astarion was interested in the marriage according to Mal, and he doesn’t get these kinds of things wrong. The physical description was accurate.

She gives Astarion the freedom to do whatever he pleases, there’s no need to be attached at the hip just because they’re married, but Hircine didn’t realize that he was going to use these opportunities of solitude to search everything. Astarion asks a few questions here or there, never anything with much substance, since he seems constantly on edge. 

What is he even looking for? The only things Hircine brings home from the mines are reports on any unearthed eldritch runes or demonic ruins. 

He can’t even read them since they're in undercommon!

The Szarr’s wanted this marriage, even going so far as to draft up contracts for exclusivity to the Tourmaline Depths that were hand delivered multiple times a week to their manor. Mother caved because ‘it’s good business ’ and Hircine has ‘mourned enough’. 

Rubbish.

Was it only her father-in-law, Cazador, that wanted this then? 

As of now, Hircine doesn’t have much of an opinion on her father-in-law except for that he seems sleazy and corrupt like the majority of nobles that churn through their home. He was cold to the touch when he took her hand and the sinister hunger that lingered in his eyes was enough to send a shiver spidering down her spine.

Disgusting. Disgusting. Disgusting.

Before Father could shush her, Mother said once that Cazador Szarr is the type of man she would have broken to pieces in Menzoberranzan. Maybe a trip there would do him some good.

Winding her way to the manor kitchen, Hircine goes down into the wine cellar, noting the creaky steps that should get replaced and grabs a small crate to load with some bottles of wine. One or two will be for her and Kyne, and the others will be taken home. She doesn’t know if Astarion likes wine, but maybe a barrel-aged callidyran would be a nice peace offering between them, and if not, then more for her. 

Back in the kitchen with her spoils, Hircine finds Mal digging through a fruit bowl, pulling out an ockle imported from Waterdeep. He raises his gray eyes to her, taking in the crate in her hands. “Long day?” He asks.

These conversations never go well. “Yes. There was a lot to do and Stendarr did not get any of the more urgent tasks completed so—” She trails off when she notices Mal’s frown. “Uhm, but I-I wasn’t—My instructions weren’t very clear.”

He nods, plucking an apple from the bowl and bites into its crisp flesh, chewing thoughtfully. “Don’t blame Stendarr if you aren’t able to prioritize. I know you haven’t been… ecstatic about your marriage, but that’s no reason to fall behind, especially with the quarterly coming up in Eleint. It’s a fresh start, Hirce, this can be good for you.”

Working herself to the bone is a fresh start? Or is this all some elaborate ruse to break her down completely? Mal would relish such a sight.

She doesn’t want to end up like Boethiah or Vaermina, shattered beyond recognition.

“I know. It was a long day, but they will get better as I return to my routine.” She says, being cooperative is the best way to deal with Mal, even if all she wants is to punch him in the nose.

“Good. Good. Have the Ravenshade’s rescheduled their meeting? A contract with them would be nice, but if they keep brushing us off we shouldn’t waste anymore of our time.”

If he doesn’t trust her to deal with them, then why pass off his work to begin with? He’s such a nosy bastard. “It’s handled, Mal. Nothing to worry about.” 

He takes another bite of his apple, speaking around a mouthful to change the topic. “Enver Gortash will be here on the tenth for dinner, along with a few of his associates. Mother is interested in his… machines and wants to strike some kind of deal to introduce automation into our transport systems and possibly make sorting more efficient.”

“Why am I not consulted on these matters? This affects my mines and my workers. You can’t implement these things without my oversight!” Hircine snaps, grinding her teeth together.

Mal glances at her, eyes hard as steel, causing Hircine to flinch under his gaze, she shouldn’t speak back to Mal. “Like I said, Mother is interested. Maybe she’ll go through with it, maybe she won’t. It’ll mostly be some light conversation over dinner and drinks. Gods, calm yourself.” The apple is finished and rudely tossed into her wine crate like its a waste bin. “Why are you always so worked up? I don’t understand what you have to complain about. Your position isn’t even that hard.”

If she has an ‘easy position’ comparatively to the rest of them, they they should be dying from work-related stress. How do they find the time during the night to fuck around so much? Hircine has to be at the mines from four in the afternoon to two or three in the morning some days, and then she comes home, hearing about the parties they went to or the shopping trip where they purchased some vase that looks like a phallus because ‘It’s all the rage in Baldur’s Gate!’ 

‘Networking is hard work, Hircine.’

But of course, voicing any displeasure of Mal stepping on her toes is complaining. What is the point of doing anything when he’s always there to watch her slip up or proactively reprimand her?

Hircine’s tired of it all, though she’ll keep that complaint to herself. “I’m sorry, Mal. Thank you for telling me about the dinner. I’ll be prepared.” As prepared as she can be to deal with Enver Fucking Gortash. 

Just another slimy man that doesn't know his place.

“As you should be, and I heard Astarion might be helping you out going forward. That’s all well and good, but don’t get complacent. He doesn’t need to prop you up.” Mal reaches back into the fruit bowl, snatching up another apple and leaving Hircine where she stands, holding the crate of wine that she is considering throwing back down into the cellar. His voice echoes back towards her, mocking and sharp. “And I hope you’re ready for L’Alure d’Ulnen. I’m thinking we’re in for a fun time with this one. What a great way to initiate Astarion into the family.”

A delicate, high-born man like Astarion probably won’t last long toiling away in their family’s games… especially since it’s a hunting year. There’s only so much Hircine could protect him from, but then again, what does she care? They hold no love towards each other and he’s just another man atop a pile of them. There is more where he comes from—not that anyone is allowed to kill him.

Taking an aggravated breath in, Hircine fishes out Mal's apple core to throw away then heads upstairs towards Silversword hall in the west wing where the familiar sconces lining the walls ease her weariness on her approach, even though they aren’t all that unlike the ones to Darkfire hall. Kyne can always make Hircine feel better. 

She knocks on the door with the crate and waits. 

A few moments later, the door swings open to the maid, a middle-aged, brown haired human named Illia, who lets Hircine in without a word. 

All the halls are different, designed to each inhabitant's taste. Kyne’s is partially open-concept, with no walls to separate the sitting room, kitchen and dining area. Her rooms are always brightly lit, every candle she owns burning at all hours of the day, and she enjoys strongly scented ones so the smell is some amalgamation of florals, fruits and spices that gives Hircine a headache when she stays too long.

“Oh, is that all for me?” Kyne says as she rounds the corner of the hallway, the orange skirts she's wearing dragging along the ground. It looks hard to walk in but Kyne enjoys oversized clothes for whatever reason, either the sleeves, skirts or pant legs getting caught in everything.

Hircine jiggles the crate, clinking the bottles together. “A few of them; I’ll be taking the rest home later.”

A well-groomed eyebrow is raised in her direction and Kyne smiles shyly. “Taking some for brother-in-law, huh? Is he a wine drinker?”

“I guess I’ll find out.”

“What? You’ve had plenty of meals together at this point, Hircine. How do you not know if he likes wine?”  

“It never came up.”

Kyne yanks the wine crate from Hircine’s hands, setting it on a table. “It never came up, or you never asked?”

Hircine stares down at her feet as a lump forms in her throat. “I haven’t asked.”

“Ooh! Baldur’s Grape!” Pulling a bottle of her favorite wine from the crate, Kyne searches for an opener to remove the cork. She speaks with her back turned to Hircine. “Have you asked brother-in-law anything about himself?”

Thinking back on all their days together, she can’t recall if she has. “No.”

“You live with him now, and unless something goes terribly wrong, it’s for good. How will you get along like this?”

Hircine pulls out a chair at the dining table, taking a seat and running a finger slowly along the whorls of dark wood grain of the table. “I don't know… I feel like he looks at me with such disdain.”

“Well, you treat him impersonally, like a business partner. ‘Husband,’” she mocks, “What did you expect?”

“I don’t want him to hurt me.”

Kyne sets an over-filled wine glass in front of her, then sits down directly across from Hircine. “I know you don't, dalninil, but Mal and Father kept an eye on him for a while before even agreeing to the union, and I'm watching him too! Nothing will happen without me knowing.” Swirling the wine in her glass, Kyne purses her lips. “Vorn’tyrr wasn’t a good fit.” A good fit? The understatement of the millennia. “Astarion is nice and quiet, though that doesn't mean he can't change at all. Tell me if anything happens. I'll deal with him.” 

Well, Hircine finds that hard to believe but she encourages Kyne anyway. “And how would you deal with him?”

“Well, uh—” Kyne giggles. “I guess I wouldn’t do anything, but I’d ask Dagoth to magic his hair straight or something. Astarion seems to put a lot of care into his…” Though her face falls quickly, the mood turning somber. “In all seriousness though, tell me—and Lexi! You won’t have to worry about anything.”

With a long, weary sigh, Hircine deflates. “I know, I’m not being fair to him.”

“Hey, as they say, third times the charm! I have a good feeling about Astarion, you know, like, uh, a detect good or bad husband spell! He seems shy, so I think if you open up to him, he’ll open up to you. Also, he’s quite dashing… I’m jealous.” 

Hircine scoffs at Kyne, unamused. “Are you lusting after my husband?”

“Nooo!” She makes a gagging noise. “Astarion’s nice and all, but I prefer a bigger, womanly-er type, you know.” She grins bashfully, though it's covered up by her wine glass when Kyne hides behind it, blushing furiously. 

How girlish this ninety-five year old is… Too bad she will never get the wife she wants. 

Mother and her damned rules, they ruin everything.

“I hope my husband will be like Jena. All big and strong, able to carry me everywhere… I really just wish I could marry Jena.” Kyne says dreamily. 

Hircine chokes on the wine she’s drinking. “Oh gods—Ugh, don’t—don’t say that in front of Stendarr.”

“I would never. Hells, could you imagine the response? Mal and Chalrae don’t even speak to each other, and sleep with whoever they want, but if we were to so much as glance at another man or woman, Mother would let you have it for days on end. It’s ridiculous.” That’s only because Mother holds Mal in low regard, he's not worth the effort to shape into her version of perfection. With a pout, Kyne finishes off her glass and refills it just a pinch below the brim.

Running a finger along the lip of her wine glass, Hircine brings up her prior encounter with their eldest brother. “Speaking of Mal, I ran into him when I was grabbing wine.”

That makes Kyne sit straighter, a scowl marring her face. “Ew. Was he a bastard?”

It’s easy to blame Mal for his behavior when he’s the one perpetrating it, but Mother cultivated this hostile environment between sisters and brothers, though as of now, Arkay stands in the middle, not quite belonging to either side. Would everything be different if Mother let her sons engage more in the family business instead of forcing it all on Hircine? Kyne was lucky, and escaped by using Eilistraee as a shield, so most of her time is spent in the temple. The brother are just as, if not more than capable at some things. This divide only hurts them.

Or maybe they really do like luxuriating in peace while Hircine works herself to death. 

The least they could do is be honest about it.

“The usual.” As in, constantly undermining Hircine’s efforts and inserting himself into everyone’s business when it isn’t needed. She would be more than glad to hand his work back to him.

“Gross.”

“He also brought up L’Alure d’Ulnen.”

Kyne blanches, the healthy pink undertones beneath her skin giving way to a pallid gray. “I’m not ready for it.”

“I know. It will be fine, just like all the prior ones.”

“But Hircine, what if they bring Vorn’tyrr—”

“They can’t.” She says, ending the topic.

Kyne pulls an errant thread on her sleeve, her voice barely above a mumble. “I’m worried about Arkay, it’s his first and—and what if he turns out like them too? I like actually getting along with him.”

“I know, me too.” 

“Do you think we can protect him too?”

That gives Hircine pause. Can she take care of Kyne and Arkay—and Astarion? Mal and Stendarr are always on their own, more than eager to cast the younger siblings aside if it assures their safety. “I hope so.” She finally responds, uneasiness settling between them both.

“He seems to like Astarion too. Just imagine, you lovebirds getting along, he can show Arkay how to actually treat women so he doesn’t turn out like Mal, and then we’ll just be one big, happy family.”

Kyne and her lofty dreams...

Hircine sips on her wine. “Ah, now that's an incentive to be on good terms with my husband.”

Shaking her head with a ‘tsk’, Kyne skewers Hircine with disapproving eyes. “Or you can just be agreeable, and see where it all goes. Having someone else on our side would be nice.”

“I know.” She does, truly, but then there’s the nagging thought at the back of her mind whispering ‘He’s a man, all they do is hurt.’ 

Sometimes Hircine thinks Lolth has it right. 

Swallowing down those hateful thoughts with the last drops of wine, she gets up, pacing to the kitchen to set her empty glass onto the counter. “I’m going to freshen up in the washroom”

With the washroom door shut behind her, Hircine pads over to the mirror.

Her reflection stares back, dour and uninviting, yet it does nothing to deter others from coming up to her constantly.

‘Just be agreeable.’

Leaning in close, Hircine wills the sides of her lips up into a smile, one that shows her teeth. 

It’s strained and very obviously fake. She’s not good at smiling on command unless it's her business smile, but anyone can see how cold and unfeeling it is. According to Mal, her pretend smiles are always unnatural and discomforting, and the ones of actual joy are few and far between.

Has she ever been able to smile properly? Did Herma-Mora shove that ability out of her brain when he wedged himself in?

Or did she lose it when she married Vorn'tyrr?

There are distinct memories of Tathzar bringing a smile to her face with little coaxing, even though she knew what he really wanted. He was effortlessly funny and silly, a trait she has always been attracted to since humor is something she is decidedly deficient in. 

Vorn'tyrr was not funny.

Teetering on the edge of the sink, Hircine presses closer to the mirror, almost close enough for her nose to smudge its polished surface. The golden glow of her eyes reflects back into her pupils, blinding and foreign. 

If she looks hard enough, she'll be able to see Herma-Mora writhing around behind her eyes.

Hah! Not really. He's not physically here.

Should she ask Herma-Mora for advice on how to speak to her husband? And how would he respond to such a pointless request? 

Liquify her eyeballs? Make her vomit acid? Have her nails split from her fingers again?

Bad ideas are a copper a dozen. There’s no need to intentionally call them upon herself. 

Blowing air out of her mouth that fogs up the mirror, Hircine tidies up her appearance, tucking hairs back into place, touching up her lipstick and smoothing out her dress.

Astarion probably doesn’t care, but it makes her feel better.

Back out in Kyne’s sitting room, Hircine bids her sister goodbye. “I guess I will go learn about… being friendly.” Her mouth curls around the word, chewing on its unfamiliarity. 

Following after her sister, Kyne stands in the sitting room, nursing her wine, watching as Hircine collects her treaty box. She speaks up hesitantly. “Uhm… I’ve been talking to Vaermina.”

Hircine squeezes the crate, feeling the rough wood prick against her skin. “Why?”

“Because she’s so lonely. I feel bad that—”

Lonely, my arse. Hircine cuts her off. “Have you let her in?”

“No, no! Mina sits outside my door most days. We just talk, I swear!” Kyne defends. “She thinks Astarion is very pretty from what I’ve told her.”

A sliver of revulsion wedges itself within Hircine. “I can’t stop you, but leave Astarion out of your… conversations. All Vaermina wants is to drive us to madness and Astarion does not deserve that target on his back. Remember what she's done to you—to all of us.” With that said, she leaves.

The suspicion has been there, but now it's confirmed. Vaermina was the one skulking about through Hircine’s hall some nights ago. How, she doesn't know and that leaves fear icing through Hircine’s veins. She doesn't have the time to manage the mines, entertain her husband and protect against a psychotic sister that can break in whenever she pleases.

Astarion said he never let anyone in, and all Hircine can do is take him at his word, because Vaermina isn't great about hiding her presence. 

No, that's not true. Vaermina intentionally never hides, ever eager to send her siblings scrambling in fear from her torments. The last time she put her cursed hands on Hircine it left Hircine throwing up for weeks until Lexi found the proper way to remove the curse. Why Vaermina left Astarion alone then, there are not enough guesses in the world that would give Hircine a satisfactory answer.

Sweet Kyne is courting disaster right now, playing into Vaermina’s twisted machinations when they know it always ends badly. 

No one deserves the insanity their crazed sister pours into them.

Pulling her key from a small pocket sewn into her dress, Hircine unlocks the door and enters the den, the familiar smell of charred firewood and spices greeting her along with Astarion rising from the couch. She is dismayed at his presence in the sitting home; she had hoped, if briefly, that he might have retired to their room or the library so she could perform the evensong tonight for some much needed relief.

His smile is hollow, the disappointment at his bleak wife’s return barely concealed. 

She finds it hard to blame him when she would react the same were she to come home to herself. 

Boring. Depressing. Strange. 

Mal says women like Hircine don’t make it far with men like Astarion, and she would never disagree, but it’s not as if her husband is all that interesting either and divorce isn’t really an option for them anyway. All they have to compare with is looks when neither of them seem to be earning high marks in the personality department. 

And whose fault is that? I give him no opportunities to express himself.

In typical handsome glory, Astarion stands with his perfectly styled halo of white curls, sharp red eyes that regard her with thinly veiled caution and the strained, tight-lipped smile he always has plastered to his face. “Welcome back,” he says, eyes dropping to the wine carried in the crate. He looks back up at her. “How was your day?”

Don’t complain. “It was good—busy, but all went well. Uhm,” Hircine sets the wine out on the desk and tucks the crate away. “I wasn’t sure if you liked wine, but I brought some from the cellar if you… wanted any. There’s a little of everything since I didn’t know your tastes.”

When he steps close to look over the bottles, Hircine goes still, willing herself to not recoil away. So far, Astarion never initiates any physical contact so she can only hope that it stays that way. 

Picking a bottle up, Astarion reads the label. “Red Dragon Crush?”

“It’s imported from Barovia.”

“Barovia?” He repeats, almost in disbelief.

Is he that shocked? “Yes. Father’s been drinking it for years, I don’t know how he gets it though. It’s not easy getting in or out of Barovia from what I understand.” If it’s hard to get or exorbitantly expensive, Father wants it.

“Interesting,” he pulls the cork from the top, rotating the wine in the bottle and smelling it with the trained expertise of a sommelier. Humming with satisfaction, Astarion turns to Hircine. “Would you like some?”

“A small glass is fine.” 

For a moment he disappears into the kitchen and reappears with two goblets filled with the red liquid. Should she have watched him pour it? No, it’s fine. Astarion’s had plenty of chances to tamper with her food and drink, why start now?

They clink goblets together in cheers and drink, savoring the rich, dry flavor as the wine coats her throat. Sweet wines are more to her preference.

Astarion seems pleased at the choice. “Can always count on Strahd to have good taste.”

A tyrant having good taste? No, she doesn’t agree. “Do you prefer reds?”

He shrugs, letting another sip sit on his tongue before swallowing. He stares down into his goblet. “I do enjoy the color, but no, I don’t really care.”

She blinks. Astarion is awfully chatty today, bringing wine was the right choice.

Angling the cup in Hircine’s direction, his smile is a degree warmer despite the dark glint in his shining eyes. “Thank you for this. I was quite… parched tonight.”

Astarion is a bit strange, but the same can be said for Hircine.

And to think Lexi was so convinced that he's a vampire. There's nothing to worry about. 

He’s just another man that wants to use Hircine as a stepping stone to further his ambitions, no more, no less. She can tolerate that.

Notes:

-why yes, I am depressed and disillusioned with working in the corporate world and projecting it onto my characters. How could you tell?
-I support women's right and women's wrong, and Hircine definitely has a pile of wrongs for us to sift through
-It will probably never explicitly be stated, but Hircine is a Great Old One Warlock - more to the tabletop version, and I will be very fast and loose with spells if they ever come up because leveling progression doesn't exist here.

Next Up: Bite Night!

Chapter 7: A New Experience

낯̴̱̞͍̿̾̓̽̍̌̌͋̆͐̈́̋̕̚͝진̶̮̪͉̗̞̥̪̔̌̓̎̔͒͋̌͘̚마̷̢̲̝͈̦̘̦̤͕̭̳̯͍̗͓͆̾̍̂̕͠͝

 

Why is it always when she's tucked in bed that his inane ramblings become louder? Does Herma-Mora watch her sleep? 

Does he even understand ‘sleep’?

Her eyes search around the ceiling looking for something that is never there. Hircine doesn’t know why she even tries when he's probably still hidden away in Throrgar, unraveling time and space at this very moment. What she would give to see him phase through the closet door, scuttling across the ceiling on all those limbs to snatch her from the safety of bed and whisk her away to a future unknown.

‘He,’ she thinks with an internal scoff. Herma-Mora is neither man, woman nor an it. He just is. She named him for… fun, to give him tangibility and some basic form of understanding to cling to.

If only she could fall down to Throrgar again, see her (not) friendly mind-invader. She wants to ask him why. 

Why didn't you separate my flesh from my bones? 

Why did you let me go home, safe and not-quite sound?

Why does no one believe me when I talk about you?

One day, maybe Hircine will return to his physics-defying, reality-bending palace to be inducted into his madness. It has to be better than this unfulfilling cycle of work, work, work, endure, endure, endure.

Or maybe she’ll just surrender to Lolth completely. Be the woman Mother is so desperate for her to be.

Always a light sleeper or trancer since birth, Hircine lies awake, begging for some peace and quiet after such a tiring day of work. It must be nice to be her husband, rarely ever moving in his sleep, though occasionally a whimper escapes during what she can only assume is a nightmare. The barrier—that she put up!—between them is insurmountable, she can’t console him.

He returned to the Szarr’s before their first dinner the other night and only a blind person could have missed how all the life drained from Astarion’s already ghostly pallor when Lexi announced Cazador’s presence in the manor, and then when he came back… She can’t even guess at what happened, but the hate that flashed through his eyes as Hircine opened the door, not even Boethiah has the gall to muster up such a look.

And then again at the dinner table, she forced herself to hold his hand, anything to get over this miserable fear of him, and he—

Gods, it was brief, but Hircine saw it. If looks could kill, she would have exploded into a pile of gore on the spot.

The return to normalcy, even with how awfully busy it was in the mines, was nice, at least just to escape Astarion and his strange hatefulness. 

Is it strange, though? Kyne is right, Hircine hasn’t treated him well, refusing to say his name so a cavernous distance is left between them, which is also paired with the intention to rile him up, help eek out any violent anger Astarion might be hiding but so far, he doesn’t react to it.

Rude and dismissive as it is, she's still not going to call him by his name. 

Regardless of that, she can afford to be more… agreeable. It's been a week, Astarion deserves better and Hircine needs to get over her mostly unjustified prejudices. 

A few men being terrible doesn't mean they all are like that. Not that the sentiment has done anything to lessen her hatred towards them.

It's a relatively normal night, she was going to wake up no matter what moved, and she’s wide awake when Astarion stirs, sitting up so silent and careful as to not shift the bed or blankets.

But why is he encroaching on her side?

I’m scared.

Hair is brushed away from her shoulder so gently in the hopes of not rousing her from slumber. 

No, no, no! He said we can wait!  

When his hand feels along the shoulder of her nightdress, that is when Hircine has had enough. She whirls around, hand raised to smack him away because how dare he? but stops when she finds Astarion hunched over her, fangs bared. He jerks back, fear radiating off him now. “It’s not what it looks like! I was—”

By our Lady’s sword, Lexi is right! “You are a vampire!” Hircine throws herself off the bed, searching around for anything that might be used as a weapon, but finds nothing sharp so she yanks the oil lamp from the table, holding it in a manner that she hopes comes across as threatening. Magic might be better, but Astarion isn't some nobody in the Underdark. His father keeps an eye on him and he'll know rather quickly if he’s missing…

‘Lexi!’ A silent message is sent to the maid. Oh gods, hopefully she isn’t asleep now. Lexi is terrible at waking up. ‘Stand outside my door, please!’

His jaw drops as he flounders for words. “What? How did you—What do you mean? I’m not—”

“Lexi told me you were a vampire. I didn’t—Vampires are evil and you act so—mostly normal, so I thought nothing of it. Were you going to kill me?!” When Hircine returned to Darkfire Hall following her… unexpected night out after their marriage, Lexi had entered her room while Astarion rifled through the library for whatever he was looking for. Hircine dismissed her maid's concerns, because even if he is a vampire, why hasn’t he done anything yet then? There was ample opportunity to attack Mal and Arkay in the library, and Hircine when they’ve been alone in their hall, or every time they’ve gone to sleep. 

Was he just biding his time, then? But why?

 Astarion backs away, climbing off the bed so his back presses against the wall. “I wasn’t going to kill you, I swear. I was just… hungry.”

Is he stupid? “‘Hungry’? Why not bite literally anything else but me? There are horses outside! I’m your wife!” She regards him warily, tracking him for any sudden movements. 

“I tried! The horses won’t let me near them!”

“You already went after our horses? Oh my gods, what is wrong with you?!”

“What? You just suggested I could feed on the horses!”

“That wasn’t a suggestion! I was making an example of other things to eat, not realizing you’ve already skulked about! Who have you killed?!” She shouts at him. Hircine should know better than to doubt Lexi.

He raises his hands and lowers his voice, attempting to set her at ease. “I haven’t killed anyone—well, a fox and a squirrel in the forest, but no people!”

“But you eat regular food too! And garlic, you ate garlic!” If Astarion was going to attack her, he would have done it already, right? A vampire has to be much faster than she is, even on the best of days. Hircine hesitantly sets the oil lamp down and lights it, watching his every move and observing how his eyes glitter in the warm glow, reminding her of a predator’s eyes that reflect any light when emerging from darkness. 

It's faint and so, so brief, but Hircine hears the scratch of nails on wood, so faint that anyone might mistake it for the manor settling. Lexi is outside the door, awaiting further command.

Pulling a blanket over her shoulders like a shawl, Hircine backs up from the bed slowly, never taking her eyes off him. He must see that as her letting him go, so when he attempts to push away from the wall, Hircine’s hand shoots up. “No! You stay right there! If you move a step, I’m calling Lexi in here.” Astarion frowns but makes no further moves. “Now what were we—Oh right, if you are a vampire, then why are you eating normal food?”

“I do it—It’s…” and then he stalls, his face screwing up with discomfort.

“What are—”

“It’s to fit in! Eating makes me ill most of the time, but it’s not like I have any other options when people are around! I don’t think requesting the butcher set aside the blood and toss the meat is a good look, hmm? As for garlic, it’s practically poison. Gods, the smell makes my stomach turn…”

For a man who has spent the last ten-day speaking barely more than five words at a time, Astarion is rather eloquent suddenly. Is it because he’s hungry? No, that makes no sense. Whatever, there are more pressing issues. Hircine tightens the blanket around her. “Ok, so blood really is the only thing you can eat—drink, but why bite me? Were the foxes not enough?”

He scoffs. “You try surviving on—on bread every few days! It’s not very filling and I haven’t had many chances to hunt…”

“Why me then?” She repeats.

Astarion looks anywhere but at her. “Because you were there and I wasn't expecting you to wake up…”

“I was already awake.”

That makes him falter. “W-Well, my mistake then…”

Did Mal ever actually meet Astarion? It's false advertisement being sold on this supposedly suave man who so far has turned out to be rather foolish and meek, not that she ever cared how he actually is. “How have you survived this long if you go up to anyone without checking whether they're asleep or not? I just—I feel like there must—”

“I’ve never bitten anyone before!” Astarion blurts out, appearing as shocked as she is at those words. 

“I—Uh, how? Don't you need ‘people’ blood?”

He scowls with disdain and wipes a hand across his face. The usual perfect curls are wildly mussed by sleep, giving Astarion a frenzied appearance that’s more alarming than the intended use of his fangs. “Clearly I don't. It's just… preferred.”

“You have never fed off a person before.” She repeats.

“Correct.”

Her shallow understanding of vampires is clashing with the man before her. He thirsts for blood, but doesn't seem all that bloodthirsty. He's polite, relatively courteous and treats everyone like a person, not a snack—excluding their current predicament. Is that normal for vampires or is Astarion unique? And what of his family?

“The Szarr's. Are all of you vampires then?” She asks.

His hesitation to answer tells her all she needs, but he speaks up eventually. “We—we are, but only Ma—my father feeds off of people.”

Hircine feels a headache working itself into her brain, throbbing in time with her heartbeat. “So you've never drank a person's blood before, but were going to try with me, just because? I don't understand all the intricacies of blood drinking, but I imagine that I am very different from a fox. Say I didn't wake up and you bit me, would you have drained me dry? Isn't that what you're supposed to do?”

“I-I could have stopped at any moment!” The lack of confidence in his tone hangs heavy in the air. No, he would not have stopped, and if Hircine were a heavier sleeper with no worries to worry about, she'd be dead. 

She could call Lexi in right now and have Astarion incinerated, but can Hircine handle more blood on her hands? 

It won’t be easy to cover up a second death. The last one was hard enough, and even if it could be presented as an accident, Mother will dole out a punishment swiftly for more of her plans being ruined.

Up until this very moment, Astarion has been fine, nosy, but fine, and as long as he doesn't turn into another Vorn'tyrr, they can manage this. He's just one vampire, surely a little blood loss on her end is enough to keep him happy and manageable. 

And truthfully, she just doesn’t care.

Kyne said I need to be agreeable. I can do that, but—

The red eyes and fangs… “Are you even a drow?” She queries. 

He’s taken aback, because who would care about that in this situation? “I’m a high elf, the—the moon variety.”

Oh good gods, dealing with the fallout of Astarion being a vampire would be easier than revealing she married a non-drow. Hircine would probably lose her position and be sequestered away just like Vaermina and Boethiah if Mother finds out. The matriarch and her narrow minded views instilled from her first century or so in Menzoberranzan have seeped into so much of their lives…

Shouldn’t Mal and Father have figured that out? They never even said anything about Astarion being a possible szarkai.

Rubbing her temples, Hircine sighs. “Don’t tell anyone you aren’t a drow—or a vampire, but definitely not about being an elf.”

“What? Why is—No, you’re fine with this?” Astarion’s mouth is agape and he waves his arms over himself.

“Yes. As long as you don’t speak about it, then it doesn’t matter.” And it’s not like she can make demands for a divorce. “We’re already married so I think it would just be easier to… get along.”

He stands slack-jawed and mute, staring at Hircine across the room.

If she thinks about this objectively—and ignoring that he was going to bite her while she was sleeping, Astarion went a whole week without eating her. That must be good control for a vampire.

And if he has good control, then feeding him should be something that Hircine can do. A wife can provide for her vampire husband in absence of regular food… or something like that.

Vampires are strong and apparently they aren’t out to kill everyone they see, so having someone who is strong to protect her will be good. 

All she wants is a little extra safety. It's easier to keep Astarion by her side than Lexi.

“If I… were to offer you my blood, would you only take a little? Just enough to… I don’t know, not be… hungry?” Maybe it's a bad idea, but if he does kill her, it's not like Hircine has anything to lose.

Well, as long as she doesn't think too hard about the aftermath. Who would take care of the mines? What will happen to Kyne if Hircine isn't there? Arkay? How will the Ravenshade meeting go without her? 

Though really her biggest fear is that if she dies, they will move on without a second thought. Mourn for a day, dump her corpse in the dirt and wipe their hands clean, never to think of dull little Hircine ever again. 

Mother has definitely considered it on occasion, but Hircine toes the line of proper daughter and massive disappointment all too well. No need to throw out something when it still has use. 

No, he won't kill me. He can't.

Astarion’s jaw flaps open like a fish pleading to be returned to water. “Yo-You would do that?” 

“As long as you don't kill me.”

Silence deafens them both as they stand there, but the shock leftover within Astarion is schooled into a suave smile, and he bows his head elegantly. “On my honor, I will take not a drop more than I need.”

Honor? Coming from the man that was going to bite her because he thought she was asleep? Laughable. 

Ignoring his meaningless words, Hircine musters up some shred of bravery and turns her back on him, walking to the couch, further tightening the soft blanket around her in a comforting embrace. ‘Lexi, stay outside.’ The responding scratch that follows is covered by the cushion deflating as Hircine settles onto the suede upholstery of the couch. She nods at Astarion, allowing him to come forward. 

In a few strides, he is before her, near vibrating with excitement at being able to bite an actual person.

This is a bad idea. A terrible, awful, stupid idea, but Lexi is right outside the door, ready at Hircine’s signal to burst through the door to send the vampire back to his actual grave if he makes any missteps. 

A deep inhale to steady herself, Hircine releases it as she holds her hand at eye level. “Is my wrist fine? I don’t—” She pauses, considering what’s best. “Don’t touch my neck.” It’ll be easier to see him if he’s hanging onto her wrist instead of tucked into her neck.

His eyebrow raises a hair before smoothing out, his smile ingratiating. “Of course. Whatever makes you most comfortable, darling.” Astarion kneels beside her on the ground.

The urge to frown in disgust at ‘darling’ is strong, but not enough to overwhelm her neutral expression.

She might be giving him her blood, but that doesn’t mean they are friendly now.

Astarion takes her arm delicately in her hands, and it's hard not to cringe away, but she chose this, remember that. He looks practically alive now as he stares at her wrist, eyes roving over the thin skin as he visually marks the veins. Why he would deprive himself of the better meal, she isn’t sure, but a vampire that controls his hunger is better than one that doesn’t.

“Is—Is it going to hurt?” She says quietly, hoping the waver in her voice isn’t too apparent. 

His thumb, oddly cool, brushes across where her veins lay beneath the skin of her wrist. “I’ll be gentle.”

“Alright… I just—I don’t like pain.” 

He meets her eyes, and it's that look again, so much loathing that he tries to hide with a smile, but all she sees is mockery. Fine, it’s a stupid thing to say because outside of Loviatar’s freaks, people don’t really like pain. Does he not like weak-bodied people? And what would he know of pain? Mal said the Szarr’s lived well in the Upper City, not that Hircine has ever been there to experience how well, exactly. “It will be quick.” He assures her.

The feeding or her death? 

“Are you ready?” Astarion asks as he brings her arm close to his lips, his nostrils flaring. Is he… smelling her? She doesn’t know how to feel about that.

Hircine’s number one priority is to not cry out. Oh, it would be embarrassing. Thinking fast, she shoves some of the blanket into her mouth and nods for Astarion to continue, he frowns at her actions but returns his attention to the feast held within her veins.

A beat passes and then his fangs pierce her flesh, like a brand so hot against her flesh it turns to ice. Hircine squeaks into her blanket, desperately fighting hard to not yank her arm away from him as tears prick the corner of her eyes. Astarion groans raggedly around her wrist, a long draw of her blood fleeing from her body as he sucks it down. He holds onto her wrist, his vice grip leaving no room for escape even if she wanted to.

It hurts, it hurts, it hurts

But then… it doesn’t. The pain gives way to a softness, so cool and sweet in its embrace. Is it the blood loss or something in his bite? His lips form a seal over the wound, the next pull of blood sending a rush of calm over Hircine as she falls back into the couch, sinking deep into the cushions, blackness blurring the edges of her vision. 

Maybe dying wouldn’t be so bad.

It would be so easy to slip away like this, floating along a slow current of chilled water, never to wake again…

NO!  

Hircine lurches forward, weak and uncoordinated, spitting the blanket out and shoving her unrestrained hand against Astarion’s face, pushing him away until he unlatches from her wrist ungracefully, tearing her skin. He falls back, propping himself up with his elbows while blood dribbles down his chin, drip-dropping onto his heaving chest. 

Was he going to stop?! Hircine staunches the steady flow of blood streaming out of her wrist, but her movements are sluggish, fumbling to hold the blanket with any pressure.

His face is alight with wonder, red tongue coming out to lick his lips, smearing more of her life essence around. “That was—That was everything…” 

She glares at him, but says nothing as her head swims, feeling much too heavy for her body. Lexi can heal this. ‘Come in. Leave my husband be.’

The doors fling open and Lexi is at Hircine’s side in an instant, taking in the scene before her. Astarion scrambles to his feet, wiping away the blood on his face with the back of his hand only to leave a mess of it swiped across his cheek. “How did you—?” 

Her eyes drift over his form and—Is… he hard right now? Oh my gods. Hircine averts her gaze. This is all so strange.

Lexi looks back and forth between them before settling on Hircine. “Wha-What have you done, Lady Hircine?” 

“Just heal me, Lexi.” She slurs.

A blue glow emanates from the maids hands, healing the puncture marks and restoring the clarity of her mind, leaving behind a messy blanket and sticky arm as proof of what just took place. Is it always going to be like this?

Once finished, Lexi rounds on Astarion, offensive magic glowing from her fingertips. “You monster! How dare—!”

“Lexi!” Hircine scolds sharply, getting to her feet. “I told you to leave him be. Get out.”

“But—But, Lady Hircine! A vampire—!”

Sending a silent message directly to Lexi, Hircine stares her down. ‘Do not make me repeat myself.’

Her magic sputters out, as does her anger. “I-I’m sorry, my lady. I will take my leave.” With that done, Lexi exits the room, shutting the doors with quiet care.

Hircine deflates, flopping back down to the couch. She hates getting upset with Lexi, she’s only ever done right by Hircine every step of the way and is someone that she trusts implicitly, with all her being. To side with her husband, someone Hircine has known for a week, and a man at that, over the woman who raised her is just wrong. 

But that is how it must be. 

Getting cross with Lexi is better than dealing with Mother’s wrath should Hircine lose another husband.

She finds Astarion still standing in place, lips parted and eyes wide with shock as he stares at the now-closed doors. “What just—What in the hells just happened? How did she know? Why did you—Why protect me?”

Inspecting her wrist in the dark, Hircine finds the skin good as new, no scar to be seen. “I can call her back in to finish the job if you so wish.” Her tone is clipped and quiet. He could have killed me and he isn’t even sorry.

Astarion wasn’t going to stop until she shoved him away, the bastard. He’s lucky Hircine is letting all of his mistakes slide.

“No! I quite enjoy not being made into a pile of ashes, if it’s all the same to you.” He swipes again at the blood on his chin, becoming entranced by whatever must be leftover on his fingers. He brings them to his lips, testing it with a lick, then immediately starts sucking on his fingers with a barely disguised moan.

Hircine is so tired—and a little disgusted. “I expect more control next time.” She mutters.

 That halts his fun with a sharp intake of breath. “You would give your blood to me again?”

“Yes, isn’t that what you want? It’s better you bite me than anyone else, unless my blood wasn’t to your tastes, then you can continue bleeding the vermin dry.”

Astarion’s body reacts wholly to that, shaking no at her words. “No, darling! You were perfect, trust me. I couldn’t go back to that plonk even if I tried!”

She frowns, willing herself off the couch. “Right, well… I’m going to clean up this mess.”

“Thank you for this, I won't forget it.” He bids her good luck with a bow that reads as condescending when Hircine steps into the bathroom, shutting the door behind her before leaning against it with a sigh as she sides all the way down to the floor. 

What have I done?

Kyne is right that they should get along, but feeding her own blood to this man—a vampire?

Ugh. 

That feeling though, the emptiness as her blood slipped away…

She wants that again.

---

In the training hall, Arkay shows Astarion around all the practice weapons, his voice echoing across the stone facade. There are racks of wooden blades used for light practice and steel as well for more serious sparring, along with a small assortment of miscellaneous weapon types. A spear or battle axe being used over a blade will result in some light disparagement.

Hircine stands off to the side, making sure her hair will stay out of her face. It’s nice for someone else to pull Astarion’s attention away from her when the past two days have been tense between the ‘couple’ after that impromptu feeding. She can tell he wants to ask for more and he just needs to outright say it since Hircine is not ready to offer herself up again… though she very badly wants to feel that boneless calm again. It's plagued her thoughts since the bite, so maybe she will be the first one to break.

Lexi would be disappointed with my weakness.

Whether or not giving Astarion blood was a mistake remains to be seen. They still barely talk and what do they even move forward to? Hircine can’t make friendly conversation on a good day and Astarion, while lingering on her periphery when she’s home, still won’t properly approach Hircine. 

Which is fine. What are they going to talk about anyway? Her blood?

Gross.

Her fingers brush over the spot where his fangs broke skin. While no marks were left behind after Lexi’s healing, there’s some kind of phantom pain that lingers, a faint burning sensation to remind her of the choice she made.

They are bound now and Hircine needs to accept that.

The tour is finished and the men wander back over, sharing in easy-going laughter and smiles. 

They always band together, leaving her on the outskirts.

“Do you want to just dive into it, Astarion? Or maybe watch Hirce and I have a go at each other?” Arkay bounces on the balls of his feet, ready for some action.

Her husband looks between them both, always calculating his next move. Maybe Hircine would like him more if he was a touch authentic. “I’ll sit the first one out, find out what I’m up against, you know?”

“Ah, you’re just hoping we tire out!” Arkay laughs and then his single-eye finds Hircine. “You ready?”

“Yes,” she responds. 

While still young and learning his own form, Arkay is quite talented, and one eye missing does nothing to limit his abilities. Sword play is his passion and it would be anyone’s mistake to not take him seriously when standing across from him in the arena. His only fault is not being quiet, but when he doesn’t care about putting on a show, what does it matter?

“Paper cut or missing limbs today, dalninuk?” Hircine asks.

“Oh, let's start light, then work our way up.” Arkay says as he grabs a broadsword from a rack.

Following suit, Hircine finds a wooden longsword and moves to the center of the arena where her brother meets her. They take up stance, swords out. 

They pause, tensing for what's to come.

“Begin.” Arkay breathes out and Hircine lunges forward, swinging her wooden blade in a smooth arc up. Arkay side steps, parrying her swing and jabbing with the point of his sword in a feint that Hircine reads well as she moves out of the way, knowing his intention was to encourage her to step in. 

They circle around, trading blows and swipes, never actually coming close to hitting each other. This is for fun, no need to deal damage when their sword play is all about the illusion of strength, hiding the actual lack of it with grace and fluid swings that flow into the next from hours of practicing them over and over. 

Hircine knows her mistake the second she makes it when taking a step to the left instead of the right, and Arkay is quick to catch it, pointing his blade at her neck.

She lost.

Dropping her sword in defeat, Hircine sighs. “Good job, I can see you improved on your footwork—you weren't projecting as much.”

“I’ve learned from the best,” Arkay says smugly, bowing with a flourish, “I’m gonna sit this next one out. I noticed something I want to work on. Astarion, your turn. Choose your weapon!”

Her husband perks up from looking at his nails, not realizing he would be called up so soon. “Oh, well alright. Good show from you both.” His bored tone reveals he saw none of that.

“We can do steel if that’s more to your tastes?” Hircine offers.

“I think that will do quite nicely.” Astarion agrees absentmindedly.

As he picks up blades, performing some tight swings to see how they feel in his hands, Hircine finds her own. One handed or two handed? She pulls a greatsword from the rack, listening to the sching of metal against the frame.

This should do.

Arkay nudges her arm, drawing her attention over to Astarion who is testing the weight and feel of a sword. “Your husband is proficient with short blades.” He whispers.

Hircine snorts, and quickly covers it with a cough, but she knows Astarion heard. He looks straight ahead, then turns to them with an eyebrow raised, pointing the blade in their direction. “I’m sorry, I didn’t quite catch that. I’m proficient with what?”

“There’s nothing to be ashamed of, Husband. Some people just aren't fit to wield long blades.” She bites her tongue at the end to stop a bark of laughter from escaping.

“Excuse me, this is a perfectly average sword!” Hand on hip, Astarion huffs and mutters under his breath. “I can wield any size blade.”

Arkay’s face is red now as he holds himself back, choking to get his words out. “You think a shortsword is average?”

“Oh, you poor thing…” Hircine says, her voice dripping with exaggerated concern.

Astarion scowls at them before throwing the short sword away, the hollow clang as it clatters against the stone ground rings out, punctuating his tantrum. “You both are wretched and know nothing of my abilities.” 

“I know. That’s why we’re putting them to the test. Come on, pick something.” 

Settling on a slim rapier, Astarion finds his place at the center of the arena. “My sword play doesn’t have the panache that you possess, so don’t judge me for my grace—or lack thereof. Being on either end of a blade means a dance of life or death usually, I’m not used to this showiness.”

And what would he know of life or death? Seems a bit dramatic for someone who has spent most of his life in the Upper City, even if he is undead. “I see… We can be more aggressive if you would like then, Husband. Only as long as you don’t chop my head off.” She takes her place across from him, doubtful that he could do anything of the sort, vampire or not.

“It’ll be more of a skewer,” he wiggles his rapier for effect, “but I’ll make sure to keep that lovely head attached to your shoulders.”

Is that his version of a compliment? Ew. He probably only wants her living as a walking snack.

Maybe she liked him more when he spoke less—No, that’s not true.

“Arkay, will you call start, please?” Hircine asks as she takes up stance with legs wide, arms bent and greatsword held parallel to the ground.

It could be a bluff, but something in the way Astarion carries his shoulders and arms tells her that he knows what he’s doing. She won’t be going easy on him if she would like to win, especially when no one in their family is particularly skilled with the rapier so her experience against them is limited.

“Begin!” Arkay shouts from the sidelines. 

Neither Astarion nor Hircine make the first move, eyeing their opponent for a twitch of a muscle, looking for any spot that can be exploited. He’s an unknown variable, unfamiliar and unpredictable, and that could play out poorly for Hircine if she isn’t careful.

Their eyes meet, deep, fathomless red against pale lavender ringed with gold, and Astarion smirks, jabbing forward quickly and flicking his rapier to the side, instantly throwing Hircine off balance as she startles out of the way, failing to catch the edge of the rapier against her blade as it slides past her form. Skewer, indeed! He wastes no time advancing into her space, forcing Hircine onto the defensive as he pushes and prods her back in his assault, leaving no breathing room for her to retaliate at all.

Speed has never been something she lacked, and whether it's through his vampiric nature or Astarion is truly that talented, his overwhelming swiftness is formidable as she struggles to keep up.

A small opportunity presents itself finally when Astarion takes a step back, and Hircine seizes it, rushing towards him, ready for the upswing.

And he was expecting it, stabbing his rapier down into the front of her long dress, sticking her to the ground. She could easily swipe at him now, nick his arm so he drops the rapier, but Hircine is frozen with shock. “My-My dress…” 

“All's fair in love and war, darling. Playing dirty is how one survives.” He stays his hand while flashing a seductive grin.

Why is he so obsessed with survival? This is sparring, not war. 

Gritting her teeth, Hircine yanks her dress out of the rapier's hold, tearing the silk and stepping away from Astarion. They aren’t done yet. 

His eyebrow raises as he backs up, and they take up position again, starting their fierce dance anew. 

Hircine fails again and again to find any openings in his strikes, and she’s at the end of her rope, lungs burning for air and the grip on her sword loosening with each swing as the rough leather bites into her skin. 

She’ll have at least earned these blisters. 

A last ditch effort is given, Hircine lunges in one last time but misses Astarion completely when he evades easily out of her way, slapping the edge of his rapier onto her blade, carrying all of Hircine’s momentum down. She collides with the ground, the breath knocked from her chest, sword spinning out of her hand across the stone.

Arkay and Astarion are instantly by her side, each taking a hand to help her up. A warm liquid trickles down her chin, running her tongue along her lip reveals a sharp stinging pain and a gash where her teeth pierced the thin skin there. 

Astarion is searching her face, unclear of what to do with himself now. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

That was… “That was amazing! I’ve never fought like that before!” It’s always routine and expected, never deviating from the combination of moves they’ve learned. The dances are always the same, always so safe. Fine when coordination and symmetry are so important… but to truly fight against someone, to experience that exhilarating rush of not knowing what might happen next… Gods, I’ve been missing out.

Maybe this is what he means by survival. 

She’s glad she didn’t voice any of her doubts at his abilities. Her words have been eaten thrice over. “Can you teach us, Husband? I want to—”

“Hold on, Hirce, your nose is bleeding too. Astarion can teach you another time.” Arkay produces a cloth, dabbing at her face.

She recoils away from the discomfort, snatching the cloth from his hands and inspecting the rest of the damage. Her palms are burning and raw, knees are skinned and a hip aches from where she fell on it. It hurts—a lot, but that's all at the back of her mind as the adrenaline has yet to subside. “You’ll teach us won’t you?”

“I—Yes, of course, whenever you wish.” Astarion agrees while putting a hand on her back, urging her forward. “But why don’t we go home, get you cleaned up?”

She allows him to guide her back to their hall, supporting herself in his strong arms as she limps along. “Where did you learn how to fight like that?” 

There’s a long pause before he answers, jaw held tight when Hircine looks up to see why he hasn’t responded yet. “My father expects us to be well rounded in all facets of life.” He says tersely, ending the subject.

So, not a good experience then. Her father-in-law is a vampire that drinks from people regularly and might be on bad terms with his son. That wasn’t the image painted for her from Mal and Father’s reports.

And think of the pit fiend… 

The doors to the arena swing open as Mal enters, eyes growing wide when he stops in their path to take in Hircine’s bloodied, disheveled appearance. “Good gods…” He looks between them. “What happened?”

She expects derision and laughter from Mal, but he must be keeping himself in check with Astarion around. Maybe this isn't so bad.

“Mal, you missed it! Astarion is a gods damned menace with a rapier! I’ve never seen anything like it before! Hirce put up a good fight, don’t get me wrong,” Arkay pats her back with an excited smile, “but I think Astarion could run circles around any of us.”

“Is that so?” The eldest brother assesses her husband with an appreciative eye. “We’ll have to put that to the test soon, though I think you should continue on your way home… You’re leaving a mess everywhere.”

“Oh, sorry, I didn’t realize I was bleeding all over the place. Silly me!” Hircine snaps, shooing her brothers out of their way. “We’ll do more next time, Arkay.”

“Don’t worry about it, Mal is here now. Heal up, Hirce!” 

Head wounds always bleed the worst, luckily the nosebleed ends and her lip cut starts to clot as they return to Darkfire so there is not a trail of her blood leading home. Vaermina would be clawing at the door all night if she found it.

As Astarion fumbles to get the key in the door, Hircine sends for Lexi so she’ll be ready. ‘I’m in need of some healing, please. Don’t fight with my husband.’

Once inside, Lexi awaits them in the sitting room, an enraged scowl upon her face when she sees Astarion first and he extricates himself quickly from Hircine sides while Lexi moves on to Hircine. “Lady Hircine! I’m not going to live much longer if you keep getting hurt like this! My old heart can’t take it!”

“Tsk, you’re just past five hundred. I think your heart will beat for a few more centuries.” Of Hircine’s list of talents, consoling others does not make it high.

Astarion sputters from where he stands off to the side. “ Five hundred?”

Lexi shoots a glare his way, refusing to dignify that with an answer. Hircine sighs as the warmth of her healing magic washes over her skin, knitting her lip together good as new. “Yes. She looks great for her age, doesn’t she?”

“Hm.” Astarion shrugs apathetically. What a petty man. He’s asking for an incineration with that attitude.

“Thank you, Lexi. That is all.” Hircine pats her maids hand, sending her off.

When the youthful-looking sun elf passes Astarion, she points her fingers at her eyes, then towards Astarion threateningly. “I’m watching you, vampire.”

“I said: That is all.” Hircine repeats, irritation creeping into her voice. Gods, she can’t deal with these two warring within her walls as well. Lexi scampers off quickly, not interested in earning more of her ire. 

Heading to their room with Astarion hot on her heels, Hircine halts right when she steps inside, leading to Astarion bumping against her back at her quick stop. Blood is sticking to her skin, turning the silk of her dress stiff and itchy as it dries.

I should have asked Lexi to help me change…

She whirls around, looking up at her husband. “Can you undo my dress for me?” And remembering the thing called manners, tacks on a “Please.”

“Of course.” Astarion responds. Good, he owes it to her after beating her up—in a good way… Kind of.

Turning heel, she heads to her closet, pulling out one of her more comfortable night dresses and lays it across the screen. Hircine then turns her back to Astarion, waiting as patiently as she can for his help, fighting the urge to just tear the dress off. It’s so scratchy.

His fingers find the top button, undoing it swiftly before moving onto the next. “I apologize for knocking you over. I wasn’t intending to… hurt you.” He sounds uncomfortable, like it's him that landed on his face so ungracefully after having his arse handed to him over and over again.

“I know.” She says, and then recalls what he said earlier. “‘All’s fair in love and war,’ hmm?” 

“True,” he unloops the last button, gently pushing the sleeves down so he can rest his hands on her bare shoulders, the touch cool but not alarmingly cold, moving in so his lips are close to her ear as he speaks quietly. “And if I may be so bold, I would suggest more appropriate clothing for the occasion.”

Hmm, bold indeed.

Hircine twists her head around as he backs up from her with his fake-pleasant smile. “Noted.” Keeping a hand over the bust of her dress, she grabs her nightwear and heads to the bathroom. “Thank you for your help, Husband…” The bathroom door is slammed shut, separating them completely. 

His touch didn’t feel so bad. It was gentle and not too warm. She likes gentle.

Making bad assumptions is the mark of a living being, and Hircine must truly be alive with how often she gets things wrong. She holds her husband to unsaid, unfair standards and all for something that isn't his fault. 

What if he is just looking for his place in the planes, same as Hircine? Some place of safety and comfort? Maybe Astarion didn't want this marriage, but it was either brave the unknown with the chance of something better, or stay home, where happiness is a luxury little afforded—so she assumes.

Unfortunately for him, he got stuck with a family that exists to tear itself apart, but as long as they are in Darkfire, there is some sense of safety.

She peels the bloodied dress from her body, dropping it to the floor in a dirty heap along with her undergarments. A washcloth is wetted and scrubbed over her body, cleaning away the traces of their spar.

The list of things she knows about her husband is short:

Astarion and his father might have a strained relationship.

He knows how to wield a sword—rapier —deftly and with great purpose.

He is very much not a drow, a fact they will keep hidden at all costs.

A real, not from the storybook vampire that has some modicum of control over his bloodlust!

And a man, but that's only a problem because Mother has made it so.

A man and a woman really aren’t so different when put under scrutiny. Hircine knows her prejudices are borne from Mother’s twisted time under Lolth. She rebukes Mother whole-heartedly to the world, but then Hircine turns right around to perpetuate her hate in private.

And for what?

Because it’s easier to stand over someone else than have them stand over me.

The hate, while very real, should have been left behind with Vorn’tyrr. 

If Astarion is the man he presents himself to be, then there should be no problems between them, and if he's not… then Hircine will become the kind of woman Mother wants her to be.

 

ㅐ̵̡̛̭̦͈̤̺͉̲̰̜̞͍͎̋͐̓̎͗̇͋́͌̈́̐̈́ㅂ̸̨̨̥̤̥́͐̔̒̌̾̚͜텆̴̠̱̗̘͙̮̣̝͋́̈́̅̓̌͊͊̚니̵͙̗͇̩̠̹̭̻͙̼̉̈́̎̀̈́̎́̏̋͛̚͘̚ͅ

 

And Herma-Mora agrees with that sentiment apparently.

Newly cleansed and with fresh nightgown donned, Hircine steps out of the bathroom silently, finding Astarion already changed and tucked comfortably in bed, reading one of his books. 

Pulling the covers back, she takes her place on her bedside, lying face up to stare at the ceiling, failing to find any words. She settles for simplicity. “I had fun today.”

A page is flipped in his book, the rustle of parchment a now common sound when in bed. It's… soothing. “Me too.” Is his short response. 

“Good night,” Hircine whispers, rolling away onto her side, feeling her face burn with hideous embarrassment.

I get what I give.

Notes:

-i rolled to decide if Astarion would be able to let go of Hircine once he started sucking her blood. Homie rolled a nat 1 and hircine just barely passed the save to shove him off. These dummies are just courting death

Next up: Half-truths and opening up

Chapter 8: Drunk on a Rhythm

Notes:

Chapter inspiration (though it absolutely does not fit the vibe) - Drunk on a Rhythm by Gothic Tropic

Blood.

Her blood, rich, sharp and bursting with life.

No wonder Cazador hoards their victims for himself, instead throwing a putrid rat at his spawns to keep them ‘sated’ for another horrendous week. 

Really, it's all he thinks about now. The velvety mouthfeel as Hircine’s blood laid heavy upon his tongue, the taste lingering long after he finished the last drop… What a rush it was.

That one feast was it though. She hasn't offered and Astarion is worried about crossing a boundary—again. He certainly lost his mind in the consumption of her blood and to think she gave it up so easily! 

While Hircine, that little wife of his, is a strange one, their relationship has improved fractionally, even though he knocked her into the dirt, right on her pretty face.

Yet she got up, drenched in her ambrosial blood, begging him for another go. 

He really hadn’t meant to go so hard on her, she never even taunted him, but there was something in her eyes… like Astarion was beneath her. He didn’t like that look.

So, he endeavored to wipe that look off her face, and that he did. Luck was on his side that it didn’t end with Hircine in tears or screaming for him to be thrown out into daylight.

It’s been five nights since then and a new routine has settled between them. 

One question before she leaves for the mines and then one more is asked when they go to bed. It makes for awkward conversation because Hircine struggles to follow up with anything else once her question is answered. 

‘Husband, do you have a preferred weapon?’ — The bow. (A true answer for once!)

‘Have you been trained in swordsmanship since you were young?’ — Yes. (Not exactly true, but it might not be false either. He doesn’t remember.)

‘You were born outside of the Gate, right?’ — Yes. (Most likely a lie.)

‘How long did you work as a magistrate, Husband?’ — Oh, fifty-five years or so. (Absolutely a lie.)

They’re all relatively innocuous, and once she gets her answer, Hircine skips off to work or disappears into the bathroom after saying ‘I see.’ or ‘Oh.’

For someone that runs a business, her social skills are abysmal.

Or maybe he just isn't worth her limited time.

Fine, so be it, she’s showing interest now. That’s the most important part.

It was another day of rotting away in Darkfire Hall. Astarion still hasn't broken into the tower with Lexi’s random schedule, never knowing when she might appear to keep a hateful eye on him has hampered any further searching.  

Dagoth is rarely heard from and even less seen, so Astarion isn’t sure what the gnome does for the hall, but it's one less set of eyes on him during the nights he sits wasting more time.

Eleven more days til he must return home.

Eleven more days until the next punishment, surely. His stomach twists at knowing how much worse it will be when he fails for the second time.

The mid-night air is damp and warm after heavy rainfall passed through earlier in the day. He does not relish the mud squishing under his boots or the disgustingly pungent smell of horses as he heads toward the forest in search of a hearty meal.

Hircine’s work day must already be over, probably bee-lining straight for Kyne’s instead of coming home. Gods forbid she spend any time with her husband. Her interest can only go so far at the moment.

Is she actually working all day? It could be a lie fashioned up to avoid Astarion as much as possible, which would be perfectly fine if the rest of the residents hadn't completely disappeared in the last week the second Hircine went back to work. 

Even young Arkay has ceased skipping out on his tutors.

Astarion isn't allowed in anyone else's halls, literally because he can't enter them without an invitation and no one has called for him. He feels like a new toy that was brought in, only to be cast aside once the siblings found a new fascination, and he doesn't know how to keep them interested. For all their friendliness, they give Astarion nothing to work with.

The library—minus the family archives—has been scoured, every page turned, uncomfortably, I might add, since that wretched librarian is always breathing down Astarion’s thigh.

He can easily drain the bastard dry, but that's more trouble than it's worth.

Ugh, and gnome blood… No thanks. He shudders at the thought, even though he hasn’t even tasted it.

Maybe I will ask Hir—

 

THWACK

 

He freezes. Is someone… chopping wood?

Another thwack is heard to the west, echoing through the quiet woods. A servant, perhaps?

Heading silently in the direction of the noise, more thwack-ing rings out in quick succession, followed by giggles—or maniacal laughter, it's hard to tell the difference sometimes.

A woman, by the tone of voice, and whoever they are must be having an absolute riot chopping wood. 

On his approach, Astarion finds trees felled in his path, though not recent by the state of decay some of them are in. Does this woman do this often?

Swift movements across the forest floor are heard, the groaning of sticks, shifting of leaves and THWACK. Leaves rustle on whatever tree just took the brunt of that blow. 

His foot knocks into something firm—an empty wine bottle, covered in grime and partially buried in the mud.

So this is a very normal occurrence. 

There's some strained grunting and “You damned tree! Give. It. Back!”

Well, that's a voice he knows. A little funny he didn't recognize her by laughter since it's not a noise ever uttered in his presence. 

Hircine. 

What in the many layers of the hells is she doing out here?

Beyond some dense thickets that Asatrion currently hides behind, there’s a small clearing which must have been hollowed out by her tree cutting efforts. A dirty old crate sits off to the side filled with wine bottles, and one newly opened and very much empty bottle has been tossed to the side. 

His wife is in the process of tugging the sword she's grasping free from where it's embedded deep into the tree trunk. Her other hand holds a half filled bottle of Berduskan Dark. What a lush!

Pale gray cheeks are now flushed a rosy hue from her intoxication and a dopey grin lines her face even as mud and dirt is streaked across her dress and body. Her long locks of hair are entangled with small twigs and leaves, as if Hircine has been rolling around on the ground.

The sword is dislodged and she cutely giggles, bestowing on it a generous thanks of listening to her pleas. She spins around, lithe and… somewhat sure-footed as she dances within this small clearing sweeping her sword in smooth strokes.

If Hircine didn't want to be beaten so badly by him in sparring, she should learn to stop following her choreography. There's no element of surprise to it.

Astarion clears his throat, mind reeling at the sight. The uptight wife is more free-spirited than he thought.

An ear-piercing shriek is loosed from her mouth when she hears him as she stumbles back, tripping on her feet and falling onto her arse, and the sword is sent flying into the underbrush, point staked into the ground straight up.

She never let go of the wine though. Impressive.

“Are you… alright?” Astarion tentatively asks, stepping out from his hiding space. Even if the drow princess deserves to be left in the dirt, it doesn't mean that he can do that when he’s trying to build rapport with his wife.

All he needs is some information. 

Maybe she’ll be more pliable when drunk—everyone else is.

A hand reaches out in offering to pull Hircine up but she waves it away, flopping back completely onto the wet earth. “Have you come to—to gobble me up, Husband?” Her voice falters as if holding something back, and then she erupts into a fit of laughter that gets smothered by her hand, silencing the unusual sound. “No, you would have eaten me by now, right? I appreciate your control, vampire~!” She sings out that last word, holding a steady high note. 

His control? Oh. Did she mistake his literal inability to feed from her as control? He’s not going to correct her now if they’re in this deep.

“Your appreciation is… appreciated, darling. Eating you isn’t really to my tastes, so nothing to worry about there.” Astarion clears his throat, standing up straighter and taking in the damage to the trees. “So, are you the one that supplies all the firewood for the household?”

Just as quickly as it appeared, her jovial giddiness is gone, returning to that somber face of boredom and tiredness.

Taking a swig of her wine, Hircine sighs and rolls her eyes like a petulant child. “No. Don’t you ever just need to relax? I come here to dance and swing a sword and listen to stuff and think and-and, uh, that kind of stuff.”

A bit of everything then.  

“All by yourself?” He asks.

“Yes. Kyne doesn’t like it here. Says it's ‘spooky’ or whatever… How do you feel about it, Husband?”

He clarifies her questions. “About the woods?”

“Yes.”

“They’re just woods, nothing strange. I came out here for… a snack, you know.”

Propping herself up on her elbows, Hircine takes another long draw of wine then holds it out to him. “You wan’ some?” and then yanks the bottle back towards her chest. “Can you even taste wine? Do you get drunk? Is it just a waste for you to drink it?”

Rude. 

But she’s asking questions and Astarion would never discourage her budding curiosity. “Wine tastes better than most things. I don’t get drunk… or at least I’ve never really tried, and no, it’s not a waste. A vampire is allowed to indulge in the finer things in life, same as you, darling.”

“Huh,” she shrugs, taking a drink again and offers the wine back out to him. “Have at it then.”

He takes it, indulging in a sip. Berduskan Darks have a high alcohol content so he's ordered them often in the past for a target or two… or a few hundred. For him it does nothing. “Thank you.”

“What are you going to eat?”

The wine almost goes down wrong at her question. Composing himself with a small cough, Astarion stares down at her, her eerie eyes glowing up at him from the mossy forest floor. “Whatever I can get my hands on. I’m not picky.” He’s never had the chance to be.

“Do you have to eat right now?” Alcohol makes Hircine awfully chatty. He’ll remember that.

“No, it can wait…” 

“Then d’you wanna have a go?”

“A go at what, darling?”

She falls back, outstretching her arm to point to where the sword stands. “Taking a swing. It’s fun… I think.”

This isn’t necessarily a waste of his time, when any chance for Hircine to open up to him, confide in him, is time well spent. It’s just odd for a noble woman like her to dirty herself like this, but… what else do they do behind closed doors and all that. 

Astarion nods, “Show me your fun then.” Extending his hand once again, Hircine takes it this time and she is hoisted up easily.

Back on her feet, she sways around, heavily intoxicated. She’s no good to him passed out in the bushes, so Astarion downs the rest of the wine before tossing the bottle away.

Surprisingly, even with alcohol loosening her limbs, Hircine still manages grace in her movement as she dances her way to the sword, plucking it from the ground. “Watch,” she says, winding it up behind her.

With a twirl, she swings the blade around her and lodges it into a trunk that bears the mark of many of her attacks upon it. It doesn’t stick though and Hircine pulls the sword back again, going in for one more powerful slash. This time the sword embeds itself into the wood and she releases it so it holds parallel to the ground, Hircine backs away, gesturing for his turn.

“Do I have to spin around as well?” He asks as he dislodges the sword.

“It’s for flair, but you don’ have to.” Hircine flutters her hands for effect.

And sometimes a little flair is appealing. 

With an elegant bow, Astarion lowers himself to Hircine then turns his back to a thin tree that has been the subject of prior assaults. He holds the sword in line with his body, one deep breath in, one breath out.

Swiftly, Astarion spins around slashing diagonally down onto the tree, cleaving straight through it. The trunk creaks and groans before crashing to the ground, scattering leaves and detritus everywhere.

That had a little more ‘oomph’ than he had been anticipating. What if Hircine was attached to that tree? Or she becomes frightened over such a display of strength?

He risks a peek in her direction, finding his wife standing with her jaw agape, eyes wide with shock. 

And then she squeals, clapping her hands excitedly. “Eee! That was amazing! You cut clean through with that shitty blade!” Dancing to the severed trunk, Hircine runs the flat of her palm over the exposed rings. “Look at that, no splinters! You're so strong, Husband.”

Displays of strength she likes. Noted for later.

Astarion bows again with a simper. “I aim to please, darling.” 

She holds her hands back out for the sword, immediately taking some practice swings in imitation of Astarion. She hits another tree, same as him, but the blade only makes it an inch or so. Huffs of annoyance are heard as she tries again and again, ending up with the same result. She pouts, dropping the sword to the ground and crossing her arms. “How did you do it?” 

Now this is more typical. Throwing a fit when something doesn’t go their way is the true mark of a noble. 

“A man never tells.” He smirks. Leave some crumbs, give her something to follow.

Her eyes narrow in on him, inspecting his form. “It’s ‘cause you're a vampire.” She says it like he’s cheating at a game. The crumb trail is ignored.

“Maybe it is, or maybe I just know the secrets of the blade.” Hands are on his hips now, jutted to the side. 

Hircine regards him coolly before finding her way back to the wine crate, uncorking a bottle to sip from and settling down on the wet ground. “Well, if you ever want to share your secrets, I’m listening~” She sings.

“Right,” he toes the ground, surveying the area. Sharing his secrets is not the goal. A pivot is in order. “So, how was work?”

She scoffs, “Work. I’m tired of it.”

“Oh, and why is that?”

“I could leave an’ never look back tomorrow an’ it’d all be fine. They don't need me.” She swipes at her nose, smearing more dirt across her face. 

“Then why don't you free yourself from it all? You don't seem to like it that much.”

Her lip twitches, “Mother’s expectations are not something we can run from.”

Her mother? Astarion thought the matriarch a relatively kind person, if not a little quiet, easily deferring to her husband for matters of business. Perhaps Iimithra controls more behind the scenes, but that isn't all that uncommon in a household. 

“It's hard protecti—” She stops abruptly, as if remembering something. “It’s fine. Everything will be fine.” 

A lie, and a bold one at that.

Astarion won’t be sitting on the ground anytime soon. He takes to leaning against a tree that is free of slash marks, watching the blankness that plagues her features return to her face. “I’m all pointy ears here, wife. No reason to hold back.”

“Hmm, s’that so?” She drinks. “Are you gonna take that advice too?”

He goes very, very still. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“What are you looking for, Husband?” She thrusts the open end of the wine in his direction, spilling its contents all over the ground. “Going through all the drawers, moving papers around. I don’t understand it.”

If he was a warm blooded being, his blood would have turned to ice right at this moment. What can he even say that won't end with him getting kicked out? The milliseconds are ticking away as Astarion flounders, hoping any errant thought that flits by might be one that can be turned into the perfect lie.

But nothing comes. 

“Husband, why are you—”

Fuck it. Going down this route could be disastrous, yet it's all he has. “I don't know anything about you and our conversations have only gotten us so far, so I thought looking through your desk and papers would help, but they're all in undercommon… it was wrong and I-I should have just asked. I'm sorry, it was wrong of me and—I, uh, well, I'm sorry.”

That had to be the dumbest excuse anyone could ever come up with.

Hircine stares up at him, maybe a tinge of bewilderment coloring the blank slate of her face. No words offered in response, probably because she's thinking of the fastest way to get rid of him when he has the audacity to lie like that to her face. It doesn't even make sense. 

Digging through her belongings to find a scrap of personal information when the owner of said information is sitting one room away… Stupid.

Astarion, you obtuse idiot!

She breaks eye contact first to look at the ground, searching for something. 

How does he recover this? What will keep him in the house and away—

“I know,” Hircine finally says, interrupting his building panic, “I'm not easy to talk to.” Her words are somewhat slurred, but there's a strangled tightness to them, the kind that precedes a sob.

Great, so Astarion hurt the precious girl's feelings. 

Standing up quickly and unsteadily, Hircine brushes at the dirt on her clothes, not that it does nothing when she's so covered in it. “You can have the—I'm heading in.”

Before he can muster a response, she is gone in a rush, tripping over sticks, bushes and her own feet to get away from him.

Could that have gone worse?

No, probably not, and to think there might have been progress in their ‘relationship’...

Astarion will find his fill for the night and return with his head held high for what's to come when he returns to the hall.

Quickly digging into the crate she left behind, because maybe there is something he could stash away if he needs to make a rushed escape, he finds… nothing of use. Wine bottles, which could fetch a good price, are much too bulky to carry around, a cork extractor and the folding fan Hircine took with her this morning. Its silver detailing probably isn't worth the coin.

How funny that Astarion is even acting like there's a snowball's chance in Avernus that he could escape with any sort of ease right now. Cazador will find him and the punishment for not only failing this task so monumentally, but then running away on top of it would be… 

A shudder racks his body at the thought. 

He doesn't want to be buried again. 

There's not much else here from what he can see, just a place his wife seeks solace in to assault the natural flora after a hard day's work.

So the mother buries her children under her sky high expectations? Oddly relatable, though Astarion doubts they get the lash for not meeting them. Nothing motivates these people more than their parents 'disappointment’.

As he turns, his foot kicks something immovable—a pile of rocks. 

On further inspection, he finds crumbled cut granite or marble, something that tolerates the elements when left outside. At one point, it was definitely formed into some kind of structure.

A headstone, if Astarion had to guess. 

With a little effort, he's able to turn the chunks of stone over, discovering bits of writing that have definitely been worn away, by time or someone's hand, he can't say.

There's what he thinks is the death date of 147X , the last number illegible. 

Another rock turned over is clearly written in the common script, but the word itself, which leads him to believe its a name, says ‘ Vor—’ but no other matching pieces can be found. The syllable tickles something in his brain, though no connections are made. Maybe it'll come to him later.

He digs further into the thicket, pulling away tangles of vines and moss to reveal the base of the headstone where some of it still stands.

More mostly illegible writing at the bottom—again in common, thank the gods—that looks to say ‘ Bel—’ then there's a massive chunk missing, followed by another partial word of ‘—band’ .

‘Bel—’ ‘—band’

Maybe it's drow written in common script? Someone buried out randomly in the woods with little fanfare and no upkeep, could surely only be a servant or someone of low status that they have no intention of remembering.

Did Hircine know? 

‘Kyne doesn’t like it here. Says it's ‘spooky’ or whatever…’

She does.

Hircine was dancing on this grave.

---

Death and the destruction of his very being did not await him upon his return to Darkfire. 

Nothing happened, other than Hircine retching in the bathroom for an hour or so before shakily crawling into bed with a weak ‘goodnight’.

If she was so far gone as to vomit her insides out, then she might not actually remember what took place between them, and Astarion will keep it that way if it means his head stays attached to his shoulders. 

They were out of bed a little earlier than usual, though Hircine is dragging her feet both from her hangover and a reluctance to be at this dinner from the small comments she's made. The great Enver Gortash and his entourage will be dining with the family tonight for some type of business matter, and Hircine does not like the man, for one reason or another.

Attendance for spouses is not required or expected, at least to the family, but Astarion has a vile vampire lord to appease, so he will dine with utmost fervor tonight.

Unless there's garlic, that will put a damper on the evening. 

Lexi currently helps their mistress prepare for the meal with makeup and clothes and an obscene amount of soothing words as Hircine complains the entire time like the spoiled rich girl she is. 

Astarion might avoid getting her drunk going forward if this is how she is as the alcohol flees her system. 

He's stared at the same page of his book for at least the past twenty minutes listening to the whining beyond the privacy screen, hoping that in her sickness Hircine might let slip some information that could be useful, but so far, nothing. 

Enver Gortash makes her skin crawl apparently. No explicit reason stated yet, just that he does and the people around him are always strange. 

Having never met the man up close and personal, Astarion cannot corroborate those statements. Cazador never felt any particular way about Gortash outside of being kept around for information, his master's scrutinizing attention pointed towards the Zau’viirs more often than not in past years. 

They have what he wants, Gortash does not. Simple as. 

“—look for it now. I'll be but a moment, Lady Hircine.” And swift as ever, Lexi departs like a tempest tearing through the city.

“Wait—! But, Lexi, I don’t—!” Hircine's cries fall on deaf ears as the maid disappears. “It’s only my dress left…” She whines quietly. 

Her pale fingers are wrapped around the edge of the privacy screen and with a huff, are removed as she disappears again.

Astarion shuts his book, chewing on the inside of his cheek in thought. It's an opportunity and he needs to take these, no matter how much he doesn't want to. “Would you like some help, darling?”

There's a long, unpleasant stretch of silence before Hircine agrees. “That would be appreciated…”

Getting up from his spot on the couch, Astarion finds Hircine behind the screen still wearing one of her flowy nightdresses that she favors greatly, untangling a strappy bundle of fabric in frustration. 

“I don't even like these dresses but Lexi keeps filling my closet with them. They can't be put on or taken off on my own! Who wants that?!”

He could suggest that she just pick out her own clothes, but he'd rather not be on the receiving end of her anger right now. Holding a hand out, he asks, “Give it here. I'll take care of it.”

She slaps the maroon dress into his awaiting hand, crossing her arms over her chest with a scowl before swallowing loudly. “...Thank you.” 

“Anytime,” he says as he begins the arduous task of untangling her mess, feeling a strange sense of recognition at his situation. 

They've already been through this song and dance with her hair.

While he works dutifully to unweave the strings of the corseted back from the sleeves, which Astarion cannot begin to fathom how it ended up like that in the first place, Hircine takes off her nightdress.

He tries not to look, to be respectful, but they are married, and he's seen hundreds, if not thousands of naked bodies, so one more on the ledger is inconsequential. 

Though truthfully, he hasn't lain with many drow. They are either the insane Lolth-Sworn kind that want to kill him for being a man and a surface elf, or they're a little too uptight to fuck a lowly prostitute like him because drow, regardless of where they were raised, tend to hold themselves in high regard over everyone else.

Must be nice to have the privilege of pickiness. 

Whether because Astarion is her husband or he's so beneath her that he barely ranks above the servants in her mind, Hircine doesn't think twice in stripping down before him, undoing the ties down the front before shoving the dress off her shoulders to the ground. 

Begrudgingly, he admits that her breasts are very, very nice. Perfect, even. Just to his taste. Round, sloping down to the slightest upturn, and soft with quite a bit of weight to them, something he can sink his fingers—and teeth—into.

Where has she been hiding them? Are her dresses tailored so perfectly to not pull attention to her chest?

What really draws his eyes are the areolas, slightly puffy and pure white against her light gray skin. He knows that's not typical of drow, sometimes they're pink or purple, or even black, but never bright white. 

Stendarr did imply Hircine and a few other members of the family were of unusual coloring for drow, so that must be why. 

And what of her lips then since she is always wearing lipstick?

“Are they the same color?” He blurts out, unthinking.

Gods below, what the hells is wrong with me? I go a month without seeing a naked body and my brain just stops working.

Hircine’s head tilts to the side, eyes narrowing in confusion, “Hm? Color?”

“Th-The color of my clothes! Should—Do we need to match?” He stammers out, trying to hide his blunder.

“No. Wear whatever you'd like.” She shrugs and he really can't help how his sight is drawn back down to the way her breasts rise and fall with the movement, settling back into place with a slight jiggle. 

How would they taste? He can imagine the feel of his tongue running over one, that smooth skin indenting with the lightest pressure, her nipples pebbling under his touch.

How would they look when she's on her back being fucked senseless? 

Or on her hands and knees while he takes her from behind…

Is he really thinking about this, right now?

Her arm raises up, pressing over her chest but if he's honest, the look is more obscene seeing the way her tits squish under the pressure and—

She knows he is… ogling. 

Astarion meets her eyes, finding her face flushed and well, he doesn't know, embarrassed or maybe disturbed? 

Shit. Is this better or worse than being caught about to sink his fangs into her neck?

Hircine’s wide eyes dart away and she bites her lip. “I'm sorry, I was comfortable and not thinking at all and—”

She is apologizing? Good gods, Tymora is on his side today. “Nothing wrong with baring yourself in your own home. I apologize for… staring, it was—”

“It's fine. I know they're strange, I understand. I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable.”

Strange is not a word he'd use to describe her tits, maybe about Hircine herself, sure, but…

This is just the thing he has been looking for. 

There's nothing better for him than a woman with low self-esteem. A few compliments and she will turn to nothing but putty in his dexterous hands.

Painting on his most sultry smile, Astarion leans in, voice smoother than the imported silk he holds in his hands. “Darling, I hate to be crude in your presence, but I wasn't staring out of, er—disgust. Admiration, though, yes. They're a lovely pair and anyone with a lick of taste would be hard pressed to tear their eyes away. I apologize if I made you uncomfortable, not everyone wants to be gawked at.”

“Lovely? Really?” There's a sincerity to her tone that plants the smallest seed of guilt within his conscience at his manipulations. 

Astarion squashes that guilt, his safety and freedom comes first. “Of course. Why would you think otherwise?”

Hircine pales, “I was just told that, uhm—”

“Lady Hircine, I'm back with—” Great, Lexi has returned. The maid is by his side in an instant, snatching the tangled dress from his hands. “What do you think you're doing?”

That’s his que. Astarion backs away with hands up. “Helping.”

The maid doesn't like that answer. “Tch, helping? What do—”

“Lexi, enough.” Hircine snaps. 

It takes all of his power to not titter at the sight. Three times now his wife has defended him against her most devoted maid, and each time she has bowed her head.

His plan—which is extremely simple and boils down to ‘Escape with help!’—might be coming to fruition if Hircine continues along this path.

He sends his thanks to whoever tore his wife’s confidence down before he got to her. The effort to sculpt her into exactly what Astarion needs will be much smoother than originally anticipated from their efforts. 

It doesn’t take long for Hircine to be dressed, and they have another thirty minutes or so until they are required downstairs. Astarion changes into more formal wear, a nice midnight blue jacket embroidered with silver, paired with fitted black pants. 

Lexi has left for good this time, thank the gods. He can’t take more of her monitoring. 

Back on the couch, Astarion adjusts the cuffs on his jacket when Hircine approaches, displaying two opened fans in front of him. “Uhm, which one should I use?”

She wants his opinion. 

He'll pick one with care then if she's trusting him. 

Taking the fans from Hircine, Astarion inspects the left one first. It's a more simple design with silver guards, wooden frame dyed a deep maroon with a lighter shade of maroon coloring the silk folds. 

The other fan has pink lacing over the maroon base with scalloped edges, silver guards and sharpened end caps that look like they could deal some damage if wielded properly. 

Her maroon, slim fit dress is more elaborate with light pink piping over the sides and back paired with pink embroidery covering the bust—her clothes really do minimize her chest, a shame.

Astarion hands back the simpler fan, “I think this one will do nicely, darling.”

“...Thank you.” Hircine says as she retrieves them and puts the rejected one away, coming back smelling of spices to take a seat on the opposite side of the couch.

Other than their bed, she never chooses to sit on the same furniture as him. Good gods, did getting drunk rewire her brain?

He won't let the awkward silence return when she's feeling comfortable, and if Hircine believes she's hard to talk to, then he needs to show her that it just isn't true. “You’re always in some shade of maroon. Do you like the color that much?”

Her eyes slide to where the closet is beyond the privacy screen, then back to him. “Mother likes us to be easily identifiable…” and she must realize that's a strange thing to say, as Hircine adds on some more. “Like a signature, something that is ours only.”

That explains why they always wear some variant of the same color then.

Mal is green, Stendarr yellow, Kyne orange and Arkay wears blue.

“So, you chose maroon then?”

“No.”

Commanded to wear the same color by her mother. Weird. 

He changes the topic since she isn't interested in elaborating. “Who will be joining us for dinner?”

She sighs dramatically as if remembering the dinner ruined her night, using her fan to count on her fingers, “Father, Mother, Mal, er, Stendarr…” There's a brief hesitation as Hircine thinks. “Uhm, Stendarr isn't feeling well, we won't see him. You and me, then Gortash and whatever rotating gallery of characters he brings. They're rarely the same.”

Astarion is the only spouse in attendance then. Hircine did say, multiple times, that he isn't expected to go, whether because she doesn't want him there or not, who knows. 

He has a master to—

“Have you—” She starts to say at a normal volume before dropping to a whisper. “Do you need to, uhm, feed… again, soon?”

All his attention is on her now. “Are you offering, darling?”

She fidgets, unsure of her next words. “Well, I just—It’s been a while, and I know you get your… meals elsewhere sometimes. If you're fine, then that's… fine but I can help… too.”

How thick should he lay it on? 

Astarion leans in and Hircine leans back by the same increment, so maybe not too much. He’s surprised she came to him first, honestly. “If you wouldn’t mind, feeding from you would be much more preferable. It's more filling, you see and then I wouldn't have to worry about going outside, getting caught, ending the night with a stake through my heart, that kind of thing.”

“Oh,” she says.

Alright, it was much too thick.

“What about… every two days then? I don't know what's appropriate.”

His jaw drops faster than he can stop it, and Astarion coughs to collect himself. “Every two days?!”

Hircine stutters. “I-Is that n-not enough?”

Not enough? He'll be nearly as well fed as Cazador is if he drinks from Hircine so often. Does she even have that much blood to give? Hells, what does it matter? The maid can heal her.

“No, darling, it's perfect as long as you're alright with it.” It's hard hiding his smile. What luck! 

“After dinner then,” she says as she stands, preparing to leave. 

Dinner and dessert? What a treat.

Notes:

-some people do face claims for their characters… Hircine has a tit claim. Emily Ratajkowski is the claim (that Gone Girl scene ☠️☠️☠️☠️) Thanks for coming to my tit-talk and thank you to the friends I've subjected my newest fascination to.
-i am a big enjoyer of a nasty, manipulative Astarion, so he's out in full force rn. He will learn... eventually, when i decide i need more softness 😅

Next up: Tonight, they feast

I'm gonna take like a 3 week break on this as life is... disagreeable right now and my creativity has tanked, I think a lot of people are in the same boat. In the meantime, I'll be posting a body swap fic between Astarion and Hircine that is very chaotic. It's a 3 part-er, and first part should be out sometime next week. Consider it an AU to this AU because it's set much further down the line lol

Please take care of yourselves 💕

Chapter 9: A Feast For All

As always, they descend the stairs arm in arm, though Hircine clings unusually tight to his tonight, almost fully hidden behind Astarion like his sullen shadow.

To think he's already gotten this far without sleeping with her. It's a new and welcome experience, even if they aren't progressing as fast as he'd like. 

Freedom doesn't come easily, or quickly if his almost two hundred years of unwilling servitude are anything to go by. Patience is key. 

Waiting on her own by the dining room doors is the matriarch, Iimithra, wearing a floor-length purple dress with embroidery that looks suspiciously like webbing. Is it because her most formative years were spent in Menzoberranzan that the spider motifs haven't been completely shaken from her? 

On their approach, Iimithra does not acknowledge them at all, not even a head nod nor a glance of her eyes is thrown their way. Perhaps like her daughter, she is not looking forward to this meal with Gortash.

Hircine tugs on his arm lightly so they stop before releasing him, “I'll be right back.” She says as she steps away to do whatever it is she's doing. 

Great. Left to the wolves. Iimithra still hasn't moved and there's no one else around yet. Is the most polite option to greet his mother-in-law or should Astarion keep his mouth shut?

He doesn't want to be accused of having no manners, and if word like that got back to Cazador, oh there would be hells to pay.

She absolutely heard their arrival, but just in case, Astarion makes sure his steps are loud on the marble floor. Clearing his throat, he speaks. “Good evening, Iimithra, I hope yo—”

His greeting is cut short when a hand latches onto his jacket and wrenches him backwards. It's Hircine, dragging him along by the scruff until they are at least ten feet away from her mother. Her voice is an urgent, stern whisper, “Never speak to Mother unless spoken to first.” Her eyes are wide and fearful as they dart between his face and where the matriarch stands.

What in the hells is going on? It hasn't escaped Astarion's notice that the family does not spend much time together outside of their meals. After that sparring session, they've all but disappeared from the common areas, never to be seen even when he wanders the halls. 

The image of the tight-knit, joyful family is unraveling before his very eyes.

With a nod, Astarion takes note to avoid Iimithra going forward. Who else is off-limits? 

As if those thoughts were projected out into the open, Mal strides into the area, closed off and keeping a distance. He also offers no acknowledgment to his sister and her husband, and Astarion does not miss the wide berth the eldest son gives to his mother.

So, they’re all just fucking weird and the first week was some kind of show they put on to make him feel welcome? 

Should he be thankful then that Hircine started off cold and disinterested since it doesn't feel like the rug has been pulled out from under him?

“Hircine,” Iimithra calls.

His wife stiffens and her breathing grows shallow. She shoves her folding fan into Astarion's hand before walking over to her mother, head held high but there's no mistaking the tense set to her shoulders. 

The shorter Iimithra winds a finger around the strands of hair that frame Hircine's face. At a glance, anyone would assume this is the painting perfect image of a mother doting on her pretty daughter, and from this distance, most could not hear the matriarch's hushed whispers or see the way her finger threatens to rip out the hair from the root, but Astarion can.

This is anything but loving.

“Ussta olath silinrul, if you are difficult tonight, know that I will not wait for L'Alure d'Ulnen to set you straight. I don't like the man either, but this is how it must be. Do you understand?” A threat. 

And one Hircine takes seriously. “Yes, Ilhar.”

Astarion does not know what any of those drow words mean so he commits the sounds to memory to look them up later. Risking a glance to Mal, he finds his brother-in-law watching his mother and sister’s interaction with a ghost of a lop-sided smirk on his face, though his gray eyes flash to Astarion, the look wiping off his face as he turns away.

It’s not even been ten minutes and Astarion is already exhausted by the chaos of this family. What is wrong with all of them?

Hircine and Iimithra switch fully to speaking drow so his hopes of catching anything else juicy are dashed. The guests should be here soon, Astarion isn’t sure how much more of this experience he can take, so he fans himself, letting the spiced air clear his mind.

It feels like an eternity passes before voices and footsteps reach their ears, echoing along the marble flooring. Hircine is back by his side in an instant, entwining their arms once again and taking the fan from him, no emotion on her face to reveal how she’s feeling. 

This dinner is going to be miserable. 

Barlyn enters first, wearing his most pleasant, mild-mannered smile as he leads the guests towards them. Enver Gortash is instantly recognizable by the messy mop of dark hair on his head unstyled as usual. If Astarion had to guess, he’d place the human in his late thirties or early forties. He’s not bad looking, but something about him just oozes sleaziness. It's a wonder how he and Cazador aren’t joined at the hip. 

Right beside him is a statuesque dragonborn with dazzling white scales overlaid on top of deep, red skin, like blood running between the cracks of shattered porcelain. His eyes glow with an amber radiance, and the slitted pupils rove around the hallway as if he were searching for something. Eventually his eyes settle on Astarion, narrowing in their quick, intrigued assessment before moving onto his wife.

There are some gnomes and a human, probably the brains behind Gortash’s fancy automation machines, and a very tall tiefling woman with scorched carmine skin, fiery eyes and shaggy black hair, who bounces on the balls of her feet, never ceasing her movement that just feels loud. 

Stopping a few feet before them, Barlyn introduces the group, now backlit in a moody aura by the wall sconces. Gortash is already known to everyone, the sharp-eyed dragonborn is named Dirge, the workers aren’t worth Astarion’s precious memory space and the vibrant, young tiefling is named Karlach, she’s Gortash’s bodyguard.

What? Is the good sir afraid of a few drow?

Based on the chilly reception between the family, maybe he should be.

Dirge moves forward and Astarion is assaulted by the scent of death and decay, so similar to the kennels, as the dragonborn reaches for his wife’s hand, grinning with razor sharp teeth when he brings it to his… snout, planting a quick peck on the back of it and—

A purple tongue snakes out of his mouth, licking a stripe up to Hircine’s wrist before he pulls away. “Beautiful…” He says in a deep, baritone voice. 

Did this rank fucking lizard just lick Astarion’s wife right in front of him? He doesn’t even like her, but who does that? The full body shiver that wracks Hircine’s slim frame vibrates through Astarion’s arm and she jerks her hand away, tucking herself further into his side. 

“What perfect specimens you both are.” The dragonborn purrs before moving on to greet Mal and Iimithra, that gruesome scent lingering much too long. If anyone else can scent his vile perfume, they aren't showing it.

Hircine and Astarion both share a startled glance before Karlach bounds up to them giddily, jabbing her thumb the way of Dirge, speaking ‘quietly’ but it’s really more an inside voice. “Don’t worry about Dirge, he can be a bit strange but he means well. I’m Karlach!” She shakes their hands with immense strength that pulls them both forward. “I look after Sir Gortash, ya’know. Can’t let anyone near ‘im!”

Astarion cannot tell how old she is, but if he’d hazard a guess, the tiefling probably isn’t even twenty yet and with the energy to show for it. 

Would he rather the wife-tasting lizard or the boisterous tiefling?

Neither sound to his tastes. 

All Astarion needs tonight is a name, a person, anything that can be passed on to Cazador.

Inside the dining room, they take their seats, with him following Hircine’s lead since she’s been to these events many times. The dragonborn sits across from Astarion, clearly keeping a keen eye on Hircine, and Karlach is seated diagonally across from Hircine after many an insistence from Iimithra that she join them, because this is a home and all are welcome here.

So she ices everyone out, threatens to tear her daughter’s hair straight from her skull all before dinner but then lets a bodyguard sit at the table. What whiplash.

Appetizers are brought out while chatter fills the room, Astarion keeps an ear out for the conversation between Gortash, Barlyn and Mal, but so far they are just sharing their condolences over the passing of the late grand duke, Abdel Adrian. Fake platitudes, it was a year ago, no need to keep bringing it up. Iimithra is quiet, nodding along politely with their dialogue but never offering up anymore than an ‘Oh, my!’

There is definitely garlic in these tarts. Can Astarion avoid them or does he need to dutifully play his part?

Hircine decides for him it seems, scooping it off of his plate when no one is looking—or so she thinks.

“Is it not to your tastes?” Dirge asks, a knowing smile playing on his lips.

“He doesn’t like goat cheese.” Hircine responds stiffly.

Karlach gushes excitedly, clapping her hands over her cheeks. “My mum used to do the same for my dad. He hated horseradish! How long have ya’ been married?”

Astarion cracks an awkward smile when Hircine fails to follow up quickly, there's no use in lying with the family in attendance. “Less than a month.” And much too long for people that don’t want to be married to each other.

“Wow, and you’re already taking care of him like it's been years, Lady Hircine, it really fated, huh?” Karlach’s voice booms across the table, clearly flustering Hicine with her words when she flushes a pretty pink that leaves Astarion salivating. 

Later can't come soon enough.

“Uhm, yes. We are very lucky.” His wife responds in her typical neutral, uninterested tone. She could at least try to put some more emotion behind her lies if she wants them to be a shred believable.

The dragonborn places his elbow on the table, resting his chin in his hand. “So, what brought you two together?” Fierce eyes flitting between the two of them, not missing any of their movements.

They're caught in a game of cat and mouse—or is it lizard and bug?

How is Astarion supposed to listen to Gortash and the others if this weird man and tiefling want to force them into conversation? And he and Hircine have never discussed what to say to people about their relationship.

Though Hircine might already be well versed in these types of questions as she sets her fork down primly, taking a sip of water before speaking. “Our marriage was arranged, so it’s probably not the fairytale beginning you are thinking of. It is what it is, but I think we’ve made do rather well, don’t you think?” Her eyes flick up to him, searching for Astarion’s agreement.

Vague is certainly best. He follows Hircine’s que, staring into her eyes to really sell this charade. “I’d say so, darling. It’s been a learning experience so far, but I’m fortunate to spend it with such a lovely woman.” 

Hircine freezes, the blush on her cheeks further deepening to a tantalizing shade of plum. All that blood… Is she that easily swayed by such kind words? Now that is sad. 

“Aweee! Gods, maybe it didn’t start all fairytale but it certainly turned into one!” Karlach cries, shooting hearts from her eyes at the couple like they’re the cutest thing she’s ever seen. 

“But maybe be wary of the dragon that might steal the princess away. That would be a terrible end to such a sweet story.” Dirge says, chuckling to himself. 

Is he really insinuating that he’s going to steal Astarion’s wife? That’s in poor taste. Hircine agrees, physically that is, as she shrinks under the dragonborn’s vibrant gaze. Presented with a new opportunity, and all thanks to this obnoxious dragonborn, Astarion puts his arm around the back of Hircine’s chair for comfort, sure to brush his fingers along her shoulder briefly. She reacts instantly, leaning closer to him.

Astarion’s read her all wrong up till now, hasn’t he?

Space is what he assumed Hircine wanted—needed when they’ve been thrust together like this, but every time he has pushed her boundaries in some capacity, she turned to him more. 

He never should have listened to Cazador, that bastard knows only how to command minds, not twist hearts. 

Now, if only someone could spill a few crucial details that are of use to Cazador, then Astarion will be much better off than he was a week ago. 

Glancing around the rest of the room while tuning back into Gortash's monologue on the benefits of automation in the workplace, Astarion finds nothing of interest, not even a spider hanging from the ceiling. 

Multiple courses are brought out, and he eats the best he can when there isn't garlic… and when there is, well, he'll expel it later. Hircine can only take so much food from his plate when the dragonborn is there, eyeing them up as if they are his next feast.

What is his problem? He can lust after Hircine all he wants, she's a married woman at the end of the night, but his lecherous gaze doesn't stop at Hircine. The piercing eyes linger on Astarion for far too long in some moments, drinking in the way Astarion's fork is brought to his mouth with Dirge smiling to himself like it's all some kind of joke. 

Automation, machinery, upkeep of said machinery, how such a change would affect their workers and cash flow issues are droned on about until his ears are ringing. If he hears the words ‘operational efficiency’ ever again, Astarion will slit the throat of whoever utters them.

Dessert is brought out, giving Astarion some mercy from forcefully consuming more garlic and from their nonsensical workplace jargon. 

Gortash leans back in his chair, a calculating glint to his eyes. “How is Raphael these days, Barlyn?”

A chill settles in the air as all three of Astarion’s in-laws stop eating, each frozen in time either with mouth open about to spoon some dessert in or mid-chew.

Iimithra sets her spoon aside with a harsh clack against her bowl. Her response is barely concealed contempt. “I didn't know you were acquainted with Raphael.”

Raphael. That’s an easy enough name to remember.

Bringing his hands together above his lap, golden gauntlets glittering in the candlelight, Gortash directs his attention to the matriarch. "Oh, yes. Raphael and I… had a working relationship in the past. We lost touch for a while."

"And what? Are you looking for a reintroduction?" Iimithra asks, an eyebrow quirked with a scowl made to rend flesh from bone.

“A little mouse told me some… intriguing relics have found their way into his hands, and I know Barlyn here is a collector of ‘intriguing’. Has anything new entered your collection?” Gortash says, more smarm than charm. 

A look flashes between the Zau’viirs before Barlyn fixes Gortash with a smile meant for peace-keeping. “As of recent, no, I haven’t added any new items to my, er, hoard, as Iim calls it. Of course, if you are looking for a tour, I can surely take you—”

“Oh, that won’t be necessary. This dinner has been enlightening and I hope for more to come, maybe with all our associates in attendance.”

And that is their cue to end.

Everyone stands with Astarion quickly following. Whatever about this Raphael person irked Iimithra before is hidden away into the recesses of her kind facade as she gestures to a set of double doors that lead outside. “We would love to show you around our gardens before sending you off. It's good for digestion and the night blooms should be opening for the first time now.”

Gortash agrees and the group gives their regards, though not before the lecherous Dirge sloughs off Astarion and Hircine’s skin with his gaze. Astarion cuts off the dragonborn's line of sight from Hircine with a carefully angled body. He's shrugged off hundreds, if not thousands of looks like that, but his wife? No, she's clearly unused to this kind of attention.

He'll spare her the suffering as a good husband should.

Hells, are all the dinners like this? Astarion will take a million more dinners with Hircine in silence than go through this again. 

Iimithra remains behind, shutting the doors when the rest file through. She turns around to face them, her head held high, lavender eyes flicking to Astarion with a firm command. “Wait outside the door.”

“But—” The second the word leaves Hircine’s lips, the matriarch's attention shifts to his wife, silencing her immediately. Hircine bumps Astarion with her elbow, encouraging him to leave. 

He won't argue. Leaving the room back where they came from, Astarion shuts the door behind him, pressing his ear against it without hesitation to hear whatever is happening beyond. 

Nothing.

Either they're talking so quietly that he can't hear—doubtful, or the room is magically silenced so whatever is inside cannot be heard outside. That's more plausible when this dining room is used for business matters. 

An uncomfortable chill seeps into his skin, and when Astarion turns around, he sees the lights in the hallway have been snuffed completely. He knows they were lit when they first arrived. 

So similar to that night after his wedding when he checked outside of Darkfire hall; that icy coldness so unusual for this time of year. Summer is in full force, there's no chance of a home being this cold without magical assistance. 

There's none of that impenetrable darkness along with it since Astarion can see to the end with his dark vision unobscured. Something is unnatural about it regardless, every fiber of his being screaming that it should not be like this.

But what can he do? Iimithra's words go here it seems and to incur the wrath of another master is not in his best interest.

Pacing and thinking of his next steps will be how he passes the time—quickly, preferably. 

He has the name of some mystery person now, Raphael, an old 'friend' of Gortash. Maybe later tonight when Hircine offers up her blood, her lips might loosen as well so he can glean more. 

Soon, she’d promised, he could also join her in the mines. Looking over business contracts will have to give him some information to work with. There is no one in the material planes that is perfect at keeping all their information locked down.

“Three…” A whispering voice calls, distinctly feminine, if not childlike. 

Astarion halts his anxious pacing, staring down the empty corridor. “Is someone there?” He asks back, making sure he sounds confident and haughty. The servants won't be pulling one over on him by playing these types of games. 

No response comes. Astarion was told to wait by the door, he won't be caught disobeying. 

Adjusting the sleeves of the shirt and collar, he backs up to the door, wary of the noise but simultaneously chalking it up to the manor settling or as a prank. There's enough weird happenings as it is, Astarion doesn't need this devilshite too.

Hateful maids, irate family members, silent wife, what's next? He comes from a den of vampires. These freaks can't hurt him.

A giggle, unmistakable in the silent manor, rings out from a distance, high-pitched and girlish, almost familiar like Hircine’s from that night in the woods, but this laugh has a tinge of… pure insanity.

It reminds him of Violet. 

There's a clicking, no, a chittering from something beyond, in a place he cannot see, as if the skeletal Godey is clacking his jaw together far off. Astarion has no idea what that could be.

Suddenly, it stops and the harsh silence resumes. 

Could it be Arkay? Kyne? 

Does he go back into the dining room, risk the anger of Iimithra to avoid whatever is going on? 

No, it's fine. As irritable and two-faced as the whole family has been, this is their home. Nothing will happen to Astarion here. He stands straight and tall, awaiting their next tricks. 

Something, by the sound it's a glass ball of some kind, comes rolling haphazardly along the ground towards Astarion. While it looks like a perfect sphere, there are clearly some malformations by the way it jumps along its path, the quiet clatter of it a harbinger of strangeness. He doesn't know how it just came around the corner unguided, but the small marble bumps into his foot, settling in place, waiting. 

Again, no one is there from what he can see or hear, not even a heartbeat or more laughter to accompany this bead. Astarion stoops down to pick it up, keeping the hallway in his gaze so not a thing—or person—slips past his notice. 

The orb is polished smooth, so if the lamps were still lit, it would probably reflect every surface. Turning it over in his hand Astarion comes face-to-face with an… eye. The iris stares up at him, never to blink again—if it were real. For a glass eye, it's quite impressive, but they'll need to try harder if they want to scare him. As far as pranks go, this is all very tame. 

He looks up just as the soft padding of bare feet on the smooth floor reaches his ears. A woman is now right in front of Astarion, face split by a wickedly gleeful grin with hands clasped together, pressed against a cheek. It's hard to tell coloring in the dark, but looks wise, she's obviously a Zau'viir.

Long, dark hair that must be some shade of gray, the same straight nose that his wife has, and eyes that he imagines to be lavender or steely gray.

“Oh, Three, look at how perfect and lovely you are! We've wanted you so much!” She squeals in delight. 

Astarion has never met this woman before. The crazy ones are hard to forget. 

Curiously, Astarion’s eyes are drawn down, though not for any lascivious intent. Resting along this woman's collarbones is a thin chain necklace threaded through three glass eyes that look disturbingly lifelike and polished exactly the same as the one he now holds—which he pockets swiftly before she might take it back. The rest of her clothing is simple, a floor length dress, not all that dissimilar to the kind Hircine wears, but definitely less well kept, and no shoes, as is the Zau’viir norm for the daughters.

His gaze does not go unnoticed. The woman's fingers graze along the necklace, rotating one eye around. “Beautiful, aren't they, Three? Just like yours…” She reaches out for Astarion’s face. “Oh, we want to—”

He jerks back, finding nowhere to go when he's already pressed up against the door. “Who are you?” He asks.

She squeals excitedly, “Oh, you sound so perfect, perfect, perfect, Three! For such a being as you, we'll allow you to call us Mina. Please, say it!”

Astarion thought he had escaped the lecherous touches, finally being married to a statue, but apparently that doesn't protect him from this weirdo, or maybe she never got the memo. Mina grabs his arm, pulling Astarion forward with surprising strength for her small stature to get within centimeters of his face, hot breath wafting across his face. “Say it.”

And what happens if he refuses? 

What did being quiet get Astarion? Nothing. He doesn't need to suffer this Mina woman lying down.

Snatching his arm back from her grasp, he slides away from where she's pinned him against the door. “A pleasure to meet you… Mina.” 

She bounces on her feet like a child. “Oh my, the queen has blessed us on this day. Three, we’ve been waiting so long to see you again. We can’t thank you enough for letting us in!” If she notices how Astarion slides further away from her, no words are said about it, even with how intently she drinks every bit of him in.

Let her in where? And why does Mina keep calling him ‘Three’? “I don’t know what you mean, my lady. Whenever did we meet? I’d surely remember such a… pretty face like yours.” 

The blatant adoration in her gaze as she looks up at Astarion is frightening. Attempts to shake her off will be met with force no doubt. Too bad he can’t throw this weirdo Cazador’s way. “Oh, Three, aren’t you so perfect?!” Mina lunges forward, taking fistfuls of his jacket and locking Astarion in place—unless he wants to get physical. “We could just eat you right up,” she wets her lips, inhaling him deeply, “right to the bone.”

Deranged just the way Violet is. Gods, they would get along. 

Hah! Not really. Violet can’t get along with anyone except for her precious master.

Astarion places his hands on hers, attempting to pry her off gently. “I don’t think we need to do that, darling. Nicknames are nice and all, but my name is—”

But Mina shakes him roughly, a snarl curling her lips. “We don’t want a man’s name!” 

Venomous without provocation… 

The venom disappears quickly when Mina changes tune again, the fervent adoration back. “Oh, when the L'Alure d'Ulnen is here, we will have you. What a magnificent hunt it shall be!” Those words again… and a hunt? That doesn't bode well.

Just as suddenly, Mina releases Astarion, wide eyes flicking to the door. 

Oh, thank the gods. They must be coming out.

He turns right when the door clicks open, revealing a near-imperceptibly disheveled Hircine with a few strands of hair out of place, strained lines around her eyes and pursed lips. Whatever meeting they had with Iimithra did not go well. She scans across the hallway before looking to Astarion, her voice tight and clipped. “Do you have my fan?”

Why isn’t she acknowledging Mina? He swivels back to the mysterious woman, finding her gone, nothing left of her craziness outside of that glass eyeball now tucked in his pocket. 

Alright. Weird. 

Hircine’s fan, though… Astarion doesn’t remember what she did with it when they entered the dining room. “I—No, I don’t have your fan.”

Her frown deepens. “Are you su—?”

Mal shoves past, knocking Hircine into Astarion, rage tearing apart his normally friendly features. “No one cares about your fucking accessories, Hircine. Go home.” His swift gait has Mal turning the corner in seconds, the clicking of his shoes echoing distantly on the floor as he leaves them behind. 

Placing his hands on Hircine’s shoulders to give a reassuring squeeze like it is expected of, Astarion looks down, surprised at what he sees. 

Undiluted hate lances across Hircine’s face, and it’s all directed in Mal’s general direction. But just as quickly as it’s there, that hate disappears, smoothing out into her typical bored expression when she blinks and shakes her head. “Let’s go home.” He didn’t think her capable of such potent emotions. 

Astarion would rather not become a target, so he agrees readily. “Sounds good to me.” She grabs his arm, dragging him out at a brisk pace, eager to get away from whatever occurred within the dining room. 

Oh, to be a fly on the wall there… or actually, he'd rather not with their spider problem.

As they approach the grand staircase, which is still brightly lit, a new man steps out behind the banister, peering at them through the slats, and Astarion falters at his appearance.

This man may well be his wife’s more masculine duplicate, excluding her strange glowing eyes where his are pure lavender. Same long gray hair streaked through with silver, tied neatly back, a mouth turned down at the edges in dissatisfaction, like he’s been splattered with dirt by the rabble of the lower city, and the jaw is more angular while Hircine’s is more soft. 

His hand snakes out, grabbing onto the hem of Astarion's trousers, but his words are directed at Hircine. “We're always waiting for you, Hircine, and this time, I know you’ll come crawling. They're all the same, you know it, I know it.”

Astarion can’t see his wife’s face currently, but before Astarion can shake the man off, Hircine kneels down, attempting to peel the man''s fingers off his clothing. “Boethiah, let him go! Please!” Yet his grip persists. Well, isn't that nice, the wife coming to her husband's defense. 

This Boethiah clicks his tongue. “Oh, you’re never any fun.” Hircine flinches at those words as if she’d been spit on. Before letting go, the man scrutinizes Astarion with a wrathful smirk, giving Astarion a glimpse into what his wife might look like if she did the same. “Well, well, well, I know what you are,”

Astarion stills. Know what?

“Whore.” He says, as if it's some damning statement that will ruin Astarion’s life. He's been called worse. Though he says it like he does know exactly what Astarion is.

If what this man says affects Hircine at all, she doesn’t show it, instead tugging Astarion along up the stairs once Boethiah has let him go.

Hands down that might have been one of the strangest encounters of his life. No, scratch that. This whole evening has been one huge fucking mess. 

Minus the name: Raphael. He hopes that is what Cazador needs.

Notes:

-ussta olath silinrul - my dark hunter
-this is an AU, so while I am keeping some events similar to what is known prior to the game, i am making some changes that suit my fic. And who doesn't love cameos from our beloved companions?
-some chapters for the next few updates are gonna be a little shorter, purely because I've been holding myself to an end chapter count I don't actually want to keep, so now I can stop jam packing chapters with shit and write at my pace. This is a LONGfic. We are in for the LONG haul 🙂 I've also just been in my head so much about not having SOMETHING happen every chapter… and like, we can slow down a little. Not everything needs to have a reveal of any kind lol

Next up: Astarion gets his prize

Chapter 10: Drain You of the Mourning

Notes:

Nothing Personal by Des Rocs

-I do have a playlist for this fic. I always forget about my playlists, but like, do people even listen to them?

They stumble back into Darkfire Hall with the door slammed shut and locked tight, safe. Maybe. Hircine presses her back against the door, eyes squeezed shut while a frantic sigh slips past her grimacing lips. “This is why the doors always stay locked. It's hard to get them out once they step foot inside.”

He thought the reason of Iimithra waking for any opened door was flimsy at best. But these… ‘siblings’ don't respect personal privacy? “Well, it would have been nice to know the importance of that beforehand. Who are they?” 

“My-My siblings—”

“Yes, the family resemblance is strong. Why am I meeting them now?” He asks, tempering his irritation just so.

She shrinks against the door. “It’s complicated… I'm not supposed to speak about it until you've been—” Chewing on her lip to cut off her words, Hircine thinks of what to say next. Does he push for more or leave this alone? 

“Is this about the… ‘lured omen’ thing? It's been mentioned a few times but well, drow, you know.”

“L'Alure d'Ulnen?” She's surprised he brought it up by the way her eyes widen a fraction. “I—Not exactly. It's a… sacred family tradition and until you've been initiated, we can't speak about it.” End of story. 

"When do I get 'initiated', then?"

"That is at Mother's discretion, but doing things that please her helps..."

Ah, treated like a true outsider. Great, what is he supposed to do now? He returns to the subject of family. “Your siblings, what is going on with them?” 

“...Boethiah is my twin brother, he lives in the hall below us,” Hircine begins, “Vaermina is in the north-east hall, second floor. They're… unwell.”

Boethiah and Vaermina. Those names were written on the paper tucked away in Hircine’s desk now that he thinks about it. Then what do the crossed off ones mean?

But a twin, and both mentally unwell to boot? Hmm.. 

“If they're supposed to be locked away like animals, why are they out?” He sees how she cringes at his use of ‘animals’. Tsk, I call it as I see it.

"The magic, it—They infect—Stendarr—" Her words stop and start abrubtly, like forcing them out is impossible.

It looks an awful lot like compulsion. "Are you bound to silence?" He asks incredulously.

Her eyes go wide, but no response is uttered.

She is. What could the Zau'viirs possibly be hiding that would require this amount of secrecy?

Questions about the family will clearly get him nowhere tonight. Astarion knows best how unbreakable a compulsion is.

“What do I do if I see your other siblings again?”

“Boethiah won't bother you much… probably. Vaermina is relentless in all things, but she can't kill you. I know that sounds strange. I can't offer much more."

Key word here is ‘kill’. The siblings can certainly do other, more harmful things if they feel like it. How charming! Astarion runs a hand through his curls, sighing because there is truly no fairness in the world. "Alright, but what should I do?”

Hircine sucks in air. “Escape without a fight? Sometimes I can talk them down, sometimes I crawl my way back home. It depends on their mood. I want to tell you, I do, but I-I can't!" Her hands flail around as if grabbing at something around her might release the bindings that hold her tongue. “Just don't let them in, no matter how much they ask.”

How helpful. Astarion will now have to spend his time avoiding actual psychotic siblings that wish him harm, make peace with a difficult, forbidden-to-utter-a-word wife, find information that's useful to Cazador without incurring the beating of a century—unlikely, and figure out his own escape to freedom.

What a miserable night.

Will he ever be free?

---

Having no more tips and tricks on how to deal with one's in-laws, Hircine retreated to the library for a break. 

‘I wish to be alone for a while. Can we… meet later?’ She said.

One thing is turning up roses tonight. 

Fresh blood from the drow princess herself. Astarion can't wait.

But wait he does. The seconds tick by, feeling like a clock has been sewn up inside him, pounding a dull rhythm in his brain. Every. Two. Days.

The eye that was… gifted to him was inspected. The iris is colored a lavender, somewhat similar to Hircine and the younger Zau’viir's. It really is expertly made. Astarion adds it to his collection of notes under his night stand. It will be fiddled with another night.

He takes to the den, a new book in hand—two warring drow houses seeking favor of their goddess (BORING)—goblet of that barovian wine poured and the fire lit, washing the room in warmth as he awaits his prize for all the hard work he put in.

Cazador would certainly disagree, but he isn't here, now is he? 

Not thinking about it is impossible, his book nowhere near as alluring as the harpy song of Hircine’s blood. Will it be her wrist again or perhaps her neck? 

He wants her neck for that real experience.

To be enrobed in her berry-sweet scent mulled with spices, the heat of her skin, the press of her—

This is not what I should be thinking about. 

Hircine is fine, tolerable even, and as the days go on, it’s only natural they would be brought closer together. She can only go so long without revealing herself to him before something cracks. Forced proximity just works like that, for the most part—the spawn back ‘home’ are different. 

Of course, she is the one that will break first. Astarion's life is on the line.

There’s no love here and there might never be, but finding some relief and comfort in this continued existence might not be so bad. 

Ugh. Emotions. 

They’ll only make his life more difficult—they always have.

“Husband?” 

Astarion twists around to find Hircine peeking past a corner, timid, if not shy. “Uhm, are you… hungry?”

“Always, darling.” He could drain her dry right here, hold her limp corpse in his arms as he feasts to fulfillment and—

And that is what’s called a bad idea.

His book is tossed to the floor with an audible thump when Hircine pads around the couch, taking a spot at the far end from him. She’s pulled on a powder blue chiffon nightgown that hits just above the knees, with a very loose neckline so it drapes partially down one shoulder and covers the other.

If he's reading this display right—which he hasn't done so far with Hircine since she doesn't make it easy—then she's gift wrapped herself just perfectly to show off her delicate and slender neck.

What's the saying?

‘A way to a man's heart is through his stomach’?  

Gods, they couldn't be more correct.

She twiddles her thumbs in her lap, glancing at him out of the corner of her eyes, they glow with a strange incandescence in the firelight, before looking down at her hands. “I don't know what you prefer. You can drink from my wrist again or if it's better, then my ne—”

“Your neck is perfect!” Astarion interjects with too much fervor that earns him a concerned, mute stare. He coughs to calm himself, moving closer to Hircine on the couch. She doesn't pull away for once. “If you don't mind, the neck is best.”

“That’s fine. Do I need to do anything… else?”

“Get as comfortable as you need to be. I am ready once you are, darling.”

Taking a moment to think about what she might need, Hircine fluffs a pillow against the armrest then nods at him. She's ready for me.

Slowly sliding over to her until their legs touch in case she gets spooked, Astarion raises his hands carefully so Hircine can see them before putting one around the opposite side of her neck of where he will bite, and the other hand rests just above her hip.

Her pulse pounds beneath her flushed skin, quivering at his touch—celestial music to his ears.

Hmm, he doesn't want her to slap him again when she decides he's done… Finding her hand which is currently worrying a pattern into the folds of her nightdress, Astarion places it on the collar of his shirt. “When you want me to stop, yank it hard two times. Understand?”

She nods again, clenching his collar tightly, the only lifeline she will get. Good. 

“I'm going to bite you now.” A pause is given in case she changes her mind, but Hircine stays in place, not even to pull away. His nose brushes along her neck, a faithful bloodhound guiding him to his hard-earned prize that shivers in fearful anticipation of his next actions.

Oh gods, she smells even better here. Rich and warm and in his arms.

I’ll treat her well, he thinks as his fangs pierce her jugular. Hircine becomes rigid in his arms, a strangled, pained gasp tumbling from her lips. A few beats pass before Astarion takes the first draw of blood, unsure if that will soothe her more to be slow, or if he should make the process faster. As that sweet lifeblood pools into his mouth, he can’t help the breathy moan that accompanies his first swallow, the instant succor to his unending hunger an insistent, voracious urging for more. 

Another draw, another wave of pure euphoria flooding his system, and each deep pull of her decadent essence has the tightness wound into Hircine’s being unraveling, growing limp and pliable beneath his hands. It must be a bestial sight, the noble lady of the hall reclined on the couch, a creature of the night hunched over her fragile frame, draining her sweetness right out.

Whatever layer of hell he’s fallen into, Astarion won’t be crawling out of it anytime soon if this is how they feed him. 

Another deep drink. The effervescent blood flows straight down, tenting his pants, and he can’t stop the way his hips roll against hers—wait, when did he get to his knees and how did Hircine wrap her legs around his waist?

Her death-grip on his collar still holds, but she has yet to pull as instructed, and Astarion is regretfully directing quite a bit of attention from the blood flowing down his throat to her hand, in case she grows too weak.

But no such thing comes. 

Another.

He could probably crush the marble fireplace with his bare hands now with all this fresh blood in him.

And unfortunately, that probably means he should be done. He makes to move away, but Hircine holds fast, rousing from her bonelessness. “N-No, keep going… please…” A hushed whisper, fervent and begging.

Well, if the lady asks so nicely, how could he deny her?

Settling back into her neck, Astarion drinks again.

And again, until finally the two tugs come, though they barely feel like anything at all. Fangs unlatched from the fountain of life, Astarion takes care to lick up the tiny streams of blood that leak from the puncture marks, sealing them closed. 

Good gods, this is the best night of my life—excluding all of that mess earlier.

Propping himself up on his hands, Astarion looks down upon Hircine, unsure of how they ended up like this. She’s completely on her back now, legs still loosely encircling his hips, staring out into the fire vacantly. Caught in this position, it’s a lot less bestial and more marital. 

The feast-induced erection is annoying and unwanted. Hopefully she hasn't noticed. He wills it away as fast as possible, uninterested in that kind of attention.

Her heart beats, not as strong as before, but still steady, and her chest rises and falls with each breath, albeit slowly, as if she were asleep. The gray of her skin normally carries a pretty pink undertone, and he would be deluding himself into thinking that it’s the firelight casting such a ghastly pallor over her skin now.

Astarion isn’t quite sure of what’s too much or too little yet with her, he's never had to manage the blood loss of the rats and bugs of Baldur's Gate, but he’s certain he might have taken too much.

No, no. She gave. Willingly, and then encouraged more. She chose this. Any weakness is of her own choosing. 

“Hircine,” he calls out. 

A long, agonizing second passes by before her eyes slide to him, blinking at a sluggish pace. “Mm?”

“Are you alright?” 

“Yes,” her response is faster this time. Thank the gods. He does not want to call for Lexi. The maid is one wrong move from incinerating him.

Time for more boundary-breaking.

“Was it better than last time?” He asks, easing her into his questioning.

A long blink before she answers. “The beg-beginning… it hurts, then it’s… nice.” Her eyes drift back to the fireplace, the flames dancing against the golden ring of her irises.

He’ll have to think of ways to lessen that first bite, then… or maybe she’ll just get used to it. “We'll figure it out. I can't have my delicious wife be uncomfortable.”

A weak noise of acknowledgment is given and Astarion worries she might fall asleep at any moment. They can't have that. “How do you think dinner went, darling?”

“Fine… Mother w-was pleased?” She doesn't sound all that confident. That could be the blood loss talking.

Time for digging. “Was she now? I thought she seemed a bit upset, like when Gortash brought up that, er, what's their name...? Radigan? No… Raph—?”

Her brows furrow before she looks back up at him, unsteady, unfocused. Astarion braces for anger at his nosiness, but none comes. “Uhm, Raph-Raphael?”

“Yes, that's his name! A friend of Iimithra’s, perhaps? Though she didn't seem all that happy to have Raphael brought up…”

If Hircine is suspicious of his questioning at all, there is nothing on her face that shows it. “I think… so? Father buys from him, maybe.”

“Have you met him often, then?” Astarion glances down, finding her nightdress pulled scandalously low across her cleavage. A few more centimeters down and one of those breasts might fall out, ripe for the taking. He tugs the neckline up, covering her once again. He’s no beast. 

If she notices the action, Hircine makes no acknowledgement of it, instead thinking over his question. “No. He comes once a-a… uhm, quarter. We can’t sp-speak to him. I don’t like him.”

"Why can't you speak to him?"

"Mother says so."

He presses further. “What do you not like about him?”

“—dirty man.” She slurs on that sentence, but he gets the gist of it.

“Like Gortash?”

“Yes...”

That explains a lot. Or does it? Hircine is so strange. Does she hate them because they’re men or because they act dirty? “Am I a dirty man then?”

She shrugs, he thinks. The movement is more of a twitch. “Don't know. You don't… like me.” A surprisingly confident statement in her bloodless state.

Does he rebuke her words or let it settle? There's a possibility she won't even remember this conversation. Ah, whatever. It's not like Astarion needs to lie. “I don't mind you, darling. These things take time, we're only just begun to get to know each other.”

“I don't… know what to do.”

Is that what it is then? She's uncertain of the path ahead so she stays quiet and resistant… “I can take the lead if you'd like, darling.” 

A hum of agreement or indifference is sounded. Hircine returns to staring at the fire, done with this conversation. 

And she still has her legs on him. 

For the sake of bonding or pretending or whatever, Astarion will stay. “Are you sure you're alright? I can call for Lexi.”

A barely there smile appears on her plush lips, looking soft and—he cuts that thought off, listening to her words carefully. “No… I'm perfect.”

That she is—or will be.

Some errant hairs are brushed away from Hircine's collar bones before Astarion lowers himself down, resting his head against her chest, choosing instead to listen to her pulsing heartbeat. 

To make sure she's fine. Just in case.

It's easier this way. 

When was the last time he laid with someone like this? No expectation for more, just two people finding some twisted amalgamation of comfort after a long day.

Having his wife on his side will make life here so much more pleasant, and maybe if she loves him enough by the end, she'll sacrifice herself to get rid of Cazador. 

Two shackles binding Astarion in place would be gone. All his problems solved. 

Who is he kidding? It will never be that easy. 

But if he has to choose, binding himself to a wife that's—

“Do you see him?” 

He lifts his head, finding Hircine still staring into the fire, a shaky hand pointing to the center of the flames. “See who?”

“Herma-Mora,” she says, oddly assured, like it's something he would just get.

He glances at the flames, nothing out of the ordinary here, only charred wood, flickering embers that burn out to ash. No ‘Herma-Mora’ in sight. “Who is that?”

“My… friend?” There's an upward inflection on ‘friend’, as if she herself is unsure 

But she has a friend? And he's watching them from the fire? “Your friend can see us?”

“No, that's… not possible.” 

Astarion has no idea of what she is talking about and Hircine’s gone silent again, possibly forgetting whatever she brought up, or maybe she's seeing things when she’s so light-headed. He settles back down, watching when her hand comes up to rest against his shoulder. 

Maybe Hircine's not so sane after all, but at least she's warm. 

Notes:

-plot will still continue a bit but we are gonna focus on some relationship building more because I feel like it
-I promise we will be getting some information on Hircine's family soon but it'll be a couple chapters.

Next Up: Dancing the night away

Chapter 11: Oblivion for Two

Notes:

Oblivion for Two by Mothica

-I do have a playlist for this fic

“Raphael?”

“Yes, Master.”

Cazador's fingers drum rapidly along the armrest of his chair, an anxiety-inducing tune that sets Astarion's fangs on edge. “Once a quarter… How elusive. I'm impressed you could scrounge up something for once, but let's not get complacent, hmm, my son?”

“Yes, Master. Thank you.”

There's a distractedness to Cazador's casual composure. Eyes unable to stay in one place, restless fidgeting atop his throne, a somehow snappier than usual temperament. Something in Cazador's curated plans is not working out as intended, and the spawn will pay the price. 

All of them except Astarion, that is. He gets to skip off back ‘home’.

“Find out what this ‘Raphael’ does for the Zau'viirs, and gain entry into Barlyn's treasure vault. I think they have something I'm searching for.”

Oh, good. More cryptic instructions with little to go off of. 

Again, though, the core rules are not enforced. That really isn't all that uncommon when the spawn are kept so close, so any chance to break the rules would be found out immediately, but with Astarion far off with his new ‘family’, he has no worries of getting caught—unless Cazador were to manifest in their den to catch Astarion draining his lovely wife, which is thankfully impossible.

While satisfied with the information he provided, it was a bit sparse, so Astarion is sentenced to an hour of ‘quality time’ with Godey. 

Only an hour though, then Astarion is released back out into the world, free to do as he pleases until the next meeting—a generous timeframe too. An entire month, no sooner or later.

Whatever has Master worked into a tizzy, Astarion is glad to avoid it. The lashes this time are worth the freedom.

The carriage ride home goes quick, and soon enough, he is dropped back in front of the Zau'viir's luxurious manor. 

Home, sweet… whatever this shite is. 

A feast awaits him tonight and Hircine, to his surprise, always returns home on time for a feeding, a sparkle of anticipation gleaming in her bright eyes.

It's… cute how excited she gets for these nights together. He thought it was out of some strange pity for him, but no, she gets something out of it, not exactly sexual, more a deep, internal satisfaction to see Astarion well fed. 

And then there’s the bonding afterwards, as he’s taken to calling it. It’s not cuddling.

Echoes of footsteps are the only assurance that this place is real. As he expects, the manor is devoid of sentient life when he enters; the servants are now just as scarce as their lords and ladies, only to be seen for family meals. Which are now pure misery, by the way, since it is supremely apparent that no one wants to be there. It's a vicious cycle of hate.

If Kyne says a word, Mal bitterly bites her head off, which then pulls Stendarr and Jena into the mix, with the brothers standing by each other and the fearsome Jena reprimanding her husband until he backs down. The silenced Chalrae drinks herself silly, Arkay stares into his plate, pushing his food around from side to side and Hircine will only speak when spoken to, only to then also get bitched out from Mal for having an opinion he doesn't like—that is if he even lets her finish speaking.

And the fucking parents… They watch it all like they're attending the theater, mildly amused or occasionally shocked at something that was said, but they never intervene. 

What is wrong with these people?

Oh gods, and then there are the spiders. They're everywhere, a pest that dangles from each corner, millions of eyes glinting from the darkness. One even crawled across the dining table a few nights ago, making its merry way down the line until Iimithra picked the thing up, depositing it safely into a corner for it to spin its web.

He can see many of them right now hidden away in every crevice, building their homes, laying their eggs…

Disgusting. 

Thank the gods they aren’t infesting Darkfire.

When asked, Hircine won't speak about it, says it's just how it is, blah, blah, blah. 

Whatever. Damn their family curse, or problem, or drama, or whatever! It's not his problem—until they make it so. 

His current problem is this Raphael and gaining entry into Barlyn's vault, oh and continuing the arduous process of warming Hircine up to him. 

The enlightening revelation that Hircine does not want his silence has helped considerably. If shy Hircine approaches first, the conversation ends abruptly when she reaches the end of whatever plotted points she had planned. If Astarion gets to her first, the chatter, while stunted, flows much better, and he's realized that talk of work makes her clam up something fierce, so he avoids it entirely.

What do they talk about then? Nothing of substance, that's for sure. Oddly enough, she won't speak about her demonic and eldritch interests that keep her so enthralled. Anytime Astarion asks about the crumbled parchments she keeps littered around the hall, Hircine clears them away in a hurry, apologizing for having them in his sight. 

He's been keeping his knowledge of abyssal under wraps for when he needs it, and now might be the time. They've hit a wall again, a breakthrough is called for. 

As he ascends the grand staircase, sharp and angry voices speaking in drow echo out from the library hallway.

Why not just speak in one common language to save Astarion the headache?

The librarian, Sotha, is curled up right outside the library, hands over ears, blocking out the noise. The argument is so bad even the little cretin can't stand up to it.

Does Astarion approach to see what's going on? Based on the sounds, neither of the people inside are Hircine. She shouted at him once before, during that whole ‘I was going to drink your blood while you were asleep in bed’ fiasco, so he’s familiar with that noise. 

He stalls, unable to decide when what sounds like the clatter of objects being thrown to the ground, and a loud smack that is then followed by acute silence. Chalrae rounds the corner in a flurry not long after, face red and holding her cheek as tears stream down. Her red-eyed glare is sharper than Zau'viir steel when she makes eye contact with Astarion. “You got lucky.” She hisses as she passes by. 

Lucky? 

Mal appears a few moments later, wearing that same appeasing smile his father always does. “Astarion! What are you doing here?”

“I just got home from seeing my father… Is everythi—?”

Mal steps close, angling his head back to look up at Astarion. “What did Chae say as she was walking by?”

Oh, he's getting dragged into a lover's spat. “Pardon?”

“My wife, Chalrae, Chae, whatever. What did she say to you?”

Something about Mal recently has been exceptionally unnerving, like his composed exterior is unraveling right before Astarion’s very eyes… and also, Astarion’s no snitch. Whatever Chalrae meant by her words, he'll keep it to himself. “She apologized for the noise.” 

The eldest Zau’viir scans his face with narrowed eyes before shrugging. “Hmm, how nice of her. Have a good night then.” He firmly claps Astarion's shoulder when he pushes by, heading down the stairs, leaving an unfathomably stale air in his wake. What happened to the somewhat flirtatious brother-in-law who was all too happy to see him?

There is only one person Astarion can count on to be the same—mostly. Even Hircine is changing at a snail's pace, but it's to his benefit, thankfully, so no complaints on that front.

He enters their hall, which, if he’s honest, might feel a teensy tiny bit like his home, though he'd love to do away with all the garish maroon. It does look stunning against Hircine and the clothes are a lost cause anyway, but they could surely change up the house, just a small amount, throw in something that—and this is crazy—isn’t maroon. 

The den is aglow in flickering orange hues from a roaring fire, a large stack of logs creating a heap of flames that lick along the inside of the black marble fireplace. Seems someone got overzealous about their fire-making skills. 

He comes upon Hircine reclined lazily on a chair, rocking back on two of its legs, mid drink with a full glass of wine that she chokes on the second he enters her sight, jerking in the chair so she douses herself with the glass. Skin, hair and the silk of her dress are stained crimson as she sputters and hacks to free her lungs from the wine that is drowning them.

A throw blanket is snatched up from the couch when Astarion crosses over to her, passing it into her searching hands so she can wipe off the explosion of wine. 

Crystalline tears spring into her eyes as she continues coughing, using the bundled blanket to muffle the noise, but finally some gasping breaths are taken. “I-I-I'm sorry, I—” Hircine devolves into another coughing fit. “—you were Lexi. Didn't think you'd, ugh, be home so… soon.”

“Well, I'm back now, unless you'd prefer I leave you to this mess?”

“No!” Her hand shoots out, grabbing onto his wrist to keep him in place while she coughs more. What a turn of events, Hircine wants him to stay. “Uhm, I was planning to perform the evensong soon. You could join, if-if you'd like.” 

That word is familiar. “What is the evensong again?”

“Oh,” her mouth forms into an ‘O’ as she pauses, “It's a ritual with dancing and singing to let Eilistraee know how our day went, um, but we don’t need to sing, talking works too.”

Hircine wants him to dance around and… talk about their day together?

A dashing smile splits across his face. “That sounds wonderful, but—” His eyes blaze a path from her face to the deep stains now covering her well-disguised chest. “Maybe you should clean up first, darling?”

Her hand runs over her bust with a weighted sigh as she stands. “Mmm, yes. I'll be back.”

Watching for a moment as she makes haste out of the room, Astarion considers his next course of action. He could clean up this mess, because it's that or Hircine does it when she's back, and that will delay the evensong which will delay his meal… Based on her reaction, Lexi isn't home so there's no chance to ask the aggressive maid for help. She'd probably accuse him of choking Hircine on purpose, ever intent on being rid of him. 

Too bad, Lexi. I'm here to stay.

Fine. He'll clean. 

A towel is found and wet in the kitchen, and he sets to wiping down the small table in the den. Wine darkens the carpet, beyond his help now. That will be left for Lexi, she needs something to do, the old hag.

He also tosses the ruined blanket into the corner for her to deal with.

Maybe Astarion will use Hircine’s bloodless state to ask about redecorating the hall.  

Or not. He’s realized talking to her like that just makes him feel dirty, tainted, like he's taking advantage of her in the worst of ways. 

There's also the chance that she will realize what he's doing or Lexi might catch him asking invasive questions… It's not worth the trouble.

Besides, I prefer the cuddles.

Astarion freezes, hand stopping midway through a swipe across the table. What is he—a five-year-old? Gods, if the other spawn saw him now. The ridicule would be endless. 

Cleaning up after his wife like some foolish house-husband eager for a reward? No.

The towel is thrown on top of the blanket. He's done enough. 

Hircine reappears not long after, all traces of wine gone and a long, flowy nightgown pulled on with ties at the front that could easily be tugged away to reveal all. In her hands she holds two books. She assesses the damage, surprised that some of it has already been cleaned up. “Oh, thank you, Husband.” He smiles and Hircine holds the books out towards him. “A common-to-drow and common-to-undercommon dictionary. In the mines, we have translation devices, but they're still useful regardless… if you'd like them.”

Taking the books, Astarion finds the leather covers faded and well-worn. They have been used quite a lot. “Thank you, darling. There's never any harm in knowing another language.”

“Of course, now let me just—” Hircine tugs on the corners of the couch, pulling it further away from the fire so there's now a wide, open area for this evensong to take place in. Brushing her hands together, Hircine turns to him with curiosity. “Do you know how to dance?”  

Nothing drives interest more than mystery. After setting the books aside Astarion offers his hand, bending at the waist into a regal bow. “I guess you'll have to find out, darling.”

An eyebrow is raised, but she stays quiet, instead taking his hand in a delicate clasp as they find a place at the center of the den, an arm wrapped around her waist and one of her's laid against his shoulder. 

He knows his way around a ballroom or tavern floor, entertaining guests at Cazador’s command or keeping some drunkard on their feet amidst the hustle and bustle of a packed festhall. An intimate dance like this, one that doesn’t devolve into whispers of sweet nothings and practiced choreography of naked skin, is a little novel. 

They sway side to side, finding a steady rhythm between the crackling pops of the burning logs and their hushed footfalls against the rug. An eternity of this wouldn’t be so bad.

Love isn’t all that useful in a world of Cazador Szarrs and insane in-laws, but peace and quiet, he’ll take that.

“So, where do we start on the talking part?” Astarion asks once they’ve completed a full rotation. 

Hircine perks up, “Oh, right—uhm, I’ll start… I went to work, it wasn’t all that interesting. Oh! They installed a desk for you, so whenever you wish, Husband, you can come with me to the mines. I know paperwork is boring, so if you don’t like it then—”

Thank the gods. “No, a change of scenery would be welcome.” His words might have been a bit too hurried and curt when she tilts her head down, silvery, fire-lit strands of hair falling over her shoulders.

“It’s been boring for you, hasn’t it?”

“Mmm, truthfully it was nice to do… nothing for a while.” To her, maybe he’s done nothing, but Astarion has snooped and dug up what he could for his loathsome master when Hircine’s not home, and to a degree, it has been nice. If he truly never escapes from Cazador, then this is the only break he will ever get. He won’t be let off the leash another time. “Anyway, work wasn’t interesting, so what else? I assume there’s more to your day than that.”

Her lips twist around as she thinks. Are her days really so uneventful? “Well, Thirsk brought me a cut sapphire, around four carats, I think. He stole it from Llarar, so it was awkward returning that, but it’s back where it belongs.”

“Why do you entertain that nasty creature?”

“We get along in my office. He’s a nice little beast and always brings me gifts… most of them aren't stolen.”

Her friends seem to be a strange bunch, but good to know: she'll talk about the freaks, not the work. “Nice? He wants to cut your feet up and runs around covered in not even the gods know what. How is that nice?”

“Well, it’s in his nature. He can’t just stop when everything in his being tells him to attack me. It took years for Thirsk to agree to a truce. I'm happy with it. Anyway, nothing too eventful happened. I worked, and then I came back home about an hour ago.”

A boring day, indeed. 

A comfortable silence settles over them as they spin slowly across the ground. These conversations aren’t that easy when Hircine clearly doesn’t want to share much—or can't. Astarion is surprised she even asked him to join. 

Progress is progress. He can’t forget that.

“Uhm,” she clears her throat, “so what did you do today before going to see your father?”

It’s his turn to share. “Honestly, not all that much. I read until I needed to see Ma—my father, that’s about it.”

Hircine glances up at him, then stares down at her feet as they sway. “You and your father don’t get along, do you?”

That’s new. Astarion was expecting an “Oh,” or the annoying “I see,” but Hircine is pressing for more for once. Shall he give some honesty since she’s showing interest? “Ah, not exactly. Differing expectations and needs. He'll never have the son he wants, and I’d rather never be around him at all.”

“Oh,” she says. He could almost roll his eyes at her response, but again she surprises him by continuing on. “Why go back then if you don’t want to?”

“I don't have a choice.” And that was much too honest. 

“How could you not? You're here now. I could ask—”

Astarion drowns out her words when he recedes into his mind, knowing how futile they are. Should he shatter her sheltered view of the world? Hircine's family isn't perfect, that much is obvious, but to know the horrors of eternal servitude… maybe this is what they need for some progress, no matter how much he hates to divulge his true existence. Nothing provokes a pure heart to action more than sympathy, empathy, or pity. He interrupts whatever naïve drivel Hircine is spouting by saying, “I’m a vampire spawn.”

Pausing, she inhales deeply before speaking again, “Is that… different from a regular vampire?”

“Oh, yes, quite a bit actually,” Astarion pulls Hircine closer against him so her chest squishes deliciously to his, spinning around tightly on the spot. “Has it ever crossed your mind that you might turn into a vampire when I bite you?”

She stiffens, almost stumbling on his feet before she catches herself. “I-I never thought about it. Are you turning me into a vampire?”

“Not at all, darling. As a vampire spawn, I cannot turn others. That’s a privilege beholden only to my… father since he is a vampire lord. A spawn has all the drawbacks of a vampire with few of the benefits: Exposure to the sun turns me to dust, a stake through the heart will kill me, I can’t enter a residence without an invitation, running water burns my flesh… I could go on, but I think you get the point, hmm?”

He presses on, keeping a firm hold on Hircine so she can’t escape, not that she seems to want to with how tight she's gripping on to him. “The actual curse of it all, though? My father’s wishes are my commands. I cannot disobey him, ever. As he is my sire, there is a tether that binds us, unbreakable and all-encompassing. Father says ‘Jump!’ and I can’t even ask how high because my legs have pushed off the ground.”

At his words, Hircine’s gone pale, nearly as pale as when all the blood’s been drained from her body. Her lips part before pressing back together into a thin seam, and her heart beats an anxious staccato within her frail ribcage. Finally, she opens her mouth again, horror dawning on her face. “You don’t have free will?”

“No.” They spin again, the skirt of her nightdress swirling around their legs as his single response stagnates between them, final and leaden.

When Astarion first saw Hircine, he thought her a man-eater, someone that took no shit, yet would give it back tenfold should she feel slighted, but that's not how she is at all. Timid, naïve, quiet… A trueborn noble without the experience of actually crushing those beneath her. 

There's sweetness in how Hircine treats others, though it is not loud and at the forefront of her personality. She easily took his vampiric nature in stride and feeds him without complaint. Not many on these tumultuous planes would be so giving.

But then there's the bitterness, her refusal to be open about literally anything, the strange family secrets, and the fucking spiders. 

Regardless of those downsides—which aren’t entirely her fault, Hircine is perfect for someone like him. Having a wife isn’t so bad when she provides.

“You—Did you choose this marriage to get away from him?” Hircine finally asks. 

The thought that he had any control over that decision, especially after these revelations, is laughable, but if it’s convincing to his wife, then who cares? Whatever endears her to Astarion, the better. “It was this, or continue to endure the lash.” It is true, in a way. Imagining himself saying ‘No' when Cazador dictated that he’d be married off… No imagination is needed, actually. A week of Godey’s unoriginal torture would be preferred to Master’s hateful and enduring creativity.

“He hurts you.”

It’s not a question that Hircine is asking, but Astarion answers it anyway. “Yes.” He really doesn’t want this evening to dissolve into some pity party. Even though Hircine’s family clearly isn’t the portrait-perfect image they presented on that first night, Astarion doubts for even a moment that other than a slap across the face, Hircine has not experienced anything close to what he has. 

Her mother reprimands her for improvement and somewhat lofty expectations.

Cazador mutilates them for fun.

It’s not the same.

Whatever thoughts are swirling through Hircine’s head right now are some complex mix of horror, panic, and realization, yet she still keeps her hand in his as they continue this dance of Astarion tells-all around the den. He watches patiently, waiting for whatever innocent question or assumption she has next.

Never one to be predictable, Hircine renders him speechless instead. “Would you be free if he died?”

Astarion’s mouth opens, then closes as he puzzles out how she came to that conclusion. Hircine wants to rid him of Cazador just like that? She really gets better and better. “I—It’s not—Yes, I would be, but a vampire lord is not easily killed, hence his continuing undead-ness. I could also drink his blood to become a true vampire myself, but permission is required for such a thing, and Ma—my father is not willing. Vampires are territorial, and there’s nothing more threatening to a vampire than another vampire.”

Is there any hope that Hircine could deal with his loathsome master? No, not at all when she is but skin and bones and… whatever the fuck she is, but maybe she knows someone, like a powerful cleric of EiIistraee who is intent on wiping out evil in all its forms—excluding a certain handsome vampire spawn by the name of Astarion. 

Chewing on her lip, Hircine considers his words with brows knitted together, no doubt already at a loss of what to do. “When do you have to go back?”

“Twentieth of Eleint.” A nice, and hopefully long, month. 

“And if you don't go back?”

“I will return because hiding only delays the inevitable,” he says, wanting to move away from the topic of torture. Her pity, while useful, is already grating and they will go in circles trying to figure out ways to rid him of Cazador right this moment. It's been almost two hundred years, freedom won't happen in a day. 

Hircine tightens her grip on his hand with a comforting squeeze. “We will figure something out, Husband. You won't have to suffer this alone.” Her eyes shine with something he isn't quite familiar with. It's not hopeful per se, more darkly determined, as if she's come upon a challenge that excites her.

Her words are nice and pretty, but Astarion has never suffered alone. He's one of seven, and even if one is singled out from the pack, that does not mean the rest are ignored. Petras failed to bring back a meal for Master? Well, Petras spends the whole day getting the skin, muscles and sinews masterfully carved out of his right arm, but Dal, Aurelia, Astarion, Leon and Yousen now have to perform a gruesome reenactment of Master's favorite play since he is now angry, hungry and bored. 

Everyone had to contribute a lot of blood for that one.

Violet is only left out because the mess she makes is not worth her dramatics. 

Hircine knows now, somewhat, and all that matters is she responded in his favor. Who knew getting her on his side would be so simple? 

He can't believe how wrong Cazador was about Astarion keeping quiet, but maybe that was the point, to turn this into some elaborate nightmare where Astarion was expected to fail, so Cazador had some fun in watching the rats scuttle about. 

Master does not know best.

Praise is in order. “Thank you for… listening. Matters of the family are never easy to speak of, but knowing you understand, well, it puts me at ease, darling.” She blushes cutely at his thanks and Astarion can't help but wonder if she has ever really been around a man or woman outside of her family, the help and her employees. Being inexperienced would explain why she's so hesitant with everything. 

Does that mean Hircine is a virgin? 

That's not important, you dolt. He craves intimacy because he's never had it, simple as that. Sex is sex, but with someone he actually has a connection to? Astarion knows he'd feel some type of way for anyone when they're forced together. He is using her, and I need to remember that.

He wraps back around to an earlier point, anything to move on from him and these destructive thoughts. “So, when is my first day at work?”

Hircine blinks, and thankfully she has the tact to understand he is changing the topic for good reason. “Oh, um, how about the night after tomorrow? Everything will be in order.” Hidden meaning: She’ll ensure there's nothing for him to snoop through. Good enough.

“Sounds perfect, excluding the dirty beast you keep around.”

Her glowing eyes flash with a hint of mirth. “I’ll make sure Thirsk has a box on your desk to rest in.”

Frowning, Astarion shakes his head with disgust. “That thing needs to be kept ten paces away, at minimum. It clearly never bathes.”

“With a little bonding, I think you'd both be thick as thieves.”

He takes this opportunity to release his entrapment on Hircine, maintaing a loose grip on her hand to spin her once away and then right back into his arms, a teeth-baring smile slapped onto Astarion's face. “Bonding, darling, is reserved for a husband and wife. It is not between beast and man!”

There's a ghost of a smile on Hircine’s serene face, all concern over Astarion’s family predicament forgotten for the moment, but the seed of intrigue has been planted.

The evensong dancing never stopped once during Astarion’s truth spilling. He got what he needed even at the cost of his secrets, so it's time for the grand finale. Astarion takes full control now, sliding a hand to the small of Hircine’s back to bring an end to the evensong with a deep dip that has her hair brushing along the floor.

They hold that pose, her back bowing, supported effortlessly in his arms while staring into each other's eyes for what should be a blissfully intimate moment, but Astarion is left disturbingly conflicted. Is now a good time, or would that be exceptionally awkward given the prior conversation, even if it ended on a lighter note? What if Hircine rejects this advance? There's only so much boundary crossing one can take before they push back. 

He hesitates for too long and for the umpteenth time tonight, Hircine stuns Astarion—and also herself by the uncertainty flickering across her features when she grabs his collar between her hands, pulling him down.

Their lips meet, and her's are certainly not as silken as he expected. He's never thought of such a thing, ever, especially not when resting his head against her chest, listening to the feeble, but steady beat of Hircine’s heart following a feeding.

He expected more timidity from his wife, and by the way their lips easily found each other, the rising heat of her flesh branding itself against his, Astarion knows she has, at the very least, kissed someone before. 

A few more beats pass before she breaks the kiss, the gray of her skin turning a plum in what he assumes is embarrassment at her own audacity. He won't let a moment like this pass though, and Astarion closes the gap once again for another kiss. Hircine needs to think he wants more from her. They like the chase, that chance to feel desirable, and then he'll pull back on his flirtations when it's time for her to chase him.

Love and lust is a game at the end of the night, and Astarion has played it masterfully more times than he can count.

It's stayed very tame by the time they pull away, and really those sweet pecks on the lips are his favorite; they always leave both sides wanting more, even if he's the only one left alive at the end of the night. If he has to suffer for eternity, he's going to find some minimal amount of enjoyment in it.

A shudder travels through Hircine's slight frame as he helps her stand back upright, now dazed, and a little confused at the turn of events for the night. Did she think they would just end with some mild chatter and call it quits?

No, no. I'm in this for my freedom. Everything is at stake!

And fine, maybe he's the tiniest bit hungry for more than just her blood. He's a man deprived of soft and tender-touched affection, and if he's married, he's going to wring out every benefit that shackle might grant him.

Astarion takes hold of Hircine's hand, leading her easily and without complaint to the couch, where he sits before guiding her into his lap with a charming smile reserved for the innocent ones, as she's revealed herself to be. Tucking a strand of hair behind her delicately pointed ear, taking care to not tangle it in her earrings, he asks, "Was that how the evensong should go?"

"I—" She starts, then stops for a second before speaking again, sounding like she's holding her breath, not yet ready to let it go. "Yes, I think so." Has this experience really been that startling?

"Anytime you would like me to join, I'm here," he purrs, eyes drifting down while she stares off into the abyss of whatever haze Hircine is now lost in. If they're moving forward, then how far is too much? It would be all too easy to pull at the strings of her nightdress, and he could take those breasts she hides so well into his hands—or mouth.

Now, how would it feel to drain the blood from there instead of her neck? The image being formed in his head is nice, almost cozy, and it could be Astarion’s reality with just one small movement.

His hand inches up towards those ties hiding them away, ready to grab one and pull when Hircine's mind rejoins her body, looking down as she remembers where they are. "Are you, uhm, ready to… eat?"

He's not disappointed. He can't be. Feeding is better than whatever that could have been, surely. Hircine's already sitting on his lap, what more could he want? Sliding his hand up to her neck instead, Astarion brushes hair out of the way, relishing how her pulse riots within her skin at the action. Such a steady thrum that will soon dull to a dragging thud.

The nervousness she originally experienced those first few times gave way to excited anticipation now. Hircine enjoys the bite, or the aftermath of it, sinking into a boneless stupor once her blood is in him.

Outside of the 'bonding', it's not very fun or engaging spending time with someone who is functionally useless.

Whatever. Astarion shoves those thoughts into a lockbox, finding his slip into constant sentimentality a nuisance. Feeding can only benefit him, there will be plenty of other chances to woo Hircine into his nefarious embrace.

"Ready?" He asks, and she nods her assent immediately.

Fangs meet pliant flesh as they have so many nights before, and even without scars to mark where he should bite, the motions are completely natural. Astarion drinks deeply, inhaling her delicious fragrance as fresh, heated blood pours over his tongue and down his throat to fulfillment. Hircine groans quietly, a hand coming up to entangle within the curls at the back of Astarion's head while the other holds tight to his shirt sleeve.

They no longer need to communicate when she is done. He can tell by the way her body grows slack in his arms, losing her hold on him with each drink. This position is much to his liking: Hircine melting into his body, Astarion propping her up, an exchange of body heat and essence. Now, if only she had her legs wrapped around him, that would complete the vision.

Unlatching from her neck, Astarion clears the blood pooling from the pinprick wounds with a few swift licks. As usual, Hircine’s breathing is shallow and quiet when she slumps against his chest with her head resting on his shoulder, unable to hold up its weight. His arms encircle her waist, chin tucked into the crook of her neck while he soaks up the dim heat from her slender form.

It could be worse, I guess.

He enjoys it all. The warmth, that intoxicating blend of berries and blood, and the comforting weight of Hircine’s body against him, but Astarion doesn't want to be stuck like this for hours. "Shall I take you to bed?" He asks.

Her sluggish response comes eventually with a barely there nod, "Mhm…" A hand grasping weakly at his shirt before dropping limp and spent.

Lifeless.

Adjusting her so he can carry Hircine, Astarion stands and makes for their bedroom, nudging open the door with a shoulder before depositing his drained wife onto the mass of velvety blankets. She giggles—he thinks—and gives the faintest smile as he pulls some sheets and blankets over her, tucking Hircine into bed as has become their routine after feeding. Sometimes he follows, and when she's been fed on, this is the only time she will face him in bed, otherwise, Hircine is always turned away.

Tonight, Astarion would like to stay out in the den before entering his trance, to think up how he's going to enter Barlyn's vault or maybe he'll spend some time imagining Cazador’s death. It could all come to fruition now if the wife so wills it.

Before he leaves, Hircine just catches onto his sleeve with her fingers, and Astarion knows exactly what she wants.

Bending down, he brushes their lips together, finding her's startlingly cold. Hircine seems content with what occurred as she's already drifting to sleep, a satisfied twist to her lips with the glowing ring around her pupils extinguishing as her eyes fall shut into a dead-still slumber. Astarion tests one of her limp hands in his, the same coldness permeating through her fingertips.

Maybe he takes too much blood, but what is he to do when she asks and heavily encourages him to take more? He finally gets to be well fed. Will he give it up just because of a little guilt?

Deciding that he'd rather not dwell on it at the moment, Astarion returns to the den, shoving the couch back to its rightful place and taking his spot with one of the dictionaries in hand (he doesn’t know which one he picked up as it is never opened), feeling a horridly unwelcome mixture of cozy and shameful.

And he thinks.

And thinks.

And thinks.

Of nothing. Of everything. The strangeness of it all. The wrongness. How can Astarion progress like this when Hircine turns into an invalid at the end of the night? Something isn’t right.

He shifts, uncomfortable, not enjoying the intentionally hidden path his mind is treading down unbidden.

Hircine is not a victim. How could she be when she is still alive, tucked into bed without a care in the world? She wants this. She aks for it. That is more than anyone else ever got. A scoff breaks from him, indignant and disbelieving. His night—or morning—won’t be wasted like this, feeling sorry for the pretty and privileged drow sharing his bed, fully clothed and untouched.

SCRITCH

Astarion’s head whips toward the front door as another noise permeates through the wood.

SCRITCH SCRATCH

It wouldn’t be audible to anyone else, that quiet sound of perhaps a nail or small, sharp object digging into the door over and over, up and down, needling into Astarion’s mind.

And then, he is struck by a thought: did I lock the door?

He leaps to his feet, approaching the front double doors quick and quiet while producing the key to his home. The rhythmic clawing continues as Astarion sinks to his knees, curiosity overriding the need to correct an error. Carefully, stupidly, he takes the door knob in hand and leans close to the keyhole to peer through it.

Nothing. Blackness. Emptiness.

The whispered scratching never falters, occasionally it speeds up or falls to a worming pace that now feels as if it is scraping out his brain matter one drag along wood grain at a time with its persistence.

So silent, Astarion turns the doorknob. Immediate resistance; locked tight. He hasn’t removed his hand when it begins suddenly violently shaking in his grasp, the metallic rattle a horrific plea to ‘Let me in!’. Astarion jerks back from the door, releasing the knob as if seared by scalding metal. All noises and movements cease from the other side, the relentless scratching no longer disturbing his sanity.

Who was it—Vaermina? Boethiah? Someone else?

Struggling to swallow down the lump in his throat, Astarion stands, adjusting his clothes in a fit of nerves.

Fuck this. I’m going to bed.

Notes:

Next up: A deal's a deal

-I am starting the house hunting process with my partner, so updates might be sporadic for a little bit, but they will still continue!!

Chapter 12: Eyes Lazy For The Truth

Notes:

Content Warnings

Referenced prior drug/substance abuse and addiction

Maybe, I by Des Rocs

-I do have a playlist for this fic

----
Hope everyone had a happy holidays and a happy new year!

Like any other day, the library is empty outside of Sotha clomping around, muttering angrily to himself in broken common. No bickering in-laws to be seen.

Astarion doesn't pay the man any mind, and the gnome acts like he's not there at all. Probably one of the better relationships Astarion could ask for.

The wife, fully restored after his ritualistic draining this morning, prepares for Astarion’s arrival come tomorrow in the mines. He's not sure what he might find or even where to begin. Searching their office for any clues or information will be much harder with Hircine sitting right at the center, and who knows what that vile little cretin, Thirsk, can do or understand.

Perhaps Astarion could punt the thing down a hole, never to worry about it again. Hircine wouldn't like that with how unnecessarily attached to the beast she is… She'd be quite sad, probably.

Sighing, he flips a page in the index, searching for where the family records are printed. No more secret siblings will get the jump on him.

There! An annex holds all the documents he seeks.

This shouldn't be considered too suspicious, right? Astarion just wants to know more about his new family, and what better way to start than through their personal history?

The small room is lined floor to ceiling with cabinets, some labeled by year and others alphabetically.

He starts with someone familiar—Hircine.

Digging through files, he locates Hircine's personal one. A birth record is the first document on top.

'Born Marpenoth 30th, 1336'. There's nothing interesting there unless he looks up the exact date. Though her morn day will be upon them soon, not that it matters for elves and drow of their age.

And below that is written she is a twin. Astarion could have saved himself the surprise if he came here earlier.

Nothing else of note is found on her birth record, not that he was expecting anything particularly interesting. After that are some medical documents detailing injuries Hircine received as a child. There's a report from Lexi noting that the young lady went missing for two whole days. A follow up report details that the lady was found back in her room, with mild head trauma and bruising along her body. It was filed on 'Uktar 15th, 1347', so Hircine was ten. No other information is given about where she disappeared to.

Not that Hircine isn't interesting to him, but Astarion is more concerned with his in-laws at the moment. His wife can be more thoroughly examined another day.

Malacath's file is pulled, flipping open to the birth record same as Hircine's.

Full name, birth date and—

Twin.

A coincidence?

Astarion digs out Stendarr, finding the same: Twin. Next, Kynareth's file is opened and the same thing is printed. Arkay, too.

They're all twins? Astarion doesn't care much for birth or children, but surely having five children in a row be twins is… unusual.

He looks at Iimithra’s file and why did he even try? Of course, she has no birth record. She left Menzoberranzan when she was older, and Barlyn too is missing some documents.

Boethiah is confirmed to be Hircine's twin, and maybe Vaermina is Kyne's twin, so there are only two sets accounted for by his guesses. Where are the others?

Oddly enough, Vaermina's and Boethiah's files are not kept in the cabinets.

Returning to Mal's, papers and documents are flipped through until Astarion comes across his marriage license.

No, licenses.

A large, black NULL stamp is pressed across this other license, rendering some of the writing illegible, but the most important information is there.

The document was notarized originally on ‘Ches 14, 1338’. Mal would have been… ninety-five?

Kyne is ninety-five this year and will be married off soon, but Hircine was married at one-hundred and forty-six. A coincidence for Kyne and Mal or is Hircine the outlier?

The person Mal married was named Anwen.

Anwen? That's a name written on Hircine's list, though crossed off.

Astarion can make an educated guess on what that might mean: Anwen is deceased.

A family tree would be helpful for reference. He scours through files until he finds it.

'REVISED ELEASIS 1, 1483: ZAU'VIIR FAMILY LINEAGE"

Ah, so it must include Astarion already. They move fast.

Before he can open it, a cane taps annoyingly against the doorway with Sotha grunting for his attention right after. When Astarion looks down at him, the gnome speaks, "Out." He barks in that terribly gravelly voice.

"I'm almost done. Let me just—"

"Out now!" The gnome commands again, swinging his cane at Astarion's legs. He's not in the mood to fight this ill-tempered man. Astarion shoves the documents back where they belong, vowing to come back another time.

"I'm going! I'm going!" He says as the gnome goes in for another swing, this time knocking the back of Astarion's shins. There's no pain, but he doesn't appreciate the reminder of Cazador's treatment. A complaint will be lodged over this.

As he rounds the corner to leave the library, Iimithra enters with a sheet of parchment crumbled in her hands, mouth turned down ever so slightly at the corners. Cold lavender eyes meet his, eye brow raised. "Astarion, how are you?"

Direct conversation is permitted today. How gracious of her. "I am doing well, my lady. Thank you. And how are you on this fine… evening?" With how rarely he goes outside these days, Astarion struggles to know which way the moon rises and sets.

The matriarch relaxes her stiff posture somewhat, though her crisply starched dress barely moves while she nods her head. "Iimithra will do, and I am as I always am. Hmm," she assesses him, leaving Astarion feeling like a buzzing fly trapped in a spider's web. "How did the Ravenshade business go?"

Wouldn't she prefer to speak with her daughter who actually ran the meeting? Astarion was just there for support as any good spouse should be.

Oh, well. Iimithra is asking him now. "It went well, I think. I'm not quite as well versed in all the business jargon or expectations for such a deal, but I thought the Ravenshades were quite pleased by the end." He smiles, hoping it appears passable.

Astarion isn't lying, by his estimations it all went well. Hircine, if he's reading her right, seemed happy when they got home, even giving Lexi an entire rundown of what happened. The Ravenshades said they would send a contract within a few days, though it's almost been a week now, so he isn't sure what's come of it, or if Hircine just isn't talking about it.

"I see. When Hircine returns, tell her I wish to see her in my office." Iimithra breezes past him, having finished the conversation, not awaiting his response.

Errand boy it is. Astarion returns home only to be greeted by the next disturbance, not even making it through the doorway before he's addressed so disrespectfully.

"Spawn."

Was Lexi eavesdropping last night? But how when she wasn't even home? Or did Hircine lie?

"You're going to kill her."

Astarion meets her eyes once the door is locked, confused about her meaning. "Good evening to you too… What's your problem?"

Lexi's youthful features are marred by a hideous scowl. He's tempted to tell her how terribly it ages her but opts to keep his mouth shut. She points sternly at him. "You take too much of Lady Hircine’s blood."

Is she reading his mind or has Lexi been stewing on his and Hircine’s new form of 'bonding' for the past week? Is it appropriate for a maid to be so concerned with her charge? "You'll be there to heal her in the morning. I don't see wha—"

The seething maid steps closer, glaring down her nose at Astarion even with her limited stature. "And what about when I'm not here to heal her? You're sticking to a schedule now, but it's only a matter of time before Lady Hircine starts asking for more. What happens to her when she's in the mines like this, barely able to stand? Are you going to take responsibility when she gets hurt—or worse!—or is that not your problem because you got your fill?"

He doesn't understand the angle she's coming from. "Why would we do more? The blood I get is—" Astarion almost slips up by saying 'more than enough', but he knows that will further ignite Lexi's ire. "It's enough. I don't need more."

She laughs without humor, eyes going wide as a caricature of a smile twists her features. "I know vampires, including the spawn, are selfish, but are you really that blind? You think Lady Hircine is feeding you this much because she wants you full?"

The audacity. Lexi doesn't get put in her place enough. "I don't know what you mean. Why else would Hircine do this for me?"

"She's not doing it for you. She's doing it for herself."

"…What?"

"Lady Hircine is looking for a high and you're helping her achieve that. There's nothing normal about how much blood she asks you to take, I know you can see it! She'll deviate from your little schedule soon, mark my words."

"Are you saying she's using me? And why should I believe you when it's perfectly obvious that you want to be rid of me entirely?" Astarion sneers at the maid, no longer interested in maintaining any decorum with her.

Lexi's lips pull back from her teeth and Astarion is astounded that this hateful woman has gone this long with hiding her true nature. "Because I raised her! I have been with Lady Hircine through every moment of her life. You think she's always been like this—a-a husk of a person, ambling her way through the night without a smile or care?! I will not let some creature like you drain what little life remains of her!"

"Then why come to me and not her? If she's using me, as you imply, shouldn't your nosiness be leveled at your lady?"

"Trust me when I say we've been through this before. It's much easier cutting off the supply to whatever high she's chasing than to actually get my lady to stop, but let me appeal to your selfishness, as that is a language only your kind can speak." Lexi points to the couch, directing Astarion to sit. He complies purely out of curiosity and self-preservation. Grabbing a chair from the desk, Lexi sits straight in front of Astarion, uncomfortably close, so there is no room for him to stand up unless he jumps over the couch. "If Lady Hircine dies, you will be shipped off to Menzoberranzan before you can even blink, and I assure you that an undying slave, especially one as pretty as you, is well worth the fight down there. I don't doubt that your master treats you horrifically, but the matriarchs of Menzoberranzan will not be the freedom you seek."

Hircine is an addict… Now Astarion is kicking himself for not digging through her entire file in the library. Nobles fall into such habits when they have no personality or talents to fill the void, though Astarion is legitimately surprised that such an uptight woman dabbles in drugs.

Unless Lexi is lying…

He doubts that as he looks back on Hircine's enthusiastic consent. Who would be so eager to give blood the way she does? Even Master's thralls are left with their wits about them when he takes what he desires.

Knowing that Hircine has been using Astarion… He doesn't like that. He needs to be in control, not her.

They can deal with that later, Astarion has other things to be hung up on now. "Why would they send me to that drow hellsite? I can't imagine Menzoberranzan and Lolth wants much to do with defectors."

"You think Iimithra is a defector?" Lexi asks with a quizzical tilt of her head. "I'll admit it's quite complicated, but—Oh my, I guess all your snooping really has been for nothing." She snickers at his plight, the wretched bitch.

"Elaborate, Lexi. I don't need your cryptic words." He snaps.

"Hmm, and why should I do that when you've been draining my lady of all life?"

"If you give me some answers, I'll leave most of Hircine’s blood alone."

Unblinking, her black, doll-like eyes stare through his being. “No, we don't make promises without proof of follow-through. I'll make an offer, since you seem to understand consequences. You will take care of Lady Hircine in whatever capacity you are able when I'm not around, which includes—and is not limited to—drinking from her less, defending her in the public eye and helping her in whatever ways she requires at that moment. Now, I know you must be thinking, 'Lexi, that's a lot to do when I'm not getting much in return,' and that's where you're wrong, little spawn.

"If you protect Lady Hircine, then she will protect you like her life depends on it, and so will I, if we come to a consensus. As a bonus, I'll even give you information that would be pertinent to your master's interests. I know it's difficult placating a vampire lord like Cazador Szarr, and then, as a charitable woman, I will also tell you what I am able about this family, but you should understand that just like Lady Hircine, I am also bound by some of their… rules. But I need to see your resolve if you want any of my help. Do we have an agreement?"

Lexi's far sharper than he gave her credit for. "How did you know about my master?"

She scoffs, "Oh please. Those little white lies of sun-sensitivity and drow-heritage might work on the Zau'viirs when they can't even see past their own noses, but I've been around. I remember Vellioth…" She scrutinizes Astarion, his skin crawling with discomfort when her eyes blaze a trail over his features. "You look like him."

"Who? Vellioth? Who is that?"

"Ask your master." His question is easily dismissed as she moves on. "Anyway, back to my question: Do you agree or not? There's quite a bit to your benefit here. I can't stop you from feeding on her completely, Lady Hircine will know I interfered… and I'm not so cruel as to completely starve you."

"Oh my, how generous of you! It must be hard balancing it with all that wickedness you keep locked up so tight." Astarion glowers at the maid, wanting more than anything at this time to just drain her dry so those unsettling black eyes stop examining him like a cadaver laid out on a table. "I'll… bite, because you're right, this seems beneficial. All I need to do is play as Hircine's knight in shining armor and you'll just help me with all I need?"

"Yes, my lord." She mocks.

"But what, pray tell, are you protecting me from? You're devoted to your lady, I can somewhat understand that, but why go so far?"

Lexi leans in close, tilting her head to the side with unblinking eyes. "Like I said, I raised Lady Hircine. She's my daughter, regardless of who birthed her. I have been the one to feed and dress her, wipe away her tears, and kiss her scrapes, and all I want is to take her out of this hell, but I can't when she refuses to leave because unfortunately, I raised her to be a kind and loving person who wants to help others. That's the problem with instilling virtues and morals in a place like this, it always explodes spectacularly in your face."

Now that's something they can agree on.

"As to what you need protecting from? Well, everyone really, excluding Lady Hircine and my lovely self, of course. No one here is on your side, and if you are in their way, my lord, then they will do anything to trample you underfoot." Lexi reaches into her dress pocket, pulling out a small object for Astarion to look at.

It's the purple glass eye that Vaermina 'gifted' him, which should be hidden away under his nightstand. Astarion isn't the only one sticking his nose where it doesn't belong.

"Do you know who this belongs to?" Lexi asks, holding the orb between her thumb and forefinger.

"Vaermina… gave it to me." He answers reluctantly.

"No, I asked who it belongs to, not who stole it." The eye is turned so the pupil stares directly at Astarion. "This is Arkay's, and you will be in for an extremely unpleasant evening if Lady Hircine finds it."

Astarion runs his tongue over his teeth, wondering why no one in this family can be normal for five fucking minutes. He's not even seventeen. Who takes a child's eye like that?

Well, he now knows two people that might stoop to such horrendous actions.

"Why does Vaermina have Arkay's eye?" He recalls her necklace of eyes. Gods below, they're all real then, aren't they?

Lexi sighs, pocketing Arkay's real eye once again. "Because Vaermina is insane and vindictive—though Lady Hircine might say she's sick because she'd rather not acknowledge the depravity this family has fallen into. Anyway, Vaermina collects eyes, especially from those who have caught her's so to speak. Arkay angered her, and she made him pay, though truly I don’t know why. If she gave you this, then she's coming for a replacement—one of your pretty red ones. Avoidance is normally your best bet with Vaermina, but she's already on your tail so… just don't get caught alone with her again."

Easier said than done when Astarion understands nothing about these people. Was Vaermina rattling the door last night then, coming to 'collect'?

Insanity, the lot of them.

"What should I do about Boethiah?"

Something heavy and remorseful flickers across Lexi's face, but it slips away faster than Astarion can register the emotion properly. "Boethiah will leave you alone. Most days he prefers to harass Lady Hircine because he believes as twins that should they thrive or suffer, it should be together. Unless you give him something that makes you a target, he holds interest in little else."

But how does Boethiah know what—or who—Astarion has done?

‘Whore.’

"Great. This is all so enlightening and immediately helpful. Thank you, Lexi, for giving me nothing to work with. Let me clarify this agreement: I take care of Hircine in whatever capacity I am able, and you will help me with whatever I need?" Astarion says, leaning back against the couch with a frown.

"I will do whatever I am able, but yes, my lord. I think at the end of the night, you will find these terms quite agreeable, especially as we draw closer to L’Alure d’Ulnen. Believe me when I say that I prefer us working together, even if you are a blood-sucking bastard. We're all more alike than you might think."

Doubtful.

But having someone on the inside can only be to his advantage, even if it is the plane's worst maid. "Fine. I accept your terms."

"Wonderful! I'll be expecting immediate results." And with her cornering finished, Lexi gets up, placing her chair back by the desk. "Should you deliver to my standards, I'll give you what you need as swift as my feet can carry me. Oh, and do not speak of this to Lady Hircine. She doesn't like when people are fretting over her."

"Alright. Are you done being a miserable witch or do you have more venom to spit my way?"

"I could go all day, my lord, but even the wicked deserve rest. I'll be watching you~" Arkay’s eye is pulled from her pocket and wiggled grotesquely in his direction before Lexi skips off, acting nothing like the old lady she is.

Fucking psychotic old witch. Are any of them normal?

Astarion is now beholden to two masters.

What does he make of all this?

A wife that goes to great lengths to receive some kind of high, but why? What about her life is so bad that she needs to escape it? And now she is more his problem than ever.

A matriarch who is not as removed from her Menzoberranzan upbringing as some have been taught to believe.

Siblings that run the entire range of insanity. Some may hide it better than others, though one sibling in particular collects eyes from her own family and possibly Astarion soon if he doesn't protect himself.

Is Astarion expected to suffer his way through life, even without Cazador there to bring down the lash?

He'd like something normal for once.

---

Hircine returns from work while Astarion is pouring himself a glass of Red Dragon Crush. He finished the last bottle… would Hircine get him more?

Something about it is so bloody delightful and crisp. The vintner knows how to appeal to a clientele of a more discerning taste.

Though nothing compares to the real deal, he thinks as he takes a savouring sip and enters the den, finding his wife bent at the waist reading the title of his book. She straightens herself rigidly at his appearance, smoothing the fabric of her dress while a healthy flush blooms across her cheeks.

'A husk of a person.' Seems a disservice to the lady, Lexi, when there's a little more life to her than that.

Still, Astarion can't help but wonder then, what happened to Hircine? What was she like before something in the past broke her? How does he find out when the wife and maid are bound or compelled to secrecy?

How does he make her his so that she might never turn against him?

Lips curling into a welcoming grin tinted with an intense, heated smoulder, Astarion steps over to his wife. Having left earlier than usual for work, they didn't speak on last night—or anything, really. Astarion only remembers the way Hircine struggled to get out of bed before Lexi burst in to heal her.

Exactly as she's done every two days for the past week.

He hates that the wicked maid is right. He already knew it, though it was easier to keep the thoughts tucked deliberately away within his mind. After almost two hundred years, Astarion thought he was finally getting his due. No Cazador or Godey or spawn to get in his way, oh no, Astarion squandered it all by himself for greed and lack of care.

What is he pouting for? It's not like Lexi is holding a stake to his heart, forbidding him entirely from having a nibble. He only needs to take less so the precious lady can keep her wits about her, and while not as filled, Astarion can supplement with animals as needed.

He reaches down, clasping Hircine’s warm hand in his and brings it to his lips, resting a delicate kiss to the back—minus the tongue. They aren't replicating what that nasty dragonborn did. "Welcome back," he purrs.

Hircine flutters her lashes though he thinks it’s more involuntary from surprise than being knocked off her feet with desire. She swallows, taking her hand back. "Thank you. Uhm, how was your day?"

"Oh, just a little of this and a little of that. I went to the library and then—Ah!" He almost forgot. "I ran into Iimithra as I was leaving, she asked to see you in her office."

He does not miss the hardening in her eyes. Hircine does not wish to see Mummy. That's too bad.

Her shoulders slump before she fixes her posture, inhaling deeply and placing a folding fan on the end table. "I will be back later."

And the wife is gone yet again.

Once the door clicks shut, Astarion snatches up the drow-to-common dictionary, remembering a smattering of words that have graced his ears a few times now.

L’Alure d’Ulnen.

Fuck, he doesn't even know how it's spelled.

Thankfully, there is a phonetic alphabet right at the beginning that might steer him in the proper direction.

Some parchment, a quill and a newly opened ink pot are pulled from a desk drawer in the den, and Astarion writes out all the letters that could match his query.

He's going to be here all night, isn't he?

Page after page is turned and thoroughly scoured for any combination of letters that might make sense. Returning to the beginning, he reads a page on syntax and oh, ‘L'’ before a word might stand for ‘the’.

An actual lesson on drow might be in his future.

The minutes tick away, a finger dragging carefully by each word as he garbles in drow to sound it out, to find anything that is even remotely similar to these foreign etchings.

Another page is flipped and—

Alure — Dance (noun).

L'Alure? The dance? It sounds right. He'll go with it and move on.

‘D’’ in the right context could mean ‘of’, so that could narrow down his search if it matches.

Onhirin? Worshipping.

L'Alure d'Onhirin. The dance of worshipping. That could be it being eilistraeans, but it sounds wrong on the tongue—to him. It's possible Astarion is saying it incorrectly, but…

He records it for later.

Onnhillen — loaners. No, definitely not that.

Moving on.

Ulin — future. The dance of future? Futures?

Ulnen — lies. L'Alure d'Ulnen. The dance of lies. Ominous. It’s hard to say if that’s the correct translation to his unpracticed ears. The words just don't drop off his tongue properly.

Ulnin — soon.

The dance of soon? Hmm. No.

And then it occurs to him: What if this word or words don't translate literally? Or some other modifier is missing when they speak? There's also a non-zero chance the Zau'viirs speak high drow, and then he's off the mark entirely.

Astarion is confident at least that the first word is ‘Dance’. It's thematic. It feels right.

Having put in more than enough brain power for the night, Astarion waits for Hircine's return, having handpicked a book that pertains in some ways to the far realms.

She'll give herself over one way or another.

Notes:

-idk if they actually do birth records and stuff like this but I've decided they do because this family likes to keep track of things
-I know this chapter is a bit of a snoozer, but I needed the setup. Next chapter you giluys will probably wish that we could go back to less interesting times.

Next Up: Mother knows best

_____
A discord server I'm in did a Secret Santa exchange, and the wonderful MusicKeeper wrote a lovely fic of Hircine and Astarion as my santa.
Please check out to another year of pestering you if you would like some future Hircine and Astarion being a cute and loving married couple. I can't believe how well she captured them and you should check out her other stuff too!

Chapter 13: I Don't Wanna Do This Anymore

Notes:

Content Warnings

familial abuse, torture, whipping, bit of gore, body horror

I don’t wanna do this anymore by PVRIS - this is Hircine’s anthem, all day and night.

-I do have a playlist for this fic

Hidden beneath Mother and Father's hall, the door to Mother's office is as cold and unfeeling as ever, with its wood painted void black, overlaid in silver webbing to resemble their signature marble export.

Hircine has a few ideas about what her vicious mother could want from her, though the fact that the relayed message came from Astarion does little to ease her thundering pulse.

How did they run into each other in the first place?

The thoughts are chased away as Hircine turns the handle, opening the door to Mother's office, finding it the same as always. Sterile to a surgical degree and no fire roaring in the fireplace, because ‘comfort makes one complacent’. Mother's grand desk is situated directly center of the room, authoritarian and unwelcoming, and she sits behind it, hands clasped over top neat piles of parchments, face stoic, awaiting the moment it will twist into disappointment yet again.

Mal stands to her left, arms behind his back, a smirk gracing his lips.

So, it's a bad meeting today. Mal only ever appears when he's tattled—or lied, and that means Hircine must be punished for whatever transgression she's committed, big or small, real or not.

"Sit," Mother commands.

Hircine takes a seat directly across the desk from Mother, balling up her dress skirt in her fists, unsure if she regrets leaving her fan at home, but Mother doesn’t like nervous fidgeting.

Mother is still as she speaks, eyes gleaning Hircine’s movements for any blunders. "The Parliament of Peers will be here on the thirtieth, along with Ulder Ravengard, who is expected to be tapped as the replacement for Abdel Adrien on the Council of Four. How are the preparations for the performance? Anything less than perfect will not be permitted."

She only wants to know about the entertainment? “Every afternoon we practice for two hours. Kyne is also personally taking care of anyone that falls behind, and if they don't meet our standards, they're removed. Every routine flows perfectly, you won't be disappointed, Mother.” They dance until their feet bleed if a mistake is caught. Anything that isn't up to Mother's standards will not be Hircine's fault this time.

Not that she can stop Mother from blaming her, regardless.

"Raphael will be here, too. You know the rules." Mother states and Hircine nods her understanding.

Don't speak to him. Don't look at him.

Other than Mother and Father, no one is allowed to engage with Raphael. Mal tried once, thinking he could be sly, get under Mother's nose… It was two entire months until they saw Mal again, and even then, another year was lost until he regained complete use of his arm.

Mother does not tolerate disobedience, yet she keeps Mal around like the loyal, abused dog he is. He is Mother's most hated yet favored child. Hircine is a close second, only better tolerated because of the honor of current eldest daughter.

Everyone else doesn't matter on account of being useless and worthless—by Mother's standards, and maybe sometimes Hircine's.

When was the last time Kyne completed her duties without Hircine being forced to step in?

Fingers floating across her desk, Mother picks up a thick, opened envelope and drops it in front of Hircine. "Read it."

This is what the meeting is really about. Taking the luxurious cardstock in hand, Hircine notes who it is from: The Ravenshades. The contents are removed, and she reads the letter printed in an elegant but unfeeling script.

They regretfully decline any future business endeavors with the Zau'viirs, citing lackluster gemstones and a less-than welcoming reception.

Hircine is dumbfounded. The meeting went so well last week! She covered the details they wanted without talking until their ears rang, and then Astarion stepped in for more casual conversation, easily keeping them entertained with his light-hearted banter.

The Ravenshades were so eager to get started as soon as possible! How?!

"I-I don't understand, Mother. I showed them our finest stock, the best of the absolute best. All their questions were answered, and I even gave them expected delivery dates should they have signed that night! Th-They were impressed, I—"

Her mouth clamps shut when Mother stands, a sigh so forlorn slipping from her chest that one might think her daughter threw herself to the floor in a raucous tantrum. Reaching under her desk, she pulls out a bottle filled with a dark liquid—a health potion, and then lays her favored multi-tailed whip upon the desk, the silvered rope braided silk from Mother's beloved spiders that has taken on a rusty stain from how often it is put to task. Elegant in make, barbaric in use. "To your knees."

Swallowing down any arguments for they are not welcome here, Hircine pushes back from the desk and gets to her knees on the cold, unyielding ground, hands held up in waiting. Mother only needs to give one directive.

No warning is given before the knotted rope snaps against the thin flesh of Hircine’s palms. Red, stinging welts immediately sprout up from where contact was made; the first lash a gentle warning. They will only get worse.

Another comes down with more ferocity, the bite of the rope breaking skin, ice and fire lancing into her body. Each strike a harsh, hateful reminder that she is less than, a tolerated mistake. Hircine's jaw is screwed shut, tears burning her eyes yet held back through sheer force of will as she awaits the next. There is no use counting, Mother will go on until she feels like it's been enough.

Hircine can only hope the potion will cover the damage.

The slaps of the whip turn wet and sticky with pooling blood and scraps of skin, each lash splattering the ground and Hircine's body in her precious essence. Hands are violently shaking, struggling to stay up, but if Hircine drops them, then Mother will move onto the next best thing—her face.

A desolate whimper eeks out from between her teeth, failing to choke it back in time and Mother pauses her punishment, voice a mocking coo. "Silence is expected, Hircine. You know better."

And so it continues, lash and strike and whip and tear. Blood pours over her hands, settling into the cracks of the marble floor. The unending pain is brittle and sharp, there will be no forgetting it for a long time to come. Each time the whip raises, Hircine begs silently for it to be over, and then yet again, her pleading goes unanswered as the knots meet her hands once more.

The torment continues and so she endures, forbidding herself from looking down at her hands should she lose the contents of her stomach and the sanity of her mind. There will be naught but bone left when Mother has her fill.

Mal stands behind Mother for ‘safety’, a tinge green in the face. The second he and Hircine make eye contact, she knows he meddled in the Ravenshade deal. Mal laughs under his breath at her suffering, but not quiet enough.

The mistake is paid in full when the crack of Mother's whip meets his face without hesitation.

Mal collapses in on himself, still having enough mind to not cry out as he holds his face in his hands. Mother stands over him now with a fierce growl. "Your silence is required."

You get what you deserve, Malacath, Hircine thinks bitterly, focusing on his pain over hers. If only she could be the one to watch him while Mother whips his skin away; the vibrant smile she would wear knowing his agony.

Punishments now meted out to Mother's satisfaction, she sets the whip down on her desk; the tails overhanging so blood drips onto the floor audibly in fat plops. It's an echo within Hircine's head with how quiet the room is outside of her stifled, choked breaths.

A tear of betrayal finally falls as Mother kneels down in front of Hircine, flicking the watery streak from her face with a frown before taking Hircine's head in her hands. “No crying. This is your due. Endure it,” her tones shifts now, speaking soothingly in drow. "My dark hunter, you always fall short of my needs. It pains me to reprimand you so, but this is necessary for your growth. Your softness is easily exploited, and I cannot allow such a weakness. Do you understand?"

"Ye-Yes, Mo-Mo-Mother." Hircine responds, sucking down her sobs.

Will she ever be able to use her hands again?

Mother brings the potion bottle to Hircine's lips, encouraging her to drink. It's potent—and disgustingly viscous sliding down her throat, and as soon as she's downed it all, the skin of her palms binds back together like it was never rended from her body to begin with.

Good as she was before entering this hell.

The pain is gone, but its memory lingers, harsh and unbearable.

Silence. Quiet. Don't draw attention.

"I don't want you to try, I need you to succeed. As much as I hate your softness, it is useful for these surface dwellers, they respond to it so well. We'll be able to return to Menzoberranzan with our heads held high as long as you stop making these mistakes." Squeezing Hircine’s cheeks between her hands, Mother gives her face a shake, playing at being maternal with a voice sickly sweet, like the sugar-coated berries Hircine had for dessert yesterday. “Be thankful I punished you today. I considered saving it for the Dance of Lies, but you would be ground into paste if I have to pay all your mistakes back in one day.”

Mother gets to her feet, leaving Hircine frozen where she kneels. "You're dismissed, my dark hunter." She then turns to Mal who is back on his feet, clutching at his head. "And you, get out. Don't appear before me again unless I request it."

Glancing down—and regretting it immediately as she chokes down bile—Hircine sees her blood pooled at her knees, bits of flesh and sinew decaying rapidly now that the potion worked its magic.

Mal is already slipping out the door while Hircine shakily stands, unsure of whether she can make it on her own back home.

As if she has a choice in the matter.

I don't want to go to Menzoberranzan. That's been Mother's promise for so, so long. They will return with riches galore and slaves aplenty to buy their safety back into the drow stronghold.

Those are only Mother's wishes, though Father never argues—if he even can. The rest know they will not last under a true matriarch's hand. They've read the stories.

Mother fancies herself a surface-dwelling Quenthel Baenre, when all she amounts to is a night hag without all the fancy magic.

The door is shut behind Hircine as she escapes the oppressive office in haste, and there Mal stands waiting, dried blood streaking his face from the laceration that marks down brow to chin. He's lucky he didn't lose an eye. She glares hatefully at him, intent on imparting even a fraction of her pain into his skin. "You sabotaged my meeting with the Ravenshades. I hope it was worth it."

He shrugs with indifference. "Everything’s gone smoothly for you recently. Thought I'd shake it up a bit, I can't have you skipping ahead of me this year."

"'Shake it up'? Why not do something useful to prove yourself instead of tearing me down, or is your worthless man-brain incapable of such complex thought?" She seethes, taking a step towards him, and it’s one step too far.

"Insufferable bitch!" He lunges for Hircine, grabbing a fistful of her hair and carrying that momentum to slam her against the wall. Black and white and stars fracture Hircine’s vision when her head cracks loudly against the stone. Mal leans in close, lips pulled back from his teeth as he speaks. "Vorn'tyrr's teachings clearly weren't thorough enough if you think you can speak to me that way." He releases her with those words, and Hircine crumbles to the floor as the world spins and duplicates around her.

S̷̛͈̞̫̬͕̳̫̭̜͛̌̀̊̾̚͜͜͜o̸̖̘̼͕̳͇̤̼͍̍͂̚͘͜Ą̵̧̝̤̖͕̻̱̹̦́͋̉̇̽͑͗̑̚͜ͅq̵̨̛͔̲͚̰͕̏͂̄̀̾͐̽̈́͝ͅ K̶̢̡̛͇̯͉̮͉̳̦̹̩͓̽̓̇̿͗̀̕ą̸̢̯͚̯̼̪͉̬͇̎̈̊͝͠ẍ̸̳̱̥́̂k̷̛̩͖̞̜̠̣̜̬̙̺͗̔͋̔̿̏̾͗̎̚͜͜a̸̛̦͉̥͇̣̝̝͂́̌̓͂͌p̸̧̢̥̜̗̙͚̫̫̮͉̯͗̾̐̈́̏ͅq̵̡̭͙͕̬̯̹̣̦̺̙̜̜̜͖̈́̐͑̏̌̓̆̇̋̕͝ ̷̧̧̧̛̬̜͚͕͉̱̙̭̽͌̏̈́̽̽̃̈́́̓͌͝J̶̨̼̻͉̓͒́̍͘a̸̛̙͚̭͓̪̠͉͙̮͚͖̰̓̾̓́̈̂͛͗̈́̽̚̚ǔ̴̧̢̩̤̱͈̤̺͇͍̩̈̈́̍̂̂̕̕̕D̸͓͕̆͌̀̈́̇͑̀E̴̩̝̮̊̅b̶̯͎͂̓

Yes, you're right.

As Mal stalks off having said his piece, Hircine draws on the sliver of consciousness Herma-Mora has gifted her, channeling it into a curse that will plague Mal with visions of his downfall, over and over again. He will be cast out, enslaved within Menzoberranzan as all men should be, or maybe fed to the cavvekans until he finds some way to break this curse.

She lunges forward on hands and knees to touch his ankle when he retreats, and a filament of purple magic sinks into Mal's skin.

If I have to suffer, then so should you.

Finding purchase on the wall, Hircine drags herself up, knowing that if Mother finds her in this position, there will be worse than a lashing in her future.

Her head pulses and throbs, vision swimming while her gut twists in agony, ready to relieve itself of its contents. Hircine gags, unable to stop what's coming up, crumpling back down on all fours as her stomach lurches.

Her mouth opens and something, bulbous and hard, surges out as it stretches her throat, splatting sloppily to the ground.

It's not vomit.

She looks down, coming face to… face? with a miniature green spectator covered in her spit, its five yellow eyes slow blinking independently of one another as the shock settles over them.

It opens its mouth in a silent scream before phasing out of existence, back to the outer planes most likely.

"Did I just—" Hircine coughs and gags again, the acrid taste of its slime and her stomach acid coating her mouth in a foul concoction. "Did I just give birth?"

That's the price she pays for borrowing Herma-Mora’s unsound power. Is throwing up a baby spectator better than having her eyeballs melted?

Probably.

Yes.

Righting herself once again using the wall for balance, Hircine tries to forget everything about what just occurred. It's not all that hard as her brain turns to jelly within her skull, wiggling, flipping and compressing in on itself as she makes the journey home.

It's been an eternity when she limps her way back up to the main floor cradling her head, standing before the steps of the grand staircase which are stretching and elongating further from her reach. How will she make it up? One step is taken and the world shifts beneath Hircine's feet, a gauzy film coating her vision as she collapses to her knees, losing whatever hold she had on the banister for support.

Why are there so many slippery steps to get home?

A brief rest… That's all I need.

Laid out along the stairs, she closes her teary eyes and lets go.

"…—et up!" Someone hisses into her ear not even a moment later, firm hands grabbing at her shoulders to hoist her back to her feet.

Everything is spinning, Hircine can't keep herself upright. "Who's… it?" Her words are slurred and she can't see them clearly, shifting and pulsing, spinning all around.

It can't be Mal. He only kicks her down, never helps her up. Stendarr? No, he's infested the same as she was last month.

"Up, now." They command.

A ringing is piercing her ears, a worm burrowing too deep. How is Hircine supposed to exist in these conditions? The person is propping her up, all her weight bearing down on them, dragging her up and up that never-ending flight of stairs.

What if they stay trapped on them forever? She doesn't want to die on the stairs.

Her eyelids are heavy cage doors wanting to slam shut on her consciousness. "Imsuh tired…" She mumbles, tongue too fat for the confines of her mouth.

"You can't sleep. Vaermina will be out soon, so stop dragging your clumsy feet."

That sparks some recognition as her foot finds purchase on the carpeted stairs. "Boe?"

"We're almost there. Just—What was that thing you spit up? The ball-looking creature."

Spit up? Hircine isn't the kind of lady to spit up! "I'unno what you mean. M'good. Why d'you fight w'me, Boe?"

"I'm trying to keep you awake, we're not fighting. The thing, it was a green ball and had four arms of something. It disappeared."

They've made some progress up and by Hircine’s estimation, which are very, very bad right now, they might make it to the top in four thousand, two hundred and fifty six years.

Why is Boe asking about a green ball? Hircine doesn't play games anymore, unless—

"Ooooh. You ask about th'baby? It's, uhm—I spit out a spectator. I didn't wan'to. It hurt."

There's a shift and now her feet land on flat ground. How did they get here so fast? What magic does Boethiah possess to do such a feat?

"Call for Lexi. Now." He demands as they enter her hall. Oh gods, she thought she'd never make it back home.

'Lexi! Help—!' And that's all Hircine can manage to get out before her thoughts are sundered by a dagger of pain cleaving through her gray matter. She finds the tender, swollen bump on her scalp where Mal smashed her against the wall, fingers grazing the spot before retreating swiftly. "Ow…"

"I have to go. Lexi will take care of you." Hands rest on her shoulders, giving them a firm, reassuring squeeze as she sinks against a warping wall threatening to swallow her right up.

Their eyes meet, the same ones she grew up alongside, though Hircine isn't sure if there are one or two or even three Boethiah's before her now. He looks warm and nice today, just like he used to be, even with the hollowed cheeks and sunken eyes.

Why did Lolth have to take him?

Her head was hit much too hard. That still won't stop her from reaching out. "You stay! Lexi'll be here, Boe. It can be how it used t’be. I don't wanna lose you."

Pity lines his features like a veil. "I'm already lost, Hircine. Do what you need to escape. Stop worrying about everyone else, they aren't worth your kindness anymore." He glances at the doors, stiffening. "Tell Lexi her grays are showing."

He is gone by the time the doors to her home open, and Lexi rushes over in a panic, dropping to her knees as her hands fly around Hircine’s face. "My-My lady, what did she do to you?"

"Mother's a-angry." Hircine's head falls back against the wall, too heavy now. She wants to sleep.

The calming blue glow of Lexi's healing magic washes over Hircine, filling her mind with clarity and fixing the damage leftover from Mal and her magic. Who knew throwing up a spectator would be so traumatic?

"What happened, lovey?"

"The Ravenshade deal fell through."

Her faithful maid stares at her in astonishment. "But you worked so hard on the proposal! Even that bastard seemed pleased with the night and he didn't even know what he was doing!"

She doesn't have to talk about Astarion like that. He's done nothing wrong.

"Did they say what happened? There must have been a mistake, maybe they sent the wrong response or—"

No one would ever go to the lengths that Lexi does for Hircine.

This is what a mother is like.

Taking Lexi's hand, Hircine soothes her fretting. "I just couldn't meet their expectations." There's no use in outing Mal’s involvement. It will only inflame Lexi's rage and then she'll demand that they leave like she always does.

It's not an option right now.

I'm sorry, Boethiah. How do I leave when it's all I've known?

---

Quick to change her gore-spattered clothes once inside, Hircine stands still in the bathroom, unsure of what to do.

She scrubbed all the blood from beneath her nails and between her fingers, finding no trace of the whip marks; the potion and Lexi's magic a generous fix for all.

This always happens. Mother is disappointed, gives Hircine a beating to remember and then she'll be left alone again for a few months. It's really not that bad, I can handle it.

She doesn't want to think about poor Boethiah, fighting desperately to cling to the last dregs of his sanity. She doesn't want to think about hateful Mal or L'Alure d'Ulnen or how she will have to pay over and over and over again.

Hircine doesn't want to think about anything right now.

There is someone who can give her that peace.

Astarion.

A nightgown is pulled on, the breezy cotton smooth against her skin, floor-length with a lower than usual neckline that is still tasteful. She notices the way Astarion’s eyes will drop to her chest, lingering occasionally before snapping away as if breaking free from a trance.

Tathzar never noticed such things on account of being… uninterested, and Vorn'tyrr, well, Hircine never wanted to catch his eye, ever.

She's not all that interested in lusty urges, but if it keeps Astarion nice and occupied, then why not?

Gathering what's left of her composure, Hircine heads for the den, knowing he's there reading as always with a full glass of wine in hand. He said every two days was fine, but surely doing more wouldn't hurt? It's good for both of them.

In the cozy den with the fire all ablaze, Astarion sits with his back to her, an ethereal glow haloing his snowy curls. There is a rustle of parchment as he adjusts his book. Walking around to face him, Hircine clears her throat to get his attention. "Uhm, could I join you, Husband?" She gestures to the space beside him.

His sharp red eyes assess her for only a moment. Did he smell the blood? "Of course."

She sinks into the couch, not close enough for them to touch, though much closer than she might normally sit. Hircine prefers to give Astarion and herself the space, but they did share a kiss or two yesterday. There's no need to be so skittish.

Does she like Astarion? She doesn't know. He's here all the time, and will continue to be unless something happens.

They don't have to like each other, but it'd be nice if they did. What does Hircine want from Astarion? Sex she could take or leave, men are always too rough, eager to belittle. Some companionship is welcome, but a man like Astarion probably doesn't want to waste his time learning about the weird things she likes.

He joined her in the evensong without hesitation, some credit is due.

More than anything, she would like to tell him what Mother has planned. If only to have someone else to speak about it to—plan with.

Run away with.

But even if she could, how does she explain the ‘My mother wants us to live as a great house within Menzoberranzan’ while assuring him that he will not suffer the same fate as all the other men?

She doesn’t, because it’s futile. If they aren’t slaughtered on the spot, the Zau’viirs will be kept as low-ranking slaves. They’re practically surface elves in the matron mothers’ eyes.

Lexi says so. She knows Menzoberranzan better than Mother ever could, who grew up hidden away, sheltered within the Fey-Branche family for a measly forty years in a way that was very unlike the torturous upbringing typical of the drow.

Mother rebelled because she thought she could do better outside of Menzoberranzan without Lolth to guide her, and she has if their current success is anything to go by.

But to be welcomed back with opened arms and a spot as a matron mother after her desertion, even with all the gems and slaves they have to offer? Unlikely.

Hircine doesn't want to stay, to experience the horror that is to come, but if she leaves, then who—

These thoughts are useless. Astarion probably wouldn't believe her anyway if she told him the truth, or he'd run far, far away from them. 

She wouldn't blame him.

"So, how was your day—?" Hircine shakes her head, forgetting herself. "I'm sorry, I already asked you that earlier."

"That's alright. You've had a busy day, I assume, so I can always tell you again. I love talking about myself, darling." Astarion tilts his head to the side, fangs peeking out past his friendly smirk. It's swift, but his eyes drop below her neckline as expected, a hunger for more than blood darkening his gaze.

Being predictable is a comfort she appreciates.

He still hasn't closed his book, using his hand to mark his place as he speaks—Hircine is interrupting. "I went to the library today and took home a pile of books even with that—even with Sotha being unwelcoming as he is… What is his problem?"

Sotha is always polite with Hircine, though she has heard from Arkay that he can be a bit snappish. "I don't know. What happened?"

"I was…" Astarion pauses, calculating in the way he does, "picking out a new book and he chased me out, hitting me with his cane! Who does that? I was minding my business!"

"Honestly, I don't know, Husband. I'll speak with him. He shouldn't treat you like that." Can any of them attempt a peaceful course of action instead of attacking someone? That would make Hircine happy.

"Thank you," he huffs. "Anyway, I ran into your mother after that and came back here to finish my reading without being harassed. You should probably also talk to Lexi then, she's mean to me too."

Hircine's stomach drops. Is this all her fault? Has her dismissiveness lead to Astarion being ostracized by everyone?

Or is Mother right—is Hircine’s proclivity for kindness such a weakness that it's hurting those around her?

"Hircine?" Astarion says, refocusing her attention. "Are you alright?"

"I'll talk to Lexi later. I'm sorry." Hircine struggles out, voice tight.

"Oh, I did mean that as a joke about Lexi. We've had our disagreements, but we're fine. Truly." He reassures.

"You're sure?"

"Yes, darling."

She'll still reiterate to Lexi later that Astarion is her husband now, so he must be treated with the same respect as Hircine is given.

"So, how did it go with your Mother?"

I don't want to talk or think about this.

"Fine. She just wanted some updates." Hircine pivots to something they both like. "Are you hungry?"

Astarion seems surprised when his trim and proper eyebrows both rise high on his head. "Oh, er, no, actually. I went hunting for a little snack earlier."

"When? You didn't bring it up."

Eyes narrowing slightly, his head cocks to the side. "You don't notify me every time you have a meal."

Fair, that would be weird. "I thought you preferred…" Hircine is about to sound like such a child, "my blood over an animal's?"

"I-I do, darling! It's, uhm, the chase that I was looking for—the adrenaline rush!"

"Oh, I see." She turns away, not knowing what else to say. All she wants is relief from the hellish thoughts ensnaring her mind.

Bane is difficult to come by, Lexi made sure of it and being intoxicated with alcohol just isn't Hircine’s poison of choice. It's not strong enough and the hangover afterwards is really not worth the minor alleviation of troubles.

Astarion has been perfect, draining Hircine until she stands at the edge of oblivion. She doesn't remember what happens half the time, but she always wakes up in bed, neatly tucked in. And the bits and pieces she does remember, well she feels a wonderful nothing. What more could she ask for?

Aren't vampires supposed to be forever hungry or is it because he's a spawn?

He's back to reading his book now when Hircine looks over. "Are you sure? I really don't mi—"

His attention snaps to hers, irritation boiling over in his words. "I don't want your blood right now." End of sentence. It's final.

Hircine shrinks in on herself. Why is she pushing him? What if Astarion gets angry with her and lashes out? She'd much rather feel like this than endure the sting of his hand.

"I'm sorry."

His irritation wanes, easing back into a friendly smile. "Nothing to apologize for, darling. It's… nice having someone so concerned over my well-being, but I am a fully grown vampire. I don't need all this mother-hen-ing."

"I understand." Hircine fiddles with the lacey bodice of her nightgown, feeling conflicted. She could just end the conversation here, hide in the study like the coward she is, but why not put some effort in for once? Maybe that will take her mind off of… everything else. "How old are you?"

His head tilts a few degrees, surprise blinked away quickly. "Two-hundred a—" Astarion coughs, loudly. "Ahem, apologies. I am one-hundred and ninety-four."

Hircine pauses at his correction but lets it slide. She doesn't care about his lies. "How long have you been a vampire?"

His mouth opens, hanging like that for a second while he stares at her. Is she not allowed to ask that? "Uhm, well, I was, er…" He swallows thickly. "My father turned me when I was thirty-nine."

Is that normal for a family of vampires? Seems awfully young for forever.

But what does she know?

"And then you were a magistrate for fifty years? How does that work?"

Hircine knows she's caught him in a lie now as he scrambles internally for an answer. It would almost be funny watching the gears turn and break if Astarion didn't look so scared.

"My-My father pulled some strings. Night courts are needed sometimes for drow such as your lovely self or even… gnomes." He says 'gnome' like it's a dirty word.

"Hmm, I see." Glancing down, she sees his book is held open with his finger marking the spot he was reading. "Ah, I keep interrupting you…"

The book is immediately snapped shut and set aside as Astarion adjusts on the couch so he's facing her more directly, head propped up on an arm. "You are not. Ask whatever you please."

'I love talking about myself, darling.'

So that much is true.

But what does she ask? She'd rather not participate in any other variation of a lying dance. There's enough of that within her family.

She looks at his book again, deciding on something easy. "What is your book about?"

"Oh, 'Discerning the Transmundane'? I found it the other day. It follows a human by the name of Septimus Signus, trying to obtain knowledge well beyond his comprehension. You know how humans are… Currently he's fallen into some twisted mind flayer camp in the Far Realms, learning their ways."

Far Realms? Hircine loves the Far Realms, or at least the concept of it. A mere mortal being like her could not comprehend much within them, and even the reality altering touch she received from Herma-Mora is not something she can explain.

"Do you like that kind of thing, Husband? The-The mind flayers and otherworldly unknowns?" She asks.

Astarion shrugs, looking thoughtful. "I always enjoy an engaging story, and if I learn something new along the way, then all the better for me."

"Oh? Uhm, I know a little about mind flayers, if you'd… like to know."

Reaching forward with his hand, Astarion pulls some of Hircine’s hair over her shoulder to twist around his finger. "Please do. The forward stated the author 'strove for accuracy even in fiction'. I want to know how accurate this book is or if its tale is as tall as a tarrasque."

She is acutely aware of the sensation that her hair is being lightly tugged on, but it's not… bad. Hircine ignores it in favor of brain-eating tentacle monsters. "No one is sure where illithids come from—oh, that's undercommon for mind flayers, so it can be your first word!" Hircine smiles, giddy at sharing. "Anyway, they primarily reside in the worst recesses of the Underdark now. They don't live in the Far Realms at all."

"Ugh, so the book's already wrong…"

"Yes, but that's minor and can be hand waved away. This Septimus should not be able to exist peacefully within a mind flayer colony, he would be enthralled or eaten immediately… so there is your biggest discrepancy."

Astarion wiggles the ends of her hair against her chin. It tickles. "There aren't any friendly mind flayers?"

"Uh-Uhm, may-maybe?" Hircine's flustered, stammering out her words as her husband closes the distance millimeters at a time. "They're all controlled by an elder brain, and who knows what happens if they escape from its tyranny... Do you want to hear how mind flayers reproduce?" He nods his affirmation, and she sits up straighter. "It's disgusting, I hope that's alright."

"I can handle it. Enlighten me, darling."

"Mind flayers lay eggs, which hatch into these tadpoles with little tentacles and lots of sharp teeth. When they're ready, they get implanted into a humanoid host, like you or I, uhm, through the eye primarily. Then it'll feast upon your brain and turn you into an illithid, eventually. Tentacles sprout from your mouth, your skin becomes slimy, your head elongates; a new being birthed from within… it's an awful experience."

Astarion is frozen with an uncomfortable smile on his face. He thaws eventually, chuckling. "Well, you weren't wrong about it being disgusting. What does one do if they have a tadpole implanted into their head?"

"Er, hope it passes quickly? There are few guaranteed ways of saving the host, though I've read that if you catch them within the first hour of implantation, you can crush their skull and then revive them. There's also rumors of the githyanki posessing some... thing to extract tadpoles, but no records of if it actually succeeding. I think as long as the tadpole died, the host should be… alright, or at least not a mind flayer."

"What a terrible way to go… turning into a monster like that." He says, voice distant and eyes unseeing.

Is he conflating turning into a monster like an illithid with becoming a vampire? Vampires aren't all that interesting to Hircine, they're so… normal, and while she understands that they 'reproduce' by bite, she does not know what comes after—the experience, she knows the product.

She changes the subject somewhat. "If a gnome is given a tadpole, they can become a special kind of illithid—a gnome ceremorph. They retain some of their memories and stay small… compact."

Astarion scoffs and rolls his eyes, his hand inching up, grazing the side of her breast to run his fingers along a collarbone. "Of course they get something special. Let me guess, you think they're cute?" His red, heavy lashed gaze leaves a trail of white-hot embers in its wake.

Hircine shivers at his touch, willing herself not to look down as her heart skips and stutters and squeezes in ways so unfamiliar to her. "Not really. I don't—Tentacles don't really do it for me."

"Ahh, so I have a chance with my wife then? Lucky me." The silken murmur of his voice caresses her ears as he leans forwards, hand moving behind to cup her head so they meet perfectly in the middle.

Lips meld together in a gentle, tender kiss, a burn that is more molten, slow churning lava than a scorched-earth wildfire, and for being on her third husband, every touch and kiss has been a breech into the unknown.

Tathzar didn't want anything physical. Vorn'tyrr forced it.

Astarion is the best by far. Careful, hesitant—almost like he's asking for permission, giving her a chance to pull away. Hircine feels wanted, cherished… special.

She doesn't know if she likes Astarion. She's not even sure his affections are real.

But at the moment, she likes this.

Notes:

-I love consequences for using power you don't understand. There are some mild things (cantrips) Hircine can do with magic, but if she's calling on some more powerful spells, be prepared for the backfire. A GOOLock is functioning like a wild magic sorcerer here
-gotta throw in a good Skyrim reference 😄

Next Up: Bring your husband to work day

Chapter 14: Heart Made Of Glass

Notes:

Content Warnings

familial abuse, talk/references to domestic abuse, mention of infidelity, Astarion disassociating very briefly

Lovely by Billie Eilish, Khalid

 

TLBOH playlist

Astarion settled into his desk as if he has sat there every day for the past thirty years. The second Hircine handed over the equipment contract from Gortash, he dove avidly into it, flipping through pages and notating sections that would be put under further review later while muttering quietly to himself. He asked for a challenge, so a challenge he has received.

The years working as a magistrate might not be a lie then.

Hircine sits behind her own desk, sorting through the piles of paperwork that appeared over morning. It would be nice if they placed them in the proper bins instead of throwing them haphazardly in a heap that she must organize.

Another request from Sadrith, yet again in need of reinforcements against the monsters plaguing the area… She's already sent them two additional patrols and apparently it still isn't enough. Hircine assigns more guards and makes a note to inspect what is going on for herself. Sadrith is home to some of their finest workers. Anything happening to that settlement would be detrimental to the business.

…And there are a lot of families there.

Giras is asking for another advancement. That's the third one this month. Hircine will look into it later.

More papers, more budgets, more parts. More. More. MORE.

“My lady?” The drow words are accompanied by a knock against the rock of her doorway, and Hircine looks up to find Llarar, one of the most skilled gem cutters at the Zau'viir's disposal. Their white brows are pinched together, and they step further inside when Hircine meets their purple eyes. "May we speak? In private."

Setting her papers down neatly, hopeful they will stay undisturbed, Hircine stands. "Yes." She looks to Astarion who paused his voracious reading. "I'll be right back, Husband."

He nods, circling a paragraph in the documents he's scouring with an offended scoff. Following Llarar down the hallway, they enter a quiet, relatively unused room. They are wringing their hands nervously and Hircine is beset upon with fatigue. What now?

"My lady, I'm sorry to inform you that there was a mixup in some of our deliverables."

Her eye twitches. "What do you mean?"

"The gemstones set aside for shipment were sent to our faceting facility instead. Approximately half of the gemstones were cut before the error was found." Llarar states.

"Which gemstones, exactly?"

"The ones meant for Blackstaff Academy." They sigh while a burdensome weight lodges itself within Hircine’s chest, threatening to crush her on the spot.

And they paid upfront, expecting swift delivery. "Can the cut ones be salvaged, possibly? I don't—"

"No, my lady. Blackstaff paid by weight for raws. The stones that were faceted lost volume, and with half of them now cut, we will not meet their order."

"Ca-Can we supplement them with other stock?"

Llarar shifts on their feet. "We've already scoured our resources. Teldryn found suitable stones to restore thirty percent of the loss, but unfortunately, the rest were star stones. Blackstaff intended to buy out our entire supply of them. There is nothing left."

Fuck.

What does she do? Under-delivering to Blackstaff academy is not an option. Does she write to them, alerting of the error and refunding for the thirty-five percent that was unsalvageable? No. Do they send the shipment and blame the shipper for the loss? No, the wizards would find out easily and the Zau’viir name would be drug through the mud, never to strike another deal again.

Hircine wracks her brain for a tolerable solution. How could this have happened with all the systems in place? Why were they not double-checked, then triple-checked again before cutting? "Work with Erur-Dan, get a list of every mining and gem company within Faerun that can sell us star stones in bulk. I do not care the cost, we can weather it. Blackstaff paid in weight, not quality, so if they can be half of what our stones are, then do it. Notify me the instant you have the information. Our deadline is mid-Uktar."

Llarar springs to action. "Yes, my lady!"

"And get me a report on how this mistake could have ever happened, because it will not be made again."

The budget is ruined. Their cash-flow is—

This mistake will cost them hundreds of thousands in gold.

And it will be Hircine who pays with her flesh and blood.

Again.

++++

K̸̨̛̦̲̹̬͉̫̫̜̂̃̀͂̓̓͂á̷̜̜͙̬͌͛̎̑́̑͘͘͝:̶̨̨̪̱̙̪̩͉͕͓̻̼̠̳̅͊̿͝ͅ<̵̦̯͚̦̦̦̝̠̟͈͖͙̝͍̟̒͒͋+̸̬̞̱̼̪͖̖̌̈́̀̒͂̄̋͗́̔̅̈́̂͠G̸̼̳͕̺̺͖̫̫͍͓͊́̑͆̊͜y̶̛̛͓͉̽̈́̓̎͗̓́̄̕͝͝ ̵̨̝͚͕͖̬̘̦͎̰̔̄̿͘l̷̢̧̠͔̰͖͚̮͇̻̲͙͇̹̣̾̎̽͐͋͌̆̉͊̚ā̸̙͙̟́̐̈̂͗̐̌̎͆͘l̸̻̙̪̠͇̯̜̟̭̮̰̙͊̽̕ͅq̵̡̢͖͖̭̹̐̍̀͛͆͆͑h̵̺͈͙͎̙̳̼͛̅̌͑́ͅḤ̶̨̦̦̘̖͔͔̍̆r̶̨̹͎̟̥̥̯͊͌̊͛̊͗͑́̕͝ã̴̯̮͛͛ ̴͙̿̊̆͋̏̓̅̎̂̃́͆͋̚͝q̵̦̙͌͐͆̈́͊͋́͜l̴̪͇͖̪̠̫͌͛̽̾̕l̵̢̛̮̠̫̼̣͚̣̦͙̻̯̣͉̒́̆̿̔͠x̸̛̘̼͑͋̾̉̽̀́R̷̛͔̙̙̽̑r̷̢͈͕̫͓̯͉̲̜͖̍͋̔́̀̑̇̈́̀͊́́̐͠͝q̸̜̯̦͙͊̑̂̈́̊̑̽̆̉̂̎́̈̚͜ ̶̛͖̱̠͍̏͋̎̾̈́̋̈́̈́̈̋̚͜͠͝ḁ̶̡̢͇̫̹̬̤̞̗̈́̌̉͘͜H̷̼͔̟͂̊̍͌͝g̴͕̏̂̅̂̚͝͝ă̴̤̪͙̄͋̈́̈́̚͘͜͠

A̴̧̡̨͔̭͎͎̱̭͚̰̩̖͖̐́͆̓̋͋̊̆͘͝͝Ì̵̮̮̤̫͕̜̯̊͐̈̅̔͑̚͠͝g̷͖͚̹͚͉̖̅̃̊̇̀̒̽́̀̀̚͘q̴̛͚̦͕͚͇̰͕̻̱̩͎̜͋͛̒͛̈́͒̐͛̽̔͑̈̆͜ḻ̵͠x̵̛̛̝̗̲̬̂̓͆͐̈́͐̈́̃̿̀͘̕ ̶̛̯͒̇́̎̉̊̀̈̚M̴̧̢͓̱̪̹̪͈͔̽̄̐̓͑̐͒̏͘͜b̴̻́̑́̃͆̽̕͝H̸͓̻͈̫̞̗͍̞̏͝ą̷̭̦͈̞̬̊̓̔͆̄̕͠ ̷̥͉͕͓̉̎̍̃̑͘a̷̡̨̹̣͖͈̍̊͊̀̑̕͝I̶̡̨̭̜͉͔̐̽̈͜d̴̝̖̱̼͋i̸̝̋̾̍̑̓̇ç̸̰͙͕͔͒̈́̀̍͐̈́̎̍̉̅͘ͅk̶̥̖̭͇̮̺͇͉̇͊̽̎͑͐̅̆̀̾̉͠I̶̢͔͙̩̙̦̤̠̩͙͚̟̮̿͂͐͊͗͒̀͊́͂͆͠á̵̪̔͂͂̑̀̊̇͘—send your woes unto me. These depths, so defiled by the surface, are a waste of your efforts.

Let go of your hardship and join us.

It is what you want. It is what I need.

++++

Sanity reconstructed from the Lowerdark up after Llarar delivered that terrible, awful, devastating news, Hircine returns to Astarion, who straightens with excitement upon her arrival, flipping back to a prior page in his carefully deconstructed contract. "Darling, there's quite a bit in here that's concerning, but I thought you’d want to see this."

Hircine glances to her desk, finding that while the documents were left undisturbed thankfully, her inkpot has been capped. Astarion? She approaches him, sucking in a steadying breath. Gortash’s contract can't be worse than a ruined shipment.

She hopes.

Pointing a finger along a line, Astarion reads it off in all its legalese glory, then looks up at her, repeating the words in a manner she easily understands. "The Zau'viirs will not only be on the hook for any repair costs, but your workers are barred from performing any repairs at all, otherwise you incur a substantial fee. Should something break down, the workers are dead in the water until the great and generous Gortash dispatches a technician."

Aggravating, and not all that unexpected from that sleazy man. Hircine does not want to see more fees after tonight's mishap, the operational budget cannot handle it.

It's only been a few hours and Astarion is more than halfway through the contract. An entire week would have been wiped away if Hircine was left to her own devices, meticulously combing through the parchment for all the details. She clears her throat, standing beside Astarion. "Ahem, I would've missed that… You work fast."

"These bastards will always squeeze every single copper and silver out of you if given the chance. I know what to look for with these kinds of drafts. You're in excellent hands." He says, fingers skimming over her to snake around Hircine's waist, plucking at the fabric of her dress and pulling her closer.

Her face instantly blooms into a flush, burning hot and bright no doubt. "Thank you," she mumbles.

Every conversation and interaction between her and Astarion draw them closer each time. She thought him a vain and vapid social-climber looking for his next leg up in society, but… that's not who he is at all—except maybe a tiny bit vain with the way he preens so consistently.

He's charmingly suave, intelligent, sharp, and brimming with intrigue. If he finds Hircine dull and boring, Astarion hides it convincingly.

‘Borne’ from a 'family' of vampires, with a father whose expectations are probably as high as Mother's, and just as abusive to boot—she assumes. Does she want to know what exactly his father, Cazador Szarr, does to him? To be forcefully compelled against one's self-interest is monstrous.

She doesn't suffer under that kind of compulsion exactly, but she and her siblings are bound by the rules of their mother and Lolth.

Hircine and Astarion are a macabre match made in the abyss.

All they need to do is figure out a way to get rid of Cazador Szarr. Men like that don't deserve to live, even if it is to serve. They will always vie for the next rung up the ladder.

She fingers the blue-embroidered edges of his collar, unsure of what to do next. "Was there any—"

Mal's voice disrupts their peace, with a "Knock, knock!", causing Hircine to startle and Astarion's arm to drop limply. Her eldest brother stands in the doorway, a lop-sided grin on his face, but his steel eyes glint coldly, malicious, in the lamp light. "I hope Hirce's not running you ragged, Astarion. She's a slave driver."

What a distasteful idiom. She scowls in disgust. "What… can I do for you?" Her one saving grace from his aggression right now is that Astarion is in the room. He won't tarnish his reputation to outsiders so soon.

"I wanted to see how my brother-in-law is settling in! It's not like that happens very often…" Mal fixes Hircine with a look and she wonders how he shook off his curse so quickly. The next one will just have to be more potent, so he stays away that much longer. Scanning around the room, Mal peeks under the desks. "Where's that thing you keep around?"

"I don't know. Thirsk does as he pleases." Hircine responds, ignoring the disdain Mal holds for the jermlaine. Sometimes Thirsk is here, other times he isn't. She's not his keeper.

Astarion stands, showering her bastard of a brother with an undeservedly friendly smile. "How are you?"

"Great," Mal says, approaching Astarion's desk to tap his fingers along the edge in a discordant tune. "She's not shoving that strange abyssal shit down your throat? It's miserable when she won't stop talking."

Or maybe his reputation as the welcoming and benevolent brother isn't something he wishes to maintain anymore. Hircine is mortified and unsettled. She and Mal have never had a good relationship, and there is no chance of bonding the way she and Boethiah had, but they can be neutral and amenable when needed.

It's always a cycle with them, but when was the last time they swung back to cordiality? Months? Years?

What is happening to them?

Astarion shifts, standing taller—imposing as he looks down his nose, a hand moving to rest back on Hircine's hip while he cocks his head at Mal. "I don't know what you mean. If Hircine wishes to share her hobbies with me, then I welcome it eagerly. Also, I speak abyssal and can readily tell the difference between the lilitu and the lesser succubi. I don't find it all that strange…"

He-He defended me?

His response is polite yet firm. Mal can't rebuke it, even as a jest. The eldest Zau'viir stands in silence, staring at his brother-in-law, appalled to be put in his place so easily. Finally, Mal blinks and smiles tightly. "Well, isn't that nice? I'm glad Hirce has someone to entertain her." Not a speck of genuine meaning behind those words. Ridding himself of the embarrassment with a minor shake of his head, Mal turns to Hircine now, and she braces for more resentment. Thankfully, none comes. "I came here with actual purpose… Mother and Father are going to be gone for some business. They'll be back the day before the soiree for any last-minute preparations."

"Really?" Hircine questions, suspicious at his words.

"Yes," Mal confirms, "and since they're gone, you know what that means?"

He asks it like he's chiding a child to remember their manners, but Hircine overlooks it in favor of the cycle coming back around in her favor. "We'll have a game night?"

"Yep," the 'P' pops loudly.

Mother and Father rarely leave the house together for more than a single night, but six entire days?! Hircine smiles as a burden lifts. "When will it be? Oh, and should we bring anything?"

Mal returns her smile with one that is equally pleasant for once. "The twenty-fifth, and I don't know, bring whatever you feel like, be it food or drink. Stendarr's bringing his smokes as usual and I have still yet to ask Kyne and Arkay. Astarion, your attendance is required for your card shuffling and dealing skills. No excuses."

Her husband smiles stiffly. "I'm sorry, what are we talking about?"

Hircine threads her arms around his, peering up at Astarion in excitement. "Game night. We play cards or dance or really do whatever we want. They can only be held when Mother and Father are gone… This will be Arkay's first, right? I don't think we've gotten together in, what, ten years?" Her question is redirected to Mal who agrees.

"That's right, I'm glad your brain still works.” Mal chuckles at his own words, and Hircine draws herself further into Astarion. “With two newcomers, I don't think anyone will forget this, and even Chae will be there."

Is it because she wants to join or because Mal is making her? Hircine won't comment on that. They're getting along at this moment.

Everything is always better when Mother and Father are gone.

---

A new prestidigitation ring needs to be forged. Astarion used hers all day and Hircine returned home covered in a thick layer of dirt and grime that left her skin tinted black and clothes stiff.

She's ready for a bath, but currently Lexi is diligently removing the braids and silver arrowhead ornaments from Hircine's hair as she sits on the floor with Lexi on the couch. The gentle tugs to her scalp are a herald of bedtime, and Hircine wants nothing more than to slink into bed as is, without regard for her husband's comfort.

But she won't do that, because she does consider him.

"How was his first day, lovey?" Lexi asks after a long stretch of silence.

His was probably fine, not that Hircine has asked him about it yet. Hers? Ugh. "I think it went very well. Enver Gortash sent in the contract for leasing his machines and my husband got through all of it. He's efficient with paperwork. Uhm, Mal stopped by and—"

Lexi groans. "What did he want?"

"Well, he was unpleasant from the moment he walked in, made fun of my… interests, but Astarion, he stood up for me." Hircine says it with such wonder, like it's something she hasn't experienced before." I wasn't expecting that from him at all. But after that, Mal told us that Mother and Father will be gone until the twenty-ninth. We're having a game night."

"The Lord and Lady gone for six days? Next you're going to tell me Eilistraee is a dwarf… What is happening?" There are resounding clinks as Lexi tosses the arrowheads onto the coffee table. "But, Astarion? You both are getting… along?"

Hircine rubs the pads of her fingers together. "We are, he's been nice, actually. He doesn't hurt me."

Lexi's detangling stills, a well-forged edge creeping into her voice. "You think that is something to boast about?" Her hands pull away.

Turning around, Hircine looks up at Lexi, bewildered. "Wh-What?"

"Astarion gives you the absolute bottom-of-the-barrel minimum, and that's being generous, because he does hurt you. He might not hit you, but taking your blood until you can't even stand doesn't look very healthy to me." A hand cups Hircine's face, and now Lexi looks sorrowful, fatigued, aged. "Hircine, you're getting thin, much thinner than you should be. My healing can only do so much, especially when he drains you so often."

"You can't blame my husband for that. He needs to eat!"

"I never said he shouldn't, and I don't blame him, not completely. Vampires are beholden to their urges, same as you."

Lexi knows Hircine too well. Why did she think she could do as she pleased unnoticed? "I-I don't know what you mean, I'm feeding my husband. That is all."

"Don't play silly with me, Hircine, no one knows you better than I. At least with bane you could walk around properly, unfortunately. The blood drinking though? You look like you belong in an opium den."

"But my husband needs this! I can't just take it away from him now!" Oh, to see how low Hircine has fallen. To even attempt a lie like this, directly at Lexi's face. What disappointment.

Lexi's black eyes narrow. "He's a vampire, no matter how much or little you feed him, it will never be enough, and if you keep going at this rate, Astarion won't have a wife to feed on, regardless. I'm not telling you to stop, because let's be real, lovey, I can't control you, but stop asking him to take so much!"

"But—" Hircine starts.

"But what? You're going to survive this long, clawing your way through every layer of Iimithra’s webs, only to willingly kill yourself at the hands of a vampire?" Lexi leans close, their faces inches apart. "I've lost too many children. I can't lose you too, not like this."

How unfair, throwing that back in her face.

An existence like this is agonizing. Intolerable. Horrific. Isn't Hircine allowed a reprieve from that?

“…It makes everything easier.” She says eventually.

“I don't doubt it, but I've given you many options and you refuse to leave. What is the point of all your fussing and fighting if you're just going to give up at the very end?"

“This isn't the end, Lexi, I can—”

The hand on Hircine's jaw tightens, not painfully or as a threat, but to ground her in reality. “We both know this is going to be the last dance. Iimithra leaving for so long is a bad omen. Her plans are in motion.”

And then what happens to them?

Boethiah will be turned over to Lolth, a wretched fate of insanity and mutilation in her domain. Mother tires of Kyne—has been tired of her for decades, dissatisfaction yet again at her inability to measure up to anything. Who knows what will happen to Stendarr and Arkay. Vaermina is only here physically.

Dibella. Sanguine. Molag. Clavicus. And Mara, much too young.

Lost and almost completely forgotten. 

All that will be left is Mal and Hircine, and she knows how threatened Mal is by her presence. There isn't a chance for them to coexist should Mother force a choice.

“How am I supposed to leave them behind, Lexi?” She whispers.

There's a beat of uncomfortable silence before Lexi speaks again. "You can't save everyone."

Hircine levels Lexi with a frosty glare. "So I save no one? How will I live with myself after that? I can't do it, I can't be that kind of woman."

The exact woman Mother so desperately wants her to be.

"I raised you too well some days, my lovey… I'm sorry."

Always the same argument. Always the same outcome between them.

Another stalemate.

Pulling away, Hircine pointedly moves on, because her night has been awful and she'd like to see progress with something. "About my husband… Could you get along with him, please? He received enough hate from his father, he doesn't need it here too."

For all her wizened years, Lexi is still childish at heart. She scoffs and huffs as if her clothing came in the wrong pattern. "I'm sorry that I struggle to get along with a vampire that sucks all the life out of you constantly."

"Lexi…" Hircine warns.

"Fine. I know it's not his fault, it's yours, but forgive me for being wary of your husband when they have all been less than… well, everything." Lexi plays with Hircine's hair. "You deserve a fresh-cut bouquet of night lilies delivered to your desk just because, and emeralds dropped in your lap, since they suit you best."

"Astarion is fine so far…" Hircine cringes, remembering what sparked Lexi's indignation to begin with. "Tathzar, too."

“What was good about Tathzar? He spurned you at every turn in favor of partying and sleeping with prostitutes. Is Astarion better purely because he doesn't…” she pauses, sadness cutting through the harshness, “assault you? Let me reiterate: this is the bare minimum of what you deserve—” Lexi’s head shakes, uncomprehending of her words. “No, saying deserve is wrong because that sounds like you have to work for this minor affection. It should be a given that your partner would treat you well.

"I can't believe we are having this conversation right now!" Lexi throws her hands up in the air. "If you are happy with or-or tolerant of Astarion as he is, then I will say no more on the matter. The only expectation I have is that you will tell me should he ever do something unsavory. The moment it happens, not after the fact when you've licked your wounds and hidden away the worst of it."

Taking hold of Lexi's hands, Hircine brings them close to rest her chin on them. "I will." She swears. "Thank you, Lexi, for everything."

"Anything for you, my lady." And they return to formality. “I know it's hard, especially when our words don't reach her all that well within these walls, but send your thoughts, hopes, pain, whatever to Eilistraee. Our Silver Lady got me through the darkest of times. She can do the same for you.”

“I will.” When I'm not feeling so damnably tired.

“Now go bathe. You're disgusting and I have to clean all this dust up.”

Hircine smiles. "That sounds nice. You don't do enough around here."

Lexi clicks her tongue, smacking Hircine's hands away.

---

Relaxing on the bedroom couch is Astarion with his signature posture: a book in one hand and a goblet in the other when Hircine exits the bathroom, freshly cleaned with a cozy robe pulled on. His silhouette is illuminated in fiery hues from an oil lamp.

She was going to put on a nightgown, but if he's to be fed anyway, why dirty it?

They should make conversation first. Astarion gives more of himself every time they talk and Hircine would like to know more, especially before she slips into that state of nothingness when all her blood is drained from her.

She knows what Lexi said, but surely a few more times wouldn't hurt? Hircine deserves some peace of mind while she can.

Coming to a stop behind the sofa, Hircine hesitantly reaches out, placing a hand on Astarion’s shoulder so he turns to look up at her. There's an intensity, some kind of apprehension in his ruby eyes as he waits for her to speak.

Did he read something bad in his book?

"How did you like being in the office tonight, Husband?" She asks.

The tension melts away from his face as a smile sprouts in place. "Honestly, good fun. It was nice to, er, work the mind after so long. So, whenever you need me, pet, I'll be there."

She blinks, 'pet'?

It's cute. Other than Lexi, she never gets called 'cute' things. Imagining herself as a 'cute' kind of person is hard, if not impossible, but if Astarion thinks so…

"G-Good, I-I'm glad!" Hircine stutters, already embarrassed by her inability to uphold her aloofness in his presence. What is happening to her?

Her throat is dry. "I-I'll be right back." And she flees from the bedroom, swinging open the kitchen door to dig a glass out of a cupboard and fill it with water. Hircine chugs it swiftly, gasping for air once it's all downed.

Why am I panicking?

Her heart thuds against her chest, a ferocious beat that threatens to leap out of her throat at any minute.

Maybe Lexi is right, Hircine has been losing weight and now the ill effects are catching up with her.

A plate is grabbed and then piled high with cheese, crackers and berries that she devours voraciously. Gaining some weight would be nice, however, under Mother's thumb, Hircine has to maintain a certain lifestyle—lithe, limber, maybe a touch waifish. She'll never be as round and soft as she'd like.

Engrossed in her before-bed meal, the door creaks open quietly and Astarion steps in to place his empty goblet on the marble counter top.

She forgot about him. Swallowing down her food, she chases it with a deep drink of water. "I'm sorry, I got hungry."

"Why are you apologizing? I'm just reading." He says.

"I-I don't know." She responds, a little too honestly. Her bath water must have been too hot, that's the only thing that could explain this frantic behavior.

Astarion assesses her with an amused smirk. "Alright, enjoy your meal. I'll see you back in the room." He disappears and Hircine is wondering if she looks ridiculous like this, stuffing her face.

Or is it because he's hungry and now she's delaying his meal by being weird?

After a few more tart berries, the rest of the food is tossed and plate cleaned before she rinses her mouth with water, followed by a mint leaf to chew on.

That's what they do in the books Hircine has read. It only seems right.

Seems right for what? What is she doing?

Just yesterday, she wasn't sure if she even liked Astarion. Why is she going so far to please him? Hircine will feed Astarion and then wake up in the morning, not remembering a thing.

Once in the bedroom, Hircine closes the door with a soft click, leaning up against it as she wills her heart to calm its tempestuous rhythm. This isn’t different from any other night Astarion has drank her blood.

Padding over, Hircine points to the cushion beside him. "Can I sit with you?"

"Please do, darling." He responds while laying his book on the end table.

They're back to 'darling' already? She doesn't like it as much. She doesn’t feel special. Hircine plays with her hair once seated, tightly wrapping it around her fingers and wrists before letting it fall in loose waves once again. "Uhm, wha-what you called me before, not 'darling', but, uh, the o-other one, I liked it…"

Astarion stills, a panther lining up for the pounce. His head angles in her direction, eyes hooded and the workings of his signature smirk upturning his mouth. His lips part to speak, putting so much emphasis on the single syllable of that word. "'Pet'?"

"Ye-Yes!" She squeaks out. The possibility that just the utterance of one word could chase the breath from her lungs seemed so impossible before. A quiver of eager anticipation dances through her body, the stalling of her fluttering heart now a trivial endeavor. Has she always been so… reactive? Shoving all that aside for more important matters, Hircine asks, "Are you hungry?"

The slightest exhale passes through his nose, the light in his eyes dimming somewhat. "I am."

She doesn't understand what she's done wrong. Isn't this what they—he wants? They agreed every two days, this is the second, so here they are.

Drawing closer, a hand gingerly touches at her bare thigh, massages into the giving flesh there as Astarion presses Hircine onto her back, determination to feast renewed. "Ready?" He breathes, and she nods, thickly swallowing, unable to tear her eyes away from his.

With purpose, his fangs sink into her neck. Hircine sighs, eager to greet the respite of blood loss.

It doesn't come though, when Astarion releases after a paltry drink or two. There's not a speck of numbness in her limbs from what was taken.

Astarion hums, smacking his lips. "Mmm, delicious."

"Why did you stop? You can take more!" Hircine questions, at a loss for how it could end so soon.

"Of course I can, pet…" His tongue snakes out, licking up any last dribbles with a murmured “Gods, you taste amazing,” and she shivers involuntarily.

If she tastes ‘amazing’, as he says, then why isn't he taking more? Is there actually something wrong with her blood? Is it because she's getting too thin and it no longer tastes good?

Her chin is tilted up and Astarion now looms over her, lips stained with the rustiness of her blood. "But there is something I want a little more tonight."

More than blood? What in the hells could that be?

He answers her thoughts when their lips meet, slow, seeking admittance, before it turns to something more. A tongue prods ever so gently at her mouth and Hircine yields, instantly flooded with the pungent iron tang of her own blood. Astarion never let go of her thigh, and it is now brought up over his hip as his weight bears down on her. She groans—and immediately silences the noise, as is expected of her. He pushes in deeper, their tongues dancing together in a rhythm that is currently strange to Hircine—but she's a quick study.

So close, the cologne he wears floods her senses, rosemary, bergamot and some other things she can’t quite identify linger as their bodies press together, his weight an unusually refreshing pressure.

And then it’s gone completely with a thump. Rolling to peer over the edge, Hircine finds Astarion, bewildered, laid out on his back on the floor. “Uh, I—My hand missed the cushion.” He says with an awkward laugh.

“Are you alright, Husband?”

He surges up, wrapping a hand around Hircine’s waist, dragging her down on top of him, pinned in his embrace. The positioning is… strange, Hircine is now sitting low on his stomach, arms on either side of his head to prop herself up, but it’s probably exactly what Astarion wants.

Eye level with her breasts.

She’s heard of body fixations before. Being on the receiving end of one is… well, it’s not unwanted if it’s her husband.

Staring straight up, Astarion fiddles with the flat collar of her robe, revealing more cleavage than she might normally bare, while still keeping Hircine covered. “I think I’m quite alright.” He says.

She lets him do as he pleases, watching the way his red eyes flit around, occasionally meeting her own and narrowing like a bratty youth caught stealing some candy, and after many more seconds of Astarion playing, he rises, cool soft lips melding against hers.

His groping hands knead her breasts in their grasp, and she tries very hard to hold back the noises threatening to free themselves from her throat.

Such touches have never felt so good.

Astarion's lips break from hers and Hircine sucks in a stifled breath as he trails tickling kisses down her jaw and neck. A scrape of his fangs that's an odd mixture of tender and feral, and she wordlessly pleads for them to dig back in and take her for all she's worth. Unfortunately for Hircine, that is not Astarion’s intention as he moves lower still, face plunging into the swell of her breasts with a muffled, hungering moan.

A bumbling virgin she is not; a little inexperienced is more apt. Not once did she care for the young drow men she laid with in her youth, they sated her sexual curiosity. Everyone always spoke about it like it was the gods’ greatest gift to the planes, and then she would find someone with interest and—

And nothing. It never felt like much, all that tugging and grabbing at skin. They'd say ‘Do you like that? I know you feel good.’ while Hircine sat there underwhelmed and drier than the Calim Desert.

Until now.

Astarion leaves her so bothered, always acutely aware of exactly how close he is at any given moment. Then the second his fingertips meet her skin, she finds herself wishing for more, hyper-focusing on where his touch last lingered. Hircine wants to be cradled in his arms, kisses pressed to her cheeks and maybe a little—a lot—more.

Realizing that she should live more in the present, Hircine threads her fingers into his velvety soft curls.

Astarion freezes beneath her, unmoving, and only when Hircine releases any hold she has on him does he pull away slowly, a flat—no, an emptiness in his eyes that refuses to meet hers.

Did she hurt him? Pull on his hair too hard? That's not what she wanted...

Blinking in puzzlement, Hircine sits up, backing away up onto the sofa, pulling her robe tightly closed so she is covered once again. Astarion gets up swiftly to his knees, jaw working and throat bobbing before he finally speaks. “Oh! I—Uhm, I just recalled something from my book that I wanted to ask you…”

Right now? Will he not talk about what just happened? “Wha-What is it?”

“Septimus, the main character, he met a star spawn by the name of Yagrum Bagarn. They have been flying through realmspace in search of a cure for this disease called corprus. Is that real?”

“…What part?”

“Uhm,” Astarion clears his throat, “any of it?”

Hircine rubs her eyes, not sure what led to this. What did I do wrong? “Star spawn are real, and if Septimus is with one that seeks to cleanse a plague, then it’s probably an Emissary of Caiphon, though they never actually help with anything, they only cause further disaster.” Knees are pulled up against her chest, resting her chin on top of them. “I’ve never heard of corprus, so it might be fake, but I could look into it.”

There’s a pause as Astarion settles in against the sofa, the frame creaking under his weight. “We could look together.”

Finally, taking another peek at her husband, Hircine finds him a shadow of his normal self, normally so vibrant, a smirk always around the corner, but now he is reticent and melancholy, shrinking in on himself.

What have I done?

“I’d, uhm—I’d like that, Husband.”

Notes:

-Hircine was originally going to be this calm and cool seductress, but i decided “what if she was awkward as fuck?” and I think it fits better.
-Astarion: I don’t like her. I don't think about her. Ever. Especially not when she's wearing something low-cut and—
Hircine: my heart beats really fast and my skin heats up when I'm around Astarion. I must be dying.

Denial. Such a tricky thing.

Next up: Sword Games

++++
If you want more... tit focused action, I did write a smutty one shot between Hircine and Astarion for anyone interested. The Perfect Girl.

++++
My partner and I were very fortunate to have found a house and we will be moving in a couple weeks, and I'm also working on an event fic that is due soon, but expect the next TLBOH update in like 3 weeks! It could be earlier, but I never want to make any promises lol

Chapter 15: Close Ain't Close Enough

Notes:

Sorry to anyone that saw this chapter yesterday and then it disappeared! I'm not sure if I did it or AO3 gobbled it up, but it wasn't intentional. The chapter is good to go.

Close by Nick Jonas, Tove Lo

TLBOH Playlist

“You’re efficient, I’ll give you that.”

Sucking down an irritated sigh, Astarion turns to regard Lexi with his dullest stare. The maid stands with arms crossed, a severe frown turning her lips down like the mere sight of him sickens her to the very core. “You make it sound like a bad thing, darling.”

“Don’t call me that. It’s gross.” She pushes past him down the hallway with arrogance, the pretense of any subservience gone as Lexi opens the door to the study, ushering him in. “Let’s talk before Lady Hircine returns.”

Other than his wife, Astarion doesn’t spend much time in the study, preferring the cozy den with its more cluttered spacing and near-constant roaring fire, even if the maroon is sore on the eyes. Lexi finds purpose in tidying books as they speak. “Lady Hircine had good things to say about you earlier, and I didn’t have to heal her this afternoon. I’m glad you're taking our agreement seriously.”

Earlier? Was that before or after Astarion—on accident—buried his face in between his wife’s pillowy tits? They were better than he imagined.

No! I’ve never thought of such a thing.

He adjusts, uncomfortable with the direction of his thoughts. “You gave me a task, I followed through on it.”

Lexi tch's while organizing books on the shelf. “For your efforts, I pay up.” She studies him then, and Astarion wishes this conversation would be over fast. “Dagoth will be back later, I sent him away on errands but that only works for so long. Don’t speak with him about Lady Hircine, he works for Malacath.”

Honestly, he forgot about the gnome butler. “How so?”

Exasperated, she rolls her eyes. “Because Malacath runs the household, like a chamberlain with legitimate power. He manages what servants go where and has for the past fifty-ish years since Iimithra ‘stepped’ down, though she still pulls the strings from her webs. He does plenty more outside the home as well, but the servants notify him of all the going’s on in this shitehole.”

Gods, she really won’t maintain her act anymore. “So, do I need to avoid Mal altogether?”

“No, that would be suspicious. Treat him as usual, unless you’re looking to get cozy with him, but I will turn you to dust and sweep you outside if you do such a thing.”

Does she speak like this to Hircine?

On their first few encounters, Astarion considered Mal the perfect target should his plans fall through with his wife, always open and flirtatious, ready for conversation. That demeanor disappeared completely as the days rolled over, his ‘carefully’ contained rage building at each encounter, and while so far it has only been directed towards his sisters and wife, how long until Astarion ends up on the wrong side of it as an outsider?

“Who else should I look out for?”

“All of them, but Malacath is the most concerning. Stendarr is stupid and lazy… honestly he’s harmless with how little is going on in his head. Kynareth is… burdensome; she’ll hide behind whoever offers her the best protection at the moment. While young and eager to learn, Arkay is easily swayed by whoever speaks loudest, but there’s good in him, at least for now.” Lexi responds.

Strong opinions for a maid. “Do the other siblings have ‘positions’ or is it just Mal and Hircine?”

A stack of books is piled high for a return to the library. Lexi slaps her hand on top, loud and obnoxious. “Stendarr handles interpersonal affairs. He—well, Jena, actually, was the one that put together all the arrangements for your marriage to Lady Hircine, though he isn’t the matchmaker. Officially, Kynareth is head of family rituals, but I can assure you, she does nothing but sit at home, marinating in all her… meaningless self-indulgence. Arkay will hold no position until he is older and proves himself.”

She holds a lot of venom for Kynareth. The history there might be interesting, but Astarion has more important matters. “Anything else I should know?”

Her eyes flash to him, annoyed. “It’s a loathsome thing, but appearing useful to Iimithra will gain you favor. The issue is knowing when that usefulness is appropriate… Ah, Sotha'sil said you were mucking up the archives. A good idea and I'd encourage you to continue as there are things in there I cannot say aloud, but don't let anyone other than Sotha catch you.”

Was that grubby little man beating Astarion out of the archives so Iimithra wouldn't know he was digging?

Well, Astarion feels bad now for tattling on him.

Almost.

“I have more that could be useful, you know, the list is unending and I’ll die of old age before we get through even half of it—”

“Oh, so one hour of your time?”

“Wow, aren't you a funny boy?” She deadpans, then continues on. “Anyway, for your great and terrible lord...”

Astarion tenses, waiting.

Lost in thought, Lexi taps her foot on the ground. “Iimithra deals with devils. Some cambion named Raphael comes around every so often, leaving his eggy stink everywhere. I haven’t seen him, mind you, and the children aren’t allowed to even speak with him, so Hircine doesn't know what he is as far as I understand, but all this?”

Gesturing around the room, Lexi nods gravely. “Raphael gave them all of this wealth and the mines, and well, everything, though I don’t know how. If you find anything else out about him, share it, please.”

“I did already know about Raphael, though not the little devil tidbit… Gortash spoke about him at dinner last week, they had some kind of relationship. Cazador knows that much.” The Zau’viir’s didn’t work from the Underdark up… Does Hircine know that she toils away for nothing when it's handed to them on an infernal platter?

“Look at you, one step ahead. I’ll have something better for you next time, then.” Sighing, she faces him as she leans back on the desk, a heavy weight in the air bringing down her youthful facade. “Don’t think I’m unsympathetic to your… existential problems, my lord, but my priorities lie with Lady Hircine, always.”

Astarion stiffens, a hand on his hip. “What are you talking about?”

“I once belonged to House Baenre in Menzoberranzan, though I was… born into slavery. You might wonder ‘But don't they kill surface elves on sight?’” Her smile is warped with bitterness and long-held hate. “Anyone could kill an elf,” she snarls, “but to break their will until there is nothing left? That's a feat not many can claim.”

Lexi rubs a hand over her face, loathing melting away, leaving a drained and withered woman behind. “It took me one hundred and thirty-two years until I escaped and somehow I landed myself in another drow hell. Funny, huh?”

Nothing about it seems all that humorous. Shifting on his feet, Astarion stares at Lexi, overwhelmed. “The Zau’viirs keep you as a slave?”

She snorts, waving her hand at him. “Oh, I can leave whenever I please, but as I’ve told you, Lady Hircine is like a daughter to me, so here I stay. Shackles of my making instead of the ones I was born with. That’s the problem with caring about others, makes all your decisions so hard, the mistakes that much more dreadful… You should know—” Lexi’s words end abruptly. “Lady Hircine is home, and she’s brought Kynareth with her. Try not to be such a dandy for once.”

Hiding sincerity beneath a veneer of aloof sarcasm. Why does that feel so familiar?

“How do you know she’s going to be home?” Astarion questions. The maid is always there waiting, or she’ll burst into their bedroom without Hircine ringing that fancy bell. It’s weird, almost supernatural—magical.

“We have a connection, Lady Hircine and I. Don’t worry about it.” After fluffing her skirts and short blonde hair, Lexi skips off to greet her dearest lady at the door.

He sneers at her retreating form. “Thank you for your time, you rotted hag!”

The siblings seek protection from one another, but are also kept at odds… Between Hircine’s barely concealed dread at seeing her own mother and Lexi’s outright contempt for the Zau’viir matriarch, Astarion knows who stirs the pot in this household.

But why? His assumptions amount to nothing, with so little to work off of. The truth won’t come easily, and if they are even a fraction of what his master is, then it won’t be painless either.

I've heard of nightmare in-laws, but this is a little ridiculous, no?

Astarion preens before being in the presence of his wife and sister-in-law. Collar is smoothed, cuffs properly buttoned, and lux curls tamed in the way he feels is right.

Ready.

The front door opens right as he enters the den, blocking Lexi from view when he stands in front of her.

The maid mutters angrily, “Damned vampire… The sun will take you.”

Astarion will be the first thing his wife sets her eyes on.

Hircine appears, followed closely by Kyne. As he wished, Hircine spots him first, and along with the plummy blush that creeps onto her skin at his presence, her face softens noticeably, no longer holding all the severe lines and narrowed, suspicious eyes that took him in before. She's docile now, a spooked fawn under his shadowed, predatory gaze, unaware that her death is so near each time his fangs pierce her slender throat.

Or maybe he underestimates her, and Hircine knows exactly what's happening.

There's no control in that.

Astarion keeps his smile reserved on his approach, though he really doesn't have to hide his fangs anymore on account of being considered a ‘szarkai’.

Prior to this morning, he would take Hircine’s hand, place a kiss on the back and call it good. But good isn’t enough anymore, especially not after all that action on the couch—even if it didn’t end how he would have liked with his… reluctance.

Tonight, though?

Closing the distance, Astarion brushes his fingers along Hircine’s jaw, savoring the way her heart skips and thuds thunderously at his touch. He kisses her lips, a chaste peck brimming with passion, leaving her wanting with how she leans in as he breaks away. “How were the mines, pet?”

More pleased than a dragon with gold, Kyne ‘Oooh’s quietly at their developing relationship.

Lexi must be horrified by the indignant noise that rises from her throat behind him.

Hircine’s eyes drop to the rug as she smiles, a precious thing so rarely given; shy at such attention.

Astarion's disgust curdles the blood in his veins, whether at himself or the situation, he’s not all that sure anymore.

---

They bid farewell to Kyne, watching her slip through the front door after a very learned hour. Why bring the sister-in-law? What happened to the far realms-diving tryst between husband and wife?

Tch. What is he pouting for?

Corprus seems like some made up wasting disease, not a single mention to be had in any book they dug through. Not a terrible loss for the realms. Based on the description, it sounds dreadful.

He also learned illithids live very complex lives for brain-eaters. Zombies got the short end of the stick in that regard.

So, it wasn’t a total loss of his time.

Hircine whirls around, tapping her fan against her chin while she assesses him. “Would you like to join me for the evensong tonight?”

Holding his hand out for her to take, Astarion smiles warmly. “How could I say no?”

There isn’t much to say about their day. Hircine worked herself to death most likely, though all she says is that it was ‘busy'. Astarion did… whatever he wanted within reason until Lexi poured her past all over him.

The space between couch and blazing fireplace is narrower than usual since they didn’t bother to shove the couch back, leaving them spinning in tight circles, treading a path around the rug.

Used to Hircine’s awkward silences now, Astarion lets her puzzle out how to continue a conversation as he watches her gray brows knit together in consternation, mouth falling open occasionally before it snaps shut yet again.

She’s a peculiar thing.

He holds no ill-will toward her lacking social skills, and if anything, he understands them more having now experienced a full day in his wife's well, feet or whatever. Astarion was forced to eat every single thought of doubt he directed at Hircine's work ethic.

People were practically pouring through the door unstoppered the entire time, and even as she spoke to them, parchments were signed and filed away, her dependable front cracked and fading with each new interruption.

And then came Mal, strutting in, a prized cock looking for a fight, wasting no time in belittling Hircine.

She was scared, minimizing herself in his presence, words picked with care to placate his animosity. The same as Astarion has done thousands of times for Cazador.

‘We're all more alike than you might think.’

Damn you, Lexi.

“—need to dance a few times. Do you know some that require actual footwork?”

His thoughts are interrupted by Hircine’s question. Tuning her out is not a good look. “I’m sorry, pet. Repeat that for me.”

Her mouth forms the word ‘pet’, however, no audible noise follows. Good gods, she’s obsessed with the nickname. Maybe she’d like some more then.

“Uhm, th-the soirée, dancing?” Poor thing can’t get her words out. “I know this is considered dancing, but we’ll need to perform at least one together.”

Ah. “Name a dance, and I guarantee I can lead you through it flawlessly. Nothing to worry about on that end.”

“Could you perform The Leaping Jaunt right now?”

Astarion rolls his eyes at her suggestion. “Even a beggar would know that one, but the den isn’t the place for it. Make it space appropriate, please.”

Hircine pops her lips, plan foiled already. “Amnian quickstep—wait, no! Sembian waltz?”

The brat is testing him. Fine, have it her way even if they don’t have the room for such a thing. He backs away from Hircine, arms held out and she steps in line quickly, taking a hand and placing her other against his opposite shoulder, leaning back with chin held up when his free hand comes to rest on her waist.

They glide into the movements, unfortunately cutting the steps shorts when nearing the couch or an end table, but Astarion knows he’s a perfect lead and agile on his feet, so he pulls Hircine away from disaster many a time. Could he teach her a lesson in doubting him by dumping her over the sofa? Absolutely.

Will he? Absolutely not.

It’s much too fun having her this close, chest to chest.

A perfect follower herself, Hircine matches pace, never faltering from any adjustments Astarion makes to keep them on their feet.

Smug in his abilities, Astarion asks, “So, do you dance often?”

And just as confident, Hircine raises an eyebrow, staring directly at him as they spin on the spot. “Almost every day I dance for two hours before I go to the mines, and sometimes more, if practice doesn't go well.”

This is the first he's hearing about it. He’s not sure he wants to see her actual schedule. “I'm assuming that's not for fun. Do you ever dance just because?”

“I am right now.” He frowns and her lips turn up ever so slightly before continuing. "Not as often as I used to.”

“You work much too hard.”

“You think so?” She sounds incredulous.

“I know so,” he responds definitively. “Hunched over your desk as you are every day is ruining your posture.”

Hircine scoffs, mildly outraged. “I have great posture!”

With a squeeze on her shoulder, and finding it alarmingly tense, Astarions tuts softly as he spins her away, then back in. “You're doing everything right, but it wears you down over time. The night—er, morning is still young. We could go to the training hall. Spar, perhaps?”

Thinking, she pauses before speaking again as they slide across the room. “We can spar then, if you'd like.”

“I only put that out there as a suggestion. This is about relaxation! I do what I like all day, and I want to know what you like, pet. ”

“You… do?” Her eyes narrow in disbelief. “But, Husband, I also want to know what you like.”

She… does? But why?

As fate would have it, Astarion missteps at her forwardness, clipping the marble fireplace on the next go around. A tangle of limbs as they tumble to the floor, Astarion narrowly jerks Hircine to the side so her head doesn’t collide with the marble’s edge.

She stares up at him in astonishment, and he at her, for entirely different reasons. There's a temptation to move in, place a kiss upon her lips—

At least until he smells cinder and ash. Whipping around, the ends of Hircine’s dress have caught fire, the flames creeping up the ends, and she screams, leg kicking to get away, but the damned fabric is attached to her.

With quick hands, Astarion tears the burning hem off, tossing it into the fire where it curls to crisps and smoke.

“Oh, my dress…” Hircine whines, a sad little exhalation leaving her mouth.

There are bigger concerns than that. Astarion turns Hircine’s leg over to check for seared skin, then picks it up completely to investigate the underside, running a hand along her smooth, toned calf. Unblemished, thankfully.

Remembering himself, he meets her wide, shimmering eyes and drops her leg to the floor. “No burns!” He says like a dunce.

She bites her lips to stop the laughter that bubbles up, concealing it with a poor excuse for a cough. Composure regained, Hircine taps the back of his hand. “Back to before our fall: it rained earlier, so I'd like to be outside, and we can spar there, since it is something we both like to do. A win-win, no?” Pleased with her suggestion, she beams up at him.

It's a futile endeavor to stop his own replying smile, her giddiness contagious. How strange, to have someone rejoice in his presence outside of warming the bed.

What a perfect girl she is.

---

After a quick stop at the training hall for weapons, they now stand outside in the humid summer air, breathing in the scent of damp moss and undergrowth while Astarion bites back any comments on how mud and worms stick to his shoes.

With how thrilled Hircine seems to be, skipping about through the muck, he will not be the one to rain on her soirée.

A clearing not so far from where he found her dancing on some dilapidated grave is their chosen spot for the night, and there is even a stash of wine sheltered beneath some bushes that Hircine pulls a bottle from. She must have a few of these locales that she rotates through.

The trees here have succumbed to the same death by slashing as the other area. She's no druid, that's for sure.

A blunted steel shortsword is his choice, and as he fiddles with his grip, Astarion watches Hircine warm up with some stretching.

Almost ritualistic in her movements, she bends and pulls and reaches with eyes closed, and he wonders: does she speak to Eilistraee like this?

The dark maiden probably listens to her prayers too.

Must be nice to be heard and seen by those above you.

Silvery hair pulled back into a tight plait flops over her shoulder as Hircine stretches down to her feet, not quite touching while she dangles there like some half-formed rag-doll. The dress she chose is typical of her usual style, all pretty in maroon, bust extremely hidden, though the skirt is shorter, hugs tighter to her body.

Tsk. She really didn't like the hole he left in her dress during their last tussle.

Sparring is acceptable bonding, but they need a little spice to make this a night to remember if Astarion can't fuck the moonlight out of her against a tree.

“Shall we up the stakes a bit, Hircine?”

She snaps to attention, eyes locked onto him expectantly. “Oh?”

A step closer to his wife is taken, and he places the flat blade of his sword under her chin, lifting it a bit. The gold of her eyes a glowing beacon flashing in dappled moon beams. “A game. Anytime someone lands a ‘killing blow’ against the other, the victor gets to ask a question, and the slain must answer.”

Her biteable lips are pursed. “This game weighs heavily in your favor based on prior experience. I've put in some practice, but certainly not enough to be your equal.”

Gods, she could butter him up all night. A sneaky grin splits his face as the shortsword is pulled back and laid over his shoulder while he thinks, “Ah! What about this, pet? I need to land a kill on you, and you only need to hit me, even if it’s a graze of the finger. Is that more fair?”

Apparently not, as her face twists with dissatisfaction. He adjusts, “Alright, then… we get some vetoes for questions we don't like—or can't answer. I'll get two and you can have… let's say, oh, five.”

His wife will be dead twenty times over tonight. The vetoes will not matter.

Hircine makes a show of mulling his proposition over by drinking wine straight from the bottle, tapping her chin while scrutinizing his smug face and humming quietly.

Finally, she says, “I accept,” with a cutesy shrug of her shoulders.

“Weapons at the ready then, and do try to keep up, dear wife. I won’t go easy on you.” As Astarion takes his place a few paces away from Hircine, she draws a longsword from where it is stuck point down into the ground.

Fancying himself a kind and considerate husband at the moment, Astarion will hand over a few openings, allow Hircine to feel like she’s improved against him for some false confidence.

His posture is loose and languid, hand on cocked hip and a smirk curling his lips; this cat is ready for his cute little mouse to play. “Begin.”

Arrogance unacknowledged, Hircine eyes him as she sidesteps to the right, testing a jab that Astarion instantly parries without moving his feet. A noise of discontent sounds from Hircine’s throat as she tries again from a different angle, searching for an opening. Their swords meet many times, metal bouncing with resounding clangs through the water-logged woods and eventually, Astarion ‘slips’, just enough that Hircine’s blade halts against his side, indenting into his jacket, but not slicing him open.

Eyes meet now in the silence and Hircine draws away, before gasping. “So I can ask a question now? Anything?”

Astarion sighs, feigned defeat weighing so heavily on his broad shoulders. “Yes, but remember my vetoes. Make it count.”

It’s going to be something about being a vampire or his days as a magistrate, surely. How creative can she be?

“Do you get along with your siblings?”

“Huh?”

“You have siblings, right? Are you on good terms with them?”

Looking to Hircine, Astarion puzzles over why this would be the question she settles on. Ah, well, it’s easy enough. “Good terms? With them?” He laughs, unamused. “No. We’re a family only in name.”

Hircine glances to the ground, then back up, eyebrows creasing together. “You’re not related to each other at all, are you?”

If only he could put a little more thought into his words. “I should have clarified: one question per person, please, or we’ll be here till the sun rises.”

Unbridled disappointment pools in her gleaming eyes and Astarion is prepared for her to dig her heels in but Hircine moves on. “Onto the next, then?”

“Yes.”

Again, Astarion stands in place, conserving his energy as Hircine experiments with any possible weak spots. He could protect himself blind-folded if needed.

That might be a little insulting to her.

But so is letting her win.

In one swift movement, Astarion’s arm stretches the distance, sword cleaving through the air to stop right at Hircine’s neck. “My turn.”

Naughty or nice?

Oh, why not right down the middle?

“Do you have a favorite sibling?”

A long pause is taken as Hircine weighs if using one of her precious vetoes is worth the cost. Exhaling loudly through her nose, she relents. “Boethiah. We did almost everything together.”

At some point, they were close, and then… he became unsound? Gods below and damn them all, he needs to return to the archives.

Another round, another win in his favor.

“Have you ever been to the upper city of Baldur’s Gate?”

Hircine nods, “It’s been a long time, almost a hundred years, maybe? I don’t know.”

Interesting.

The next set, Astarion wins swiftly, and he follows up on his last question. “Why haven’t you gone back to Baldur’s Gate?”

“Veto.” Hircine answers.

Abiding by his own rules, he bites back any further questions that want to bubble up.

Hircine gets to ask a few questions after some calculated moves against Astarion, so seems his wife has not been idle in her sword practice; he does not know where she finds the time for such things.

The questions are mostly inconsequential and he can lie however he wants. His life back in Baldur’s Gate is whatever he wants it to be these days.

A question about why she works so hard is vetoed, so that subject will remain untouched.

Manouvering behind Hircine, his sword tip is pointed against her back, threatening to pierce right through a vertebrae. “On our wedding day, why did you stab a fork into your hand?”

She thinks, and thinks, before finally answering without facing him. “I was sick.”

“In what way?”

“That's not how the game works, Husband.”

Brat. He mimes bisecting her vertically when Hircine trips on some leaves. “What were you sick with?”

“Veto.”

Fine. Maybe the archives might tell him.

She catches him off guard next with a lunge that clips his shin.

“What does… Cazador do to you when you go home?” By the lines of unease worrying her face, she expects the worst from his answer.

He could be truthful, tell her everything that Cazador has done to him, lay it all bare so she knows what a corrupted creature he really is.

And then what? She pities him? Gets angry on his behalf? None of it matters if freedom is not within his grasp. He'll be right back in chains with Hircine dead like all the rest.

No. It can wait.

“Veto.”

There’s no relief in her posture when he refuses to speak on it, and if anything, her face falls more.

A dance of flashing steel, clanging metal and strafing around each other, the hem of his pants is soaked through, and his leather shoes are ruined beyond repair. The least Lexi could do is order him a few more pairs for his efforts.

Astarion feints to the left, and when he goes in for the kill, Hircine deflects his blade with surprising ease, following up with a fake slash to his wrist.

“Is my blood… not appealing to you anymore?”

His head cocks in surprise. He needs to give up on anticipating anything Hircine does. “Whatever do you mean?”

She grips the hilt of her blade close to her chest, a frown drawing her charming face down. “W-Well, you haven’t seemed all that interested recently, and if I’ve done something unsavory, like eat garlic or it just… tastes bad, I’d like to know…”

An eyebrow raises as he considers her words. Hells, she’s so perceptive sometimes. He absolutely cannot speak about the agreement between him and Lexi. A veto is not a solution, the conclusions Hircine will draw on her own could be devastating to their growing relationship.

Half-truth, half-omission? That’s the only option.

“Your blood is pure, my dear wife. When I say you are the most exquisite meal I’ve ever tasted, I mean it, truly. It’s just—” He pauses, taking in her posture; limbs drawn into her body, a fear of rejection. “When I drink so much from you, then that’s it, we’re done for the night, no talking, no… anything else. I want to know you.”

It’s not a lie. Astarion wishes to know Hircine. She’s more useful to him chatting than a breathing corpse tucked in bed, obviously.

And he likes her perverse excitement at describing alien parasites.

Or the smile that appears without her meaning to as she talks.

Shit.

Hircine’s arms drop, the tip of her longsword thudding lifelessly against the ground. Her lower lip wobbles and Astarion is ready to slice a finger off to shift the mood before she speaks, “Really? I assumed you were humoring me, like everyone else, so I—” She stops abruptly, then starts again, “I was being selfish, I’m sorry. When you’ve taken so much blood, it-it feels good, maybe too good and I want little else.”

Oh, all but in name is she admitting her little ‘problem’.

“Don’t get me wrong, I could drink from the fount of Hircine all day, but even as a dead man, I don’t believe it’s all that good for you to be without so much blood night in and night out.”

“Do you think I’m getting too thin, too?”

‘Too’?

He’s not falling into that kind of trap. “I can't say. Regardless of all that, rabbits and foxes are easy enough to come by.”

A thoughtful look enters her eyes, “What do I taste like?”

“Ah, ah! I’ve given you some freebies. You need to earn this one!”

Raising her sword once again, determination blazes to life as Hircine prepares to strike. “Fine. Have it your way.”

She wants that answer and certainly puts up a fight for it this time, even sneaking in some fancy footwork when she presses her sword against his stomach. “I repeat, what do I taste like?”

Yielding with hands up, Astarion smirks. “The richest berry wine, spiced with ambrosia. It’s a vintage all my own.”

A laugh quieter than the wind leaves her mouth, “Well, that sounds fancy.”

“It is, pet. Too bad you can’t taste it, but I imagine all those berries you devour gives you an idea.”

“Does the food I eat affect how I taste to you?”

He shrugs, “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

There’s not a chance this time for her to sneak in a win when Astarion lunges forward, pretending to pierce her skull with his blade. He remembers an offhand comment she made once, since they're on the topic of eating. “Why don’t you like to eat in the dining room at home?”

It’s not subtle, the way her body tightens up at his question. “Veto.” She answers immediately.

Noted.

He doesn’t want to turn this into a night of prying open scars, so on the next round, when his sword knocks hers from her hands to press right against her sternum, he asks, “Are you a virgin?”

Hircine snorts, rolling her eyes. “No.”

Color him surprised.

Next, she lands a slap of the flat blade against his thigh, and she tilts her head, an awkwardness permeating her features. “Do you… have a breast fetish?”

Astarion cackles into the open air. “Oh hells. No, more a kink, and only for yours, pet.” Those last words roll off his tongue with a purr.

While he might not see it clearly in the limited light, he can absolutely smell how the sweet blood rushes to her face.

“Then what—” Hircine looks up at the sky, studying the moon as it reflects off of her pale and pretty face. “What is the difference between a kink and a fetish? I thought they were the same…”

How sheltered is she?

Hands on hips, Astarion thinks on how best to explain it. “Well, speaking very plainly, a fetish for such a thing would mean that I'm inexplicably turned on by breasts, regardless of what they are doing or wearing. Mind you, I also don't have any preference, big, small or flat. Your’s just happen to be…”

His eyes drift down then snap back to her face, a cunning smile twists his lips, “Bigger. A kink is that I like them just a little more than usual, and while it would be nice to see your breasts, I will not suffer because I don't.”

“You’ve only touched them once…” She mumbles, stupefied, and by the gods, did she just say that?

“Is that an invitation for more?”

Eyes narrowed, she flicks her braid over her shoulder, mimicking his earlier smugness. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Look at the bite on this woman!

Astarion can play this game. He drives Hircine back with a flurry of blows until she’s pressed up against a tree, defending herself best she can, but in such limited territory, her longsword just can’t keep up, and its knocked from her hands. Faking a grand slash across her stomach, Astarion steps in close, giving her no quarter. “So, was that an invitation?”

Something fierce, a challenge, lurks behind her eyes and she grins, “Veto.”

Before Astarion can respond to her spunk, Hircine’s foot hooks against his ankle, pulling him off balance so he staggers. Snatching his shortsword from his hand, she turns the tides, flattening him on his back while she brackets his hips with knees, blade now turned against him, pointed directly at his heart.

“What do I get for felling a great vampire, Husband? I don’t think a simple question should suffice.”

Moisture is already seeping into his clothes, and twigs and devils know what else is tangling within his wonderfully coiffed curls, but he doesn't care.

Astarion has been bested. “For such a feat, you can request whatever you want.”

“Hmm,” leaning in, Hircine tosses the blade away, “can I pocket it for later, for when I really need it?”

“And when will that be?”

“That’s for me to know, and for you to find out.”

What a sneaky thing she is.

Reversing their position, Astarion grasps her hips and rolls over so now Hircine is the one on her back, staring up at him in waiting. It's the control he's looking for, her beneath him, but it doesn't feel right.

With some quick movements, he raises to his knees, pulling Hircine upright into his lap. She gasps and he sucks it right down as their lips crush together, enjoying a new battle of frenzied heat as their hands roam. Astarion expected to wipe the earthen floor with his wife, but seems things have evened out.

She even threw away her last veto on a jest.

He doesn't know—or wish to dwell on—why tonight is different than the last when he just froze, unable to comprehend what was happening as his body rejected everything. It feels fine currently to have her grasping with need, loving on him, and that's all that matters.

Now, as much as he would enjoy continuing on in their play fighting, or perhaps even tasting her in new ways, he’s already had enough of dirtying his clothes beyond repair. They break their kiss, and even he, who has no use for breathing, feels at a loss for air. Hircine, as usual, looks overwhelmed, and she clutches to his shirt sleeves tight, unwilling to let go.

“Ready for bed?” He asks, not the least bit disappointed he didn't follow his plans to fruition.

---

Crawling onto her side of the bed after a quick wash, Hircine swiftly tucks herself under the layers of blankets and sheets. Astarion, cleansed of debris, is already settled in.

Not in the mood for reading, he lies on his back, staring up at the gray-scale ceiling now that Hircine’s blown out the light.

He won’t think about it. Feelings like these are useless.

I can’t.

A finger taps his arm, and Astarion turns his head towards Hircine, who looks at him with a shy purity that makes his heart shrivel as it remembers what a loathsome and unrepentant creature it resides in.

“Can I sleep next to you, Husband?” She whispers.

Not ‘Fuck me’ or ‘How much for the night?’ or ‘Open your mouth. Now’. Just a simple request for some closeness in this much too wide bed.

It’s a struggle to get the word out, but finally he breathes a quiet, “Yes.”

Content, Hircine worms her way closer, not quite touching, pinching the sleeve of his night shirt between her thumb and forefinger as her head rests against a pillow.

“Goodnight,” she says and her eyes shut, breathing eventually slowing down as she falls asleep.

When was the last time anyone cared about what he wanted?

Notes:

-i did prepare some rolls prior to their sparring, but I also littered in some things that were required for the scene. I have them leveled out to 7 mostly for flavor.

Astarion has an AC of 14 with a +7 to hit. He also has standard vampire spawn stats. His rolls were 16, 13, 9, 13, 23.

Hircine has an AC of 13 with a +6 to hit. Her rolls were 22, 10, 17, 11, 9.
They don't matter much, but it was fun trying to match the intensity of some hits to the rolls 😊

Next up: Card Tricks

Chapter 16: On The Edge With No Control

Notes:

Content Warnings

familial and spousal abuse, alcohol consumption, smoking cigars, teensy bit of smutty blood drinking at the end

Into You by Ariana Grande

TLBOH Playlist

Still, it plagues him.

He’s trying to show interest, and that isn’t possible if Astarion is hesitating—panicking—at the thought of going further. Hircine shouldn’t differ from any of his other targets.

It’s my choice for once! That should make it better!

But it doesn't feel better. A twisted realization has settled within his gut, corrupting his selfish intentions with something feeble and insidiously unlike him, a hollow, desperate assault that feverishly bites and tears its way to his core.

This is Lexi's fault. The crone is shredding his frayed, decayed heartstrings with her exquisitely timed sob stories. ‘Oh, Hircine is my little innocent drow baby! Help me protect her, you evil vampire!’ and ‘I was a slave too! We should band together if we want to survive!’

What shit.

He simmers in his aggravation, scarlet gaze burning a hole through the privacy screen where that hag of a maid helps Hircine prepare for game night. They titter excitedly and Astarion isn't sure if such happiness has been displayed within these walls since his arrival.

Ever since the parents left yesterday, all the darkness lurking in every corner of the manor has dissipated—literally. The spiders scuttled straight back to the Demonweb Pits, no doubt.

Astarion even saw a servant wandering the halls earlier on his trip outside for some fox. The insanity that in a large manor like this, such a sight would be rare is baffling, but that's all this experience has been.

Baffling. Absurd. Unsound.

What horrors await him at ‘game night’ then?

A flicker of movement derails his thoughts as Hircine steps out past the screen and it would be wrong to say he is anything but stunned. Speechless. Agog.

She's wearing green; a deep, healthy shade carrying the vibrance of velvety moss enshrouding a damp forest floor like the one they played on last night. The dress is simple, a satin slip that cascades like a sleek evergreen waterfall over the slim frame of her body, and with signature slits cut at the side so toned thighs are bared as she struts about. It’s more reminiscent of sleepwear than a dress to spend time with family in, but Astarion isn't one to call the Fist over some scantily clad women.

The low cowled neckline shows off the sensual swell of her breasts and he is left wondering if the two dinky straps holding the dress up are putting in any work. And how is the fabric that strains tightly under the weight containing them at all? It would take a single crooked finger for him to tear it all away.

He hates how much he likes the thought of that.

They could have been revealing their deepest, darkest secrets and Astarion caught not a single word of it with how entranced he is by this woman.

No! It's the color!

Tuning back in, they are speaking on whatever pie Lexi prepared for the festivities at Hircine’s request. Berries and sugar. Sugar and berries, She's always snacking on berries of some kind. Maybe her question on food changing her taste carries some weight. Experimentation could be in their future if they so wished.

But do I want to change it?

The women embrace, Hircine’s face hidden on Lexi's opposite side, but he can see Lexi plain as day. She looks troubled as her arms squeeze around Hircine's bare back, locking her lady in a tight hug. “Let me know if you need anything, lovey. I'll be here,” she whispers.

Astarion averts his eyes, suddenly feeling wholly unwelcome by this maternal display.

What an unobtainable luxury.

They part and the maid leaves in her usual flurry. Gods forbid she isn't hastened at all times of the night.

Hair devoid of any silvered ornamentation or styling, Hircine’s greyed locks flow in slack waves down to her waist as she searches around in a drawer for a fan. That must be her natural texture when the mass isn't straightened to the hells and back.

Still, though, her eyes are smudged with maroon makeup and lips tinted a deep pink, so not all habits are easily broken.

Is that actually her natural lip color then? She's never removed it once, not to sleep, not to eat.

Why am I putting so much thought into this? It’s such a waste.

“Uhm, Husband,” Hircine begins, beckoning him over, “are you ready?”

On his feet now, Astarion crosses over to his wife, pleased that the gray jacket he chose matches nicely with her attire. He makes sure she notices his appreciative stare when he holds his hand out for her to take, twirling her on the spot, the dress skirt fluttering around her. “No maroon tonight, pet?”

Her breathing stutters shortly at the nickname and his actions as she comes to a stop. Will Hircine ever become used to it? “Y-Yes. When Mother and Father are gone, we can do what we like.”

“Well, green suits you beautifully.”

“Th-Thank you!” Hircine shifts under his gaze, almost a wiggle of her whole body, and her skin burns with that purple berry-toned flush, fingers entangling themselves into the satin of her dress. Every time she flushes his mouth waters as he’s assaulted by her decadent scent. “Green is my favorite.”

He's struck by how oddly childlike her tone is, like this is something that's never been spoken aloud before.

How much of Hircine's actual self is buried under other's control and disinterest?

That makes Lexi's disdain of Kyne all the more puzzling. Her hatred of Mal is expected, but what has Kyne done, presumably to Hircine, that put her into Lexi's bin of ‘no-goods’? The sisters are quite close by his estimations.

Why is this family's interpersonal relationships so fucking complicated?

“Shall we be off, then?” He asks, arm held out in waiting.

Hircine takes it, fanning herself as they leave. “It’s time for some fun.”

---

A pie, a bag of holding and fan in Hircine's hands, and a bottle of Dragon's Breath brandy in Astarion’s own, they enter the Blue Room done up in standard faire, though instead of food dishes, one end of the table is piled high with liquors, fruits and other assorted snacks that hold little interest to Astarion. Kyne and Chalrae stand at one end, murmuring amongst themselves while Mal, in a blue as-the-walls linen shirt, surveys the portrait of him and his wife.

Remembering better times, perhaps?

Immediately, Hircine crosses over to her sister and in-law after setting her goodies down on the table. There’s a cheeriness when they meet, holding each other's hands with smiles on their faces.

Unusual sight #2.

Sidling up to his wife when brandy is placed, Astarion places a hand around the curve of her waist, tugging Hircine flush against his side in a way that raises eyebrows from everyone around. The smile only reserved for Master's most precious clients breaks across Astarion's face. “How are you ladies this fine evening?”

Chalrae maintains an air of coolness when she addresses him, eyes downcast. “I'm fine, thank you.”

“I've heard so much of your card skills, Astarion! We're expecting a showcase tonight!” Kyne beams, her body swallowed up in some kind of oversized lavender knit sweater and pants as she waves her arms around. Her clothing style is… always eclectic.

He bows his head in modesty, but his words are anything but humble. “Seems my reputation precedes me. I hope none of you are sore losers; I’ve never met a game of cards I couldn't master.”

“Oh ho, I didn't take you for a braggart, brother,” Mal joins the conversation while his hand ‘rests’ on Chalrae's shoulder, squeezing much too tight for a spouse's comforting touch. “We'll see how true your words are.”

The palpable, choking tension that normally plagues the air when the siblings are in the same room isn't here, though Astarion will not deny the discomfort on Chalrae's face as Kyne tugs on her arm and they move away—far from Mal. Astarion lets go of Hircine and she quickly finds a spot by the women where they talk in hushed tones about the family's upcoming soirée.

They don't enjoy being near Mal at all.

The few times Astarion ever spied Mal at one of Cazador's banquets, he thought the man was handsome and charming, just his type—at a distance. The Mal he knows now is exactly the kind Astarion might have brought back to Cazador if he weren't a noble.

Someone no one would miss.

If their brother is concerned about the exclusion, he doesn't let it show. Friendly steel eyes and that unassuming crooked smile finds Astarion again. “I'll warn you, Stendarr is a cheat. Watch him if you want a fair game.”

Maybe under their rules. Tonight, they will play under Astarion’s, and if they think some silly and childish sleight-of-hand tricks will win them these games, then these rich bastards are in for heaps of embarrassment.

He has a pretty wife to impress.

“Thank you for the tip. I'll—”

Astarion is interrupted as Jena and her husband enter, bearing gifts of their own with wide smiles and cheers of delight.

And the same as the others, they join the little group away from Mal, uninterested in even greeting him.

Are the brothers not close then?

Astarion feels like the odd one out, but Lexi said he shouldn't outright avoid Mal either. If Hircine wanted him at her side all night, she can easily drag Astarion around.

Continuing a conversation with Mal, they talk of nothing important. The upper city happenings, the lower city drudgery and even Sharess’ Caress, though Astarion feigns unfamiliarity.

They—Hircine, really—do not need to know his ties to such a place.

Arkay finally graces them all with his presence, his usual black eyepatch swapped out for one embroidered with silver. Astarion’s thoughts drift to his missing eye, wondering what Lexi did with it.

Everyone immediately crowds around Arkay, bursting with excitement at the youngest sibling joining them in their adult fun and games.

Stendarr, whistling for attention, opens a hutch at the far end of the room, dumping small glasses on the table with a clatter. “Let’s cheers to this! Oh hells, I thought we were done with Dragon’s Breath?” He cringes as he hefts the bottle, ripping the cork out and taking a whiff. “Eugh. I’m pretty sure humans live such short lives because of this shite…”

A wry smile twists Hircine’s lip. “I hope you're ready to carry him home tonight, Jena.”

The large woman shrugs, “It won’t differ from any other night.”

“And I love you more every time you carry me in your arms,” Stendarr crows while making smacking kissy noises in his wife’s direction. Jena turns away, but Astarion catches the flustered grin working onto her face. Hmm. Their relationship isn’t so one sided after all.

“Arkay, have you ever had this sewage?” Stendarr jiggles the brandy his brother’s way and gives him no time to respond. “Say your morning prayers, you're going to need them to survive.” Lining glasses up, brandy is over-poured in all of them, earning groans of horror from near everyone as they realize Stendarr might just be trying to kill them.

Arkay accepts a glass offered to him, taking a sniff that sets his skin visibly crawling. “Ugh, I’ve never really had anything more than wine…”

Receiving two glasses gratefully, Hircine gives one to Astarion as she stands arm-to-arm with him, the soothing heat of her body bleeding into his. Why is she the only one happy about this brandy? Holding their much too full glasses of the fiery amber liquid, the group circles around, a blend of apprehension and revulsion tainting the budding excitement.

A glass is raised, and Mal speaks first. “To new family and old. If this brandy doesn’t kill us, then Stendarr’s cigars probably will. Good fucking luck, Arkay.” His attention shifts to Astarion now, winking. “I think you’ll be fine. Cheers.”

“Here, here!” They say in unison. Short and sweet.

Every drink is downed. Poor Arkay gags the instant the brandy hits his tongue, and everyone other than Hircine and Astarion suffer a similar fate of choking.

Mal’s glass drops to the floor, shattering on the wood in a million little sparkling flecks. “This is, ugh,” he holds his stomach, “the worst tradition we have ever stuck with.”

“It’s not that bad. You all are so dramatic.” Hircine says, leaning her head against Astarion’s shoulder and fanning them both with cardamon-perfumed air. Her gaze is filled with boredom as it roves over her siblings while they succumb to sudden alcohol poisoning.

The brandy won’t get him drunk, but Astarion still felt its sickening sear as it trailed down to his stomach. He’s seen his fair share of patrons, ranging from nobles to barbarians, expel their insides after some Dragon’s Breath. How the fuck did Hircine drink it so easily?

Perhaps she just holds it well, or maybe it’s some lofty bluff and she’ll be passed out under the table soon enough.

He'll carry her home without complaint.

Arkay’s face turns a concerning shade of blue as he leans precariously against a chair, digging the heel of his palms into his eye and eyepatch. “I don’t want to do that again. Please.”

Stumbling her way over, Kyne wraps her knit-covered arms over Hircine’s body and Astarion’s arm, shivering. “Give me your resilience.” She pleads.

Turning her nose up, all Hircine says is, “No!” And squeezes her warmth tighter against Astarion. “Get off of us.”

With a pout, Kyne releases them. “I don't care what we do tonight, but I will slap the next person that pours the brandy.”

“Agreed.” Mal mutters.

“Since we're moving on from that awful experience, why not a round of cards?” Stendarr offers, rubbing his hands together deviously.

“Already? I brought pie! We should eat first, especially you because you'll have one more drink and then it's sleeping in the rubbish bin,” Hircine states, pointing to the heaping pile of snacks that's probably overkill for a group of eight.

Arkay lurches towards the goodies at her words. “Anything to get rid of that acid burning through my stomach.” At family dinner, the boy barely puts fork to mouth, but maybe the horrendous in-fighting turns it to ash on his tongue.

Astarion nibbles here or there to avoid questions and Hircine, perfect girl that she is, finishes his plate when eyes are turned away. It's not exactly ‘throwing herself on the sword of his master’, but the little protections of his identity here and there are recognized.

Food now devoured with the wine and liquor (NOT Dragon’s Breath) flowing steadily, Stendarr pulls a new Talis desk from a pocket in his vest. “I'm tired of waiting. Let's deal.” He immediately starts shuffling in a manner that is much too aggressive for any set of cards.

Everyone edges to the far end of the room while Hircine shields herself behind Astarion's body.

‘Stendarr gave her a nasty paper cut last time because he squeezes the cards until they explode out of his hands.’

Gods above. They were serious.

By the time the second son is done beating the cards into submission, they're twisted all out of sorts, near folded in half or tearing at the edges. It's impressively horrifying.

“I don't think you should be allowed to shuffle anymore.” Kyne mutters as she takes a seat at the table.

“Seconded. We’ll allow it until this deck falls apart, but Astarion gets all the cards hereafter.” Mal states definitively and everyone agrees.

Who knew card shuffling would be such a valued talent?

Stendarr grimaces at them all as he deals to each person, and Astarion is already suspicious of his shuffle, wondering if the overly aggressive manner is used to hide Stendarr’s tricks. Smart, but Astarion can play around it.

Discretely, he inspects the backs, eyes instantly latching onto the tiniest etching that varies on each card. So, Stendarr marked this deck, exactly as they do at Fraygo’s… Idiot.

They play a few rounds without bets to warm up, and Astarion is convinced that even if Stendarr cheats, he is so incompetent that there is zero-advantage on the drow’s part. Astarion isn’t even trying, and he’s won twice so far.

He palmed a card or two, but what does it matter when he hasn't even used them?

Having no interest in playing currently, Hircine snacks some more while sitting at his side to glance at the cards in hand, or she hides her head when Stendarr gets to shuffling again. Mal wins, then Arkay and Stendarr. Jena progressively gets more frustrated as each round passes without a win, while Kyne never achieves victory, yet is chipper as the night is long. Ever somber, Chalrae keeps to herself, drinking quietly at the opposite end of wherever Mal is sitting.

When finally a card splits in half from Stendarr's assault upon them, Jena throws her cards away. “Enough of this. Can we play a normal game without you ruining everything?”

“Yes, I'd like to play without getting hurt.” Hircine chimes in.

“Good gods, it was one time, Hircine! Let it go!” Stendarr whines back.

“You almost took my eye out and my hair was ruined for months!”

Her hair? What did Stendarr do?

Throwing the loose cards behind him so they flutter to the ground, Stendarr crosses his arm in defiance. “You were in need of a trim, anyway. I think the pageboy cut would suit you.”

No. No, it would not.

“Whatever. Stop talking to me, you brute.” Hircine flicks her hand up dismissively.

So they can argue as real siblings do.

On her feet now, Hircine grabs the bag she brought to sift through, pulling out a sack of coins that she tosses to Arkay, who catches it swiftly even though it was coming from a blind spot. Good reflexes.

Seriously, what did Lexi do with his eye? Astarion needs to ask later.

“I'll pay your bets tonight, dalninuk,” she then turns to Astarion, handing over another coin sack with a shy smile. “And for you too, Husband.”

He takes it with a smile that sets Hircine's skin ablaze, measuring the weight of the bag, curious if he might swipe some coins for himself under their noses. Hircine is certainly meticulous enough to weigh her gold before handing it out.

Mal laughs brightly. “Oh, fancy! Chae, did you provide for me?”

His wife shrinks under those words, the burden they carry puncturing the lighthearted atmosphere that filled the room. She responds, “No, I'm sorry.”

“Ah, that's alright.” Mal straightens in his chair, smile leveling out to something sinister and cold. “I knew you wouldn't.”

Why intentionally bring down the mood? The rest are instantly uncomfortable, staring down or just anywhere that isn't their eldest brother and his wife.

Cazador does the same, that acknowledgement of a mistake—whether their fault or not—and the promise of a threat. There is no need to guess at what happens behind closed doors, he's seen it once before in the library. Perhaps it was a simple quarrel that went too far, but Astarion has his doubts seeing it play out now so openly.

Mal stands and Hircine shakes the bag of holding, an attempt to stave off whatever conflict is brewing. “I-I brought enough for everyone. It's no problem at all.”

“I'll always play on your coin, Hirce.” Circling around the table to Hircine, Mal wraps his fingers over her forearm, indenting into the soft skin, bruising, hurting. “You should have led with that.”

Before he can even think, Astarion is on his feet to wedge between them, sure to look down at Mal as he nudges the man's hand away. “Why not another round of drinks, hmm? I don't know how you Zau'viirs do it, but in the Gate, we'd be fifteen pints deep already and kicked out of our fourth tavern. It’s feeling a little dry in here.”

Mal backs up, face unreadable. “I was just on my way to pour myself another.”

Ah, and make the halfway stop to rough up his sister? Astarion absentmindedly smooths over where Mal's fingers had gripped Hircine’s arm, lost in thought.

There was always some satisfaction in bringing the lowest dregs of Baldur's Gate back to Cazador, but Astarion is no hero. They were easier to forget, lighter on his conscience. Mal would be forgotten without a second thought.

The innocent ones? Well, no use thinking of it now. He tires of their echoing cries.

“Can we play Three-Dragon Ante? I brought my deck,” Arkay speaks first into the silence. How brave for someone so young. Producing a carefully wrapped deck, Arkay holds it up. “Only Astarion can shuffle and if I see even one card bent, Stendarr, I'll—”

“You'll cut me to ribbons or burn my hall down or whatever. You don't scare me, dalninuk.” Stendarr brushes aside the youngest's concerns, who glares before leaning across the table towards Astarion.

“Here. I know you'll take care of them.”

With the deck in hand, Astarion inspects the case. High quality aged leather with intricate gold detailing of a winged serpent gobbling up a coin. “You said this was Fzoul Chembryl's deck?” The cards are removed from the holder.

“Yes!”

The backs are black as pitch and in the lamplight, scatterings of opalescent granules flicker and flash. Every card varies from the speckles, and it would take—no, these cards are impossible to count or mark under dancing candlelight and drunken hand movements.

Hircine reaches for a card, eye held close as she examines its details before she gasps, turning to Arkay. “Are they made of black opal? By her silver hair… How did they manage that?”

“Lots of magic, I bet,” Arkay answers, “they're as flexible as regular parchment.”

“Could I borrow them one of these days, bring them down to the mines, and see if it's something we could replicate? This would be—”

Not looking up from where he’s pouring more drinks, Mal interrupts, “It's the Blue room, you know the rules.”

“So-Sorry,” stutters Hircine, handing the card back to Astarion.

While the group disperses waiting for Mal to mix something up, they light a cigar to pass around, and Astarion finds the chair his eldest brother-in-law was using, surreptitiously jabbing a knife into the joints on the chair legs, weakening them.

Good luck taking a seat, bastard.

Back by Hircine's side, she shivers, gooseflesh raising along her arms. Minor bruising has appeared where Mal grabbed her and by the lack of reaction from Hircine and the rest, this isn't all that uncommon for them.

Astarion can certainly expect more escalation if Mal isn't interested in hiding behind decency anymore.

Shrugging off his coat jacket—as any good husband should—Astarion dangles it by the collar in front of his wife. “Cold, pet?”

“Oh,” Hircine takes it gingerly, holding it to her chest. “If you don't mind, I'd appreciate it.”

“Of course.” He says, a soft smile lining his face as she tugs on the sleeves. It comes with the territory of wearing such clothing that a light shawl should always be brought, but more points for Astarion.

More drinks are downed, the cigars cast a hazy film over the room, and the alcohol might be getting to some peoples’ heads, but they—especially Arkay—are holding themselves together remarkably well.

Returning to their seats, Astarion awaits Mal’s demise, patiently, smiling to himself as his in-law lowers himself down.

Mal abruptly collapses to the ground with a loud thud as the chair legs split out from under him, drink flying up and dousing his head completely. Of course, Astarion feigns some kind of concern, eyes wide as saucers, mouth dropped open. The other siblings and spouses gape in shock before Stendarr and Arkay move closer to help.

Slapping their helping hands away, Mal stands and takes in the damage. “What the fuck? It was just fine earlier.” He picks at broken wood, tossing pieces aside as he scours the wreckage. “Fuck. I’ll get it fixed tomorrow.”

That not a single person laughed when he fell speaks volumes to Astarion. It’s such a minor thing that occurred, even uptight Leon would break from his Master-abiding character if such a prank was played upon another sibling, and this happening at a tavern would be a riot that would leave patrons laughing for hours if they found any pieces of chair lost under a table.

Not here, though, where misery reigns with its crushing grasp.

Mal tosses his shirt, leaving a thin undershirt and all returns to normal, the event swiftly forgotten. It wasn’t quite the reaction Astarion wanted, but maybe Mal has a splinter that will become infected.

He’ll humble him through cards instead.

As they return to their seats—a new one in Mal’s case—Astarion prepares to shuffle when he’s interrupted by Arkay. “Whoa, whoa! Spouses can’t sit together! Jena, Stendarr, move away. You too, Hirce. I want a chance to win tonight.”

Reluctant, and not without a theatre's worth of dramatics consisting of rolling eyes and aggravated huffing, Hircine moves to sit directly across from Astarion, blowing out the smoke from a cigar in her exasperation. Stendarr now finds himself next to Mal. Arkay eyes them suspiciously but leaves it alone, happy enough that they complied.

“Can I start, or shall we play magical chairs for a few more rounds?” Astarion jests as he gently shuffles the card, unsure of how much pressure might be safe.

Black opal? Eugh. He knew the Zau'viir name is backed by money—and devilry, but this is ridiculous.

Splitting the deck in half, he weaves each card into the other half before bridging them back together seamlessly. He repeats the action, opting for no cheats this round. One fair game seems like a nice concession, right?

On the last shuffle, he splits the deck and interlaces the edges, keeping a careful hold on both packets of cards in his right hand, careful not to push them together. His other hand laid beneath Astarion lets the cards fall down in a waterfall of sparkling ink.

He'll admit it's certainly a showstopper, with those iridescent glimmers catching the light on the way down, an ever-changing galaxy of beauty.

It's almost embarrassing how enthralled everyone is with such simple shuffles. A suggestion of ‘going outside more’ would be the ideal remedy to their amazement.

Cards are dealt, and play begins. Mal wins the first time, whether by luck or cheating, it wasn't because of Astarion.

That won't happen again.

Astarion only needs to win when it matters. Bets are placed, and he gives a good hand to Arkay a few times.

He'll learn young that winning is only fun when you can walk away with the earnings.

Fzoul Chembryl's deck experiences a few games before Arkay asks for them back, nervousness overriding any giddiness at his wins.

More chances to showoff with the new, regular deck are taken, flipping packets of cards over his fingers, and even shuffling one handed which has Stendarr howling in awe, begging in slurred words to be taught.

“No! He's teaching me first! You'll ruin all the cards no matter what you do.” Arkay says, waving a glass around before downing it easily in one go. He handles hard liquor well for a first timer.

For a night of 'partying,' they drank light. They know their limits better than most.

It’s… boring, I must admit.

Moving on to poker, Astarion deals some strong hands to Mal, anything to encourage him to bet high, and then passes an unbeatable hand to someone else. He'd give all the winning cards to Hircine or Arkay, but someone might catch on.

Something kicks him lightly under the table before a bare foot rests against his leg, hooking against the back of his calf, and when Astarion looks up, he finds Hircine wearing a wobbly smile as she fiddles bashfully with one of her earrings.

Cute.

Everyone wins a few times as Astarion fancies himself a merciful god—except for Mal. Fuck him.

“It's getting late, so last game. All in, or else.” Tossing a heaping bet in, Mal leans back with a self-assured grin on his face. He has to win this time, right? His hand is immaculate.

Wrong. It's Astarion’s to win.

A flush, and just in case, a ten of flames has been pocketed into his sleeve for a straight flush if he made any mistakes when dealing.

Doubtful.

Cards are laid out, Mal first with an acceptably strong straight. Ouch, Stendarr ended with just a high card.

Splaying out his flames flush with a flourish, Astarion grins, challenging anyone to play something better. Cards are thrown on the table in defeat, all except for Hircine, who glances between them all before a wicked smile splits her face.

“Sorry, Husband. The cards weren't in your favor.”

Laid out, she has a straight flush… with the ten of flames that is currently rubbing against his skin, concealed.

The cheek, the nerve, the gall, and the audacity of this woman!

Beaten at his own rigged game with some kind of illusion. How did the witch do it?

Raking gold into her bag, Hircine is smugger than a cat with fish. “I'll be taking this back.”

“Well, well. I can't believe the night came when Hircine wins!” Jena laughs, tugging at her drunk of a husband to stand. “Since the impossible has happened, we are leaving before more… ‘miracles’ occur.” And they slip out the door, with Jena hoisting Stendarr up into her arms, just as she said she would.

“They always conveniently leave before cleanup…” Kyne stares at the door with arms crossed.

Swiftly, Mal crosses to Chalrae, yanking her up from where she sits in peace. “That’s because they're smart. New house rule: Winners clean!” He exits with a laugh, Chalrae dragging reluctantly behind him.

Silence deadens the room, and Hircine’s face is laden with conflicting emotions, like she isn’t sure if she should chase after them. A bad idea based on what he’s seen. It would only worsen whatever pain is about to be inflicted upon Chalrae from Mal’s hand.

“I won plenty tonight, so I guess it’s my duty to clean.” Astarion interrupts Hircine’s consciousness, her eyes settling on him, tightening with uncertainty.

“I’ll help!” Arkay says, already piling plates onto a tray, and Kyne tidies quickly as well.

Waving them away from the mess, Hircine speaks. “Leave the rest. I’ll send Lexi later.” Handing the bottle of Dragon’s Breath and the last few slices of her pie to Astarion, she ushers them out with a rap of her fan against her hands. “Out, out!”

Before they disperse back to their homes, Arkay turns on his heel, throwing his arms over Hircine and Kyne, and blurting out, “I had a lot of fun tonight!”

Softening, Hircine pats his back. “Me too, dalninuk. We’ll do this again soon.”

Backing away, the boy’s face creases with something akin to disbelief. “Will we?”

Astarion can hear how Hircine’s teeth grind together, and her gaze drops to the floor, panic flashing in her eyes before leveling out to confidence. “Yes. I promise. Off to Mithral Hall, you go. Rest well.”

“You too, Hirce. Have a good morning, Kynareth.” As he’s leaving, he looks over his shoulder. “I will be by to learn your ways, Astarion!” He's so young and hopeful.

They part with Kyne at the top of the steps, and even her happiness has been dulled as she stops, at a loss for any words as this night ends.

What are they so afraid of?

When they reach the entryway to Darkfire, Hircine grabs his hand, pulling the end of her dress up to trot along quick to their door. It opens easily, unlocked.

“Why—?” He starts and she simply answers, “Lexi.”

Stepping into their bedroom, Hircine spins around, looking straight up at Astarion. There’s innocence there, caution of the unknown and a sparking heat, desperate for something more to feed it, nourish it.

So much hesitation still lingers. She isn’t ready to chase him yet, or maybe she doesn’t know how.

Tonight can be another lesson, and besides, Hircine needs to know her trick didn’t go unnoticed.

Slow enough that she can pull away, Astarion drifts towards Hircine, a few pecks against her plush lips are given, testing her eagerness. Her hands grasp fast to his shirt, wasting no time in pulling him right against her body, intensifying their kiss to something much more greedy.

Pungent tobacco hits his olfactory sense like a punch to the jaw, hints of vanilla hidden within the bitter smoke, yet he stays, drinking it in until it gives way to her intoxicating sweetness, almost cloying in its sugared layers.

Ushering her back against a wall, he’s the first to break the kiss, and while Hircine tries in vain to recapture his lips with a whimper, Astarion gently keeps her pressed in place.

His little wife with her cheeks all flushed, ripe for the taking.

A finger runs over her bottom lip, feeling it tremble beneath his touch. “You’re a naughty girl, aren’t you?” He coos, a knee now wedged between her thighs, trapping and enticing.

Brows pulling together in confusion, Hircine waits for him to continue.

“You thought I wouldn’t notice your deception? Impressive, I’ll admit, but such gambles are always high risk.” He pulls her ten of flames from his pocket, the illusion now faded, revealing a four of stones held between his index and middle finger. “What do you have to say for yourself, pet?”

Lips rubbing together, Hircine stares at the card then back at him. “High risk, high reward, right?”

“Cheeky,” he chuckles before connecting their lips once again with scant nips, and his other hand rises, teasing the cowled neckline of her dress. One movement and they would be free.

Instead, Astarion wiggles a finger between her soft breasts, parting the cleavage and stowing her cheat card safely between them. He admires his work with a devilish grin. “Try not to get caught next time.” A tinge of concern laces his words. What if Mal had found out?

Hircine seems to be unworried about such things. “And what will you do if I like getting caught?”

This woman makes him crazy.

A walk back until his legs hit the bed, Astarion sits on the blankets, patting his lap. “I could show you; just a little taste.” It is a night for feeding, so why not try something new?

With a fanciful skip, Hircine is before him, plucking the card from betwixt her breasts to lay it gingerly on her nightstand, and when the oil lamp is turned on, dousing them in a sensual glow, Astarion does nothing to cull the pang of need wriggling around in his chest.

She straddles him eagerly, clutching on to his shoulders in frantic excitement, the rambling pulse of her heart a melody that resonates with more than his hunger.

Playing with the straps of her green dress, Astarion pulls them down, finding the neckline straining tight to her breasts, disinterested in releasing its hold. Good. He wanted to reveal them himself, anyway.

“If it wasn’t an invitation, then say so now, dear wife.”

She says nothing and waits. Perfect girl.

The fabric is removed, baring them completely.

He doesn’t know why they call to him so, they’re just tits, everyone has them. Astarion doesn’t even remember the last time he was interested in someone’s body, having been cursed to see so. Damnably. Many.

It could be her proclivity to hide them, or maybe that difference with those white nipples flushed the barest shade of pink. What does it matter now, when he finally—finally has them?

One cupped in each hand, the softest flesh overflowing in his grasp, he revels in their considerable weight, staring up into her limpid eyes that dare not blink.

“Do you like this?” He asks, trying his best to keep his attention on her and not them.

Hircine’s throat bobs as she swallows. “Y-Yes.”

“What about this?” A thumb circles around one of her areolas, teasing. She shivers, nodding her head when no words can be said. Humming quietly, Astarion breaks their staring match, dipping his head down to take a pert nipple between his lips so gently, a groan rising from his throat when the taste of her hits his tongue.

A new bouquet cuts through the lingering smoke, a heady musk indicative of arousal all Hircine’s own, and he realizes she’s never smelled like this before.

Hircine might not be a virgin, but she’s certainly new to pleasure.

She jolts atop him, fingers digging into his shoulders as she gasps, “O-Oh…”

Patience wanes as he holds this bounty in his hands now. I worked hard; I deserve this, he thinks, tongue laving over her ghostly bud.

Thighs tighten over his lap and hands dishevel his curls to pull him closer, Hircine silently begs for more, rocking gently atop him. She’s oddly quiet, her stuttering breaths and pounding heart the only sound filling their bedroom now.

He palms her other breast, compressing and kneading, relishing its pillowy give. Sucking hard once, he reluctantly releases the tender nipple to Hircine’s visible displeasure, the slightest pout pushing her lip out.

His finger draws around that same spot as a smile dances across his lips. “Can I bite you right here?”

Her mouth forms into a small ‘O’, and breathing halts completely.

Did that break her?

“Use your words, pet.”

“Pl-Please.” Hircine sits straighter, chest commanding his attention, and Astarion can’t help but tease her in her innocence, pinching her nipple with a cunning smile. Her mouth clamps shut so not a peep can be heard, even as she shudders.

Hmm. He doesn’t like that, but he won’t dwell on it for now.

He presses a kiss to her breast before testing his fangs against her pallid-rose skin, “Let me know if it’s too much.” And he bites down, more than a little surprised at how much give the skin has before he pierces into her completely. Blood gushes over his tongue, the usual sweet flavor infused with notes of her arousal, a spiced blend that has his fingers squeezing tightly over her breast to force more blood into his mouth.

More is drank down, probably more than he should take, but gods, it’s near impossible to stop. Hircine isn’t making it easy for him either, crushing against him so he can’t let go.

It feels nice like this, so different from the ghosting hands that smart and pluck at his skin.

He can feel his cock straining within the confines of his pants, Hircine’s gyrating hips stoking the flames, tempting Astarion much too far.

He moans. They can—

Their bedroom door slams open, the tinny voice of Dagoth interrupting their newest form of ‘bonding’. “My lady, I—”

Hircine’s arms wrap around Astarion’s head, burying him in her sumptuousness, vampiric nature hidden from view as she yells at Dagoth. “GET OUT!”

“I-I a-apologize, my lady, I didn’t mean to—”

“OUT!”

The door slams shut immediately after and Hircine’s hold on Astarion relaxes. She whimpers, a pathetic little noise, when Astarion unlatches his fangs, licking up the blood that drips down the curve of her breast from his inflictions. Some also runs off his chin, splattering onto Hircine’s dress.

Unfortunate. Hopefully Lexi will clean it up.

“I didn’t hear him knock.” He states, nonchalant.

Her fingers brush over the bite marks, a frown displacing her prior enjoyment. “Dagoth is always entering as he pleases, no matter how often I remind him not to.”

As instructed by Mal, if Astarion had to guess.

His eyes drift to the bruises on her arm again. She didn’t deserve that pain; he understands it all too well.

Whatever lust and passion had bubbled up between them fizzled out completely. Shyness washes over Hircine when she crawls off of Astarion's lap, unbothered as her breasts sway openly with the movement. “Uhm, I’m going to-to bathe.”

“Alright.”

Sprinting her way to the bathroom, she sheds her clothes, dropping them right outside the door.

Sure, he could bathe too, but Astarion will save it for the morning, take all the time he can while alone. In his closet, he changes into his nightclothes, a simple cotton shirt and loose pants, and he shuts his closet door, looking down at Hircine’s crumbled dress, the lacey edges of her panties peeking out. Gods, he’s tempted by them. His jaw works, fighting this urge.

What is she doing to him?

Notes:

-clothing will not always be time period appropriate. we are here for maximum hotness

Next Up: A new touch

Chapter 17: Why Can’t You Unwind?

Notes:

Content Warnings

familial abuse (can I just say Mal??), mentions of suicide (hanging), talk/memories of prior drug use and withdrawal. Drugs offered to a character

Coming Apart by Joywave - Another of Hircine's anthems

 

TLBOH Playlist

Rousing from a dreamless slumber, Hircine’s eyes flutter open, unusually well-rested, knowing the second her head hit the pillow earlier this morning, she was out.

Climbing from bed silently without waking her husband, Hircine pads over to the bathroom and shuts the door, annoyed at how her left breast rubs tenderly against her nightgown.

The neckline is pulled down and, ah, that’s right. Astarion took blood directly from the… tap.

Breast in hand, she tilts it up, inspecting the two closed puncture wounds directly above her white nipple, an unfamiliar feeling pulsing low in her belly. His marking is erotic, primal, and her other hand drifts southwards along the smooth fabric of her nightdress to her lower regions before she startles, regaining control of her extremities.

Hircine considers denying Lexi’s heal this afternoon, so the bite lingers a little longer.

But then it might snag on her clothing while she works…

But then she might think of Astarion all day and night if it stays, and there isn’t much wrong with that in her opinion.

Her eyes snap to the ugly bruising on her arm left over from Mal’s unprovoked animosity and nevermind, Lexi can heal me. Hircine hates long sleeves and coverings of any kinds; they hid what Vorn’tyrr did to her for so long. She doesn’t want to return to that time.

‘Lexi, are you up?’

When back in their bedroom, Astarion is sitting up now, his curls a frizzy mess encircling his head like cotton puffs even though he doesn't move much in sleep. When their eyes meet, he smiles, not quite smug, but surely self-satisfied, and is he happy to see her? She hopes so. She wants him to be.

On his feet, he stands before her in a flash and Hircine makes a split second decision, rising to her tiptoes to press a kiss to his porcelain cheek. Astarion is always greeting her in fanciful ways when she retires from work, so why not return the favor?

He blinks in stunned surprise before running his tongue over his teeth, that same smug-but-not smile back on his face. “Good afternoon, pet. Rest well?”

She nods, “And did you?”

“Wonderfully. Are you off to the mines soon?”

“Yes.” And now she is at a loss for how to continue on. How does one talk to their husband? She’ll think on it today. Astarion deserves her best.

He’s about to speak when his red-eyed gaze locks onto her arm, hand lifting to brush his fingers over the dark discoloration of her gray skin. A frown poisons his features. “Does Mal always treat you like this?”

Other than Lexi, who can only do so much within the house, no one has stood up for Hircine, ever, especially against Mal.

Astarion makes her feel safe.

Cared for.

Loved.

“We-Well, he doesn’t—”

Lexi bursts in then, thankfully ending this conversation. “My lady, are you ready? Oh, you're not even dressed yet, I’ll pick out your clothes. Do you—” She also notices the bruising and rage boils in her black eyes as she looks at Astarion, a golden flame flashing on her fingertips. “What did you do, you—!”

Hircine interjects, standing in front of her husband defensively before something regrettable occurs. “It was Mal! I upset him during our games.”

Astarion scoffs, muttering, “You did nothing wrong.”

Instantly, Lexi relaxes a miniscule amount, looking at the two. “You swear it? Don’t lie to me, my lady.”

“Yes, I swear!” Hircine pleads. “I’m ready to get dressed.”

Scrutinizing Hircine for any deception, Lexi relents, turning now to Astarion as the flames on her fingertips extinguish, “I apologize for the outburst, my lord.” Though it is said like she’s chewing on beholder stalks.

“No apologies necessary. I understand,” Astarion responds solemnly.

It's humiliating, having such a spectacle made over some light bruising. Mal's done worse.

Ushering Hircine towards her closet and swiftly healing wounds wanted—and not, Lexi throws open her closet door. “I know exactly what you should wear today.”

---

As the soirée looms over them, Hircine ties up the loose ends that she can. There will be no working that day—it’s not a break!—and she doesn’t want to have anything lingering when it could be taken care of now. The pile will multiply exponentially should she leave it alone.

She doesn’t wish to take advantage of Astarion, but if he is so willing, she’d love to have him in the mines with her more often. He’s a sharp eye with an even quicker intellect. By revising Gortash’s contract based on Astarion’s notes, Hircine found her schedule to be a pinch less jam packed.

My husband is capable, smart, handsome, and—and… loving.

Now, he might not love Hircine, and she isn’t sure exactly what love for another—in a non-platonic relationship—feels like.

Is it the explosion of realization like in the books or something more muted?

How does Hircine even feel when she thinks of Astarion?

Warm. The rush of blood darkening her cheeks when he calls her a pet name.

Hot. That pulsing, scorching heat that sometimes starts low in her core as his soft lips press against hers.

Cold. An emptiness because he’s not here now, and she wishes he was.

He lies, or withholds a lot, leaving many bits and pieces of the real Astarion missing, always pausing, thinking much too hard about how he should answer. Is it his ‘father’, Cazador, with his compulsions that makes Astarion lie so often?

A ‘Szarr’ only in name.

Hircine doesn’t care about his perceived social status. He’s an outlier to begin with when Mother tends toward non-surface dwelling drow because ‘they haven’t been corrupted by the light’. Jena has been to the surface, but never actually lived upon it, so she still fell within Mother’s parameters of a proper Zau’viir marriage candidate.

The thought of Mother finding out Astarion is not only a vampire but also a typical surface elf… Hircine won’t allow it.

She doesn’t know what to do about Cazador, either. Lexi said she is searching for any and everything to deal with the loathsome vampire lord, yet the pursuit is fruitless. There is less than a month until Astarion must return ‘home’ and with work being… work, L'Alure d'Ulnen creeping closer, and well, everything that drowns her beneath, Hircine is caught in a cave-in.

She wishes to speak with Boethiah as they used to. He always steered her in the right direction.

Sighing, Hircine fiddles with her quill, running the feathery-soft tip up and down her cheek, deciding on an action that is certainly unwise. Quill set down, Hircine stands from her desk and turns around, eyeing the glass box housing the runic orb that returned her home from Herma-Mora’s incomprehensibly shifting palace.

The box is set aside, and Hircine leans down, now eye level with the sphere, marveling at its whirling inscriptions of nonsense.

Could Herma-Mora help her rid the material plane of Cazador?

Whatever his price is, she will pay it for Astarion.

The pad of a finger presses against the orb.

A̷̳̠͇͙̠̻̓̕ ̸̝̥̗̯̗̽̃̂͛̓͛̊̒͂̕͝n̸̪̺̼͌̿͛͋̓͝ͅé̵̱̤̯͖͂̑̿͒͒͑̀̀̃w̷̨̢̯̙̳̿̑̍͑̎͐̐͑̚͠ ̸̨̛̝̺͙͚̮̹͙͈͒̾͒͆̂̌́́͌͌̀̃̕ĥ̷̨̙̪̩̫̘̟̮̤̻̃̏a̷͖͌̍n̴̮̼̆̌̉̎̂̕͠͝͠d̵̨̢̜͓̟͎͖̭̗͎͓̰͒͑ͅ ̷͔̲͎̙̗͚̻͒͑̽̃͆͑͜ͅţ̸͎̠̏̈́͆͝͠ͅȯ̸̮̯͇̪̥̟͖̞͓̼̋u̷̡̝͐̎͂̈́̚͝ċ̵̨̨̛̖̱̩͚̹̲̐͆̄̈́́̂̂̈͒̀̕͠ͅh̴͍̼̠̝͙̗̀̾͋̈́͑̈́̇̈́̎̚͠e̵̛̝̅̉̓͛͗̈́̅̅́͘̕s̷͙͓̦̝͙̮̱̖̽͛̊̈́̎͛̀̍̈̆͘ͅ ̶̨̢̡̡͔͍̭̝̱̪̳̟̱͈͛͊̈́͛͑͂̀̍͑͗͘̕͝͠t̴̢̧͇̭̯̗̟̱̠̲͓̠̱͖̐̈̅͒̎̆͜͝͝h̶̢̨͚̔̌́̊͌̏͆͌̊̕͝e̶̛͎̳̋̿̏̈̿̎ ̵̡̢̥̼̣͍̝̙̫͈̭͍̘̇͊́̿͊̅͘͝͝b̵̨̺͕̯̻̰̜̜̱͓̎ē̶͓͍̲̝̯̜͍͗́͑̂̇̆͝͝ḁ̵̡͔̞̈̑̾͌̕͠ĉ̶̛̣ơ̶̝̭̺͒̽̅̀͌̇̀̎́̕͝n̵̮̪͙͕͔͇̞̫͉̬͉̹͌̔̿̂͐̈́͜

w̶̡͍̹̞̱͕̬̖̉̋̓̇̅͜ȩ̶̞͈̻̳̮̲̰͎̫̣͕̉͐͛͑̂̓͒̔̓̒̚̚i̸̙̳͔̯̩͓̹̰̭̭̟̩͙̳̊̎̄̈́̅̀̀̊̑j̴̨̹̩͓͔̦̱͉̗̬͕͎͇͉͖͊͛͐̈́́̃͘͝͝o̴̗̰̥̜̳̹͍̦̥̊̾͐̔̀̽̀͗̊̿͗̀̕ ̶̣̼̤̂͑͂͋͂̍́̐͆̾̀ͅD̷̞͚̏̌͌̽̇̍͛̏̆̀̓̆B̸̢̘̩̩̼͑̽̄͑̏͗̔̄͝W̵̫̳̆͗͐͑͆̌̌̊͋̂̑́͝͠Ú̶͈̬̲͕͉̙̺͗̀̃̉̒̊̇̚̚Ĭ̸̢̟̗̤̲͎͖̥̄͜ ̴̩̖̗̼̜̬̟͕̩͎̟͌̄̏̑̎̀͜͠ṣ̵̢̫̝̙͂̓̐̋̓͆̽̐͗̋͋̂͗͗͜ͅj̶̤͕̬̪̺̳̿̏͊́̇͒̀Y̶̤͙̹̩͚͍̮͕̞͕̘̟͚͙̽͊̈̍́̋̓̋̓̌̈́̕͜S̸̡̯̩͖̃̓̇͌̆̀͂͋Ą̷͖̈́̓̒̈́̋̇̌̎͌͠b̸̢̫̺̜̀̿͒̽͆͋́͑̊̈́̂͠ḑ̴̡̖̥̮̹͍͉̘͕̝͇̽̈͑̇̿͛̃̈́̇̓́̐͠͠͠

t̷̫̗͇̞̺̯̀̑t̷͖̐̈́̈́̿̍̈́͗̈́̀́̒́͝͠y̸̹̠̰̙̩̱͗̅̾̍̓̎̄͒̋̆̽͆̉͝F̴̛͈̘̲̑̀̅̇̌̓̅͝͝d̵̨̢̻̙̙̰͍̫͉̠̯͒̉̑̓͊̌ȑ̴̢̙͖̫̱̮̰̱̣̫͕͈̔̎̿̅̆t̷̢̧̛̞͔̮̟͇͇͈̩̪̟͖̄͐̈́͗̕͝͠y̴̖̻̬̙̬̝̩̓͒̎̊̈́̇̃̔͘͝͝W̵̫̳̆͗͐͑͆̌̌̊͋̂̑́͝͠Ú̶͈̬̲͕͉̙̺͗̀̃̉̒̊̇̚̚Ĭ̸̢̟̗̤̲͎͖̥̄͜ ̴̩̖̗̼̜̬̟͕̩͎̟͌̄̏̑̎̀͜͠ṣ̵̢̫̝̙͂̓̐̋̓͆̽̐͗̋͋̂͗͗͜ͅj̶̤͕̬̪̺̳̿̏͊́̇͒̀Y̶̤͙̹̩͚͍̮͕̞͕̘̟͚͙̽͊̈̍́̋̓̋̓̌̈́̕͜S̸̡̯̩͖̃̓̇͌̆̀͂͋v̵̧̢̜̬̱͔̳̖͚̼̦̟͓͍̯̀i̴̧̛̳͉̹̪̭͇̯͎͋͐͒̃̆̈͊̉͒̕͜s̴̛̛̩͉̝̘̬̻̫̞̣̰̙̱̰̩̍͒̌̊̋̌̆́̽̿ď̸̛̰̠̘̯̱̩͍͖̙͈̄̔̎̑̈̍͊̆̓̐̉̉͘X̶̡̙̘̭̄́͘ͅy̸̧̛͈̜͙̙̿̈́͑͂̀͜u̵̢̨̼̩̰̻͙̹͓̦̹͙̓͑͋x̶̨̡͖̫̙̘͍̪̦̟̱̌̈́̀͝D̴̨̢̨̠̫̤͇̞͈̟̳̽̑͗́͛̽̍̌̃̚̚̚͝s̷̨̧̠̖̖̤̝̳͔̗̃̎̈́̇͐͜ą̸̲̤̿̓̍̋̽̈̐͑̈́̉̈́̈͘͘

The acrid scent of ammonia greets Hircine, and she gasps, the musty, dank air of the mines sucked into her lungs, aching body slowly picked up off the unforgiving stone floor.

Thirsk, in a tattered sack dress hanging on by a thread, kneels next to her, holding a Bungler’s Bane by her face. The fungus functions similarly to smelling salts with its intensely offensive odor…

“Hircine, no sleep here.” He states in scratchy and broken undercommon, waggling the mushroom closer as if she isn't already awake.

She waves away the vile mushroom. “I’m up now, thank you for the help.”

He tosses the mushroom under a cabinet, and scoots close, wrapping his dirty hand around Hircine’s finger and points with his other at Herma-Mora’s artifact. “No touch. You hurt. Blood.”

And she remembers the visions, the horrors so warped and unending now seared into her mind. All those teeth… or were they eyes? Who was screaming? She touches her lip, finding dried blood leading to her nose.

Not one of her better ideas, but the urge overtakes any rational thought and she just… acts. Last time, one of her fingers rotted and fell off in a matter of minutes after laying a touch on the orb. Passing out from unimaginable agony seems like the better outcome.

Herma-Mora didn’t really give her an answer to her vampire lord problem, though. Their relationship feels a bit one sided these days.

“Did anyone come in?” She questions her little friend.

“No. It—” He counts on his knobby fingers multiple times over. “Minutes.”

Oh, not bad at all.

Hircine gets to her feet, cleaning the blood from her face and floor quickly. There’s a mess of what she assumes is stolen goods that Thirsk dropped upon entering her office when finding Hircine passed out on the ground. Normally, he hides his finds in her bookshelf.

Thirsk trots his way to Hircine, beady eyes blinking at her as he holds his warty gray arms out. “Uppie.”

Obliging the creature, Hircine picks Thirsk up and sets him in his bed box on her desk. “Would you like some raspberries and maybe new clothes? I think that sounds nice.”

The tiny gremlin nods, watching Hircine’s every movement diligently while he wraps up in a blanket.

She leaves the office for a snack and a bundle of fabric that can be made into suitable clothing. Thirsk will muck them up in no time, so silks are avoided. Regardless, she likes how the jermlaine poses and prances about in what he considers fine attire.

Upon returning with goodies in hand, Hircine spots an envelope of crimson cardstock that wasn’t there when she left, along with some raw gemstones of surprising size scattered across her desk.

She picks up an emerald rough. A cushion cut would suit it wonderfully. “Is this from you, Thirsk?”

The beastie tosses out a few more raws, most likely stolen. “For pretty Hircine.”

Smiling gratefully, Hircine piles the gems up to return to the cutters later. “Thank you.”

Handing off a few berries to Thirsk so he doesn't interrupt, she slices open the envelope with her sharpened opener, pulling out luxuriously thick parchment penned with shimmering gold ink and the seal of Mystra stamped next to a supercilious signature.

Some 'archmage' from Waterdeep will be here on the seventh of Eleint to identify the magical artifacts held within Father’s vaults. They come around every few years at Mother’s request and payment. The parents like to know exactly what is held within their walls when Raphael is constantly gifting things to Father.

She's suspicious those gifts are bribes. For what, Hircine does not know.

This letter poses as more work for Hircine to take care of… but this might be a splendid opportunity for Astarion. Mother appreciates when spouses make themselves useful.

Tathzar didn’t care for such efforts in their twenty-three years together, and Mother poured more troubles upon Hircine for it.

Vorn’tyrr didn’t live long enough to ingratiate himself to Mother, though Hircine knows that the bastard would not have let an opportunity like that pass him by.

She’ll guide Astarion down the right path when the time comes.

---

Doors to the elevator slide open with a frown-inducing squeak, revealing the freshly waxed main floor of the manor. A repairman will be dispatched with utmost haste to make sure the only easy way down to the mines is running at optimum capacity.

When Hircine steps off the elevator, a lamp flickers ominously on the wall, then sputters out with a hiss, submerging the hallway in a chilling darkness. Eyes adjust quickly to the gloom, finding nothing out of the ordinary—yet. It won’t be long before Vaermina and Boethiah fall from the rafters to snatch Hircine up for another bout of insanity.

Fan in hand, ready to be smashed into someone’s face should she need it, Hircine makes her way home, footsteps silent across the flooring.

Lolth’s corruption will only earn Hircine the flesh-rending stings of Mother’s whip.

Work went smoothly, Thirsk had a party in his new dress—and yes, even after their fun, he still laid out shards of glass for her to step on—and now Hircine can rest at home. She won’t let her siblings ruin this night for her.

I have a husband to… to be happy with.

Skirts swish along the ground when she turns the corner. Now in the main hall, a beeline is made toward the still well-lit grand staircase.

Unfortunately, that’s as far as Hircine goes before Mal makes his presence known when he stands up on the bottom of the stairs, arms and chin coming to rest along the polished-to-perfection handrail, lips turning up into a sham of a smile.

He looks… awful. Long hair disheveled, ends sticking out all over, and manic eyes surrounded by deep set dark circles.

Seems like Boethiah and Vaermina got to him first.

She stops in her tracks, grip tightening on her fan. “Can I help you, Mal?”

“Where’s my brother-in-law?” He asks, much too innocent when he already knows the answer. What don't the servants tell him?

“At home,” Hircine states, suspicious of his presence.

A thoughtful hum buzzes in his throat when Mal steps down to the main floor. “I know you have high—nay, impossible standards for a man. Is his intelligence lacking? That’s dis—”

How dare he?

Hircine approaches Mal for once, normally so frightened of a fight, but not tonight, not when he’s insulting her husband. She jabs the steel end caps of her fan into his chest. “He lacks nothing.”

An eyebrow raises sharply at her denial of his words, gaunt cheeks sucking in. “Jumping right to his defense… same as he does for you.” Swatting her fan away, Mal leers close. “Is this before or after he knows about everything you’ve done or what’s going to happen? I imagine Ilhar hasn’t given her blessing yet.”

Glaring, Hircine backs up a step. “She hasn’t, and we all must stay silent until she has.”

“Fair enough,” and Mal closes the distance once again, speaking lowly. “I’m just so curious how poor, sweet Astarion will react when he finds out he’s the third in a line of dead husbands. All the blood on your hands doesn't paint a pretty portrait.”

“I never touched Tathzar!” Hircine says much too fast, rattled. Mal blocks the way home; she can't escape without a fight.

“So you say, but I read his last words, he—”

Horror rends its sharp claws down Hircine's spine. She and Lexi were the only ones that should have laid eyes on that letter.

Being married to Tathzar wasn’t ideal. They didn’t get along because Tathzar would rather be anywhere than by Hircine’s side, which is fair, he didn’t want to be married to her, just to the money since he was some nobody from the Underdark. Who wouldn’t want to be guaranteed a nicer life?

It’s unfortunate he chose the wrong family to marry into for such a goal. The Zau’viirs are not the gleaming moonstones and untarnished silver they present themselves as.

If Tathzar had truly wanted to, they could have gotten along when he was such a free and light spirit, quick to bring a smile or laugh out of anyone without effort. He refused his designated position though, a lowly husband in a family that stuck a little too close to Lolth’s teachings for his spiderless-upbringing, so he stayed away day and night in Baldur’s Gate, learning what it meant to be a surface-dweller.

Hircine is aware enough to know that she wasn’t perfect either, never one to console or encourage, furthering the divide between them, and the last few years until he ended it, they barely spoke at all. Maybe she could have tried harder, enticed him in other ways, but what was she to do when Tathzar made it clear he held no interest in women, least of all her?

Excuses come easy when she’s the one still alive.

A stinging smack to her cheek brings her back to the room, Mal’s stormy gray eyes level with Hircine’s, only a few inches away. “Am I boring you? You’re not that strong, so how did you do it? Or was Lexi the one pulling the rope?” He grins venomously, finding humor where there is none.

The thought of plunging her fan through his throat crosses Hircine’s mind. Instead, she bites back her boiling anger, knowing a thoughtless reaction is exactly what he wants.

“I found him like that! We didn’t get along, I would never deny it, but to wish Tathzar harm? No. I don’t revel in hurting others the way you do.”

“You didn’t enjoy killing Vorn’tyrr?” Mal sounds surprised.

“No.” Hircine answers without hesitation. If he asked that she regretted killing Vorn’tyrr, now that’s a whole other matter. It was kill or be killed; Vorn’tyrr deserved what he got, and worse.

That still doesn’t make it right, what she did.

Unlike Mal, who was much too gleeful about Anwen’s untimely and wholly mysterious demise; Hircine was irreparably fractured, chucked into a pit of desolation for how she dealt with Vorn’tyrr.

What started as seeking highs to dull the pain of a harsh life and broken marriages, snowballed into being unable to get out of bed without forcefully forgetting everything completely.

It was simple, easy, to never be bothered by the world again.

Hircine shoves Mal, sending him stumbling back to the railing in bewilderment. “I don’t have time for your nonsense. If you want to continue along the path of being deplorable rubbish, then so be it, but leave me out of it.”

“Why? So you can work, work, and work some more? Even when they’re gone, you persist. Who are you trying to impress?”

“It's better than being worthless like you.”

For once, Mal doesn’t rise to the bait, instead rolling his bloodshot eyes, hand held up and out as he gestures around the hall. “None of this is going to matter in Menzoberranzan.”

“I won’t go to Menzoberranzan,” responds Hircine instantly.

“Oh?” Mal cocks his head, “And does Ilhar know that?” Before Hircine now, he looks down at her best he can when they’re so similar in stature. “You sure work hard for someone that supposedly doesn’t want to go. Why is that, hmm? What happened to my little dalninil that fought so, so hard against Ilhar’s plans? Hells, you railed against it any chance you got, but now you sit in your nice chair, at that enormous desk in the mines, doing everything to please her. Why?”

Why?

W̶̨̩͚̻͇̋͗̾̐́̇͊̍̓́͛͋͊̅̍ͅh̵̳̭̜͖̽̊͗y̵̛͎̼̝̭͔̲̩̘͂̽͂͂̆͛̈́́̑͑̑̕͘͠?̵̠̻͒̾̃̑̈́̐̅̅͘̚͠͠͝

“‘Why?’” Hircine echoes, an edge of loathsome bitterness sharpening her tone. “Because I’m fucking tired, Malacath! I’m tired of fighting. I’m tired of competing. I’m tired of getting my skin ripped off because my form isn’t perfect! And I certainly didn’t want to be born into this miserable fucking family thats doomed to the Underdark!”

Immediately regretful of those last words, Hircine waves them away with her hand. “No, I just—I wished this had all turned out differently. I want my brothers and sisters back, and that includes you.”

Mal is stunned for a few moments, at a loss for what to say, but he finds his voice, and it’s coated in hate. “I didn’t think you were capable of such saccharine feelings, especially after what you did to Sanguine—”

Hircine snaps back. “I had no choice! She—”

“Didn't you, though? You’ll be singing a different tune when L'Alure d'Ulnen is upon us, I know it. Ilhar said we’ll be hosting a grand hunt, and I can only hope we get to choose the prey, because you won't be able to escape this time.”

“You can’t kill me.” She says, a nervous warble warping her voice.

He smiles, uncaring and unkind, “You have a lot to pay for during the dance, and when you’ve been beaten down by the steady strikes of Ilhar’s whip, I’ll be there to silence you forever. It’s between you and me, dalninil. So prepare yourself.”

What does he know that I don't? 

Mother never shares her plans until the last minute.

There’s no time to think deeply about those words. “Oh! I ran into Araj recently! It’s been, what, five years since she’s been around?” Mal touches his chin in thought, pivoting to a completely unwelcome topic, “You both were such good friends, practically tied at the hip… Makes one wonder what happened…”

Fed up with his intentional gauging, Hircine tries to sidestep, but Mal moves in pace with her. “Awe, come on, Hircine. Why the sour face? Araj was asking how you are, so clearly she wasn’t the one that broke things off. She even wanted me to pass this along to you.” Held up in his hand is a small vial filled with a hazy liquid that is all too familiar.

And so achingly enticing.

She's never wanted anything more.

“Wh-Where did you g-get that?” Hircine stutters, panic chilling her bones, but the manic urge to grab it, sprint up the stairs, and down the contents is near overwhelming.

Wiggling the vial, Mal waves it around in her face, smirking at the way Hircine’s eyes track the small bottle. “I told you, Araj wanted it passed along to you.”

Gods. Araj, a master alchemist, can whip up anything at Hircine’s request. Truly, the moment those drops would hit her tongue were planes-transcending, teleporting Hircine to a dimension of peaceful rainbow fractals that danced with her to Eilistraee’s embrace.

Her name, her place in this world, her problems, all forgotten, compartmentalized in a safe space until she returned to reality—which wasn't often with how quick Araj delivered the next hit.

“You know what? I'll just leave it right here.” The bottle set now on the flat of the handrail, Mal pats Hircine's cheek when he breezes past her, and she doesn't react to his mocking, transfixed by all the possibilities that have opened up to her. “Have a very, very good night, dalninil.”

How could she not?

Alone at last, she approaches the unassuming item, heart palpitating painfully within her chest, almost in disbelief that it's here.

‘Friends’ is much too strong a word to describe the relationship Hircine and Araj had. They both had something the other wanted, and while personality wise, they got along just fine, it was all business at the end of the day.

It was a very short-lived relationship anyway, lasting about a year.

But what a year it was…

Not that Hircine can remember most of it.

Karilth. Purity.

That's what they called the drug.

The euphoria, that otherworldliness… There is nothing to compare. Each taste reaching beyond happiness, touching a nerve that only the gods should have access to. There was nothing that could hurt Hircine.

The comedown she could do without, and the withdrawal immediate, tremors so violent she couldn't even write, vomiting until all that would come up was bile and blood, and then—

No, no. It's only once. I only have the one so it won't end like that again.

Lexi won't know. I'll hide away with it.

Reaching towards the vial, Hircine stops just millimeters away before doing something she knows she will regret, arm snatched back and hands clutched against her chest.

What am I doing?!

Lexi will know, she always does.

And how could she ever forget the way Lexi had sobbed as Hircine ebbed in and out of that drug-induced psychosis, begging her to stop destroying herself, pleading to every god that be not to take another baby from her.

‘Hircine’s all I have left, please don’t take her from me! Eilistraee! Lolth! I'll bend my head to anyone, please!’

But Hircine didn’t care, did she? When she was finally aware enough, all Hircine wanted was another dose to cut through the agony of the life she’s forced to live.

Erase it all and forget.

Sanguine, a kind and patient elder sister, turned vicious, a serrated knife poised to cut out a tongue because she’s too afraid of falling behind.

Tathzar’s body, hanging rigid from the rope he hung himself with. The handwritten note left at his feet, blaming her—perhaps rightfully—for his misery.

Delicate Boethiah who has never uttered a harsh word in his life, spitting venom at every passing, the edge of the Demonweb Pits crumbling beneath his feet, Lolth beckoning him to an eternity of hollow misery.

And Vorn’tyrr. That raw, enduring hate raging within his red eyes as he dragged himself across the dining room ground before succumbing to the blood-loss. He screamed his gargled promises of vengeance until the very end.

All that is left is the blood dripping from her hands.

Drip.

Drop.

Drip. Drop.

Mal is right, Astarion will be horrified.

The terrors a vampire lord must inflict are unimaginable to Hircine, only because she does not yet understand. But knowing Astarion, and all the kindness he treats her with…

Well, what he doesn’t know for now won’t hurt him.

Until it does.

Will he still look at her in that same heart-wrenching way when he knows all she’s done?

Hircine can bury it all she wants beneath the drugs, the indifference, the naivete.

The truth will find the light; it always does.

She can play pretend for a little longer, though, right?

It’s more fun, so fulfilling being the woman Astarion sees in her instead of the one Mother wants her to be.

She rubs at her eyes, choking tears down. Now is not the time for weakness. “I'm better than this. I know it.” There’s no going back. Time and Lexi’s uplifting love has brought Hircine back from the brink again and again. She’s never been alone, and now there’s someone else she can lean on, even if it’s a brittle and precarious thing with all these secrets worming between them.

Taking Mal’s wretchedly tempting gift in hand, Hircine launches it across the foyer, dismayed that the glass doesn’t shatter, but the distance is better than nothing.

Steps are taken one at a time, the pieces put back together; a large crack here, a warped chip there, but for the night, Hircine will be whole again.

Mal can intimidate and berate her however he wants. I survived this long and I can survive beyond.

L'Alure d'Ulnen is just a grand test—or a game of life and death should the Dark Mother deem it so.

And a mockery of all that is good and right in the world Eilistraee offers to them.

Instead of relieving the burdens of the day, they pay in flesh and blood for every coin lost, every mistake made.

Mal thinks there's something to win.

What? More pain? More abuse? With how Mother grinds her heel into his back, it doesn't seem all that worth it.

‘Losing’ doesn't save anyone from the onslaught either.

So what's the point, exactly?

Lexi is so sure this dance of lies is the last, so if Mother forces that choice, can Hircine do it?

I can't kill Mal.

Turning back, Hircine stares into the void that has consumed the hallway she came from, but it's not the void that stares back. A ghostly, disembodied face, so coldly haunting and regal, red eyes glinting, chipped rubies burning from within, blink with innocence.

Her voice is melodic, so soft in its maternal lilt, speaking in a way Hircine’s own mother is incapable of. "Oh, but can't you, my dark hunter?"

Does her greediness know no bounds when Boethiah, Vaermina and Mal are already caught in her sticky webs?

Hircine turns her back on this apparition of Lolth. A mistake, perhaps, but the Weaver laughs instead, a chime of whispers on the wind. 

Just another thing to ignore until judgment rains down upon them.

Notes:

-its super hard to read, but one of the lines of cursed text says “A new hand touches the beacon” 🤣

Next up: Pet Names

Chapter 18: I'm Choking, On My Words

Notes:

Content Warnings

Some smut, references to Astarion's past, mentions of bodily harm

Blood Sugar by Kid Bloom

TLBOH Playlist

In their bathroom, a bristled brush is combed through Hircine’s hair as she laboriously detangles the heavy strands, wondering what the punishment would be if she trimmed it a few inches.

It's not worth it.

Removing the ornaments from her hair is like threading the eye of a needle, but in reverse…

And it's much harder.

I'm not making much sense, am I?

X̶̧͓̣͔̰͗̾̀̓͛j̷̲͉̇̔̓͗̐͠͝Ị̷̡̛̙̼̻̫̩̰̫̖̹͈͆͒̂̔̆̈́͐͂̋́͛͘͜͝ͅÖ̴̤͍̥͕̩͔̫̜́͆̀̽̊̌̈͝l̴̟̮̺̗̃̈́͜h̶̹̏̅̈́̽͋͌̔̔́̽͂̕̚͝ ̴̡͙͓̜̠̱͍̥̺̆̓̀ͅà̷̭̝̬̯̱͎̼͖͔͇͙̜̞̣ͅh̸͇̖̪̠͕̮̻̫̤͗̋̔̿͐͗̒̓̓̔̃̈́̒͋͆ͅÛ̶̦̺̩̯͗͌̌͐̇̆̔̔̑̓͘͝ͅh̷̼̞̯̖̯̞͌̌̓̓̃̚͜q̷̢̡̣̠̟̤̙̘̲̬̲̞͎̂̈́̂̀̎̀̓́̽̚B̷̥͋͑͊͘n̸̙̟̙̙̫̳͖̫͌̽̿́̆̾̅̔͝ ̴̳͉̪̠̤̰̫̟̝̰̦̦͔̿̈͂̊́̀͋̈́͜͜͝ẉ̵͗̉̆̐j̷̧̥̠͙͖̞̭͑͑̽̿̃̀̌́́Ṷ̸̧̧͎̳̝͎̦̺̩̬̞̌̾̍̀͘͠͝

Herma-Mora agrees.

She thinks again of the other morning, how her breast ached in all the right ways from his starved bite. Hells. The yearning she felt then—feels now to slip a hand beneath her panties, get off at the thought of him, the things he would do, the way he might—

It’s eating her up, just like she wishes her husband would.

But touching herself? It’s been so long, she never thinks about it so seriously.

A rap to the door has Hircine jumping out of her skin with a squeak.

Astarion leans languidly against the doorframe, looking off to the side in the event she wants privacy. She does not, even if she is standing nearly nude with just her smalls on.

“May I offer a hand, pet?”

“Oh… uhm… yes.” She holds out the brush for him and Astarion gets to work, removing the arrowheads with precise, rapid movements, each second fulfilling its purpose.

As usual, Hircine doesn’t know what to say when it’s only them. It’s not his fault at all, he’s easy enough to talk to, Hircine is the one unable to start an amiable conversation. Business she could talk all day, but about her—him?

Every time his cool, dextrous fingers graze over her bare skin, a tingle of ecstatic delight lingers, refusing to be forgotten, and she wishes desperately that his hands might roam undeterred across her body, turn her to moldable clay in his experienced grasp.

Suddenly, the tip of her ear is pinched, and Hircine turns around, the attacked ear cupped with an outraged gasp.

“I couldn't help myself. You looked so cute lost inside that pretty little head.”

She faces Astarion fully now, blinking with surprised confusion. “You—You think I'm… cute?”

Measuring her up with an appreciative gaze, Astarion taps her nose once. “Cute. Beautiful. Stunning. Whatever you wish.”

“Well, I don't really care, but you don't need to say it if you don't mean it, Husband.”

That catches him off guard as he wavers, formulating an answer that appears coated in sincerity. “I do mean it. All words of praise apply where you're concerned, but if you have a preference, then say so.”

And it is her turn to be caught flat footed. Such honeyed words don't sound like a lie coming from his lips. Only Lexi heaps praise upon Hircine, and even then, if Hircine makes a mistake, Lexi consoles her regardless, because it's her job or because she cares for Hircine so, it doesn't really matter.

She's not used to this. “I'm not trying to dismiss your words.”

“I know,” he says simply.

This is hard. “I don't know or-or understand what I'm doing. I've never—” I've never felt this way before. That yearning for another so fierce, she thinks of little else, night in and night out is strange and extraordinary.

“Isn't that the fun of it—not always knowing? Where's the spontaneity in future sight?”

“It's comforting to know what's coming.”

“For the bad things, obviously, but think of how dull life would be if every little happiness is always guaranteed. Doesn't sound like much to look forward to, I'd say,” Astarion drops the hair decorations into a tray, listening to them clatter while patiently awaiting a rebuttal.

Does Hircine even have one? She's never thought of it like that. Conceding, she nods. “You're right. It just—Sometimes those little joyful surprises don't really offset all the… bad.”

“So much of our lives are out of our control,” Astarion sighs, looking past her now, unseeing, a weight she doesn't understand pulls his shoulders down, “we have to make do with what we can, even if it's creating our own happiness from nothing.”

Right yet again. When was the last time Hircine made something from nothing, not for the business or Mother, but for her?

It's a little awkward, her being almost naked and Astarion decidedly not, not that he seems to mind where that is concerned. Hircine steps forward, shy, unsure, expecting rejection at worst. “Could I, uhm, hug you?”

Astarion laughs quietly, more a scoff. “A hug? But why wou—”

And she wilts, dejected at his words. Stupid! How embarrassing. “No, it was—Nevermind. I’m—”

“No! That’s not—I didn’t mean it like that.” His hands shoot out in a yielding motion as if to defend himself. “Most people aren’t interested in such things where I’m concerned, so I… Well, it doesn’t matter.” He mutters quietly.

Where he is concerned? What could that mean?

Astarion sharply inhales through his nose, then lets out a short huff of air. “I would gladly accept a, er, hug, dear wife.” But then he stands there stiffly, waiting.

Maybe he's letting her set the pace. Timidly, and not without a careful show of movement, Hircine approaches Astarion, gently wrapping her arms around his waist, resting her head over where his heart lies within his chest.

It's silent and still; a precious gem locked in the gilded cage of his ribcage.

With hesitation, or perhaps even reluctance, Astarion does the same, and she can feel his cheek pressing down on her hair. He's not warm exactly, more whatever the temperature the air is, so he feels cool against her bare skin. Someone sighs, it could have been her, or him, or both, and as she melts into his sturdy body, wrapped up in his arms like this, it’s so comforting, a salve to soothe the abrasions left from a hard day of work.

Her hands move up Astarion’s back, keen to pull him tight against her and her fingers brush over rough bumps and ridges, hardly perceptible beneath the vest of his jacket, but still very much there.

Pulling away abruptly, Astarion holds Hircine by her shoulders at arm’s length. “That was nice,” he states.

She’s inclined to agree, “Yes, it was.”

His gaze drifts down when he lets go, and Hircine takes another chance to be bold, and maybe a little calculated, holding her arms behind her back, winding long strands of hair into her fist, ensuring her bared chest is more prominent. He blinks slowly, red eyes meeting hers as a playful smirk twists his lips. “Aren’t you clever?”

She plays coy, “If you think so.”

“I know so, pet.” He says, drumming fingers against her sternum. “Let me—Wait right there!” And he’s left the bathroom. The clothes he wears reveal nothing about what she felt on his back. It could have been the texture of the layers, or something else entirely.

Has she ever seen him change before?

Only a few moments later does Astarion return, her standing straighter in his presence.

In his palms, he holds the common-to-drow dictionary, opened to a page marked by a ribbon, running his finger down to a specific word Hircine can’t see. “Earlier, I had a thought, ‘My sweet wife enjoys her nicknames, does she want any in drow?’ and so, do you, my love?”

What he says currently is more than enough, so noticeable in the way her throat tightens up at his silken words. “Ahem, you can, uhm, try them out and see if anything sticks.”

“To clarify, as I'm still learning, when I say ‘my sweet wife’ it would be ‘Ussta ssinjin 'ranndi’, correct?” His pronunciation and cadence is quite good, though not perfectly natural, all he needs is more time

“That's right.”

“There didn't seem to be much of a reaction for that one… How about ‘mrimmd'ssinss’? Lots of hissing in this language…”

Lover? It won't have the same ring to it without his accent. Hircine shrugs.

Taking that as a challenge, he flips some pages and Astarion tries again, “‘Ussta isilme cryso’?”

She cringes, “That's a little…” and trails off.

“Twee.” He supplies dryly. Another page is turned. “‘Ussta zee'ill’!”

“What about me is werewolf-like?”

It's his turn to shrug. “You have all that hair, and don't mind the moon much.”

The logic. “The same could be said for you then, Husband.”

His mouth drops open, taken aback. “How dare you! I'm a handsome, eternally youthful man, not some wet-furred beast! And it's not by choice that I'm stuck under Selûne’s radiance.”

The same could be said for Hircine…

She imagines Astarion has a slew of names prepared, but the endeavor, while silly and fun, is futile. Her fingers splay out over the pages. “Drow isn't really an affectionate language, I'm not sure you will find anything up to your—our standards.”

He pouts momentarily, pulling the book away. “Ugh, spoilsport.” Now that is a name Hircine is familiar with. “Wait, I have one more: ‘xi'hum’?”

Pet. But not the good kind.

“No! Never call anyone that. It's common in drow cities, typically used for-for men or disgraced women that hold little use outside of sex. If you say that around someone in the mines, they might attack you.”

Astarion freezes, then rolls his eyes with a click of his tongue, mumbling under his breath. “Of course I would choose that one.” Tossing the book out the door where it lands with a loud smack on the floor, he turns back to Hircine, casting a shadow over her as he hovers in her personal space. “So, how does my wife prepare for a bath?”

Her mind blanks as she looks up at him, lost to the allure of his potential affections. She doesn't even remember what she was doing before he entered the bathroom. “Uhm, I—” What do you do?! “…I dealt with some raw materials earlier, so a cursory check for cuts or scrapes is a necessity. Contamination from any Underdark diseases or curses could be problematic.”

“Oh, indeed. If you'd like a second look, I can certainly provide.”

She's trying—and failing miserably—to stand strong against his captivating presence, but her body betrays her, face set alight and heart clenching almost painfully under his glittering rubied stare. “We-Well, I wouldn't say no.”

“Splendid,” Circling clockwise around Hircine like a stalking predator—which he very well is—Astarion thoroughly scans her over until he's on her left, tapping haughtily under Hircine’s chin until she raises it up high. His smile carries more than his sharp teeth tonight. “Perfect girl, you are.”

No one, not even Lexi, would say Hircine is perfect, and she has no reason to disagree with them. Yet… he's not mocking her. There's something deeper in his words she can't quite place.

His hand now cups a breast from beneath, and it takes all of Hircine's power to not jump at his touch when a current of delight zaps through her body.

“Aren't they heavy?” He asks.

She watches how his hand considers the weight, bouncing it gently. She’d like him to do more. “Uhm, I guess? I don't really notice them.”

“I do.”

And how could she forget? He's made it well-known.

Back behind her, Astarion leans over her shoulder, gently coaxing Hircine’s head towards him so their lips can meet, quick and sweet. Cradling both her breasts now, he gives them a firm squeeze. Hircine barely swallows down a moan.

“You're awfully quiet, pet.”

She responds without thinking. “Shouldn't I be?”

The dead silence that follows leaves Hircine tense, the mood wholly ruined. She risks a glance at Astarion, finding him scrutinizing her closely, his tight grasp on her breasts loosening to bring a hand up and draw a finger across her cheek.

Hircine flinches and he stills before slowly pulling back, cautious and slow-speaking. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want, Hircine, but if you’re holding back on… someone else’s behalf, then I’d urge you to reconsider. That’s no way to live.”

It’s what is expected of me.

Mother demands it. Mal enjoys it. Vorn’tyrr enforced it.

‘A silent wife is the only wife for me.’

“Your voice is lovely, pet. I’d relish hearing it in all its iterations, only if you want to share it, of course.”

Leaning into the soothing security that is Astarion, Hircine speaks, “Everyone seems to prefer my silence, except—”

“Me!”

“And Lexi.” Hircine amends and Astarion grunts, petulant. She smooths a palm over his chest, indulging in his sturdy frame.

An arm wraps around her waist and his chin presses to the top of her skull before he says anything more. She’ll take hugs every day for the rest of her life if they all feel like this.

“It’s on your terms, always," he says before taking her shoulders and rotating Hircine until she faces the mirror. “Now, we still have some checks to perform, hmm?”

Her jaw hangs agape as she stares into the reflective glass. It’s just me! There’s the merest indentation against her skin where his digits press in, but otherwise, no one would ever know that Hircine has her husband standing right beside her. “Yo-You don’t show up!”

“One of those pesky quirks of my affliction I mentioned before.” He murmurs, feathering her biceps with gentle touches.

“You can’t see yourself?”

“I haven’t gazed upon my visage since I grew fangs and my eyes turned red.” A nibble is felt against her ear.

“At all?” She questions. It’s silly to be asking these questions when she’s read books that mentioned vampires before. There’s just something about actually seeing the disappearing act that is putting a stop to any intelligent thought.

“Correct.” He plays with her earring, and Hircine watches in petrified awe as it swings about as if by invisible mage hand on her reflection. “Possibly my most loathed loss, that petty vanity. I’ve heard I’m handsome, though.”

She ponders that, uncomprehending of the reality before her. “You don’t know what you look like?”

“Correct.” Astarion repeats, his tone indecipherable, and Hircine cannot see how he is reacting to this revelation. If she turns around, he can easily hide behind a veneer of detachment.

Hircine isn’t one to admire herself in the mirror, so she won’t act like she fully understands such a loss.

Perhaps a portrait could fill in some of the void.

While she’s lost in thought, staring at the ends of her hair fluttering like wisps around her head, Hircine does not notice Astarion’s free hand sneaking across her side to roughly—but not painfully—snatch up a tit once again, causing her to gasp. His lips are at her ear, a playful snarl. “You know, I recall at our… first look, you called me ‘pretty.' Am I not up to your standards, darling wife?”

“Y-You—” A nipple is pinched and lightly tugged on, growing firm under his touch, and barely remembering the conversation they just had, because Astarion is wonderful at making her forget things in the moment, Hircine doesn’t smother the weak moan that leaves her mouth for once.

The purple-flushed, gasping wanton woman in the mirror feels like a stranger, held aloft by the invisible strings of her husband… and yet, as her neck stretches up so he can press sharp nips against the hollow of her throat, with kisses following quickly after, Hircine wants to see more of her.

“So? What do you have to say for yourself?” Astarion demands, his adept touch playing her like a well-tuned lyre.

Why did I call him pretty? It’s hard to recall when the hand that was once playing with her hair is now creeping over her stomach, teasing the band of her panties. She’s going to explode into a shower of embers. “It-It was becau—Ah!” By the hells, no one has ever played with her like this, twisting, pulling, petting. Her legs are squeezed together, panties soaked through in a way she has never experienced before.

“What’s wrong, pet? Vampire got your tongue?” He steadies his movements now, giving her a chance to recover from the targeted pleasured onslaught against her breast.

It was to test him, see what temper he might hide, but Astarion didn’t react at all. A childish attempt to begin with.

Grabbing his hand so he can’t interrupt, Hircine answers, mostly truthful. “I don’t really notice beauty and such… I know it’s there and I can recognize it—objectively, but I just don’t think about it, so I chose ‘pretty’ as a neutral word.”

Astarion hums thoughtfully, a deep tune that vibrates against her back. “Do you think I’m handsome at all?” He questions as his fingers slip beneath her smalls, only just brushing her lower lips, testing.

“I do now!” The truth is gasped out, body pulsing with need.

“‘Now’?! Oh, I’m positively hurt!” Sinking deeper, he’s between her folds, a finger dipping in and out of her dripping heat. Knees are buckling under the pleasure while Astarion holds her up, speaking into her cheek next, a low whisper, “I’ll forgive you, though, if you come on my fingers. Does that seem fair? And if you’re up to the task, I would be ever so grateful to hear that voice. Only if you want to, of course…” He pauses, then speaks again, lips sliding against her jaw. “Pet.”

Whatever noise slips past Hircine's lips is not common, or any language for that matter. She's grasping at his thighs to keep herself upright as if Astarion isn't single-handedly holding her on her feet. Something hard presses against her back and, oh!

He chuckles, still teasing, driving her to insanity with his searing touch. “Can't I hear you, Hircine? Please.”

She pants, desperate. “Ye-Yes…” and swiftly, she is dragged back towards a short toiletry cabinet, and placed on its lacquered top like a lightweight doll in Astarion’s hands.

Panties stripped off with little fanfare, she is now completely and utterly bare.

Nudity is not something to be shy about. A body is a body, everyone has one. But with Astarion here holding her smalls as if they're some fantastical undiscovered gem, Hircine wishes she could cover up just a little bit.

That is, until her husband looks her way, claret eyes dark and lowered with want, and any useful thoughts skip from her head with abandon, leaving her without defense of a sharp retort, a lamb for the proverbial slaughter.

Panties dropped to the floor, strong fingers wrap around Hircine's left ankle, pulling it up and up until it comes to rest on top of Astarion's shoulder, splayed open like a lewd book for his blissful viewing.

The expectation is for him to dive in, ravage her until she's a quivering, soaked mess, but Astarion takes a moment as he leans closer to Hircine over the wood top, a knuckle skimming delicately along the inside of a thigh right to her sex. His voice is low, serious, all the seduction pushed aside, doing more to put flumphs in her stomach than his sultry smirks and heated words. “Is this alright?”

Recalling that she has a tongue in her mouth that works fine, Hircine responds softly, “It is.”

“If you decide it isn’t, just say so.” Millimeters away now, his tongue flicks out, tickling the seam of her lips.

“I will.” Though I doubt I’ll want him to stop.

Having received her compliance, Astarion grins mischievous and wide, a thumb circling her clit while his other hand tangles into Hircine’s thick hair. She whimpers brokenly.

“All I ask, dear wife, is that you cry for me.” And he’s on her, lips and fangs claiming her mouth in a frenzied kiss before moving down to his great fascination: her breasts.

They are feasted upon. Bites, sucks, twists and pulls, Astarion does it all in abject reverence, moaning like a man supping upon his first drink of water in days, and how could Hircine do anything but mewl and whine like the touch-starved creature she is? The stretch of her leg over his shoulder is intensely obscene in all the right ways, especially when Astarion wedges himself between her hips, spreading her wide.

When one of his fingers slips inside her core, slowly sliding in and out, she throws her head back with an “Ah!”, back primly arched, scrabbling at his feathery curls and shoulders to pull him snug against her breast.

A fang scrapes her nipple and she shudders, looking down, finding Astarion is watching her, somehow a sly smirk on his face even with a mouthful of spit-slick tit. The smooth stroking on her sensitive clit increases as another finger enters her, and Hircine won’t last another second.

Eyes screwing shut, she lets go, crying out as a dizzying orgasm washes over her body, toes curling, fingers grasping onto him hard, not the least bit interested in letting go as Hircine rides out the aftershocks of her pleasure with his fingers still pumping deep inside.

She doesn’t remember the last time she came this hard, if ever.

As her climax fades, Astarion releases her swollen nipple with a pop, pulling his fingers out from within her. The leg that was slung over his shoulder drops limply against the cabinet face.

Covered in slick, he brings a finger to his mouth, sucking off her fluids with a delightfully satisfied hum. Once finished, his lips are licked while staring into her eyes, purring, “What a shame that doesn’t appease my hunger. You’re exquisite.”

Shivering as she sits up, Hircine feels as if her limbs have turned to ochre jelly, and her body glistens with a sheen of sweat; strange when she just sat there as Astarion put in all the work. Her breasts are absolutely covered in red blotches and spit. Astarion left his mark, and she’s keen to leave it.

“You’re a right mess, pet. Are you alright? Shall I call for Lexi?” He asks innocently, eyes all wide with concern, tucking hair behind her ear as if he didn’t just render her mute from that finger-play.

Lexi will not see this! “No!” Hircine waves his concern away, tongue heavy in her mouth. “I just, uhm—That was a lot—but good! I-I feel good…”

“That’s all I want, your pleasure.”

She looks up at Astarion then, his empty tone at odds with his words, but his face betrays nothing, pompous as usual.

“Do you feel good, Husband?” Hircine tests a glance down at his crotch, finding the leather of his pants tented with his own arousal. Maybe he feels that she’s been selfish. Sliding off the cabinet, she reaches towards him. “I can—”

Astarion backs up to the door, bowing at the waist briefly. “I got what I needed, love. Now please, enjoy your bath!”

And Hircine is left alone and unsure, wondering what's gone wrong this time.

---

Sleep alludes her more than usual.

Once she stepped out of the bath, Astarion was his typical charming self, excitedly asking questions about his book that Hircine could answer this time, and then they went to bed, bodies close, minds far away.

All is well, right?

She doesn’t understand what went wrong, replayed the entire experience over and over in her mind, yet nothing useful stands out.

The first time, she had held him while he buried himself in her chest, and then he froze suddenly. In the forest, and after game night, all was perfectly swell, or so she thinks. This time, Astarion seemed fine at first—not that she was aware really, so consumed, muddled by her own pleasure, scrabbling against him for more and more, and then he just left in a hurry the second she wanted to return the favor.

If he felt she was only receiving instead of giving, Astarion would have stayed for more, right?

Is it because she's not initiating?

How do I do that?! Why is this all so hard?

Maybe she should dig out the romance novels, learn how the heroines seduce their dashing princes and roguish pirates. Surely there is something useful to glean from their torrid contents.

Rolling over, Hircine admires her husband in all that death-like stillness, wondering what he trances about. Elven vampires can’t permanently die in trance, can they? How would she tell?

There’s a temptation to touch his face, draw a finger down the strong and straight slope of his nose to his chin and then run back up his shapely jawline to the pointed tip of his ear, finishing her path with a tap against that faded mole on the apple of his cheek, but she holds herself still in her admiration, allowing him to trance longer, unaccosted.

Perhaps it is time for a prayer. Hircine hasn’t spoken with Eilistraee directly in an unacceptably long time.

A quick check to see that Astarion is still trancing, or at least not breathing, she slips out of bed, pulling a key from a drawer that fits only tower.

Once inside, Hircine locks the door from within and tucks the key inside her nightdress, each step groaning and creaking from years of disrepair as she ascends the spiral staircase; thick cobwebs and ghostly dust motes obscuring what lies ahead.

In the tower room, cluttered debris is strewn about from the last time she was here—the night of her wedding, locked away to contain the Weaver’s insanity fragmenting her mind. Parchment shreds, cloth scraps and broken glass litter the floor. There are a few shuttered windows and at the opposite end of where Hircine enters, a web-veiled shrine to a different drow goddess stands.

The diminutive statue of Eilistraee posed mid-dance would stand proudly if not for the silk webs that enshroud her silvered locks and black marble skin. Unpolished mithral necklaces and chains are draped over Eilistraee, made so long ago when she was a child. Hircine can’t bear to toss them; Dibella helped her form the links with so much care. Moths hand-cut from colored parchment are scattered around the base, strung together with harp strings intertwined with strands of her own silvered hair, and a small silver dagger rests against the goddess’s leg.

A tiny red spider dangles from thread wrapped around Eilistraee’s wrist. 

There is no place untouched by Lolth’s perversion in this house.

Sighing, Hircine takes a broom and sweeps away the mess she made in quarantine tidily.

A thick, folded blanket is laid out for her to kneel on, the webs and spiders sent elsewhere to reveal Eilistraee’s likeness, no longer marred by her dark mother's influence; always so beautiful and serene, the dark dancer. She should dance and sing for her prayers to be heard best, but honestly, Lady Silverhair, I’m tired, and Hircine’s head is laid at the base of the statue. This would be better with a window open, but Mother will know if Hircine has seen the sun.

“I haven’t been very good about speaking with you, Silver Lady. Things feel better when I do, but I get so caught up in it all. Thank you, as always, for sending Lexi to me. She keeps me strong when everyone says I’m weak… and maybe I am. I don’t know anymore…

“Do I run like Lexi says? I fear you would be more disappointed with me than you already are if I were to abandon my family.”

Lifting her head back up, Hircine adjusts the necklaces hanging from her goddess’s outstretched hand. “Did you send my husband, too? I don’t know how you feel about vampires, but if you sent him, then I thank you. He’s wonderful, much too good for a pathetic woman like me. You enjoy matters of love… Do you think he could love me? I want—”

Prayers are cut short when an icy hand comes to rest upon Hircine’s shoulder. Eyes squeeze shut, a scream desperately swallowed down.

“Love? Kynareth told us you were smitten, but this is disgusting! A man, so lowly and undeserving… We have always known how weak you are, Hircine, yet you continue to surprise us by being so surface-minded!” Vaermina ghoulishly cackles from behind her, fingers digging in to roughly throw Hircine back from the shrine, the polished dagger that laid against the statue now toyed with and tossed back and forth between hands as Mina speaks. “Three is so, so pretty, though. Our queen can find a use for him. Even surface-dwellers have purpose.”

“She will never have him!” Scrambling to her feet, Hircine shoves Vaermina away. “How did you get in here?”

Boethiah is beside her now, a wicked smile on his similar-yet-not face as his fingers tickle against Hircine’s neck. “It's like I always tell you, dalninil, spiders just slip through the cracks!”

So someone—Mal—put a hole in her tower yet again.

Hircine could blast them out with magic, send them into the sun where they might howl and scream in agony for hours until it sets, but then that leaves an even bigger breach to be taken care of. Running away excites them more and with both cornering her, they can break into Darkfire, cause all the havoc they want.

They won’t lay a finger on her husband.

No, I need to be smart. Boethiah can be reasoned with, if marginally. Vaermina…

“Can we see Three? Only for a moment. We'll be so gentle, he won't even know we've taken them!” Vaermina pleads, jabbing the air with the dagger, as if threatening to rip Astarion's eyes out is a simple request.

She holds her tongue, anger rising to a rolling simmer. Don't lash out. That's what they want.

Boethiah laughs, a chilling bark. “I don't think he would mind. What's a few more hands on a whore?”

Why does he call him that?

A steadying breath in, Hircine glares at her twin. “Don't speak of my husband.”

“It’s the truth, dalninil,” Boethiah is close, nose to nose with Hircine, webs clinging to his lashes. “Your husband gets sold a lot, and I doubt you'll be his last owner. He'll find his proper place in Menzoberranzan, right underneath a matriarch.”

“One was a whore, too, Boe! Does that mean we have a chance with Three?!” Vaermina squeals with glee.

Lips twisting with disgust, Boethiah turns his gaze upon their sister. “Who wants someone so defiled by other hands? We deserve more than surface scraps.”

I'll show them who's weak.

Righteous indignation boils over and without regard for the consequences, Hircine presses the tip of a finger against Boethiah's temple. “Voluntas Tua Mea Est!” A dagger of inky magic seeps into his head, a golden ring that matches her own shining in his eyes now. Hircine points to Vaermina. “Take her out of my tower. I don't want to see either of you again today.”

Controlled by some unseen force, Boethiah turns mechanically to Vaermina, who growls, waving the dagger defensively. “What have you done?!”

“This is your punishment. I told you to stop, and then you didn't. If you speak about my husband again, I will not be considerate.” Hircine stands back, arms crossed, watching as Boethiah dances around a shrieking Vaermina, dagger slicing through the space to keep him back.

Abruptly shoved backwards when Boethiah finds an opening, Vaermina collapses against the Eilistraee statue, a marble arm snapping off under the weight, mithral tinkling like glass against the ground as it scatters. Boe’s face is nicked by the tip of the blade when Vaermina strikes up, anything to fend him off.

“No!” Hircine screams, calling upon more of Herma-Mora's gift, this time directing it at her psychotic sister. “Tu Es Nihil!” A beam of crackling red energy hits Vaermina squarely in the chest, forcing her to her knees. “Get her out!”

Finally doing as directed, Boethiah snatches up their crippled younger sister and spider climbs his way out through the roof.

So, there’s the hole.

Dropping before the shrine, Hircine gingerly picks up the broken arm with trembling hands. “Kin against kin. Am I no better than the ones sworn or sacrificed to Lolth? I'll fix you, my lady. I'm sorry.”

The arm balances on the base to be mended another time, and dagger laid to rest elsewhere.

Nothing is happening. Did she get lucky this time and avoid Herma-Mora's price? That doesn't feel right, not after what she did. Using magic against her siblings—my twin!—like that! Despicable. At least with Mal, Hircine can pretend her retribution is just. But against Boe and Mina, who aren't even in control of their actions?

Mother would be proud to see such fight in Hircine.

On shaky legs, Hircine leaves the tower, carefully locking the door. More wards will be put up when Lexi is awake tomorrow.

In their room, she slides back into bed next to Astarion and before laying down she looks at him, death-like and so hellishly handsome in his trance, while ruminating over what Boethiah said.

If it had just been Vaermina spouting her absurd nonsense, Hircine would easily brush her words aside, but Boethiah, while corrupted, still speaks truths.

‘Whore’, ‘sold’, ‘last owner’.

And Astarion… ‘Most people aren’t interested in such things where I’m concerned…’

This isn’t about promiscuity.

A conversation from ages ago between Stendarr and Mal flits to her mind, unassuming in topic, like they were discussing a change in paint color, since the parties of the Upper City were a common occurrence.

 

“—won't go, Jena dislikes the Szarr's. An orgy is great and all, but the place is a glorified whorehouse. And it's so tacky inside…”

Mal smiles, bringing a glass of wine to his lips. “The best deals are made when the client is distracted by a beautiful man begging to bed him.”

Vorn'tyrr's fingers drum against the table as he listens silently, setting Hircine on edge as she picks around her dinner. He's upset with me.

“Sure, but I don't like that Szarr either. Who displays—and offers—their family like that? It's weird.” Stendarr says with a shake of his head.

“It's no different from how Ilhar forced you to marry Jena. At least you know she's clean.”

Glass shatters when Stendarr launches his wine past Mal's head. ‘Don't you compare my wife to those prosti—!’

 

Hovering over her sleeping husband, loose hair forms a dark curtain over his head and Hircine, oh, she understands.

She can be that woman.

But it won’t be for Mother.

“If it means Cazador can't hurt you anymore, Astarion, I will do anything.” She whispers, so soft that it doesn’t wake him.

Notes:

-Ussta isilme cryso - My moonlight rose
-Ussta zee'ill - my werewolf
-voluntas tua mea est - your will is mine. dominate person. I know this is a 5th lvl spell. Rules only matter when I want them to
-Tu Es Nihil - you are nothing. ray of enfeeblement.

Next Up: Gowns, beautiful gowns

Chapter 19: We Can Bring It On The Floor

Notes:

Content Warnings

references to astarions past, Mal is antagonistic, Talk of abuse

Stolen Dance by Milky Chance

TLBOH Playlist

Hushed tones of harmonious music and idle chatter flow into his ears as they descend the marble stairs to the main floor. Guests stream in from the front entryway, done up in their finest regalia, imported from the Lands of Intrigue for unreasonable sums of gold if he had to guess. No one would dare be underdressed in the presence of the Zau’viirs.

Worth more than anything he’s ever owned throughout his two-hundred and thirty years on this plane—that he remembers, Astarion is draped in the finest the Zau’viirs could provide: a perfectly fitted black, silk tailcoat, whorls of flashing silver and clear gemstones bead the front, with silver buttons lining the double-breasted fabric, fastened just below his collarbones, presenting a peek at the silver-threaded collared shirt beneath. The tailcoat is surprisingly light on his shoulders for all its elaborate decoration. Pants are simple, but impeccably tailored, making sure to keep all the attention on his upper half.

“We must greet Mother and Father first and then we can mingle and dance. I’ll begin preparing for the performance quarter past ten, so do as you wish while I’m away. I only ask that you stay in the ballroom until at least twelve, Mother becomes quite… cross if we leave early.” Hircine briefs him on the expectations for the night.

Astarion pats the black-gloved hand that is gripping tightly to his bicep, the silken touch of her skin a feeling he misses terribly. Stupid gloves. “Wherever you need me, pet, I will be there.”

Smoky, silver-lined lavender eyes meet his, the gold ring oddly dim in the low lamplight. “Thank you. This will be a fun night.”

Is this the same ‘fun’ as game night or some other hellish concoction that awaits them inside? Hircine's judgment is… untrustworthy.

Regardless, he smiles in silent agreement, and how could he ever state ‘You're wrong!’ when she looks at him with such agonizingly tender affection and wonder? It’s incomprehensible to a dark-sided creature like him that he could be worth such affection.

Since that exchange of desperate whimpers and seeking touches in the bathroom, when Hircine returns from the mines each night, she practically throws herself into his arms with a demure smile upon seeing him; the request for a simple hug, now a ritual of relief and refuge that does more to get under his skin than any demand for sexual favor.

A dead heart should not beat with privileges afforded by life.

An extravagant fan of black lace and silver detailing was delivered along with Hircine’s garment, a surprisingly plain dress in make for this much anticipated gala, and she wafts herself in spiced perfume to appease her anxiety as they tread closer to their destination. Does this secretive performance or her mother’s hawkish eye weigh more heavily on Hircine tonight?

“They better have the good wine out,” she mutters, fan splayed out to hide her lower face as they enter the ballroom.

This room is not one Astarion has perused when the doors are always shut tight. Done up with heavy silk tapestries and gemstone chandeliers galore, it reminds him of the library, but more extravagant, no expense spared to humble their guests with their overflowing—and devil-begotten—wealth. A compact orchestra is tucked into a corner, playing a sluggish tune that isn't suitable for dance, so swaths of people are left to mix in business and pleasure. Too many hands are slipping under bustled skirts and vests for a highbrow gathering like this.

Servants weave about in-between patriars and their partners, carrying polished silver trays of wines and bite-sized snacks. A far wall is lined with other (inedible to a vampire) treats and a multi-tiered fountain overflows with a luscious red wine; Astarion would love if it were blood.

On the hunt for his in-laws, Hircine stops in her tracks, gasping into her fan. Trembling, she squeezes tighter against him, hidden from whoever is causing her fear.

“What? What is it?” Astarion asks, scanning the crowd.

“The dragonborn!” She squeaks before flicking her fan in a direction.

Following the line of sight, he sees him.

Dirge, perfectly in view between the milling patrons, meets Astarion’s eyes, a slender item in hand that he runs over a visible patch of pearlescent scales on his chest. A smile baring all his needle teeth spreads across his maw.

It's the fan Hircine lost the night Gortash and company dined with them.

The rancid lizard freak stole it!

“Ignore him. Let's find your parents and get on with this night,” Astarion consoles, steering Hircine away so that lecherous dragonborn can't eye them anymore. Gods, he'll have to be on the lookout all night for that weirdo.

Moments later, parents are found and greeted. Iimithra smiles brightly, oh so happy to see her beautiful daughter and son-in-law. “Look at you both! Every day, we celebrate such a balanced match. Perhaps we should have your father over next time for the festivities, Astarion.”

So, it was an intentional snub to not invite Cazador tonight. Hilarious. How will Astarion pay for this slight?

He smiles back at the Zau'viir matron, wishing her an extended trip to Godey's lair. “You are stunning tonight, Iimithra, and you as well, Barlyn.”

“Oh, you flatterer!” Barlyn laughs cheerily, clapping Astarion on the shoulder. “Enjoy the night to its fullest extent.”

“Absolutely,” Iimithra continues with grace, patting Hircine's cheek as she takes in her daughter's attire. “Do you like your gown? An old friend made it for me.”

Uncomfortably rigid, Hircine nods and mumbles a clipped “Yes.”

A lie.

She abhors that dress. The moment her hazy purple eyes laid on it, Lexi had to drag her lady behind the privacy screen before Hircine fed it to the flames.

Catching the bits and pieces of undercommon and drow Hircine was spitting her vitriol in, Astarion gathered that his wife does not like being covered up. Why though, he cannot guess.

He would never complain. The more he sees of Hircine, the better.

Iimithra dismisses them. “Now, run along and do what you do best, ussta olath silinrul. I'm putting my faith in you tonight.”

Dark hunter? What a strange moniker for her daughter. As far as Astarion knows, Hircine holds little interest in hunting or the bloodying of hands for any reason.

His wife frowns for a moment, eyes suspicious of her mother’s words before Hircine sighs under her breath, then answers them with polite distance. “Enjoy your evening, Ilhar and Ilharn.”

Disengaging from the parents, Hircine finds them a spot somewhere quiet, fanning herself as she looks out over the patrons, searching for something.

“Can I get you some wine, pet?”

She blinks, then nods imperceptibly. “Yes, a red is fine, but not from the fountain. People stick their hands in it… Disgusting…” Her pursed lips are wetted. “Thank you,” is tacked on as an afterthought.

Hmm, she's displeased. Other than the abject fakeness between her parents, Astarion does not know what went badly about that blessedly short conversation.

Swift steps taken to locate a glass of wine, contents untouched, he finds a standalone dessert table with mini berry tarts. A servant passes and Astarion snatches two full glasses from their tray along with a tart. He knows Hircine likes those.

Impatient to return to her side, he turns, but not before a very unwelcome and much too familiar face catches his eye. Astarion freezes and then immediately side steps to blend in behind a group of patriars.

There was always a possibility that one of the clients Astarion… serviced would be here, but it had to be the worst repeat offender.

Duver, a short, stocky man that slobbers too much, is the black-sheep of the well-regarded Rillyn family and was only invited to Cazador’s debauched events for a more direct connection. Astarion suppresses the memories of the man's squeezing grasp and labored breathing, just barely. It’s not a good night for such thoughts. Duver stands by the wine fountain currently, glancing around warily before sticking a pudgy finger into the flowing wine and popping it in his mouth.

Truly uncouth, and not at all that surprising with how he acts at the Red Palace. If he catches sight of Astarion, there is no guessing at what drunken drivel he could spout—or how his hands might wander.

Turning heel, Astarion winds his way back to Hircine, and is horrified to see in his momentary absence that the vile dragonborn has her cornered, a salacious grin on his lips as he speaks animatedly, waving the stolen fan in her apprehensive and pinched face.

Back ramrod straight, Hircine does not cower before Dirge, however, Astarion can tell how uncomfortably frightened she is by the way she wrings her own fan between her hands.

In a few steps, he’s between them. Astarion faces the hulking scaled-man with a bitter scowl, shielding Hircine behind his back. “Can I help you?”

Again, that same aroma of sacrilegious decay permeates the air, Astarion's nose wrinkling as he limits his breathing in this man's presence.

Dirge's preserved-amber eyes rove over Astarion, peeling away skin with just a look as he speaks in that baritone voice, inviting but so deadly. “It's dangerous leaving a lady all alone like that. What if someone snatched her away?”

“My wife's dance card is filled for the evening. Run along now.” Astarion understands and pointedly ignores what Dirge is implying. Fucking freak.

She's mine.

Head cocked as his purple forked-tongue snakes over his lips, Dirge relents. “Hah. Forgive me. Truthfully,” he holds out the maroon fan, “there was a mixup. This deserved to be returned to its… rightful owner.”

Passing the wine off to Hircine, Astarion snatches the fan, waving Dirge away. “That all, then?” And he turns, no longer acknowledging the white dragonborn.

After a few moments, Hircine whispers, “He's gone.”

Unfolding the fan, and then instantly snapping it back shut, Astarion swallows down bile.

If he ever sees that ingrate outside of this house, he will eviscerate him.

“What’s wrong, Husband?”

“Eugh, e-emissions…” He launches the fan under a table, to be dealt with by an unsuspecting servant later.

“What?”

A deep, refreshing breath in now that the stench of death is gone, Astarion faces Hircine, checking her over. “Nothing, love. He didn't hurt you, did he?”

She shakes her head. “No. He only got a greeting in before you showed up. I'm fine.”

Deciding she has nothing to lie about, he smiles, gesturing to the wine and food he brought back. “No fingers in any of this, I promise.”

Hircine glances at the tart, solemn lips twisting before she turns away. “I'm not allowed to eat before a performance. Thank you, though. The wine is enough.”

Well, it's the thought that counts, right? The tart is done away with.

Wine downed in a single gulp, Astarion shrugs with dissatisfaction. It is not the good wine.

“If the set list is correct, I believe ‘The Burial of Selgar’ is up next. Are you ready for the Sembian waltz round two? Perhaps without your dress going up in flames.”

“Hmm,” she nurses her wine, “I think a round two sounds lovely.” And the rest is drained. “Let's go, Husband, and try not to step on my toes this time.”

Astarion is astounded. “Oh, so we're peddlers of false information now? In that case, count your steps better, you skip over them.” She giggles, a sound more lovely than any the orchestra could create with strings and brass.

Even with her smart mouth, he still offers his hand, guiding her to the center of the ballroom floor where others also gather.

As they stand, waiting for the music to begin, Astarion forgets it all while he gazes down at his little wife. His purpose, his master, all those people, the unending pain and torture marked into his flesh, this fucked up family, and that disgusting dragonborn.

It's gone from his mind.

He's just a completely normal, very-much-alive man, married to a sometimes-too-serious, but wonderfully charming woman, and they live a peaceful life in a quaint house with a blooming garden, far away from the docks so they don't stink of fish. There's a large bay window that faces the bright afternoon sun, and they dance in front of it every day, tripping over the furniture and dissolving into a fit of giggles every time.

They've never experienced hardship, besides occasionally tightening the budget when they overspend the month prior. Arguments over inconsequential things are resolved with a kiss, a genuine ‘I'm sorry!’ and they move on, ready to tackle the day side by side.

In a world without Cazador Szarr, love is sweet and tangible.

Love is something Astarion might actually deserve.

It's not fun playing pretend, because when reality sinks its claws in so deep, there is never a chance to truly let go.

Body automating itself, Astarion and Hircine are already halfway through the waltz, and he chides himself internally for wasting this time on fanciful daydreaming.

They spin and twirl, hop and sway, with a little gliding on the side, scouring every centimeter of marble flooring with their deliberate steps, bodies so close together, afraid to let go. Songs bleeds into the next and without a care, he and his wife dance, dance and dance some more, that is until Hircine reluctantly draws them off beat, away from the center.

“It's time. There's about an hour of preparation and the performance should only be thirty minutes… I'll return in about two hours.” Hircine draws close, holding his arms at the elbows in not-quite-a hug. Her eyes glow, timid and soft. “I-I would like it if you watched, but don't feel obligated.”

Palm cupping her cheek, so tender and seeking, Astarion brushes their lips together, faint, as he whispers, “I will be front and center, pet. Not even a stake through the heart will keep me away.” When the heat rises to her cheeks, he plants some additional pecks on the tip of her nose and forhead. “My perfect girl, dazzle me.”

“Oh,” and Hircine stammers something unintelligible, reaching up on her tips toes to slam their lips against each other again fervently. She breaks away too fast and his heart aches in ways it shouldn't. “Enjoy yourself.”

“You too.”

And then he is abandoned, to ‘enjoy’ this wretched party with people he'd rather not engage with—or remember.

Determined to hide away, burn time, Astarion heads for the fringe, skirting gossiping bystanders and snatching a new wine glass from a roaming waiter.

A whole hour. Not that bad compared to how he toils away the days waiting for Hircine.

He passes Iimithra and Barlyn in deep conversation with Gortash, probably finding more ways to add to Hircine’s plate while they luxuriate in all their foul money.

Astarion should press for more work on his end, help lighten the load. Her frail shoulders aren't meant to carry such weight.

A carmine-skinned tiefling with a vibrantly youthful grin appears in front of him, “Hey-ho! Lord Astarion, how are you?”

Her booming voice rattles him when his wife is always so soft-spoken. He swirls his wine in its glass. “Ah, I am well, Karlach, thank you. How are you this glamorous evening?”

She squeals excitedly, much to his bleeding ears’ dismay. “You remembered my name! No one does at these cushy parties! Where's Lady Hircine?”

Astarion wishes he was someone people easily forgot—the curse of ethereal beauty is too much sometimes. He continues on his way, Karlach close beside him, in no hurry to be shaken off. “Hircine is performing tonight, so I'm on my own.”

“Really? I'll need'ta see that. I've heard the Zau'viirs put on a good show! Does Lady Hircine give ya sneak peeks?”

“No.”

Karlach laughs. “Oh, good on her. Can't be giving away her trade secrets! Ya know, I really—”

Tuning her out, Astarions searches around, hoping for somewhere to disappear to, but finds nothing at present. The tiefling is nice and likely means well, so nothing against her, Astarion just wants some fucking peace for once.

At a table sits Arkay—children are allowed?—allotting cards clumsily to another boy his age. Something about the boy tickles Astarion’s recognition. Dark skin, warm brown eyes that have a zeal wasted on the youth, and tight, short braids line his scalp as he grins toothily at Arkay.

They might be younger than Karlach, it's so hard telling the ages of mortals, regardless, Astarion hopes he might dump her chatty self on them.

Approaching the table as Karlach still squawks away, Astarion graces them with a courteous bow of his head. “Hello, boys. Up to all sorts of trouble, I hope?”

Arkay gapes excitedly at Astarion, smacking his friend on the shoulder. “This is my sister's husband! I was telling you about him and all his card tricks!” Scooping up cards, Arkay holds them out. “Could you demonstrate? Wyll thinks it's a bunch of rothe-wash!”

The boy—Wyll—swats Arkay’s hand away. “I did not! I just said it was—uh, well, whatever.” He frowns at Arkay before regarding Astarion as he stands, giving a proper little bow and a beaming smile. “Wyll Ravengard, at your service, my lord.”

Ah, Ulder Ravengard’s son. Not even sixteen and his life is already planned out for him.

Ignoring the cynical thoughts that dealing with nobles dredge up, Astarion’s lips turn up politely. “Astarion. A pleasure to meet you.” He takes the cards Arkay holds out, seating himself at their table, and remembering Karlach is there, hovering, Astarion waves her to follow.

Seated with the biggest grin on her face, the towering tiefling greets the boys who are in awe of her statuesque presence. Astarion read her age correctly by how fast the three become friends, speed talking about their hobbies, which all seem to revolve around weapon play.

Clearing his throat for their attention, Astarion gives them a few cute tricks, anything to wow them while he kills time. Cards are flipped, fall like a waterfall and get split with their help before Arkay asks for them back, attempting what he can with Astarion’s thorough guidance.

The screech of a chair interrupts their fun, and Mal is here now, usually so proper and well-groomed, but not tonight when his face is ashen and clothing in absolute disarray, a smile that doesn’t even reach halfway on his face as he takes a place at the table directly across from Astarion. There's a jade-colored, extremely alive spider clinging to his earlobe like some grotesque earring.

It's brief, that flash of blistering loathing and irritation burning behind his dark eyes when they glance Astarion's way. The coldness thaws quick, with Mal's friendly facade stamped firmly back into place. “How did you find yourself at the childrens’ table, brother?”

“I go where the fun is,” responds Astarion dryly, cards smacked into Arkay’s hand for him to shuffle.

Arkay grumbles about practically being an adult while splitting the deck, then addresses Mal carefully. “I thought you were… sick?”

Mal levels a wide, frenzied glare at his younger brother who shrinks into a chair, forgoing a reply to turn back to Astarion, a demand in his tone. “So, what are we playing?”

The hostility Astarion could do without. What's his problem? “I was showing them some tricks, but if you—”

“I don't care, just deal out a game.” Mal snaps.

Even Karlach looks uncomfortable, her flaming gaze darting between the siblings and Astarion. Wyll stays quiet, scrutinizing the eldest Zau'virr and Arkay shoves the cards back over to Astarion, clearly uninterested in arguing.

“Alright,” Shuffled and doled out, they have their hands now. Astarion opted for a fair game, leaving the results up to fate.

Winning the first round is Wyll, the boy nodding sagely as if the outcome were expected.

Next round, bets are placed, and while they go around the table exchanging cards in tense silence, Mal speaks directly to Astarion again. “You remind me of someone, brother.”

Intrigued, Astarion takes a nibble of his obvious bait. “Oh? And would I know them?”

“No, he was from the Underdark, but gods did he enjoy a good game. I think you would have liked Vorn'tyrr a lot.”

The name…

‘Lord Vorn’tyrr.’ That gem cutter in the mines called him that. Was this Vorn'tyrr a worker, or perhaps supervisor, then?

Who was he to don the ‘Lord’ moniker?

Arkay folds, chewing at his lip. “I don't think we're supposed to talk about Vorn'tyrr…”

“Who says?!” Mal growls and Arkay instantly shakes his head, cowering, “N-N-Nevermind.”

Even the youngest son earns Mal’s biting viciousness?

What a cunt.

Returning to peace, Mal sighs as he reminisces on times past, a maniacal edge lingering, tainting the conversation. “Vorn’tyrr never got to experience the Upper City before he moved on. Such a shame, when he knew how to liven up a party. We really had so much in common.”

It’s a catastrophic mistake right as the words bubble up past Astarion’s lips, but godsdamn it, Mal can eat shit. He doesn't seem to have many other hobbies anyway. “Ah, does he beat his wife, too?”

In this tense moment, as Astarion sits, feeling the alarmed looks on the four paling faces surrounding him, he wonders if perhaps he should think before he speaks. Sometimes.

It could be useful.

Lips twisting as his jaw clenches, Mal sizes Astarion up before a smile that’s somehow more grimace warps his unhandsome face. “How’d that man-hater get you wrapped all around her finger? I didn’t realize the Szarrs lacked the ability to judge character.”

Man-hater?

His foot has already met his mouth, what worse can Astarion do now? Exchanging a card in his hand for something passable, Astarion regards Mal with boredom, finding his insults lacking. “No, I’d say my judge of character is spot on.”

Whatever devilshite Mal is ready to hiss, gets swallowed down when he tosses his cards on the table after a glance out at the crowd, jumping from the table violently, skittering off back to who knows where so he can hopefully rot away without bothering the rest of them with his illness.

Seconds later, Iimithra is here, grilling Arkay in fast-paced drow on what his eldest brother was doing there. Arkay says, and Astarion will remember this, “I don’t know how he broke out.”

Broke… out…?

Astarion is so fucking tired of this family. Where’s his wife so they can go home and he can trance comfortably between her breasts?

No one speaks about what occurred once Iimithra leaves, thank the gods for that. Cards are reshuffled, and they play another game, peacefully.

The minutes fly by and when the music sounds, a violin’s shriek, Astarion excuses himself. “Arkay, everyone can see when you tuck a card in your sleeve. I have somewhere to be. Have a good evening.”

As he leaves, he hears Wyll question Arkay, “Is your family always like this?”

“No, they're usually worse…” Arkay responds gravely.

Astarion fucked up massively, and in Arkay’s eyes, it's still not that bad? Gods below.

People are already crowding together in a scramble for these magically conjured chairs, and he pushes past them all to get to the front, maybe occasionally jabbing someone in the side with his elbow then dashing out of the way so they get angry at a person right beside them. This party is much too dull, even with his brother-in-law unraveling like the cheap thread he is.

Breaching the crowd, Astarion stands before the stage now, snatching up a front-row seat. A step up from the ballroom floor, all black marble webbed with silver makes up the stage, faerie and gnome-made lighting pulsing softly, casting an ethereal glow across their faces as they wait, patient, eager, for what the Zau’viirs might display.

A peek cast around, he spots Iimithra, scrutinizing, a sour look upon her irritated face. Couldn’t locate her miserable bitch of a son?

The lights dim suddenly, and all speaking drops below to mumbled whispers before dying out completely.

The dance begins.

Notes:

Next up: The past comes to light

Chapter 20: Dangling Like a Thread

Notes:

Content Warnings

references to astarions past

A Tear In Space (Airlock) by Glass Animals - when i heard this song, i just knew it was for Hircine and Astarion.

TLBOH Playlist

The orchestra fades in quiet, a pattering of music urging the dancers onwards. Women stream in from some hidden doorway at the back, black garments lined with silver filaments catch what little light there is, but Astarion pays them no mind, searching for one woman only.

Hircine.

His eyes dart from face to face, finding some, at best, vaguely familiar, servants he’s seen scurrying around from floor to floor in the manor; the rest, nobodies plucked for this lauded dance number.

They stand in two lines facing each other, carrying unwieldy fans made of dyed black plumage that quiver in their hands from the slightest shifts. Hips twitch, legs step in and out as the music continues its crawl, and still no wife to be seen. In sync, the dancers reach out with their fans, blocking the open space between them, continuing the rhythmic shaking, a vibration that grows as the orchestra reaches a high point.

Two pairs of bare feet peek out from behind the front most fans, and while he’s never studied them in excruciating detail, Astarion knows which ones belong to Hircine.

The fans part as the song comes to an abrupt halt, and there she stands, much too exquisite to be real. He’s not sure what Eilistraee is supposed to look like, but surely, if the drow goddess stands before them now, she would be a tarnished silver coin compared to the mithral radiance of Hircine.

A mid-thigh, skin tight sheer dress clings to her body like a second skin, fabric threaded through with sparkling diamonds and silver beads that scatter the light, ruched and draped over her shoulders and wrapped taut across the bodice. Her gray skin is powdered in luminous iridescence, a pearl among the chipped onyx that are the other dancers.

Kyne’s there too.

Arms held behind their backs, Hircine and Kyne bow, deep and low, their long hair coiled in braids tight atop their heads, silvery threads and diamonds also adorn their locks, every detail perfectly cohesive. Welcoming applause drowns out all else, and Astarion remembers he should clap as well, unable to tear his eyes off of the alluring siren before him.

Now, the proper show begins.

The music flows again, a romantic swell that has the feather fans swaying side to side, and Hircine and Kyne each slide a foot back, holding their hands together as they dip low to the floor, facing the onlookers.

It’s brief, almost a trick of the light, when Hircine’s glowing eyes lock onto Astarion’s presence right at the forefront, that golden beacon the only discordance in the matching ensemble. Other than that look, she does not acknowledge him further.

Breaking away, they walk in measured, perfectly timed paces to opposite ends of the stage, retrieving dual fans of their own now, raven-black feathers adorned with the same diamonds that decorate their lithe forms. This time the fans are a more appropriate size, though still bigger than what Hircine carries with her daily.

An extension of her own movements, the fans shake and sway along with her as she takes centre stage once again, her diamond-studded body twinkling with her movements; a step here, back arched there, flowing into a grand slide where Hircine and Kyne circle each other with fans interlaced, faces hidden by fluttering feathers. The rest of the troupe surges in, burying them completely in a ebony, undulating wave of the abyss, and when they swiftly pull away, Kyne and Hircine have disappeared.

Guests gasp, appalled at how they were there and then not in a blink, and when the music picks up its pace, the sea of women part, revealing Hircine wielding an elegant longsword inscribed with drow words.

Ssin - Beauty.

Suliss - Grace.

Sil’in - Noble.

The shallow words cannot accurately describe the one that flourishes them.

Sweeping it along in a delicate arc, she dances forward, then leaps with graceful power, diamonds catching the light, footfalls silent as she lands.

Astarion realizes that even with the music, surprisingly quiet as it is, the dancers are perfectly muted, not even a sword slicing through the air leaves any noise in its wake.

The skill to maintain such control over their actions… Her arduous preparations were surely worth it.

All fans are discarded in favor of gleaming Zau’viir steel by the rest, and while Kyne has reappeared to dance-spar with Hircine, the dancers take position, jumping across the stage or writhing in place, never missing a beat as they perform like some synchronous organism.

Occasionally, he sees a golden luster when Hircine trains her gaze on him, checking that he’s watching, or maybe she’s commanding his attention, as if such a thing is needed. He’s ensnared in her webs, ready for a feasting.

Were she to beckon him forward, Astarion would be there in a heartbeat, wrapping his arms around her pliant body as they sway in a sensual rhythm, claiming the stage all for them.

She does not do that, of course. This isn't some low-brow street show where improvisation is a necessity.

Hircine twirls, dips, spins and lunges, all careful, precise steps that keep her perfectly within the bounds the rest of the troupe has created with their bodies. She is a twinkling star in the pitch sky that the dancers create.

The sword Kyne wields swipes, narrowly missing Hircine’s neck in a calculated move backwards, and when the younger sister stands, legs apart, ready for another swing, Hircine goes low, sliding beneath Kyne's legs to ‘escape’ and their fight of beauty and elegance is renewed.

To the untrained eye, Hircine and Kyne appear evenly matched in this choreographed piece, steel a lengthening of their limbs they utilize with regal ferocity, nimbly sidestepping each swing in a way that leaves the audience wondering if they are actually looking to slice through each other's flesh.

Astarion sees the difference.

Is it age or another factor that leads to the wide breadth in their skills?

Hircine is refined, a born-natural, effortless in the way her hips turn or feet kick out across the floor. Kyne, while remarkable in her own right, carries herself with a stiffness, boredom in her eyes like she wishes she was anywhere but here, which, while fair, seems a recipe for punishment while their Mother assesses them front and center.

The sisters strafe around each other, swords rotating quickly through their hands in alternate directions while the black-garbed dancers behind them press in, constricting their movements. Arms hooked together now, Hircine and Kyne spin once, break away and a victor emerges when Hircine's blade descends across her younger sister in a swift strike, not actually killing her sister on the spot, but the younger Zau’viir certainly acts the part, languishing on the ground in a dramatic showing of diamonds and steel.

‘Triumph’ secured, Hircine trots and leaps her way around the stage, slowly descending in the splits before two other dancers pull her up, carrying her back to center where she drops momentarily, a weary soldier ready to return home. It's a clashing of swords—without the clang of metal—over her head as she rises back to her feet, teetering on tiptoes, sword pointed straight up as the music crescendoes, and then, as she dives into a roll, the tip of her blade comes to a stop held against Astarion's breast, does the music cease.

Should her blade move forward to pierce skin and skewer his unbeating heart, Astarion isn't all that sure he would move away.

So be it.

It's just them in this roaring silence, guests melting away to nothingness, and he wonders: who has trapped who?

There's a delicate balance at work, a push and pull of boundaries that Astarion is afraid to cross—or destroy. Hircine, while occasionally bold, is so hesitant, always waiting for him to act, perhaps from an inability to know where those boundaries are placed.

It might be time to see how these barriers flex under pressure.

He wants his wife, and he will have her.

Astarion tilts towards Hircine fractionally, the dig of the sharpened sword against his chest crushing hand-placed beads, taunting as he flutters his lashes the same as she has in the past, the coquette.

Applause erupts around them, and Hircine backs away to stand beside her sister as they bow in thanks, waving and smiling like the proud performers they are.

Astarion looks at Iimithra, curious how the dance was received. The matriarch taps her lips, lavender eyes honed in on her daughters as she nods her head.

He hopes that is a good sign.

The audience disperses, same as the dancers, but not before Hircine finds Astarion again, a little wiggle of her fingers a heartfelt goodbye as she slips backstage.

All alone again, and he has too much to think about.

Cazador. What does he want and how do I drag it out?

Escape. Not completely forgotten, but certainly not at the front of my mind.

His wife. How will she hate me when she knows what I've done—why I've come here?

How do I make her mine?

Lexi. We'll speak soon.

It's all too much and Astarion is struck by his inability to pay attention, finding himself in a secluded spot, hidden behind a conglomeration of patriars that he thankfully does not recognize.

A fresh glass of wine spontaneously appeared in hand, likely nabbed on impulse as he walked by a server.

He could easily put a name to these clusters of kindling feelings, so knife-sharp as they dig around in his chest like maggots on a corpse, but to name it is to breathe life into it, stoke it beyond what is acceptable.

Hircine is pure, untainted by his touch. He doesn't want to ruin her.

Yet, she can’t be his if he doesn’t dirty her a bit.

They have been married for over a month, and even less time has been spent actually bonding. Their progression is a chimeric mix of speeding solar cutting through the skies and a shrieker tethered to the ground. Where's the mid-ground of a normal pace?

Some luxuries cannot be bought with coin.

Strong notes of cherry and musk do nothing to hide the acrid scent of burnt, rotten eggs. The accursed fragrance hits his nose before the person speaks, regal and posh, effortlessly controlled in tone, so unlike their stench.

“Your wife, such an elegant creature, and a performer at heart, but I fret, where does the performance end and the person begin?”

Astarion turns around. A handsome, middle-aged man postures before him, brandishing a goblet the way Hircine does a fan, concealing. Keen brown eyes hidden beneath a veil of warmth do not flinch from Astarion’s haughty glower, an all-knowing smile curling his lips as wine is brought up for a drink.

“The performance is over,” states Astarion, flippant.

“Hers, perhaps,” and the man gestures at Astarion, fanciful. “But what about yours, vampling?”

If he had any blood to drain from his face, it would be gone in a snap. Forcing a confused smile, Astarion shakes his head. “I don't know what you mean.”

“Oh, but don't you?” A step closer is taken, the man's grin turns to mockery. “‘Yes, Master! No, Master! How can I be of service to you, Master?’” He chuckles, each sentence accompanied by a flick of his wrist or a bow, all in imitation of Astarion’s greatest torment. “And then you turn to a statue, awaiting your next cue. A tiresome life, isn't it?”

Horror grips Astarion's spine in its crushing grasp, and his eyes dart around, grateful other patrons stand far away, out of earshot. I won't be revealed like this. “Who are you?”

Touching his chin, the man speaks cryptically. “A friend? Potentially. An adversary? Conceivably. But a saviour? Well, Astarion, do you need saving—No, do you want it?”

Teeth grind together. “That's not what I asked.”

“Clever. I am Raphael, a… colleague of Iimithra's.”

And he came right to me. “The devil.”

“Ah, so you've heard of me? Wonderful.” Raphael smirks as he drinks again. “I would ask how marriage is treating you, but anyone can tell when you’re so full of life. To bite into such a blushing apple… I must wonder, is she rotten to the core?”

Astarion glares. “How would Iimithra feel about this conversation?” This is a perfect opportunity to appease Cazador, if only they can move the focus from Hircine, and onto something useful.

A bark of laughter escapes Raphael. “Hah! Protective… A hostage, yet so in love. Doomed as soon as thee were wed, unless—” The chestnut-haired devil fixes Astarion in his sights, pointing a finger in his face, theatrical to a fault. “Unless you saved yourselves, but how? Will you beg, barter, and steal? Could your delicate wife live through the hardship?

“But what if you could guarantee it, that safety? Your master has high hopes for you, little spawn, carved permanently into your flesh. Will you be fodder for his grand design, or shall you make a runaway out of your bride?”

Astarion’s eyes grow wide. “How—” He’s a devil, they have their ways. “What are these markings? What do they mean for me?”

“Could it be a love letter, a deed of ownership, or a word of warning? I can give you all the gory details,” fingers held up, rubbing together, Raphael’s voice deepens, “for a price.”

The markings etched in a torturous ritual of blade mutilating skin itch.

Could this be the key to my freedom?

“What is the price?” Astarion asks, sceptical. Devil’s never deal fairly, it’s a tale older than the gods.

Smiling charitably, Raphael takes a step closer. “All I ask is for a moment of your wife’s time. A few minutes at most, and—!” He holds up a finger, silencing Astarion’s coming refusal. “She will come to no harm by my hand.”

“What could you possibly want with her?”

“It’s a family business, and as you’re beloved might be the next head of household, I want to get a feel for her industry acumen. Iimithra must release the reins at some point, and I’d rather not leave my vested interests in the unwilling hands of another. Satisfied?”

That’s it? Astarion wasn’t a magistrate for nothing—well, at least he believes so. “I know Iimithra does not allow her children to speak with you. How would you even stage a meeting?”

“I will come when the time is right, and you will provide the perfect opportunity. Unfortunately, the maid within your halls keeps the devils out night and day, or I would visit upon your door.”

“Say I provide said opportunity, you chat with Hircine, she returns unharmed, and that’s it, you tell me everything I want to know?”

Raphael’s eyes narrow. “Correction: unharmed by me, as I will not touch your precious wife. Should you deliver on your end, you may ask me all the questions your dead heart desires, and I will answer to my greatest ability.”

While it sounds so simple, watered down like this, what are the chances Astarion can actually orchestrate a meeting between Raphael and Hircine without implicating himself? What will happen to him—or Hircine—if Iimithra finds out?

How does he hide this information from Cazador?

“Oh, I see that spark of panic. You will not remember the details of this conversation, so should your master compel you or wife coax it out with her sweetened words, there will be no story to tell. Only when the time is right will you know what to do.”

How wonderfully convenient.

But maybe convenience is what Astarion needs now. His searches turn up nothing, the Zau’viirs are still a giant question mark in his mind and there is no path of escape until he can unbind himself from Cazador’s invisible strings of mithral.

And this won't just benefit him, Hircine will be protected too when his master is dust. Her time is a small price to pay for that freedom.

He looks at Raphael, determination to forge his own future renewed. “Deal.”

Raphael offers his hand, and they shake on it, the devil’s skin a degree below scorching as it presses against Astarion’s. A tingle beneath the back of his hand is felt, and when Astarion pulls away, an infernal ring of runes fizzles out, the deal with the devil a secret he will take to his next grave.

Pleased, Raphael presents him with the smarmiest of grins. “And that, vampling, is that... Third time truly is the charm. Let us hope your wife will not find herself a widow once again.”

“Wha—” Astarion begins, but a plea, jagged and screeching from a lovely voice he knows, enters his mind unbidden.

‘ASTARION, STOP TALKING TO HIM!’

His goblet drops to the floor, red wine spilt like blood across the marble, as Astarion clutches at his head. Looking up, he searches before his wincing gaze lands on Hircine standing out between a cluster of patrons, a conflicting concoction of rage and worry muddling her rouged and shimmer-powdered face.

‘Get away from him. Now!’

Is she sending to him?

Clicking his tongue, Raphael backs away. “Oh dear, seems our time is up. Enjoy the evening, who knows when it will be your last.” And he blends into the crowd, just a man enjoying his night on another’s gold.

In an instant, Hircine is by Astarion’s side, still dressed in her performance garment. “Mother didn’t see you, did she? Why were you talking to him?” She questions, though it’s more a demand.

Astarion rubs at his temples, mind reeling from how loud she was. “No, I haven’t seen your mother since the dance finished, and Raphael approached me. We spoke about—” He blinks. What did they speak about? “It was talk of the party.” He supplies, hopefully convincingly.

Meeting his wife head on, Astarion finds her face creased with concern, but he doesn’t care about the devil anymore. “How did you do that—speak into my mind? Can you read my thoughts?” Has she known his plan the entire time? Has he been played for a fool?

“No, I’ve never read your mind.” She glances over her shoulder, rapping her hand fan against her palm loudly over the murmurs of the crowd. “Let’s talk about this at home. We can leave now.” Seizing his hand, she leads him through the throngs of patrons and they exit into the hallway where a few drunk couples rut up against walls, though they are trying—and failing miserably—to stay conspicuous.

Words harried, Hircine scolds Astarion. “Never speak to Raphael. If you see him again, walk the other way, I do not care if it's rude or improper. Were Mother to see you, she—” Trailing off, she shakes her head.

“What would she do?” He tests, curious if he might get a truthful answer for once without all the sidestepping.

Stopping in her tracks, Hircine turns heel, eyes wide, and very, very afraid. “To you? I don't—”

Clumsy, groping fingers wrap around Astarion’s elbow, wrenching him around—or they would, if there was any power behind the move. A man that Astarion instantly recognizes from the thinning hair along his scalp stumbles forward, reeking of booze and… piss.

Duver.

Face flushed an unreasonable shade of red, Duver slurs when he speaks. “Ya’came her fer me? It’s… been’ta long. Less go to th’red place. I’m ready fer a gooooood night!”

The insinuation leaves Astarion’s skin crawling with revulsion. He sniffs delicately. “You have the wrong person. Have a good evening.” Astarion tries to manouver Hircine along to their home, but she stands solidly in place, staring at Duver with an uncomfortable intensity that borders on hatred, that would shrivel him on the spot if he were aware of his faculties.

Never one to be ignored, Duver straightens best he can on wobbly legs, head barely held up on his thick neck, regarding Hircine with a sloppy smile as his groping hands reach back out for Astarion. “Pa-Pardon me, m’lady, but Astarion is m’escort for th-the night. ‘Ave paid g’money for ‘im.”

Why would he say Astarion’s name? Now there is no chance to feign confusion.

No no no no no

NO!

Reaching for Hircine once again, Astarion tries to move away, but she shakes him off when Duver angles towards her, near shouting into Hircine’s face even though she’s inches away. “Canny believe the Zowver’s have call boys here?! Real low-class of ‘em, I—”

Hircine jabs her fan into Duver’s chest, “Risum Peniatis.” She says, dismissive, as a barbed fiber of pink light coils around the fan, sinking into the drunkard, propelling him backwards onto his arse where he erupts into cacophonous laughter unfitting for this gathering that draws the attention of the grinding couples in the hallway.

Has she always been capable of such magic?

Taking Astarion firmly in hand once again, Hircine urgently shows him home with little resistance. He has no strength to fight back.

It’s over. All because of Duver. Fucking. Rillyn.

In the den, the fire is already roaring with life thanks to Lexi, and once the door is locked, Hircine launches her fan into the flames with a perfect shot, muttering angrily to herself while watching the fan settle into the wooden cinders, silk embroidery burning to a crisp, the metal glowing faintly with heat. “Vile man. How dare he—” and the rest is gibberish—or drow that he doesn’t understand.

Of course, she would be upset that Duver would imply the Zau’viirs are low-class. What an insult for such a proud family.

Edging around Hircine silently, Astarion wishes to extricate himself from whatever reprimand or rage will be redirected his way. Obviously, there is no place to hide when Hircine’s gold-ringed eyes land on him, fervently seeking something across his form.

The silence between them is fraught with discordance. This is not how he wanted the night to go.

Then Hircine speaks.

“Cazador forced you on that man.”

It’s not a question.

She knows.

And as she steps towards him, ready to delve into the worst of his past, the world goes black in an explosion of lacquered ink.

---

Notes:

-Comm is done by Amalhin on Tumblr. I had to show off my queen!

-I'm thinking we are at the halfway point now, if not a little farther. Hopefully things are going to pick up from now on 😉
-it should come as no surprise that I have been losing my mind over the Oblivion remaster

--
If you'd like to see an alternate, more steamy ending to this chapter instead of what happens here, please check out this short fic, An Obsession Is Formed

Chapter 21: Something’s Not Right With Me Too

Notes:

Content Warnings

Astarions past

Original Sin by Sofi Tukker

TLBOH Playlist

“Cazador forced you on that man.”

As if the words themselves are tainted, a pulsing column of foul-smelling, black liquid erupts from the ground between them, and thrust over the couch armrest from the force, Astarion slams down onto the ground, absolutely dripping in this nefarious concoction that stains near every surface of the den. The undulating, inky, amorphous goo writhes on the spot as it forms an ovular shape—an evil egg formed with eviler purpose, floats in the center of the room. Sputtering spitefully as the fireplace is drenched, it struggles to keep alight, plunging the room into an eerie gloom.

Scrambling to his feet, Astarion searches for Hircine, distressed at what has become of her. Was she tossed against the wall? Did that mass of ink consume her?

When he can see around the thing as it condenses in on itself, he finds Hircine, staring in bewildered awe, the whites of her eyes a shocking contrast, on hands and knees up at the swirling void, plastered head to toe in ink same as Astarion, eyes glowing ethereal—no, sinister and bright among the darkness.

“Hircine!” Astarion shouts, but she does not react, never taking her eyes off the thing, entranced. “What are you doing?!” And still nothing from his wife.

Whatever it is, is agitated, the fluid spiking out in a beatless rhythm, ripples forming across its surface as if a skipped rock has disturbed a black watered pond. The undulating giant orb inches towards Hircine, and this time she finally makes a move.

She reaches towards it, caution eschewed for something more dangerous, a craving. Hand held out in welcome, an eager smile reveals her shiny white teeth among the black painting her face.

Is she insane?!

Thinking fast, Astarion dives hastily for a fire poker, and spinning back around, he lunges to plunge the poker with a fencer’s finesse into the center of the writhing blob, hoping beyond hope that he pierces whatever holds it together.

The tension breaks, a gust of air on release, and it pops.

Or bursts.

Or explodes.

Everywhere.

“No!” Hircine wails as she attempts and fails repeatedly to scoop up the spilt ink, watching in horror as it runs thickly between her fingers, resistant to being contained. “I saw him! No!”

Liquid drips from Astarion’s stately nose, and elegant chin, and down from the ceiling, and everywhere as he stands stock still, overwhelmed by this horrendous turn of events. The taste is—oh gods. His hair, those silver curls, the destruction of his being.

Yet his wife is weeping… because?

The fire poker is tossed away, the metal colliding loudly with the extra-black marble of the now snuffed fire. The garish flower-bordered maroon carpet Astarion has been plotting to see tossed is lost to the void, along with every other piece of furniture that took on the brunt of the explosive arrival and departure of that anomaly.

Hands continuing to probe incessantly around the pool of ink surrounding her body, Hircine mutters madly to herself, “He was right there! Why? Why? I could have gone back!”

Is Astarion the one hallucinating? Why is she upset that it’s gone and not that it’s ruined them?

He steps before Hircine, his feet coming to rest where she was heading in this fruitless search, forcing her eyes up with their supernatural glow. “What are you doing?” Astarion demands. Gods, he must look like a devil of Avernus rising from a tar pit.

“Did you see him?” She whispers, sounding utterly deranged and appearing ten times as demented.

“I saw a giant mass of ink floating in the room that reeks of the docks after a mid-summers day!” Kneeling down, his hands hold her shoulders, forcing them face to face. “What in the hells are you talking about?”

“Herma-Mo—Ah!” A hand claps over her mouth, as if she shouldn’t have said that.

He knows that name. “Your friend—Herma-Mora?”

“How do you know that?”

“You said his name once… after dinner with Gortash.” You know, after I drank a little too much of your blood. “What is happening?”

Blinking, Hircine goes silent, refusing to answer.

“Hircine, we’ve turned into misprints from the Baldur’s Mouth and I’d really like to understand why!”

Her gaze slides sheepishly slow to the side. Avoidance. “You were going to tell me about that man...”

Duver—and by extension, Cazador.

Is he always expected to reveal his past horrors while they skirt around her everything every damned time? Even as it drips and plops and drops from every conceivable surface in their den, she wishes to... ignore it?

His perfect girl has been replaced by a difficult one.

“Am I so unworthy of your trust?” Words intended to be firm come out whiney, hurt.

Acting like a spoilt child will convince Hircine I can carry her secrets. Absolutely.

“I—” She stops, articulation failing her in this moment as she shuffles back.

So, that’s it then? He’s untrustworthy. Not surprising, yet the admission stings all the same. His hands drop by his side, limp. Devoid of purpose.

“I've never been met with—” Hircine curls into herself, despondent. “They belittle me when I talk about anything.”

‘They’ as in Mal and Stendarr, and damned near everyone in her horrendous family, if he had to guess. To be lumped in with them is disappointing.

“When have I ever belittled you?”

She sniffs, “You haven't, Husband.”

“Then can’t you tell me?”

Knees pulled up and tucked beneath a cheek as she takes in the carnage of the den, Hircine whines. “I-I can…”

Gods, she doesn't have to sound so put out. Ignoring her pouting, because Astarion knows he will be next to spill his past, he slides a little closer, waiting patiently.

He's a good husband like that.

Dragging a slim finger in aimless spirals through the thickening goo, Hircine sighs and huffs as she puts thoughts to words. Tantrum comes to mind. “That orb-thing from the Lowerdark in my office, you remember it?”

“Yes.”

“I’m the one that found it—in Throrgar. It was so incomprehensible and wondrous, I’m incapable of putting this into words—”

Convenient, so she doesn’t have to elaborate.

Astarion takes it back when Hircine carries on, “When we have time in the mines, I can show you more then… But when I was ten, I had been sneaking around behind Sanguine’s back while she was working, going through things I shouldn't have been as nasty children are wont to do, and then I just… fell, seven miles, down to Throrgar. It's like the ground ate me right up.”

Hircine was a troublemaker as a child. Astarion is legitimately surprised, having assumed that she sprang out the womb with disdain etched on her face and piles of papers to be filed in hand.

And I think that with the utmost fondness.

“I saw all manner of things I still don’t understand. Who knows if I was actually seeing anything at all?” Hircine stops, lifting her head to look directly at Astarion in that strangely intense way that she does. “Hours, or maybe minutes passed when I found it—the orb. I don't know why it called to me, unassuming as it was. To my addled brain, I think it just looked normal, and that felt comforting, so I reached for it,” she chews on her lip, “and then he was there.”

Herma-Mora, and realization strikes. That first time in the mines, she wasn't showing him her interests, it was her past.

“The uvuudaum!” blurts Astarion, and then he coughs, embarrassed to interrupt like some uneducated peasant passing a maudlin street show. “Uh, sorry. Carry on.”

She tilts her head, eyeing him warily, the gold of her irises burning a sickly yellow. “That drawing, it’s the best a sane creature could create, but know he was more fantastical and horrible. He kept talking to me, though I couldn’t understand his wailing shrieks and gasps and clicks. Alleged first-hand accounts say they're tremendously aggressive, but he—it was, I think, curious? When he would get close, the air would shift, a pressure so great threatening to pop my skull. Scary.” Typically not one for talking with her hands, Hircine makes a gesture of her head exploding for emphasis. “Eventually, I broke free of the staring contest, even though he didn't have eyes to look at, and I reached for the orb again.”

Uncurling to get on hands and knees, Hircine edges in close, her destroyed appearance a disturbingly attractive mix of mud-caked swamp hag and harpy. “Right as my fingers wrapped around that rock, it appeared, towering over me, a leathered, twisted hand reaching out. And do you know what he did, Husband?”

“What?” He asks, oddly intrigued by her little story.

Her own black-dyed hand lifts as she stares into his eyes. ‘He touched me,’ Hircine says, mouth unmoving as the words echo throughout his mind, ‘right here.’ And the tip of her finger presses squarely into his chest, a low thrum rattling through his ribcage. Just as quickly, its gone, and done with the show, she moves back and speaks aloud once again. “It hurt, a lot, like the strikes of a whip focused on one spot. And then I woke up in my room, having been missing for two days… I was fine mostly, just a little banged up, but there were some… changes.”

So, that's what her medical report was talking about. It didn't mention the jaunt to Throrgar.

She presses a finger below an eye. “The gold here, I can't get rid of it. Ilhar was very unhappy about that. And I can hear him sometimes, the uvuudaum, though nothing I can understand. I call him Herma-Mora.”

The bloodless ramblings weren't just pure nonsense. “What's this have to do with magic and ink explosions, though?”

“I think he gave it to me—the magic—by accident, along with mind-speaking, but it only goes one way. I can't hear anyone's thoughts on a whim.” Hircine taps her temple. “Now, the spells, sometimes when I cast something, there's a chance that it comes back to bite me, and like tonight, a very serious conversation is ruined by ink, or acid, or my eyes might fall out, or quite literally anything. There's always an unkind price to pay for unknowable, unmanageable power…”

Most power is worth having, no matter the cost. Faced with all this goo, though, that sentiment might not settle well.

“I avoid using it, and perhaps I shouldn't have toyed with that man—what's his—nevermind, he doesn't matter. I hated how he was speaking about you. Lexi says my temper will be the death of me.” A hand is slapped down into a black puddle. “She's probably right. It's annoying.”

That is something they can absolutely agree on—the annoying part, not being right!

Astarion gestures to all the filth surrounding them. “You said you saw him. Was he here?”

“No, I—It was like a portal to another dimension, all that blackness. I saw Herma-Mora stalking about and I thought, maybe hoped a bit, to go back and see it all again.”

A little touched in the head. But there is more good to Hircine than the strange, and… Astarion supposes he might enjoy all of her quirks. “Why? Don't you think he might kill you?”

As she sits there, silent, contemplative, blackened brows knitted in confusion, Astarion knows that trail of thought never occurred to Hircine before. What makes her so sure this creature more abstract than the gods would show her any mercy or kindness again? If that's even what it was to begin with.

Her naivety, weaved throughout so much familial pain and exhaustion, is puzzling. How and why does she hold to it?

It's only benefited him though, that predisposition to trust and accept. She rarely doubts his words, hanging on to them with bated breath.

They're both lost in thought, putting the pieces of them together from opposite sides. For one, unfortunately, all the strangeness is no longer on the mind.

Hircine tucks in on herself, a darkened lip jutted out in a pout. “I'm sorry for… this.” She deflates further, “I want to know all that you can or want to tell me, and throwing us into chaos like this doesn't help.” Ah, hells, he was hoping she forgot. “And I'm sorry that you're even sitting in my mess. You’re too good to me, Husband.”

Is he?

She only says that because she doesn't know all of him. How long until she tosses him away? An hour? A day?

Seconds?

His horrific affairs would prove impossible to hide when attending insufferably lavish galas and tea parties and soirées with the who's who of the elite. Someone was going to recognize Astarion sooner, rather than later.

His mind races, thoughts proving useless under scrutiny.

“Husband?” Hircine interrupts the internal hysteria, tone cryptic, and Astarion averts his gaze, not wanting to see the distaste that must be curling her features, the emptiness that has to be overtaking her eyes as she looks upon some nobody whore. Can't they sit in this mess without anything else to ruin the night?

“Can we speak on it?”

“What will you do if I refuse?” He retorts, bitter, conniving for a way out.

Her hand reaches over, but falls short before actually touching him. Is he not worthy of her anymore?

Was he ever?

“Then I can wait, but I also can't help you when I know nothing.”

‘Help you.’

In stunned silence, Astarion hazards a look at Hircine, who regards him with caution, perhaps more for his benefit than her own. She’s not upset at him.

But why not?

His eyes flick away, wondering if he can light the fireplace fast enough to incinerate himself. “Why would you… help me?” His voice falters, brittle and thin, a dam on the verge of collapse should he speak another word.

Near two hundred years and no one has ever wanted to save him.

Why now, after all the hellish, destructive torture and baseless suffering?

“Because you’re my husband. Because I—” Her luminous eyes blink rapidly when she pauses, the way forward unclear, but Hircine finds the words, eventually. “Because I want to. But I also don’t know what to do, especially when I don’t fully understand—what he’s done to you. What else he might do.”

Drawing into himself, Astarion pulls away, ready to lash out at his own defense. “It seems like you already do, though. You’ve been in my head.”

Hircine rebukes his statement, almost offended by his accusation. “No, I swear your thoughts are private. Please, Husband, I just want to help you. I can’t do that if I have nothing other than assumptions!”

“And what are your assumptions, then?” He hisses, spite a barrier to bury his fear behind, more than aware that he's wrongfully redirecting his decades of hatred, vitriol and never-ending agony toward the one person who seems to be on his side.

Astarion didn't want the truth to come out like this. No, he didn't want it to come out at all.

It was nice, new, to not be the rake for once, even if he was manipulating her from the start—and still is. The charming, seductive delusion has been one he didn't want to end; to be a husband well-kept, a man who just happens to be a vampire, but a man, nonetheless, has been thrilling in all the best ways.

And now he has to be real; present the mangled corpse Cazador corrupted him into. There's nothing left to hide.

She still hasn’t answered, knowing, rightfully, that whatever she says will not be met with a reasonable reaction.

Does he have to say it out loud then and make those words a reality?

He’s been looking anywhere but Hircine, avoiding, plotting, planning, all to come up empty-handed as any lies become fragments of earth sifting between his fingers.

The worst she can do is return him to Cazador, turn her back on Astarion forever and continue on as she did before. It’s all too simple for a noble to forget the dirt beneath their feet.

But would she do that to him?

He meets her round, searching eyes, shining so brightly among the inky filth as they carry only patience and the growing softness singularly reserved for him. There’s no surprise at what he finds.

Hircine has never done wrong by him.

Guilt, pervasive and nauseating, writhes in his chest. Deep down, there are more than just personal lies to atone for.

The only thing he can control is the deliverance of his existence.

“I’m a slave,” he starts, words slipping off his tongue like molten lead. “A prostitute. A whore, call-boy, xi'hum… Have your pick, I’ll respond to any of them.

“Master gave me a simple purpose: seduce, and I do it well.” His attention diverts, afraid of her reaction. “Not that I have much of an option, when using my body is the only talent I have. If a client of Master's is being difficult, then I'm offered up to… ‘sweeten’ the deal, so to speak. Duver, that man in the hall, came by often to curry favor. I’m his… favorite.”

He smiles, astringent, ready for rejection. “Is this where you throw my lowly self out?”

Hircine, clearly perplexed, furrows her brows while shaking her head. “What? No. You-You’re not lowly and I certainly am not throwing you out. You’re my husband.”

Is she serious?

“But I’ve lied to you! I’m nobody. I have nothing, I’m-I’m—”

“I know,” Hircine states plainly, then adds an amendment quickly, “—that you’ve lied.” Her apathetic attitude towards these revelations is in stark contrast to the panicked frenzy coursing within him. “Truthfully, you’re a terrible liar, so again, I had my… assumptions about things.” Lavender-gold eyes meet his, intense as they bore so deep into his being that Astarion is left unnerved. “You’re past makes no difference to me and how much of it have you even been in control of? Why would I ever hold that against you?”

She drags herself closer to Astarion in the muck, maintaining her fierce eye contact and raising her hands slowly to tenderly cradle his chin. He pointedly ignores the stick of the ink against his blemished skin. “You will be free from him. I’ll do whatever it takes.”

She makes it sound so simple, as if proclaiming those words would make such a thing possible.

“You aren’t throwing me away?”

Hircine’s hold on his face tightens, refocusing him. “Never, Husband.”

There is so much left unsaid, and this isn't even the worst of his tedious, horrific existence. How far can Hircine’s understanding stretch before it shatters?

Placing his hands over hers, Astarion shuts his eyes, a shuddering breath eking out from between his teeth. She’s too good for me. There is some relief, but an aching fear entangled with desperation still clings to his being.

He’s not done, not even close.

“There's more, I—” Astarion starts, wishing more than anything that at this moment, it all had been different. If only his fanciful dream of that sun-facing cottage with the blooming garden was real.

“I would bring people back for Master to feed on, mostly nobodies—well, nobody to me—and crooks, rapists or thugs,” and now he feels as if he's making excuses, any attempt to look better as he guts himself. “There were good ones too, sweet men who were starved of affection, and I'd lure them all to the manor with lusty promises… Hundreds, if not thousands, have readily followed me to their deaths. It's abominable, what I've done, I—”

“I don’t care who or how many. You didn’t have a choice.” A fiery determination sparks in her eyes when Hircine speaks, pulling Astarion in close to whisper. “We’ll do this together.”

My perfect girl.

“You are much too—” Astarion stops abruptly, fighting a deep breath as the stench of fish and hells knows what else curdles in his veins. “Can we clean up before I add to the mess?” On his feet in an instant, Astarion holds his dirtied hands out for Hircine, hoisting her up easily when she takes them. “Please tell me you know a way to get ink out of hair and off skin.”

“Uh, yes...” She leads him to their bathroom without a second glance at the carnage they leave behind.

Too bad for Lexi.

Inside, Hircine takes to a dark wood cabinet carved with night lilies, handing off bottles into his waiting arms. “I think that should do it. You can go first.”

He scoffs, plucked at her quick suggestion. “And what in the hells will you do then? Sit and marinate in all that nastiness? I'm quite positive this bath was made for two,” and with an eyebrow wiggle, he adds, “with room to spare. Unless you'd rather not bathe with me.”

“I-I d-do want to!” Hircine sputters, embarrassed. The distinctly rich scent of blood rushing to her cheeks a sight he sorely misses right now when it’s hidden beneath all that wretched void.

“Good, now turn around.” Finger swirled in the air so he can help her undress. She does as asked and Astarion begins loosening the ties of her corseted dress.

Boning releasing its tight hold over her unblemished ribcage, Hircine instantly relaxes her muscles, a deep breath sucked in.

“Gods below. A corset shouldn't be uncomfortable. Who tied it like this?” With the laces undone, Astarion lets Hircine shuck off the rest as he starts on the arduous extraction process for every pin in her hair. His poor wife has been through so much tonight.

“Ilhar wanted everything to look right.” Is all Hircine supplies.

It's no wonder then that Kyne appeared less than pleased as they performed. The corset was damn near bisecting her.

Hircine turns around, staring at him with the most tender doe-eyes he’s ever seen. “Do you want help with undressing?”

He shakes his sodden sleeves at her, ready to be stripped of all this terribleness. He can't believe he’s thankful in this moment to be without a reflection. “I would very much appreciate it.”

As Hircine begins unbuttoning and removing layers of clothing, he thinks, will I show her?

Ever since the brief encounter with the damned devil, his scars itch something fierce, normally so out of sight, out of mind—only because he can't see them. Tonight, they are nearly unbearable, an echo wriggling under his muscles of Cazador intentionally mis-carving that blade through Astarion’s flesh.

Or it could have been Duver’s unwelcome presence that rattled Astarion. His groping hands, while limited, felt much too familiar.

The collar of his shirt is being fiddled with, and Astarion grabs Hircine’s wrists, drawing attention to her own mess. “I'll handle the rest and get the bath started. Why don't you rinse off so the bath can actually clean us?”

For someone who gives out instruction all day, Hircine listens surprisingly well. Most people don't like to give up that control. Astarion certainly wouldn't.

Angling his back out of her line of sight while she douses her body in water, Astarion strips the rest of his clothes off, feeling shy, stupid and unnecessarily nervous about being naked under someone else’s gaze.

She's not like all the others, the victims, the targets, all those nights he'd rather forget.

For now.

Astarion cannot fathom what Cazador has planned. The words and wants of his master are so vague that he's floundering to protect himself from the lash of unfulfilled purpose… and then there's the unknown; the wily Zau’viirs coming undone before his eyes.

If he asked what this L'Alure d'Ulnen is, would Hircine answer—no, could she?

Steaming water splashes into the tub as a knob is turned, a luxury Astarion extols every damned day.

Only the favored spawn experienced the delicacy of hot water.

Hands and legs are rinsed away from the bath to not dirty it, and he watches the inky tendrils of water slither down a drain on the floor, leaving behind a gray stain on his pale skin that will be hard to remove without concocted help.

It'd be more fitting if it was blood.

“What has he done to you?” Her voice is hollow and low as she speaks from right behind him, a rage burning in her throat buried beneath layers of horror.

Hircine is on his side, and loathsome as it is, Astarion needs to take advantage of it—for both their sakes.

The sooner Master is gone, the sooner they can be free.

“I've been told it's a poem.” Astarion rolls his eyes, though Hircine cannot see his face. “Master considered himself quite the artist using his slaves as canvases…”

“A poem?” She muses quietly, if not a little disgusted. A step closer is taken, and he's holding his breath for no damned reason. “Can I—” A hesitation followed by some noise, a squeak or a sob or something else entirely that he can't make out over the running water. “Can I touch them?” Hircine finally asks, caution in her tone.

In the throes of ecstasy, past victims have ran their hands over them, digging in as if he might disappear, and others might have traced the raised scar tissue beneath their fingertips, remarking with well-intentioned intrigue before Astarion turned their attentions to more salacious activities—or threw them before Master's feet.

So, what's the harm then, when she already knows?

But has anyone ever asked before? Saying ‘No’ means Hircine will back down, and that is another luxury he won't take for granted.

“You can,” and he braces himself for the inevitable tracing, while harmless, feels wrong, a cheap imitation of what Cazador did to him.

Something flat—her palm—comes to rest over the markings, and then more of her follows, a cheek, the right shoulder and her chest, press up on his back, her other arm wrapping over his stomach.

What is the point of anticipating this crazy woman's actions?

“I'm sorry,” she whispers brokenly, warm breath floating across the sensitive skin of his mutilated flesh.

Astarion’s spine goes rigid. “Why?” He doesn’t want smothering pity. It’s useless. Belittling.

“Because I am powerless. He can call you back at a moment’s notice and I can’t stop him.” Her body presses tighter against him. “Lexi says nothing can sever a vampire lord’s bond over his spawn outside of killing the lord… and that’s not easily done, as I’ve been told many times.”

To admit it out loud would kill Astarion on the spot, so instead, he internally thanks Lexi for whatever words are keeping Hircine from storming the Red Palace with her vengeful magic tricks. He quite likes all the blood to be inside his wife…

And occasionally in him.

“It’s been almost two-hundred years since he changed me,” turning around so Hircine is pressed snugly against his chest now, he continues speaking, pad of a finger tracing along her dyed cheekbone, “and I’ve given up hope more times than I can count. Even if we have nothing tangible yet, I feel there is a way out now that I’m no longer under Cazador’s thumb. I—We have time. Change won’t happen overnight, or even in a year.”

Wrapped in each other’s embrace, Hircine sighs, a sad little breath of air, her eyes down-turned. “I’ll figure something out, even if I have to—”

Shushing her with a finger pressed to her lips, Astarion has decided he’s had enough, and whatever Hircine is planning in her corrupted mind is only going to end in death and disaster. “All in due time. No one is more impatient to be free than I, but running in headfirst will get us nowhere. Now, can we bathe? I’ve forgotten what your lovely face looks like when it’s not the color of a raven.”

Dissatisfaction at his deflection pulls her lips into a frown, but Hircine says no more on the matter, drawing away. Her gaze drops briefly below his waist, and then darts away, eyes all round with alarm.

“What?”

Her face is covered with void-tinted hands. Hircine speaks. “I just—I didn’t realize it would… be so big.” That last part is whispered, embarrassment leaking from her voice.

Nothing strokes a man’s ego quite like hearing his manhood is larger than expected…

Or wait, was she expecting him to be small?

“Why not?” Astarion asks, incredulous.

Cheeks burning with a deep violet hue—does she get light-headed with all that flushing?—Hircine looks intently at his face, clearly avoiding anything below his neck. “It’s, er, some talk I’ve always heard—and I’m not saying I believe it! Uhm, we—they say that surface elves struggle to have children because of their, uh, small… penises…” She squeaks out an apology. “I’m sorry! That’s so offensive, I shouldn’t have told you that!”

Astarion smirks. “You do know ‘surface’ elf conception is linked to the limited number of souls we have, right?”

“I’ve probably heard that…”

“The size is for your pleasure.”

“But isn’t it too—?” Hircine stops abruptly, changing the subject. “Uhm, we can get in the bath now.”

“What? I thought you didn’t care about men and their penises?”

“That’s different!” Huffing, she brushes past him to step into the bath.

He sees no need to fluster the poor thing further.

Already pressed against one end of the bathtub, Hircine pulls her legs in, giving Astarion space to settle in on the opposite side so they face each other.

Just two people enjoying the comforts of cleanliness together.

It’s nice.

“Where are you from?” Hircine asks suddenly after a serene round of silence.

He shrugs, nonchalant. “I don’t know—or remember. Probably Baldur’s Gate, if I had to guess.”

“Oh… What do you remember, then?”

“My name, Astarion, and my position as a magistrate. That’s it.”

Struck by his short answers, Hircine is clearly at a loss for how to go on. Astarion wonders if she’s always been so… unsociable.

“Why do you prance around barefoot?” He questions, a finger running along the sole of her foot beneath the water.

Hircine jerks her leg back, surprised, water sloshing around the tub. “I’m ticklish,” she mumbles cutely, and then explains. “To be barefoot is to be closer to the land our Lady presents us with, ground us in the here and now… I think altogether we’d prefer no clothes, but that’s not appropriate for everyday activities. And I hate shoes. They’re suffocating.”

“Suffocating?” With a chuckle, Astarion douses his hair, preparing it for shampoo. “Stylish protection, what more could one want? Maybe you haven’t found the right pair.”

“I’ve tried on plenty and would much rather have no feet than wear shoes.”

“A bit dramatic, don’t you think, pet?”

“No.”

“Hah!” Lathering his hair with product, he returns to Hircine’s eldritch interloper. “Was that meeting with the uvuudaum what spurred your interest in the Far Realms, then?”

Nodding, Hircine fiddles with her hair beneath the water. “Yes. I know it’s a bit of an obsession…”

Obsession feels like a cheap word. Her interests run deeper than some descriptions in books. “You like what you like. No shame in that… Can you talk to him—Herma-Mora?”

“Kind of? But that comes with the same extreme downsides, so I rarely ask anything of him directly.”

“Does your family know about your magic?”

“Uhm, maybe, like the little things. I’d rather they didn’t know the full extent of my abilities. It’s just another thing to exploit.”

She knows her family takes advantage of her already, but allows it anyway?

He thinks back on past interactions, wondering if there was a moment he was blind to at the present, but retrospect would make sense...

No, nothing really comes to mind.

Except for a particularly grouchy maid.

"Is your mind-chatter how Lexi is always right where you want her? Your schedule is so varied, I wondered--"

"Yes," Hircine interrupts, "she's the only person I communicate with like that... And you, now as well, I guess. The range isn't very long, unfortunately. Only reaching from the top of the grand staircase to our bedroom, I think. It's been a while since we've tested it."

Pointing past him, tinted water drips from her fingertips when Hircine asks, “Can you give me the oil, please?”

Astarion passes it along, watching her dab the oily solution on a washcloth. In one swipe, her eye makeup and whatever was left of the ink stains comes away cleanly.

Never having seen her without makeup, Astarion stares, perhaps much too openly, as she works next on the other eye. Shiny, thick black lashes line her pale gray eyelids, as he expected, and face is obviously left unrouged and unpowdered most days with how easily the blood rushes to her cheeks, so besides more of that blotchy black pigment, not much else is removed.

Too enthralled in her process, Astarion finally remembers himself, pulling the next hair product from the tub-side table to finish his own cleansing while still dutifully observing Hircine, who stays completely unaware of his attentive gaze.

Next are her lips, and he stills with hands stuck in his limp curls, waiting.

Is his presumption correct?

With one movement, he knows it is.

When the towel drags across, revealing a snowy hue of her natural lips, no longer hidden beneath whatever was left of her lipstick and black ink, it takes all his power to not throw himself onto Hircine in vindication.

“They’re white!” He blurts.

By the nine hells, can I not control my mouth around her?

Hircine startles, making stunned eye contact with him before covering the lower half of her face with the washcloth clenched in her hands. “I’m sorry! I was—”

They’ve had some semblance of this conversation before. “Why in the hells are you apologizing? I shouldn’t have been staring, I know that, but, pet, it’s hard when you’re so painfully lovely, and—” He doesn’t need to lay it on so thick, does he? “And I had been curious, because of,” gesturing to her breasts, “those.”

She doesn’t lower the cloth, instead speaking around it. “You don’t mind?”

“Of course not. Why would I?” The image of her blood, bright red and full of life, streaming down the white tint of her lips, staining them a pale pink, has a twin-headed hunger of another kind bubbling to life.

There’s a long silence when her dusky lavender eyes dart away, words stunted. “I’ve… been told I… look like a corpse.”

And the lust is gone. “What? I am a corpse. Literally. Who said that?”

Hircine takes her time answering again, the shrouding to her ghostly lips eventually lowered. “Malacath…” She says, oddly stiff.

About her lips and…? Alright, he won’t think about that last part too hard. Reaching across the tub, Astarion takes her free hand in his. “We can both agree Malacath is a cunt with a terrible opinion on most things.” I shouldn’t have gone easy on him tonight.

Or ever.

He will not speak on the little spat he and the brother-in-law had tonight. Even for Astarion, it might have been a line too far—in public. Mal deserves far worse than some nasty words. “Hircine, you’re beautiful, with and without makeup, I don’t care, that’s your preference. I would never be opposed to see you without, of course.”

Fingers brushing over her lips, she considers his words, warring internally over what to do. Eventually, Hircine says with uncertainty, “Maybe sometimes… I won’t wear makeup.”

“Whatever you want.”

She looks at him strangely, but it passes as she asks for the hair products. The rest of the bath proceeds uneventfully, except for when Astarion decides to point out something extremely important.

Admiring the way her tits bob on the surface of the water, he points to her chest. “Your tits—could they keep you afloat if this was deeper?”

Hircine snorts, fingers flicking water in his direction. “No.”

“Oh, that’s too bad.”

An adorably bashful smile twists her white lips up as she relaxes further into the steaming tub. “You’re silly.”

---

Out of the bath, they towel off, pristinely clean of eldritch horror ink, thank the gods. If Astarion can avoid that experience ever again, he absolutely will.

Lathering herself in products, he’s amazed to see how thoroughly Hircine takes care of her skin as she layers oil after silky lotion after tonic. Anything that goes on her face gets rubbed down over her arms and chest, too.

“This explains why you’re so delectable, pet.”

As if remembering he’s here with her, Hircine jumps, massaging hands stopping with handfuls of her breasts in hand. “…Huh?”

Pampering himself as well, Astarion smooths out his still-damp curls with a luxurious blend of oils. “You take such good care of yourself.”

“Oh,” Hircine glances at her hands. “I just think it feels nice.”

There’s not a vain bone in her body.

He shrugs on a robe, changing tune. “Could I select your sleep clothes tonight?”

Long, wavy strands of hair brushed back from her face, Hircine considers that, and he can already tell that she is becoming embarrassed by the stumbling dance of her heartbeat. “Can it… be one of your shirts”

“Mine?”

“Ye-Yes! It’s, um—” She hides behind her hands. “I read it in a book, an-and wanted to do the same… You don’t have to, of course, I just wanted—”

“Do you care for the fit, or shall I surprise you?” Astarion smiles at her shyness, ready to gobble her sweetness right up even if it rots his teeth.

A glowing eye peeks out from between fingers. “Surprise me, please.”

This isn’t exactly like that daydream of the quaint house where they dance in the window, but he’ll take it for now.

In his closet, Astarion searches through the packed rows of clothes, determined to find the perfect thing for Hircine to wear. It has to be low cut, he won’t budge on that personal requirement.

Sleeves? Long sleeves feel correct tonight.

Hand stopping along the cuff of a cream-colored cotton shirt, Astarion pulls it out, conflicted. It’s old and threadbare, barely hanging on even with all the repairs he’s put into the stitching. Lexi threw out most of the clothes Cazador had supplied when Astarion moved in. Why didn’t she toss this one?

That old wretch is too discerning for his liking.

There are ruffles on the collar—which is low cut, scandalously so—and thin leather ties for someone to ‘cover the view’ if pulled just right. It fits his requirements, but… it’s low-class, old, and certainly not befitting someone of his wife’s status.

But it’s his. Astarion purchased it with what limited money he could get his hands on. He’s spent hours upon hours patching over holes meticulously, so it appeared as new as possible.

And he knows the second it passes to Hircine’s hands, she’ll don it as if it’s made of the finest silks money can buy with a blissfully shy smile on her face.

A mountain of lies and half-truths exist between them still. Kind words and empty promises mean nothing when the path to freedom is obscured so heavily in hazardous deceit from both sides.

If it were to all go wrong, when would he ever get a chance like this again? Not just at escape, but of some modicum of happiness? Those inconsequentially small moments are adding up, and while Astarion won’t name it, he will allow it to run rampant for the time being.

Remembering that first time he saw her undressed, Astarion wishes he could go back and throttle himself for his putrid thoughts.

It was Malacath that shattered Hircine’s confidence, and Astarion would much rather run out into the sun than thank that bastard for what he’s done. A kick to the teeth might suit him well, too.

Did Mal’s degradation make the process easier? Yes, disgustingly so. It really only took a few well-placed affirmations, and then oh! Hircine is now tripping over herself to please him, even if it comes at the low, low cost of her life.

Unfortunately, Astarion’s plans didn’t actually account for him to develop something for Hircine, but how was he supposed to know that she would be so fucking tooth-decayingly sweet and cute? He didn’t even know he liked cute!

So what happens when—if they stake Cazador? The Zau’viirs will prove to be an obstacle, no doubt, and Astarion can’t even fathom how to deal with them at this moment.

Maybe this is a sign, sleep on it, enjoy his wife’s cuddly company while he can, and then harass Lexi later for some answers.

Setting the shirt aside, Astarion pulls on his own nightwear, and with his selection back in hand, returns to the bathroom where his wife continues in the process of becoming the slipperiest drow in all of Toril.

Shirt held out, Hircine’s eye light up when she sees it. “Yay!” She beams, throwing it over head and running her hands across her cotton-clad figure. “It’s perfect!”

For once, he predicted her properly. “Here,” he says, stepping close to roll up the sleeves to her elbow, so she has actual use of her hands should she need it, and then he pokes a finger between the leather ties, right against a soft breast. “Now, it’s perfect, my perfect girl.”

Arms thrown over his neck, Hircine yanks him down into a fierce kiss, tongues quickly entangling in a passionate dance as her fingers thread through his hair. Before Astarion even has a chance to yield to her stunning forwardness though, Hircine immediately pulls away, regret spoiling her features.

“I’m sorry! I shouldn't do that!”

He blinks, confused at the whiplash. “What are you talking about?”

Cream fabric of the borrowed shirt clenched anxiously, Hircine looks down at her feet. “I only want to show you respect. If you were showing interest because you thought that's what I wanted or was expecting, then you don't have to. Ever.”

Well, that's a first.

She's always thinking of him, and only him.

“You don't need to treat me so… preciously. I'm not weak.” Her eyes bulge at his statement, and he keeps talking before Hircine can trip over herself some more to apologize. “Sex and intimacy are tools I've always used to lure others back to him. When we first dined together, you were clear on not wanting sex then. I didn't know what to do when my greatest use was cut off from the get go. How am I supposed to get your attention if you didn't want sex? I had nothing else to offer!”

“That’s not true!” Hircine interjects. “You're intelligent, incredibly so, and I still can’t thank you enough for the help on Gortash’s contract.”

While not exactly the point he’s trying to make, Astarion will accept the praise, regardless. “Thank you,” and he sighs loudly. “Being here, as your husband, with all this closeness, has been… unfamiliar. I’ve never had the chance to wake up next to someone in the morn—afternoon, because I always had to return with someone's life in my hand. It's hard untangling the threads of what I want over what I've had to do. I can't always tell the difference. But I do… want you, now and in the future. In what way, I can’t say yet though.”

Shuffling close, Hircine takes both his hands, running her bath-warmed thumbs across the knuckles with a soft smile. “Then you have me. However you want, use me as you please. It's—” She tilts her head, thinking. “It's on your terms.”

His own words used against him. Sneaky. Astarion chuckles quietly. “Pet, your eagerness is admired and… noted for the future, but I’ve had my fair share of using and being used for the time being, and if I… get to choose, well, I’d much rather share a cuddle.”

Instead of disdain or derisive laughter to ruin their peace, Hircine perks up, a vibrant smile lighting up her face as she bounces on her toes. “I think that sounds much better, actually,” and then she flits past him, jumping her way onto the bed, the sheets thrown back in a flurry. She pats the spot next to her excitedly. “Come here!”

“You make my teeth hurt.” Astarion says.

“Huh? You're hungry?”

“No, my sweet.” Crossing over to the bed after lamps have been blown out, Astarion slides his way over, right into Hircine's waiting arms where she lets him tuck comfortably into warmth. His head against her plush chest, thin fingers drawing figures over his shoulders and scalp, Astarion feels at peace for the moment.

“Rest well, Husband.” Hircine whispers, a kiss pressed on top of his head.

The night took many a twist and turn outside of his control, but he ended up exactly where he wanted in the end: trancing between her breasts.

But there's one thing on his mind that he can't forget.

“Can we get a new rug for the den?”

He can hear the smile in her voice when she speaks, “Whatever you want.”

Notes:

-I had Hircine roll for the arcana check to identify Astarion’s scars as infernal… she rolled a 6 (base roll 2 + arcana mod of 4)… girly has been skipping out on her studies
-I am not for or against big dick Astarion. its up to you decide if Hircine’s just used to small D or if his is really that big.

Next up: Family Meal

++++

-I hope this chapters pacing is alright with all the topics covered. this chapter almost made me quit writing entirely, so after scrapping over 15k worth of words, I wish to be done with it. Anything covered here tho will be brought back up again, I promise!

Chapter 22: I'm Overtired, I Overfought

Notes:

Content Warnings

familial abuse, some smut and awkward? Dirty talk, spiders, body horror

My Body Hurts by Sofi Tukker

TLBOH Playlist

Breakfast.

Hircine loathes this mid-afternoon mealtime with all the false pleasantries and persistent rotten tastes it brings. So rarely do the parents require breakfast together, much preferring actual work over charades of bonding.

Thankfully, Astarion is by Hircine’s side, preposterously small nibbles of his food consumed while occasionally letting his hand roam up her thigh, lecherous fingers digging into her dress skirts with a firm squeeze.

No lies were told when he said he wanted her. Since the soiree, when is he not looking for an excuse to touch? Most are affectionate and sweet, others decidedly more… wanting.

She hopes the blush painting her cheeks isn’t too noticeable in the lamplight.

The only noises heard as they dine are the grating clinks of silverware against ceramic, the disgusting chew of food, and gargled slurps of whatever juice was freshly prepared this morning.

Dismiss us. PLEASE!

Hircine already imagines the massive pile of tedious forms and demanding faces waiting in her office, ready to bombard her the moment she steps in, so it’s a blessing from Arvandor—or the Abyss, more likely—when Hircine’s mother sets her fork aside, critical eyes scanning over her children who swiftly follow suit as they await instruction.

Mother lists off plans and other expectations that she has for them all, the trials of their impossible-to-please matriarch unending.

Young and willing, Arkay receives the jobs he wants; weapon organization and polishing is perfect, especially at his age.

Sights set now on Kyne, Mother threads her fingers together, chin resting atop them as her unfeeling eyes glance from Kyne’s emptied plate to her face. “You’ve been eating too much. Do you expect me to call such a ghastly beast my daughter?” Leaning in with teeth gritted together, Mother hisses out, “Control yourself, Kynareth.” Her steely lavender gaze assesses Hircine next, who having barely eaten, earns no remarks on her appearance.

As the color drains from her profile, Kyne nods shakily, lips wobbling, and Mother changes to a more ‘pleasant’ tune. “How are ritual preparations for your wedding going with Dinya? I’m expecting a smooth ceremony.”

Kyne braces, eyes flickering to Hircine briefly.

Gods damn you.

“Uhm, Hircine took on the burden for me. I want it to be a surprise.” Response subdued and cowardly, Kyne sinks into her chair, wishing to disappear.

Must Hircine always be the one to clean the messes Kyne leaves from her inability to measure up?

“Well, Hircine, how are the ritual preparations going?” Mother asks, terribly bored.

Beneath the table, Astarion’s cool fingers find Hircine’s tightly clenched ones, giving a reassuring touch. It won’t help, but the gesture is sweet.

“I haven’t been able to prioritize a meeting with Dinya. I’ll provide a bett—”

“Enough,” Mother sighs. “I want results, not excuses.” Her plate is pushed forward delicately, as if the sight of it sickens her. “I’ve lost my appetite. You all are dismissed.”

What a miserable start to the day.

Standing, regardless of whether their meal is finished, they all begin to leave, daring to not linger when Mother’s mood turns caustic.

The dismissal doesn’t mean she’s done, obviously.

“Hircine?” Coming around the table before Hircine can reach the door, the flat of her mother’s palm meets her face with a sharp, resounding crack through the room. Hircine stumbles, stunned, falling to the ground as her right ear rings, humiliation washing over her body.

“Return to me when it is done right.” And Mother floats past them out of the room, Father a step behind, doing what men do best: nothing.

Never losing a chance to be a bastard, Mal reinforces her disgrace, treading across Hircine’s hand when he makes his escape, unhinged cackling trailing after him.

While familiar, strong arms wrap around Hircine, setting her back on her feet, Astarion questions if she’s alright, but Kyne’s there, shoving him away, beholder tears hanging from her dark lashes.

“I’m sorry, Hircine! I didn’t—I panicked and—” Her hands latch onto Hircine, trying to drag her into a hug that only serves to assuage Kyne’s guilt.

Roughly shoving Kyne away, Hircine turns venomous. “What do you have to cry about, nadorhuan? I had to pay!”

Astarion’s arm is back around her, unyielding, leading Hircine away towards the elevator. She shrugs him off, desperate to leave all that indignity behind.

“I’m fine,” she says, jerking away when his hand comes up once again to touch her, as if she needs any consoling after that shameful display of ridiculous family squabbles. The sting from Mother’s hand has already faded, and by the time the elevator delivers them to the mines, the swelling will too. The blow to her ego, though, will remain. She didn’t want Astarion to see her like this.

Much to her irritation, the elevator door squeaks shrilly before Hircine steps on, and she quickly finds a spot where she might ride out the humiliation in private.

“Hircine, can we—” Astarion starts.

Shoulders pulling in, Hircine denies his attempt to speak. “No. I don’t want to talk about this.” And what does she even have to say?

So useless, so weak, unable to even stand up for herself. It should come as no surprise that Astarion seems hesitant to rely on Hircine. He says they should bide their time, but that is only because she has nothing to offer or act on.

What a failure.

And to treat Kyne so savagely…

What is wrong with me?

---

“What’s this room for?”

“An archive,” she says as a hefty pile of documents is passed into Astarion’s hands. “File them by client code, please.”

Quickly scanning the contents, Astarion finds the proper filing cabinet and begins putting them away as instructed. While Hircine starts on her own stack, he asks another question. “Why is this room so far away from your office?”

“I’d rather have the other rooms close by for efficiency…” Pausing, Hircine can't locate a stamp before realizing it was placed at the bottom incorrectly. That paper is put where it belongs. “It’s also a good excuse to walk when I’ve been trapped at my desk for hours.”

“Smart. Does anyone else use this room?”

“No, the archives are for me to organize. All parchment ends up on my desk, eventually.”

No more questions follow and Hircine gets the rest of her papers put away. Before she can close the drawer, arms bracket around her, a broad chest pushing her flush to the cabinet.

“So, it’s just us here?” Astarion purrs with illicit grace, the ruinous mood from this afternoon’s breakfast forgotten.

She laughs, breathless. “I suppose so.”

His lips press to a sensitive spot right below her ear, raising gooseflesh from the shiver traveling across her skin. Hyper aware, Hircine feels the way his dancing fingertips dart up her arm, one hand finding its place along the clasps of her high-collared dress, swiftly undoing them so her breasts fall free from their containment.

“Is this,” she punctuates her words with a grind of her hips against his growing hardness, “why you wanted to choose my dress so badly this afternoon?”

He palms over her waist, calming her movements, then trails back up to cup the underside of her breasts. Astarion’s throaty hum of feigned indifference speaks for itself. “I just thought its aura complimented you perfectly today.”

“Aura?!” She snarks. “What are you—Ah!” Head is thrown back with a gasp when his fingers pluck at her nipples like musical strings, coaxing them to hardness, Hircine finds speaking in any language to be a challenge right then.

His smug grin brands itself against her flesh, setting her core aflame, as he mouths along the nape of her neck, her breasts massaged vigorously with smooth motions. “Mmm, I do so enjoy rendering you speechless.”

“But I thought—oh!—that you liked he-hearing my voice in all its iterations?”

“‘Iterations’, so silence is included, but not always preferred.” Suddenly, he backs away, leaving Hircine quite lonely. “Up on that table, please.”

Always ready to comply even if she'd rather be held tight in his embrace, Hircine sits down on the table top, her legs dangling over the edge, breasts out as if they're canoodling at home and not in some tucked away room where some poor unsuspecting worker could enter at anytime.

I’m confident no one uses this room, but… this is a tad scandalous, no?

He contemplates her position with crossed arms, the sharpness of an art curator surveying a statue in his gaze as it roams across her exposed flesh. Suddenly, Astarion grins, conniving. “Strike a pose for me, pet.”

A pose? That should be simple enough, right?

Knowing there’s only one thing that draws his focus best, Hircine squeezes her breasts together, proud of her quick thinking.

Easy.

Astarion chuckles, nodding his appreciation, but apparently this isn’t what he wants. “How about something more grand?”

Maybe not so easy then. Hircine pouts, lower lip jutting out before an idea comes to her. Turning onto her side, she leans against an arm, ensuring her tits are propped up just right. A leg is raised, pointed straight up while the other remains bent on the table. The chill air from being so deep beneath the surface, and the thrill of this ordeal, sends a thrum of anticipation down her spine.

Hircine bats her eyelashes playfully. “Grand, enough?”

Mouth forming into an ‘O’ as he stares, Astarion is the one to lose his speech this time. He snaps out of his trance eventually, stepping up to the table, a palm sliding over her calf to wrap it in his grasp. His predatory eyes, rubies hand-cut with a trillion facets, find hers, voice a low, hungry whisper. “How far can you bend?”

“Why don’t you find out?” She urges, teeth sinking in against her full lower lip.

And he does, applying pressure to inch her leg back until it lines up with Hircine’s head. A moan, short and sweet, slips from his lips. “Gods, you're beautiful.” He pushes some more, their mouths meeting once.

When her muscles start to strain does she caution him from further action. “No more or I'll break!” He pauses, and she adds, “I didn't stretch this morning.”

“So, you're saying you can go further?”

“Definitely. Just give me some notice next time.”

Astarion moves in so they are nose-to-nose, a command delivered. “Here's your notice: stretch every day for me.” Releasing her calf from the pose he’s fixed her in, he pulls her legs back over the table and positions himself between her thighs, pinning her under his burning gaze. “Would you like a challenge?”

“A… challenge?” She echoes uncertainly.

“Be naughty. Speak the filthy thoughts that exist in your brain while we play.”

“Outloud?”

“As loud or as quiet as you’d like, the words just need to come from your mouth.”

And not your mind, she surmises.

Same as he did in their bathroom, Astarion drags a leg up over his shoulder, making sure she’s spread open once again.

Hircine blushes furiously, mumbling, “You really like this position…”

“When a wife is as flexible as you are, one must take advantage of it. Now, give me some obscenity.”

“What if I say something wrong?”

The rude look he levels her with is uncalled for. “Pet, please don’t take offense, but I know whatever thoughts you have will be quite tame.”

“I do take offense! Just give--I need a moment!”

“And a moment you shall have.” Astarion treasures each second, burying his head between her bare breasts, all but disappearing between them. A mistake on Hircine’s part, her thoughts turning to slush like snow on a summer night. She obviously cannot think while he’s fondling and sucking like his vampiric hunger depends on it.

She just needs to go for it. It’ll become more comfortable the more she speaks, right?

“I-I want you to fuck me.”

Spitting out the nipple he was working so hard on, Astarion collapses against Hircine, his whole body rocking with silent laughter.

“You can’t laugh at me!” Hircine shrieks, body burning with horrific mortification, attempting to shove him off. “How dare—!”

The fierce struggle to shake him fails since Astarion keeps her wrapped tight in his arms, smothering his laughs against her chest so he can speak again. “Shh, shh, shh! Gods, they’ll hear you on the surface!”

Wiggling away, or at least trying to, Hircine flops backwards onto the tabletop, refusing to meet his eyes, whining out, “You’re mean…”

“No, no, pet, I’m sorry!” Dragging her back down so he can rest his chin on her sternum, his eyes turn pleading when she glowers icily at him. “I am sorry. That just caught me off guard. I won’t laugh again.”

Her resistance, while not all that formidable to begin with, erodes and Hircine mutters, “Do you promise?”

“Yes. I swear.”

“Fine,” and she sits up, lips still turned down because she wants to hold on to this grudge for a little longer—a futile effort. Hircine doesn’t have the heart to stay angry with Astarion. “Can you help me?”

He smiles graciously, “Of course, my love. Tell me things you want to do—to me, to yourself, whatever, and then elaborate. Like this!” Cool digits trail down her stomach, and he pauses, smile morphing into something devious. Fistfuls of skirts are gathered up into Hircine’s lap, revealing pale legs and panties the same shade of maroon as her dress. “Remember how you said ‘Use me as you please’?” Licking his lips, he prods at the cloth barrier to her sex that undoubtedly bears the markings of her arousal. “Right now, you are here for my enjoyment.”

“O-Oh…” She blinks, appalled.

How is she supposed to say what she likes when it all feels so new and wondrous and makes her brain stop working when Astarion touches her?

He moves away slightly, unbuckling his pants, and Hircine holds her breath, having not prepared herself to see it again so soon. She wasn’t expecting something of a goblin’s size, that is beyond insulting, but what she’s been presented with was alarming.

Hircine has to wonder, then, if it is the drow that are small…?

A thought to ponder another time.

“Wait!” Hircine stops Astarion in his tracks, determined to dive to the deep end. “Can—Uh, can I… touch you?”

“I’m still expecting your words of debauchery.” He steps forward, hips leaning in for her to do as she wants.

“I know!”

With careful hands, Hircine pulls the leather belt the rest of the way through his pant loops, tossing it to the floor where the metal frame clatters loudly against the stone ground; the entire time, Astarion is tracking her every movement, patient and waiting. She glances up, ready for some prompting, but Hircine can tell by the ravenous glint in his eyes that she is on her own.

“Can I have my leg back?”

He shrugs her leg from where it rested.

Continuing on in her… quest, now unbuttoned, she shuffles his pants down his hips, trying to not outright stare at the way his cock strains within his underwear.

I can do this!

Underwear pulled down, it stands much too proud, almost as if it’s bragging. It would be just as arrogant as the one it’s attached to—and just as beautiful.

When her hand slides along the smooth underside of his shaft, there’s a change in his breathing, a sharp intake, and then it levels out again.

She really doesn’t mind penises, they can be fun to play with in the right company, which she imagines Astarion very much is, she just doesn’t want to do wrong by him.

And she’s extremely relieved to know she can wrap her fingers around it. Not so unwieldy now, hmm?

A forlorn sigh sounds from above, and Hircine looks up, finding Astarion wistfully scanning the surrounding area.

“What?” She asks.

A resounding sigh is his response. He’s dramatic as his hair is curly. “It’s just so quiet in here…”

“Uhm, well, I want to—”

His head snaps to her. “Wait, wait. ‘Wants’ are nice, but give me something a little stronger. Command. Deliver. Praise. I’m your subject, now preach.”

The overwhelming impulse to crush his penis is wrapped under lock and key. Why can’t she just jerk him off and call it a night?

Because that’s not fun—or fair.

Her fingers graze back up silky skin, wrapping around the head shiny with arousal, tempted, even with its size, for something more.

And that’s it!

“You always get a taste of my blood. When do I feast on you in return?”

A wry twist of his lips, Astarion eggs her on, “I'm listening.”

Performing two very much involved tasks like this is proving complicated to Hircine. Does she focus on touching or talking? How does she do both at the same time—equally?

Hand returning to the base, Hircine works along his length with varying pressure, keen to see this challenge through. She's his perfect girl, after all. “Me… On my knees...” The sentence is short, a pause given in between to test his interest, of which it is overflowing.

It would take an act of the gods to pull Astarion’s attention away now with his fingers coming to curl beneath her thighs, tugging them closer together. Greedy eyes consider her lips, ready to devour once again. Instead he speaks, his voice hushed, deep and darkly sinful. “What next?”

“You’ll be at your desk,” and his mouth purses with puzzlement before Hircine jumps to the next thought, pumping his length once for emphasis. Maybe she does know what she’s doing—or those books she’s been reading have been more helpful than she originally thought. “I’m beneath it, hidden from vi—” Words are gobbled down when Astarion claims her lips in a searing, desperate kiss, so forceful Hircine is slammed back against the table as his hands bury themselves in her breasts, kneading the buttery flesh there.

“By the nine hells—Aren’t you a filthy thing?” He coos between sucking kisses that are sure to leave marks of erotic affection along the stretch of her neck, his hips rocking aggressively as her hand lightly strokes the length of his cock best she can at this angle. “Complete me, just like this.”

“I-I’ll be on my knees… beneath your desk—Oh!” She gasps, chest heaving and back arching when his tongue laves over a pale white nipple, the feathery curls atop his head tickling her chin. “Swallowing your cock as d-deep as I can...” Steeling herself to this pleasurable attack, Hircine traces a finger from her free hand along his jaw, drawing Astarion’s gaze up. “Or I could take, uhm, you between my breasts… Could you keep your head on straight when people are coming in to ask questions?”

“I think,” a maliciously salacious grin reveals stark-white fangs before they test against the give of her flushed, grey skin, “you’ll find my resolve to be unshakeable.”

Hircine swallows, tightening her hold on his shaft, hoping her words carry the beguiling strength of a seductress and not the nerves of a feeble, unsure woman. “There’s only one way to find out, isn’t there?”

When his fingers dig in sharply to a tit like a lifeline, and lustful eyes roll back as his eyelids shut, Hircine knows Astarion has come undone. His cock jerks in her hand, a stifled groan caught in his throat, and finally a contented smile upturns his pretty pink lips when he peppers kisses along a collarbone. “Pet, know that this is a binding verbal contract--one I will never forget.”

With a snort, Hircine playfully shoves his shoulder. “Get off of me, you fiend.” Sitting up while Astarion rights his ruffled appearance at a leisurely pace, she checks over thighs and dress skirts, finding them… clean…

“Where…?” And her heart plummets. Did he fake it? Was she so terrible?

Tapping on her face, Astarion draws her attention to a crumpled handkerchief that’s been tossed thoughtlessly to the ground. “A gentleman should always be prepared and as much as I'd like to leave a mark for all to see, even I can understand you dripping with… me might not be the most appropriate.”

Blushing relief floods her body, and Hircine falls back to rest on her elbows. “Maybe they should see!”

“Oh, the boldness! If you need something to remind you of this momentous occasion…” Pants still hanging loosely from cocked hips, Astarion lunges forward, thumbs hooking beneath the band of her panties, and they are ripped off with little fanfare, tucked safely away into his back pocket as he smirks. “Think of this as proof of our contract.”

---

After many a reassurance from Astarion that she was back in appropriate form—sans panties, they returned with a meandering pace back to their office, fingers entwined.

She wants it to be like this all the time, happy and—

Loving?

In love?

Is that what this is now? Love?

The books haven’t really made it clear when all they talk about are butterflies in the stomach, which sounds like one too many legs where there shouldn’t be any.

Lexi might not find Astarion all that agreeable, but surely if Hircine asks in earnest, Lexi would give an honest answer. She can’t deny me.

As Hircine expected, a fresh pile of orders, requests and whiny pleas were laid out across her desk in a cluttered mess, expressly ignoring her labeled baskets. The inkpot she was using earlier has been capped. She points at it. “Are you doing that?”

Pulled into a passionate embrace, he bends Hircine into a dip while a hand gropes her arse lest she forget that he snatched her panties, and Astarion says, “The amount of ink you ruin is senseless. I’d bet at least a thousand gold a year is saved by my help. You can pay me with a kiss for my hard work.”

Hircine giggles and pays up, their lips softly melding together.

Playtime is always fun, and most welcome when Astarion is around, but her duties still come first. If tonight’s work can stay tonights, then there is no reason to drag it out.

Reluctant to relinquish any physical touches between them, Astarion grumbles when she slips out of his arms and he is back behind his desk. “I think you need to take more breaks.”

Passing along some forms in need of certification seals, Hircine clicks her tongue, unconvinced, “We just took one!”

“Well, what about Herma-Mora?” He asks desperately, eyes that once were filled with heady lust now round and pleading.

“Another day. I’m sorry,” responds Hircine sincerely as she reclaims her seat, the rustle of parchment, while a constant echo, a routine comfort she doesn’t tire of. Being productive is fulfilling most days.

Astarion mutters that she needs not apologize as his head is bent over, inspecting with a critical eye the sheets before him.

A courier deep-gnome eventually arrives, dropping a sigh-inducing heap onto the papers she was in the middle of working through. Mail prioritized, because what other choice does she have, Hircine sorts the letters out.

An off-white envelope addressed to her personally is opened and immediately squirreled into a desk drawer so Astarion can’t see.

The painter I requested is available!

They will be scheduled post-haste.

Doing away with the rest of the rubbish that is of no use to her, Hircine goes to toss them, but something knicks her finger, leaving a stinging parchment-cut. A thin slip of inconspicuous card drops to the ground, the offender, now stained with a splatter of blood when it falls from her fingertip.

In an instant, Astarion is at her side, placing Hircine’s finger into his mouth to clean off the blood.

She gasps, scandalized as the heat of embarrassment stings her cheeks. “What if someone comes in?!”

Ever teasing, Astarion sucks on her finger harder, a devilish smirk splitting his features. “After all that filth you sang, now you’re worried?”

“No one was going to see us there! People treat my office like a common room!”

“As you said, ‘Maybe they should see!’, you cheeky thing.” With the flow of blood diminished, he lets go, stooping down to scoop up the card. “Anyone or anything that dares to harm my wife shall be thrown into the incinerator.” Reading the card, Astarion’s brow furrows. “C.S.?”

And the card is turned over.

His face sets rigidly in place, a pale statue now where her husband once stood.

“Husband?” Hircine asks. He does not react. Reaching for the inoffensive card, Hircine takes it from his grasp, reading what’s there.

Three words in ink the same shade as her blood that stains the card, are elegantly scrawled across the face.

‘Astarion, come home.’

---

Before she knew it, Hircine was stepping onto the elevator, ascending back to the surface soon after Astarion’s departure.

Will she sit idly until he returns, bleeding and broken, the only comfort on offer her worthless promises and a tender hug that amounts to nothing more than mockery?

No.

To bear another slap—or the whip—for his protection... Hircine can do that.

If she can set both sides against each other, they'll tear themselves apart. Mal, Mother and Cazador will be dealt with, and Hircine won't have to lift a finger.

It’s perfect.

Any other day, the climb means warmer temperatures as they reach the surface, instead an aching chill, one that settles deep into Hircine's sinews, heralds chittering spiders and bloodlusted, corrupted siblings on this inauspicious night. Lamps still phosphoresce healthily, so perhaps the horrors might be kept at bay for a while longer when Hircine steps off the elevator after it’s cringe-inducing shriek, and she flees down a stretch of hallway like the yochlol are here to drag her to the abyss. She catches her breath for only a moment before rapping her knuckles against the silver-streaked door.

Mal better not be here.

“Come in.”

Hircine opens the door to Mother’s bleakly bland office. Gray hair tied back into a neat braid, she appears almost casual and matronly, like someone Hircine could easily approach. It’s rare, catching her by surprise, and there is a tinge of satisfaction seeing the way Mother’s condescendingly stern eyebrows raise and rouged lips draw into a thin seam at Hircine’s unexpected arrival.

“Did you already speak with Dinya?” Mother questions, setting papers aside.

“No, but I told you it would be done, so it will. I always stand by my words, Ilhar.”

Irritation grows, and Mother sneers. “That’s not true, is it? Kynareth said she passed it—”

The tattered, fragile band of patience within Hircine pulls taught in an instant, then snaps. “We both know Kyne is lying! Why even pretend when it is just us?!”

Silence, bitter and choking, blankets the room. Mother finally smirks, an eyebrow cocked high and Hircine feels ill from her outburst. “We ‘pretend’ because you insist upon a different reality. So be it, I’ll deal with Kynareth later.” She waves to the chair, allowing Hircine into the room fully.

Regretful, Hircine promises to apologize to Kyne later over dinner and good wine. Hopefully, the punishment will be only skin-deep.

Seated across from her mother, Hircine waits for permission to speak while she is studied like some three-headed gnome.

“The undertones of that dress wash you out terribly… Do you look in the mirror before leaving Darkfire?” Knowing better than to respond, Hircine stares down. Mother adds, “You present me with this appearance. Why?”

In the interest of safety, Hircine smoothes strands of fly-away hairs and wrinkled bodice. She hopes Astarion will understand why she’s doing this. “The Szarrs are vampires.”

Mother has never been one for overt displays of emotion, so Hircine did not expect shrieks of terror at this admittance, but there is nothing—not even a twitch. They stare at each other for a beat, and finally, Mother adjusts in her chair, back straight, chin angled up and hands resting on her neat desk. “Is there more?”

Despair wells deep within Hircine’s chest. “You knew?”

“Of course. Didn’t Lexi tell you what he was?”

Hircine swallows, clumps of cotton stuck in her throat. “I—Yes, but I thought she was—well, I don't know, because why would you marry me to a vampire?! What if he had killed me?”

Mother smiles, proud. Hateful. “With how you handled Vorn’tyrr, that was never a concern. And Lexi would keep you safe.”

Handled. As if Hircine was firing an inefficient worker and not stabbing her prior husband to death for being a savage. If only she thought of it so simply, the cavernous regret wouldn’t have eaten Hircine alive.

“Has Astarion done something untoward to you?”

She came here ill-prepared with a flimsy plan that hinged on this vampire revelation. Since that has been ripped from her hands, what does Hircine have to get what she wants and how does she get Astarion out from the middle of it now that she’s bungled it up?

“There is no quarrel with my husband. He is nothing but respectful, and would be loyal to us, but he can’t be with his mas—when Cazador conspires against us.”

Mother is skeptical, a finger tapping an atonal tune against the dark-dyed wood grain. “What makes you so sure?”

To be truthful, Hircine has never put much thought into the matter. It felt so unimportant when she’s just trying to endure each day. Later, she can beat herself up over her blind stupidity. “I don’t know what Cazador wants, and Astarion is no doubt sworn to secrecy currently, but Lexi's noticed him searching through documents, desk drawers, and taking notes.”

“Yet you think Astarion could be loyal to us?”

“If he had the choice, he would be! I know it sounds naïve, but—”

“That is because it is naïve.” Mother gets up silently, and rounds the desk to stand behind Hircine as she regrets ever coming up to the surface. Thin hands that belie a brutal strength rest on Hircine’s shoulders in a tight grip, neatly filed nails digging crescent moons into her collarbone.

“Cazador Szarr has never been—and will never be—our ally. You think I enjoy bending my head and sharing tea with that despicable man whose ideas of grandeur consists of sold bodies and dirtied, third-hand information? It's regrettable that you have to be the one to endure, Hircine, but some things are worth getting sullied for, even for this tenuous relationship.”

Fear blooms in a garden full of eight-legged terrors, and Hircine cranes her head to look up at her mother. “And what… would those things be?”

Cupping a cheek with her icy palm, Mother tilts her head uncomfortably far back, spine twisting to accommodate as their gazes meet. Their eyes are so similar, that lavender coated in the fog of a damp morning, and then Hircine had to ruin their shared features with a touch of the unknowably abominable.

“With Cazador's assistance, Menzoberranzan will be ours come the turn of the year… but,” her tone is serious, solemn, “I need someone to remain on the surface, manage the business, keep our other affairs in check—and it must be you.” Fingers clench over Hircine’s jaw, rigid, forcing her to stay in place.

“Why me?”

The smile that twists Mother’s lips is unkind, a mismatch to the praise she lays upon Hircine. “Your hard work and loyalty after so long should be rewarded, and don’t think I am blind to your reluctance to rejoin our people in Menzoberranzan, though your wariness is wise. The rest must learn to listen well and listen right. But you don’t need that, do you, Hircine? I know should you stay, there would be nothing to worry about.

“I won’t allow Kynareth to hide any longer in your light when she can flourish in the shadows without all your tender-hearted meddling. And keep your vampire pet. The need for those… creature comforts, I understand it well. Even your father serves a purpose.”

It’s a feat of wills for Hircine to bite her tongue, deny any accusation that Astarion is like her sentient sack-of-meat of a father. What an insult, not that Mother sees it that way. Serving a purpose is possibly the highest praise she could offer to any man.

Brushing loose hairs from Hircine’s face with a soft, gentle touch, Mother kneels down before her, imploring, almost begging in a way Hircine has never seen. “I want your loyalty, Hircine, not Astarion’s. And if having your loyalty means setting Astarion free of Cazador, then so be it. We’ll make it happen.”

“You—You would do that for me?”

“Yes!” Comes Mother’s emphatic response. “We have our differences, stark as they are, and I know I’ve been so hard on you, perhaps too much, but no one else can do what you do, my dark hunter. When I am in Menzoberranzan, there will be no worries about what will become of our business and assets when you remain up above. How could I trust anyone but you?”

Mother trusts me?

Me?

Just this morning, the harsh strike of her palm had left a welt across Hircine’s face for a lie, and now that very same hand is subdued, tucking hair behind ears and smiling with something akin to fondness. It’s unnatural.

Drawing back into the chair, Hircine is overcome with disbelief, locked in a stunned feedback loop of incomprehension and fear, and Mother doesn’t fight it, hands dropping to lie in Hircine’s lap.

“No one—and I truly mean no one—can do what you have here, Hircine. Again, I push you because you can handle it, grow stronger from it.” Their eyes meet, and Mother leans forward, voice lowered, but powerful. “The Zau’viir name will be eternal above and below, with you by my side—a matron mother on the surface! A branch family all your own, whatever you want, you can have it, when Menzoberranzan is ours.”

The words are alluring, the praise so much of what Hircine has wished to hear for all these terribly long years, and Mother’s ambition is dauntingly infectious.

Mostly.

Ambition equates to more work. That’s the exact opposite of the future Hircine envisions for herself… Not that she really thinks that far ahead. Regardless, this isn’t the cave she wishes to die in.

There are seven ‘sane’ Zau’viirs left. Six venture to the Underdark with a handful of spouses and servants, and then… what?

“But how will you survive in Menzoberranzan? Won’t they slau—”

Mother rolls her eyes, a loud, disappointed sigh rushing from her mouth. “You truly believe I haven’t thought of this? We will be prepared for whatever evil they throw our family’s way, even from those diabolical Baenres. I’ve ensured it, and so has Lolth.”

Lolth… The one who corrupts their minds? The one who creeps and crawls with a beckoning hand through their halls, searching for the next victim?

Lolth ensuring their survival? Is she mad?

“She tears us apart! What does Lol—”

Face hardening, Mother turns downright glacial and unforgiving, cowing Hircine to silence. “Watch your slanderous tongue! The dark mother welcomes us eagerly, and I will not turn my back on the forgiveness she's so graciously bestowed on our house. I was a traitor once. Never again.”

Is she not a traitor still?

“But wha—”

“None of that now. All will be fine.” Mother shushes Hircine's questions. “I'm not surprised Cazador has turned against us, but so soon, and to use Astarion while he's inside our home… Is he daft? Hah, well, of course he is. So, tell me, how should we deal with Cazador?”

All will be fine? Is she supposed to just take her at her word? What trick is Mother hiding up her dress-sleeve to bear such confidence?

Even with all these calculations and plans and Lolth's supposed affection, these goals are much too aggressive for their small family. They can barely coexist within the same room, yet she expects them to rule together within (and above) the Underdark?

Kyne won't last.

Stendarr won’t last.

Arkay…

Then is Mal to be content with nothing? All his sneaking and groveling and crushing me down has no meaning. How long until he commits to ridding the household of Hircine and Kyne so Mother will be forced to choose him? It doesn’t feel right.

“Your thoughts, Hircine. That's why you came here, isn't it? What are they?”

This is too much to deal with, but Hircine blurts out what sprang to mind in the mines. “L’Alure d’Ulnen. It’s a hunting year. Why not make the Szarrs prey? We can capture Cazador, force him to do what you need, and then be done with him.”

Lavender eyes lighting up, Mother is awed. “To include outsiders in our dance? I've never thought to—” There's a stillness in the air as she contemplates, head nodding. “The complications would—Let me plot out the logistics, and we will touch on this again.”

Clarification is needed. “Astarion will be spared?”

Back at her full height, Mother runs a hand over her braid, inspecting any split ends with disdain. “I said you can keep him. I meant it.”

Keep. He’s not a man to be kept. Not like Father.

“Open your mouth,” Mother commands.

Unthinking, Hircine does, and two fingers reach in, grabbing onto something, and they pull. The tug when those threads slide up and out has Hircine's stomach churning, and she feels it within her, detaching, with a stinging, poisonous ache. A few seconds later, as it drags through her esophagus does the thing pop free from her mouth. Hircine gags and retches, defiled.

Scuttling its way across Mother’s palm is a tiny enchanted spider, shiny with blood and spittle. Hircine cannot decide if it was just as awful coming back up as it was going down.

“There, there, little warrior. You are free now, return to our dark queen.” Mother coos sweetly before releasing it to the shadows where it might spin its web somewhere less alive. Her gaze is distant, any supposed affection now wiped clean when directed back at her daughter, disgust and irritation dripping from her words. “Must you be so theatrical? Shut your mouth.”

The praise, the respect, the motherly sentiment; with all that talk, Hircine still comes up short to an arachnid.

She's tempted to ask, ‘Had I four more legs, would you care for me more?’

Chest constricting with revulsion and streaks of pain where she’d rather not experience it, Hircine furiously blinks away the tears growing behind her eyes. Mother returns to her seat with a gracious smile. “Tell Astarion whatever you wish. I know this isn’t the order of how we do things, but I want proof. Prove that he will be loyal to you, since I know, just like your father, that loyalty can rarely go beyond one person. And prove that you are loyal to me.

“Know that you aren’t the only one with expectations. I have a lot to prove as well. This dance will be our last united stand, and Lolth shall make her final judgments, so be prepared, my dark hunter.” Eyeing the rows of books and manuals that line her shelves, Mother appears almost sentimental. “These past one hundred and sixty years have been long, all my efforts to mold you—all of you, so tedious and disappointing at times, but I know it will be worth all the pain to do what no one has been able to.”

A pause, and Mother considers Hircine once again, her critical eyes softening. “Your mistakes, Hircine, they weigh heavily on me… That doesn't mean I've ignored your triumphs—I know of how you cleaned the Blackstaff mess up... Normally, I wouldn't take that into consideration, all missteps should be punished accordingly, but… hmm. Maybe my age is making me compassionate. Shall we see if you balance on the scales?”

There is only fear at what’s coming. The Dance of Lies changes every time. Will Hircine be able to survive through Mother’s corrections, even balanced when each day, Hircine feels as if the only thing she can do is make mistakes? How much of her flesh, blood and tears will be left on the floor by the end?

Knock

Knock

They snap to attention, and Mother calls out, “Yes?”

“Jabbress, Lord Astarion is here for you.” A maid says from beyond the door.

Why does he want to speak with Mother?!

Notes:

-nadorhuan - coward

Next up: So, what’s this ‘Dance of Lies’ all about?

Chapter 23: Do I Even Wanna Be Loved

Notes:

Content Warnings

Mentions/recollection of drug abuse/addiction

Cutting Grass by TENDER

TLBOH Playlist

How is he back so soon? Fear constricts Hircine like a thorny vine whip wrapping around her throat as she stares at the door to Mother’s office, thoughts racing with the purpose of Astarion’s hasty return when he was so callously called back home to Cazador.

Eyebrows raising in puzzlement, Mother stands, though not before addressing Hircine one last time with a dismissive air. “Again, you are free to tell Astarion whatever you want. I don’t care as long as you know that it is worth it.” With that said and done, Mother clears her throat and speaks. “You may come in.”

The door swings open, and Astarion steps past the maid. His scarlet eyes meet Hircine’s, widening in confusion. On first glance, nothing is out of place, his clothes same as they were when he left, curls all where they should be, but under further scrutiny, miniscule blood drops speckle his face, and while mostly healed, there is a faint marking of what must have been a split lip.

If they weren’t before her mother, Hircine would jump to her feet to gather him in her arms.

Astarion stays quiet, waiting to be addressed first. Seated, Mother smiles at her son-in-law, friendly. “Astarion, what’s brought you here?”

Pulling something from within his coat, he leans forwards, almost bowing, handing a fancy envelope to Mother. “This is from my father.”

The look of pretentious derision could melt a devil when Mother snatches the card up, breaking the wax seal to study the contents with a disastified grunt. “Can he not afford a delivery boy? Tsk, making his son deliver an invitation… and looking like that.” She tuts, annoyed. “I can't stand the uncleanliness you men drag about “

Astarion blanches, wincing as if he's about to be struck, and Hircine, apparently eager for a beating, rounds on her mother. He's not like the others! “You won’t speak to him like that!”

All Mother does is laugh, as if a cavvekan puppy is snapping at her heels. “Oh, my.” The invitation lowered, Mother stares at Hircine, eyes narrowed before her gaze darts to Astarion. “I have a matter I'd appreciate someone taking care of. A mage of… some renown was meant to inspect our vault's contents tomorrow, but I rescheduled for the fifteenth. Will you oversee this task, Astarion?”

Is this a test of his ‘loyalty’?

Sending to Astarion, Hircine implores him to take this opportunity before any hesitation sets in. ‘Accept.’

Quick to act, her brilliant husband doesn’t disappoint, shoulders rolled back, clearing his throat to speak with confidence. “I would love to be of service to the family.”

Hircine holds back the cringe that threatens her cool neutrality, wishing he hadn’t worded it that way. Astarion won’t serve anyone again if she can help it.

“Good.” Interest lost, Mother flicks her fingers to the door. “Be gone now. And Selveni, bring Kynareth to me.”

Unceremoniously shooed out without another word, Hircine hopes Kyne’s punishment will be swift and easily forgettable.

Selfishness is a burdensome, lonely joy when Kyne holds a grudge like no other.

The second the door closes, and the servant has scurried out of sight, do they jump into each other’s arms, talking over and answering questions at the same time that amount to “Are you alright?” and “Yes, I’m fine. Are you?”

Hircine’s thumb runs over Astarion’s lower lip, where the thin line continues to fade away. “What did he do?”

“Truly, nothing to be concerned about, pet. It was probably one of the swiftest interactions we’ve ever had, and I will be grateful for it, sick as that is. Why are you up here? What’s happened?”

“I’ll tell you everything at home.” And she will. The spider won't weave around her words now.

---

“I’m sorry, your mother forced a spider down your throat?” Astarion asks, disgust wracking his frame with a full-bodied shiver.

“She has to keep them in check somehow…” Lexi holds one of Hircine’s hands, giving a firm, reassuring squeeze before she lets go. “The spiders have replaced Iimithra’s brain matter with webs, because where else would her confidence come from?”

Somber and pensive, Lexi stands, smoothing her skirts and taking a deep breath. “I’m going to reach out to some sisters, see what help they might offer. Anything else you come across, tell me immediately, but for now, let’s not do anything rash.”

Left alone with her husband, Hircine feels more aimless than before, tossed into a hedge maze that leads her in disconcerting circles of webby gloom.

She didn’t tell them about her plan to throw Cazador into the Abyss, knowing, unfortunately, that were Cazador to force him, Astarion would divulge everything. The meager pride scrounged up for actually thinking ahead is dulled by the unknowable.

Too much has been set in motion. What Hircine plans for today might not be enough to survive tomorrow.

Glancing at Astarion, she finds him engrossed in the flickering flames licking up the marble fireplace, silver eyebrows drawn together with trepidation. The lines of his face are etched deep into his skin from the cast light, and he's so still, almost uncanny and unreal while seated.

And astonishingly handsome, but that goes without saying.

“Will you dance with me?” Hircine asks suddenly, seeking comforting familiarity within the bleak, unforgiving chaos.

Silently, Astarion gets to his feet with Hircine pulled up along beside him. They fall into the steps of some nameless, swaying dance, circling around the den floor where the fire warms their skin. Tucked snugly against his chest with the fortifying scent of rosemary and bergamot enveloping her, a calming hand caresses along the length of her hair, with his cheek resting comfortably on the top of her head, and Hircine scrounges for some peace, hopeful the night can end on a neutral note. She tires of the emotional turmoil day after day.

Astarion’s right, I should take more breaks.

Unfortunately, Astarion can’t read her mind.

“What do you plan to do?”

She stiffens in his arms. “What do you mean?”

“You told us everything that’s coming, but what are you doing? Will you go along with your mother’s plans?” he asks.

Will she? It seems the best outcome, Hircine can stay topside and avoid all the bloodshed of the Underdark…

But what becomes of her family? Boe? Could she request Mother leave Boe here, so Hircine might find some way to save him from Lolth’s embrace? How much leverage does her position afford her?

“I don’t know,” she responds eventually.

Dissatisfied, Astarion probes further, “You won’t give up, will you?”

“I—Give up? What do you mean?”

He pulls back, just enough to meet her eyes. “Like with Kyne, you rolled over immediately instead of standing up for yourself. Why?”

Where is he going with this? “It’s… easier than fighting.”

“Is it?”

“What are you saying?”

“You went along with the lie and got punished. What happens when you stand up for yourself, then? Oh, let me guess…” Letting go to tap his lip, shrewd eyes take her in. “You get punished, or at best, left alone for a time. If it’s all the same, then why not do what you want?”

Hircine breathes deeply through her nose, the path he is trying to lead her down one she is not ready to tread. “Because it’s… easier.”

“I get that, I really do.” Astarion steps back in close, head bent over her smaller physique, speaking quietly. “So often, when I would bring someone back for him, Master would ask,” he takes on an annoyingly nasal voice, “‘Astarion, won’t you dine with me?’ If I said yes, I would get a festering, bloated rodent with blood thicker than tar to feast on, and if I said no, he’d skin me right then and there. On first thought, you might think one is surely better than the other, but no, sometimes the destruction of my body was well worth the shred of my psyche saved.

“While on a different scale, they do the same to you. Intentionally breaking you down any chance they get. Why let them win, my love?” His thumb strokes across where Mother slapped her earlier.

Wringing her hands, she avoids Astarion’s eyes when she moves away. “Do you… think my kindness is a weakness?”

There’s a stretch of silence as he ponders that question, his head tilting curiously to the side while his snowy curls cast long and wispy shadows over his face, and Hircine swears she can hear ‘Of course it’s a weakness, you fool’ projecting from his head.

“There is strength in your kindness, and I’d be remiss to say I don’t enjoy it when it’s directed my way, but… I worry your family exploits it; twists it with hellish intent.”

Mouth falling open, ready to defend herself, Astarion goes on before Hircine can speak. “I certainly don’t know all the… intricacies of this family, but I see how they treat you, Hircine. What do you get out of rolling over for them? They don’t respect anything you do for them.”

“You don’t… think they respect me?” She asks, each word unfamiliar and heavy on her tongue, skeptical.

Astarion laughs coldly. “And you do? Tell me, with confidence, that I’m wrong and I’ll take it back.”

Can she?

Is there anyone on the planes Mother holds respect for? Even after all that praise, Hircine still couldn’t compare to a fucking spider. Mother says she trusts Hircine, but can one have trust without respect?

Father's opinion is worth less than dirt.

She knows, with little thought, that Mal and Stendarr hold no respect for her, and even if they did, would she return it?

Did Dibella and Sanguine respect Hircine? The dead don't talk.

Boe? Maybe once.

Standing here now as Astarion stares down, waiting, Hircine knows exactly what Kyne thinks of her.

A scapegoat. A body to hide behind. That’s not a position deserving of respect.

“Well—” She starts.

Astarion cuts her off. “You cannot say Arkay. He’s a child.”

It’s petty when she speaks next. “You just interrupted me. Do you not respect me either, Husband?”

Taken aback by her words momentarily, Astarion recovers with a placating smile. “I apologize for that, and know that I only hold you in the highest of regards. You can interrupt me whenever you please, I don’t mind. I only mean—”

“So I can interrupt you like this?” Hircine snips childishly.

Unphased, his hands are brought to her face, tilting her head up to exchange a quick kiss. “Exactly like that. May I go on?”

Defeated, Hircine gives in. “Yes.”

“You deserve better than a family that will happily wring you dry of all your hard work and talent without giving even a meager ‘Thanks’ in return. Why do you go so far for them?”

Why?

Why?

W̶͇͑̆̈́h̵̖͔͙͇̄̽̋ŷ̴͓͎͔̘́Ẃ̶͇̫̽h̶͎̱̟̱̀ý̷͔W̶̲̼͖͕͛̿h̷͔́̃̾͜y̸̠̞͉̓̊̍̈W̸̾ͅh̵̳͊̈́̀͝y̸̛͖̓̿

She hates ‘Why.’

“What's your prize for being obedient?” Astarion leans backwards, gaze drawn back to the healthy flames dancing within black marble. “When I'm obedient, a good little boy, I get one less lash. But I'm still a slave, all the same. So what does it matter if the outcome doesn't change? Why not do what you want? Kyne escaped unscathed because you took her place. Mal literally walks all over you. Stendarr does… nothing. I have no complaints about Arkay for now.”

His attention is back on Hircine. “Is living like this worth it?”

Dibella was a good daughter. Quiet, polite, attentive to Mother's needs before she needed them.

And what was her prize?

A knife through the chest the second Mal caught her flat-footed.

Sanguine was a good daughter. Efficient, patient, could talk the scales off a dragon if she so pleased.

Her prize? Lolth's embrace, and madness unending, that is until Hircine ended it.

Kynareth is a bad daughter. Lazy, selfish, but alive. Mother doesn’t even bother with her—for now.

Vaermina was a good daughter. Her fate mirrors Sanguine's.

Mara was only ten.

So here Hircine stands, trying to be a good daughter in a place where good daughters don't survive.

And yet the doubts cling insidiously to her mind.

“But they're my family…” She says, hushed, barely above a whisper.

Who would I be without them?

“Are blood relations that important? In my eyes, Lexi is more family to you than any of the rest. She’d do anything for you.”

“You don’t even like Lexi,” responds Hircine stubbornly, crossing her arms and facing away, no longer wishing to talk about this.

Astarion nudges against her back as he wraps Hircine up in a tight embrace. “Lexi, while insubordinate and churlish, cares greatly for you, and that’s something we can agree on.” He presses a gentle kiss to her hair. “I’m not saying you should turn against your family… that would be ridiculous. I just—I want you to think about yourself. Be a little more selfish where you can, because my darling wife should be happy and relaxed. Not overworked and underappreciated.”

In his arms, she turns, hiding her face in his chest with a deep, relieving inhale of his cologne, muffling her voice. “I’ll think about it.”

“That’s all I can ask.”

Mother has laid out Hircine’s prize, but is that what she wants?

Astarion will be safe, they can stay on the surface, and… then what? She works until she dies at her desk, sending gold and workers down to Menzoberranzan at Mother’s request?

It’s safe-ish, it’s comfortable, Hircine knows she can do it well. It's also deplorable to support what they do in that stronghold of drow depravity.

But is that what I want? To give up all of her flexible morals just for that illusion of safety…

The other option then would be to run, presumably with only Lexi and Astarion, unless by some feat, Hircine could convince Kyne and Arkay as well.

She would have to give up any hopes of freeing Boe, and the uncertainty… Can she live with it?

‘—we have to make do with what we can, even if it's creating our own happiness from nothing.’

Does Hircine have the strength to make something from nothing?

“You said you're able to share everything now. Can you tell me about this ‘L’Alure d’Ulnen?’”

Fighting the sigh that wishes desperately to leave her body, her head thumps heavily against his chest, unsurprised, yet miserable all the same, that they must continue this conversation. He deserves the truth. Fingers twist themselves up into the fabric of his linen shirt, and Hircine speaks into Astarion, muffled, yet loud enough to hear. “The Dance of Lies.”

A scoff for a laugh, and then Astarion mutters, “So I was right…” and now more audibly, “What kind of name is that, anyway? It screams evil.”

Hircine breaks from his hold, ignoring the woeful whine and way his hands reach to pull her back into his arms. “I understand to an outsider it sounds ridiculous,” a pause to concede, “if not childish… but the name is intentional—a mockery of Eilistraee and all she holds dear. It’s not a dance in the literal sense.” She shivers.

Rubbing her arms from a sudden dive in temperature, a glance is cast at the fireplace, glowing coals fading to ash. Just minutes ago, that fire was roaring with sparking effervescence. The void slab of marble with silver striations is more gray than black, all in thanks to the matte strands of webbing coating its surface.

Pointed, thin appendages coated in chitinous blue fur gradually curl over the lip of the marble, delicate and deadly silent, ready to spring out should it be given the chance.

Not tonight.

“Do you want to see the tower?” Hircine asks, gathering her husband's attention before it’s drawn elsewhere.

Astarion cocks his head, confused and rightfully upset that she is changing topic. “But we’re talking abo—”

“I know, and this conversation will continue in the tower, too. Come.” Entwining their fingers, Hircine leads him down the hallway, a message sent to Lexi. ‘The fireplaces need to be covered. Now.’

Tower key retrieved, and the door unlocked, they make their way up the staircase, not a creak to be heard thanks to Lexi’s dutiful repairs; every leftover cobweb and dust midge has been cleaned away, and instead of an unholy, makeshift asylum where the insane come to rot, before them lays a hospitable refuge for tranquil thought and communing with a higher power.

Astarion is thoroughly unimpressed, contempt thrown at Eilistraee’s dainty marble feet. “Is this a… shrine?”

“You could call it that.” Crossing over to a shelf, Hircine admires a squat, clay vase filled with a bouquet of enchanted-for-longevity callidaean tulips, the petals a velvety emerald with false stamen that faintly radiate an unearthly blue. The stems and leaves, if they can be called that, are thick and black, reminiscent of mushroom stalks with gills to release their reproductive spores. The air is thick with their peppery scent overlaying a damp, earthy sweetness. “Do you have a god?”

“God? No. They pay me no mind, why should I give them any time of da—night? If you're about to proselytize me, pet, I'm not interested.”

Fingers brushing along the inside of a tulip, Hircine’s fingertips come away blue, before it turns black, reacting to oils within her skin. “Not at all. Worship is deeply personal, and I don't care whether you do or don't.”

She hears how he adjusts behind her, most likely with a hand on hip, head tilted up imperiously with a scowl embittering his face. He likes that pose, she’s noticed. “Your mother's sworn herself to the spider queen, long before you were born. Why were you raised an eilistraean?”

That gives Hircine pause, and as she thinks, she tastes the tulip’s powdery residue. Funky, yet bitter.

“Honestly, I don't know. Maybe she doesn't care, or maybe there's a deeper meaning we're not privy to. Lexi is the one who guided me to Eilistraee.” Turning around, she leans back against the shelf, arms wrapping around herself before looking at Astarion, and he is standing exactly as she thought, waiting for her words, so she gives him what he wants. “The first L’Alure d’Ulnen took place in the spring of 1323, and they reoccur every twenty years. My first was in 1363; I had just turned twenty-seven.”

It wasn't that bad, but she didn't have much to pay for then, did she?

“Have you heard of L’Vloss’su? The Blooding?” She asks, and Astarion shakes his head. “It’s a coming-of-age ritual for certain sects of drow. They must seek a strong being, something worth the effort, typically a, uh, surface elf, and then they kill them. It’s savage, but I think Mother wanted something like that for us, except more consistent—a reminder.”

Astarion rocks back on his heels, discomfort tensing his body. “Am I about to be murdered at this dance?”

“No, no!” Hircine flaps a hand around. “I only meant that L’Vloss’su was an inspiration.”

“Did you—” Astarion grimaces. “Did you have to kill someone?”

A heaving sigh slips past her lips. “Yes, but it wasn’t intentional… or at least, I didn’t want it to happen like that—killing them. It was a mistake or—Ugh, it doesn’t matter.”

It does matter, but it's easier to pretend she's absolved of those sins when Sanguine's cries no longer echo beside Herma-Mora’s grotesque ramblings.

“Listen, please. There are two parts to L’Alure: the punishments and the game. The punishments always happen first, and Mother keeps a very detailed record of every mistake, intentional or not, big or small, that we have made over the past twenty years, and then she pays them back so we might be… better, sometimes by her own hand, but she likes to make it showy and dramatic. It'd be terrible if I forgot about that time I used the fish fork instead of the mushroom fork in front of Liia Jannath.”

Moving to stand next to the statue of Eilistraee, Hircine pulls the mithral chains wrapped around the goddess's elegantly chiseled wrist. “The game, now that is unpredictable. A general theme is put into place, and that might direct how it will play out, but rarely is it ever in our favor. This year is for hunting. If I am to be predator or prey, that has yet to be determined.” Chain now layered over Eilistraee’s neck, Hircine thumbs away any lingering dust from the dark dancer's carved cheekbones.

“What was the theme of the last L’Alure?”

Going still, Hircine scowls. “Play—as in theatre. Have you ever heard of a drider?”

Astarion thinks over it, shifting on his feet. “Part-person, part-spider, if the rumors are true. They’re not something I’ve ever laid eyes on before.”

“Lucky,” she says, tone flat. “Half-drow, half-giant spider, and cursed with a whole hoard of fucking insanity. They were once regular drow until Lolth corrupted them for some alleged slight.” Snatching a clunky bracelet from Eilistraee’s wrist that no longer fits, Hircine tosses it somewhere behind the shrine. “We were attached to webs those abominations spun and dangled around like puppets with swords in our hands. The only goal was to slash through the thread’s holding my siblings up while keeping my own intact.”

“What do you get for being the last one standing?”

Her head whips around with a furious glare despite the harsh and unfeeling laughter that bubbles up past her lips. “Hah! Nothing! Mal ‘won’, not that it means anything—winning. There was nothing to gloat about when Kynareth had stabbed him in the gut.” A scoff. “It’s too bad he survived.”

And then Hircine realizes what she’s said. “No, I-I don’t mean it like that. It’s just hard, the Dances. We’re pitted against one another with little choice.”

He blinks, then nods once. “Right. What will I be required to do at this dance?” Astarion asks, mercifully avoiding her slip of the tongue.

Hircine smiles, resentfully hollow. “Only us Zau’viirs participate. Spouses must watch.”

Tathzar couldn’t even manage that, hiding behind his hands or forcing Anwen to entertain him from all the screaming cries and gore. Gods forbid he acknowledge anything remotely painful.

Eugh. That’s not fair. Why should he be used to it?

“Do all your siblings participate?”

“You mean Vaermina and Boethiah?”

“Yes,” Astarion says.

Fiddling with more of Eilistraee’s adornments so she might shine just a bit brighter in this accursed place, Hircine shrugs, lips pressing into a dissatisfied seam. “Not really. Sometimes they help, others they hinder, it all depends. Vaermina is completely lost, and Boethiah… the nights where he remembers himself are dwindling.”

Beside her in a few steps, Astarion studies the trinkets littering the shrine, and asks, “What happened to them?”

“An aspect of Lolth scuttles around our halls. She is why we can’t go out between the hours of six and three since she’s waiting to ensnare us, turn us into monsters,” Hircine sighs. “One would think with all the effort she takes to watch over us that she would ensure we thrive, but oh, no. Lolth bathes in the blood we spill between one another, and sometimes if we aren’t putting on enough of a show, she forces it.

“Vaermina has been Lolth’s puppet longer than she’s been her own person. There wasn’t even a chance to save her once the spiders started their whispering. She was gone, and she took Molag and Clavicus down with her.” Hircine adds, “Younger brothers.”

“There was—are a lot of you,” Astarion murmurs.

Too many, apparently. “Twelve total, and all twins. Not sure how that came to be, but I'd rather not call it fortune.”

“What about your twin, Boethiah?”

Sweet Boe. A head filled with peace and a heart full of love, as Lexi would say. The phrase doesn’t really fit him now. “He was a magnificent artist—carved this statue for me. Miniature figurines were his favorite to paint.” Her fingers run along Eilistraee’s smooth stone arm, feeling the now-healed break of where Vaermina broke her goddess. “We protected each other, but to be frank, he was always weak, be it through physique or will. All it took was—”

My marriage to Tathzar. Hircine wants to tell Astarion of the others—her husbands, though Mother’s words weigh heavy on her tongue, keeping the thoughts bound within.

Is it worth it?

“There was a separation in our bond, but it was enough for Lolth to sink her teeth in.”

“Can they not be returned to themselves at all?” Astarion asks.

If such a thing existed, wouldn’t Boe be himself already? Lexi and Hircine would have made it happen. “Everything has failed. They’re so hostile and unpredictable, it’s near impossible to gain any cooperation even on their best days. I’d give anything for Boethiah to Boe again. He was my best friend, and we did everything together back then.”

A fuzzy, warm memory is dredged up of Lexi huddling under a blanket fort with them, reading every single book they pushed into her hands until they passed out in an exhausted heap.

Hiding under the grand staircase after a day of punishments, sharing hushed whispers of their wishes for the future. Boe wanted to work in a museum and Hircine thought she could be a professor for an academy. With her personality? She had some humor then.

Hircine incessantly pushing Boe to request an art tutor. He was never more pleased than when he was molding clay with life.

All that happiness, care and warmth is gone, replaced with unceasing hate spurred on from visions of the abyss and Lolth's affection.

“Don’t speak about him in front of Lexi. She raised us together, and with his loss, well… neither of us handled it well.”

And I still haven’t recovered.

It started with pipeweed then, an innocent, sociable amount to ease the coiled nerves. Between her own grief, Tathzar's dismissive rebukes, and the tear-stained skirts of Lexi, Hircine needed something to fill the aching, cavernous void of loss.

Then she overheard those foremen talking about these imported mushrooms, and Hircine had to know what it was like to lose oneself in that dreamy euphoria. What a unique experience.

Silkroot, opium, bane—gods, bane was such a gift.

I felt nothing.

And nothing was just what she needed—craved. The decadence of nothing, no loss, no fear, no happiness, no Herma-Mora to chitter the hours away.

Nothing.

But that's not living.

To come to that realization, not on her own, never on her own, that she must experience it all was—and is the choice she has to make every damned day.

She did it well.

Until Araj came along.

Again, it was so innocent. A little taste of fun here and there, but Hircine was good, she kept making her choice—the right one. There was no harm in some fun, anyone would agree.

Araj was just too good at what she did, and it's not like she could have known the roiling depths of self-destruction Hircine was willing to fling herself into for some fun.

Karilth was perfect.

Until it wasn't.

To blame Araj for what she created is too easy, too cheap, too selfish.

Hircine doesn't need to be even more selfish than she already is.

One has to wonder how she slipped through Lolth’s clutches so many times, stumbling and crawling her strung-out self through the halls, singing merrily and crying in fanciful languages brought on from the hysteric visions.

I never survived on my own. Lexi made sure Hircine was tucked into bed every night, no matter how little she deserved it.

“Do you remember our wedding night?” Hircine asks Astarion.

“Uhm. Yes.” He says.

Looking at him, she smiles without happiness. “I don't. The hours slipped away, because I knew how much work would remain undone in my absence, and when I got back to the surface, the clock had just struck six. Running excites them more, and unless I wanted to burn the whole manor down, there wasn’t much I could do once Vaermina and Boethiah got me. How I could stand through our marriage ceremony, I don’t know, you’d have to ask Lexi. For those few days until Lexi broke the spell, I was locked up here, peeling the floor boards up with my bare hands and screaming myself senseless.”

A silver eyebrow arches. “Is that why you stabbed your hand with the fork?”

“I imagine it was my hand or your throat, so I think I made the better choice.”

Unamused, Astarion shakes his head with pursed lips. “Your family is very strange.”

“I know,” responds Hircine plainly, even though they both know it's the understatement of the century.

A delicate bracelet inlaid with royal blue sapphires and smooth pearls is picked up among the offerings by Astarion, and with a careful touch, he slips it over one of Eilistraee’s outstretched hands, a hesitant smile on his face.

To know he cares enough to dress up her lady so preciously, even with his rejection of the gods, fills Hircine with buoyant joy that lifts her spirits so high.

Unfortunately, they are easily popped, and she must think.

‘I don’t care as long as you know that it is worth it.’

She’s allowed to tell him everything. But truly, is it worth it to spill these secrets?

What will Astarion think of his perfect girl?

Anyone with a brain knows he doesn’t mean perfect, but even the hidden meaning, ‘perfectly imperfect’, feels too incorrect.

The vision of his perfect girl never existed to begin with. But in this sanctum, where the horrors are kept at bay for a moment more, Hircine will hold on to that illusion for a little longer.

There’s no need to acknowledge everything that makes her unlovable just yet.

While she’s been lost in the dark recesses of her mind, Astarion unearthed a chest of trinkets and baubles and accessories of the sharp and pointy variety, cloaking the marble statue in dripping, jewel-toned decadence, and then once he could add no more to the Dark Dancer, he moved onto himself, sliding heavy, audacious rings over his fingers and layering tacky necklaces with ten-carat gems upon his breast.

“How do I look, darling wife?” He asks. A catlike and flirtatious grin accompanies his fluttering dark lashes in the low light.

Weighing a strand of black pearls under a finger, Hircine sucks some air between her teeth. “Don’t you think it’s a bit much?”

“I dare say there isn’t enough!” Astarion responds, outraged.

It’s her turn to arch an eyebrow now with incredulity. “Being buried under a ton or two of corundum might change your mind.”

“I’d rather not be turned to vampire dust, if it’s all the same to you.” There’s a pattering clatter as the rings are shed from his fingers, to be forgotten about and stepped on another time. “With all this excess, how are you not swimming in rubies and emeralds galore? It’s only ever those little earrings with you.”

“Because that’s all it is—excess.” Hircine waves her hand dismissively over the mess. “For some gods-awful reason, people believe the owners of a mine and smithing operation desire hastily and poorly crafted rubbish. Most gets melted down and refined. Besides, I don’t think I need much else to shine.”

“And here I was thinking you were humble. You’re right, of course, why cover that natural beauty?” A long, tapering fringe necklace laced with diamonds that would need to be untangled after any movement is held up against Hircine’s chest for viewing, and Astarion hums thoughtfully. “But, imagine: sweetheart neckline, emeralds instead of these boring diamonds, all laid out across your decolletage… What a sight!”

“It will cover my cleavage,” Hircine remarks dryly.

Without an ounce of hesitation, the necklace is thrown over his shoulder, never to be seen again. “Gods, you’re so right! These,” and Astarion cups his hands beneath her breasts, bouncing them once, “deserve to be front and center.”

Hircine swats his hands away. “Am I just a pair of tits to you?”

He gasps, hurt. “Nonsense! You’re a pair of tits surrounded by three to five pounds of hair!”

Frowning, Hircine jabs a finger against the bones in his shoulder. “I don’t appreciate your nastiness.”

“I jest!” Sweeping Hircine up into an embrace that squeezes all the air from her lungs, Astarion smothers her in smacking kisses. “My perfect girl, you are so much more to me than that. Beautiful, sweet, smart… and so, so delicious. You know I can’t get enough.”

“You promise?” she asks shyly.

“I promise, pet,” Astarion growls darkly, his hands entangling themselves into her dress skirts. “And then I saw you skipped your way up to your mother, without your panties… Shameless little witch, aren’t you?”

Well, that’s not Hircine’s fault, is it? He stole them!

She plays along, though, grabbing his collar to drag him flush against her forcefully. “I take our agreement very, very seriously, Husband.”

Engrossed in each other as they are, that doesn’t mean the scratching and splintering of wood escapes their notice. Hircine and Astarion freeze, eyes meeting with panic.

More scrabbling comes from below, and Astarion flips around, keeping Hircine securely behind him, a sharply pointed ear cocked to where the noise originates from.

Lexi said she fixed everything and put more enchantments up. How?!

It continues on, growing closer in its ascent, and Hircine tenses, fingers at the ready to call upon Herma-Mora’s gift should an unwelcome sibling breach through her floor.

Beneath the boards they stand on now, one flexes up, and snaps in half before a small, dirty gray hand covered in splinters reaches out, patting around the surface before hoisting itself up.

Hircine knows that little hand.

Thirsk’s warty head pops out from between the broken floor boards, his gleaming eyes searching around until they land on Hircine, and they brighten so much at her presence.

“You’re fucking joking!” Astarion shouts. “How in the hells did he get up here?”

Running to meet him, Hircine kneels down and helps Thirsk the rest of the way out as his sack dress gets caught on the jagged edges. Once free, a burlap bag follows him, filled with more stolen goodies that Hircine will have to send back to the mines tomorrow.

“Thirsk! You came all the way up here?” Hircine asks.

Settled into her lap, the jermlaine doesn’t respond, choosing instead to dig inside his bag to pull out some wadded up, maroon fabric. “For pretty Hircine.”

Hircine’s underwear.

She gasps, mortified, and Astarion stomps over, snatching them angrily from Thirsk’s grasp. “These are mine. The little freak went through my desk!”

“Why would you even keep them there?”

“Should I have brought them to Cazador’s with me? Everyone in that dungeon would have smelled them the moment I walked in!”

The thought of all those vampires smelling her in such a state leaves Hircine viscerally uncomfortable, skin crawling as she shakes off the image. “Fair.” Standing with Thirsk and his ‘presents’ in her arms, Hircine heads towards the door, knowing enough time has passed for any cracks in their home to have been taken care of. “Lexi will be so happy to see you! I bet she can make some cookies for us.”

Grinning to reveal all his blunt crooked teeth, Thirsk claps happily. “Cookies! So hungry.”

Notes:

-boethiah would have loved the mini fig community
-A timeline correction!! Tathzar and Hircine were married for 23 years, and ch 17 has been corrected to reflect that. I had some dates mixed up

Next up: Astarion gets cucked bullied

Chapter 24: Cause If I Want You

Notes:

Content Warnings

The destruction of one vampire elf’s psyche at the hands of a small, mostly harmless, but very cunning beastie. Thirsk is groping/touching someone where he should not. Astarion thinking of very graphic ways to kill Thirsk.
Astarion’s past traumas

Close by Nick Jonas, Tove Lo

TLBOH Playlist

This isn’t fair!

“You’re letting it stay?!”

“Of course,” Hircine says while cuddling that putrescent beast against her chest like it’s some deformed dolly. “It must have taken him ages to get all the way up. I can’t send him off so suddenly.”

“How did it even get up here?” He hisses between gritted teeth.

Adjusting her hold, Hircine hands that thing another cookie dipped in milk, as if it isn’t already bulbous and disgusting enough. “Thirsk knows how to use the elevator. He’s smart, isn’t he?” She giggles, patting its wart-disfigured head with a finger.

Lexi bursts out from the kitchen then, carrying a gleaming silver tray weighed down by piles of sugary treats and fruity herbaceous teas. Astarion knew the instant from her excited squeal that Lexi, the temperamental, miserable wretch that she is, has been lost to the gnome-goblin hybrid’s uglier-than-sin charm, playing cutesy on her knees so it might turn its greedy graces her way.

Its beady eyes, black as pitch and more than cunning, always flick to Astarion whenever it makes a move while in Hircine’s arms. A cookie is offered? The mini-ghoul confirms Astarion is watching before gobbling it down, careful to suck the remaining crumbs off its fingers slowly, methodically. It makes a grand show out of tucking itself tightly between Hircine’s tits, taking its time pulling at the fabric of her nightdress like some flailing toddler as it sinks into the depths of a place only a certain husband should go, all the while the nasty beast maintains smug unblinking eye-contact with Astarion.

And his wife is fucking blind to it all. She just laughs gayly, and pulls the thing’s lecherous grip from her stretched collar, or when it accidentally shoves biscuits down her cleavage, Hircine coos like it’s the silliest, most innocent thing she’s ever seen while it digs for lost crumbs.

He could kill it all too easily. There’s a leather-bound book on the table Astarion could use to cave its skull in. The deed would be done in seconds.

Tch. That’s too drastic. Sticking bits of its brain to their walls would horrify Hircine and Astarion won’t damage their hard-fought relationship over a stretched out, hairless rat.

No, it needs to be a mistake.

Could he get the ladies out of the room and lure the creature into the fire? A quick shove and it’d be ash in no time. Ugh, no. Apparently there’s a spider infestation in the house—how is that different from usual?—so all the fireplaces have been sealed. What if Astarion suggested giving it a bath? He could hold it under the water until the bubbles stopped rising.

There is this terribly horrible and insidiously destructive thought that keeps springing to Astarion’s mind, leaving him hesitant to act.

If the walking drop of dung died, would Hircine cry?

He can’t risk it. Even if he made it all look like some freak accident, the image of Hircine sobbing over its body, crystalline tears rolling down her pale cheeks…

I’ve become too soft.

So instead, Astarion sits stiffly on an uncomfortable chair with fingers digging in to crush the wooden armrest, an outsider to their hellish joy of watching the dirt-crusted freak do anything, while a scowl is plastered on his face as he bides his time.

Eventually, it will be sent back to where it belongs and Astarion can enjoy the peace with his pretty wife once again.

Hircine is such a smart woman. How is she utterly oblivious to its advances? The broken undercommon Astarion can understand is ‘Pretty Hircine’ this and ‘Lovely Hircine’ that, while presenting gifts of little to no value, yet Hircine melts from its affection, a hand over her heart as she oohs and ahs over each piece of rubbish. She deserves better than anything that little cretin hands over.

Inconceivable that Astarion, with a beauty that rivals Sune herself—so he’s heard—could be outfoxed by a wart-encrusted, grime-covered, goblin-gnome-thing.

It’s not fair.

“What’s wrong, Husband?”

Startled from his internal breakdown, Astarion perks up, smoothing out non-existent wrinkles in his shirt. “Come again?”

“You look…” Hircine frowns, eyes searching his face. “I don’t know, you just look unwell.”

Of course he’s unwell. He's withering away without tender touches and intoxicating blood while his wife showers a bald, mutated monkey with love.

Any other man would be broken by such a sight, but Astarion holds strong, fixing a pleasant smile onto his face. “I’m just tired, is all. Been a long day.”

Face to face again with his most odious master after such a blissful period out from under his crushing thumb was devastating, but the meeting was short, almost sweet. Astarion got backhanded, the cut edge of a ring catching against his lip for tripping over his words and then he was sent on his merry way back to the Zau'viirs, instructed to hand over a letter.

Then to return home and see his wife, ashen faced and trembling in his mother-in-law’s office… Astarion assumed the worst, but somehow it was even more terrible.

Knowing what's to come, and all his thoughts to go with it…

Tonight, nothing can be done about all that, especially not with the grubby clinger shooting sneaking glares in Astarion's direction.

“I'll prepare for bed,” says Astarion as he gets to his feet, tense joints popping audibly when he stands and stretches.

And to viciously scrub salt in the festering wound, the ugly cunt grins with malevolently crooked victory as Astarion slinks off.

Revel in it while you can.

This slight will be paid back twenty-fold the next time Astarion catches that squawking two-legged lump in the mines. Down a mine shaft it will plummet to splat at the bottom. Or maybe the goblinoid will fall all the way to Throrgar where it might meet an incomprehensibly ghastly end to its annoying, gluttonous life.

If Astarion can't change this room, then he'll just go somewhere else and read.

Alone.

Without his wife cuddled up beside him.

Who knew one could get so lonely in a house full of people?

No. That feeling is permanently engraved into Astarion’s skin. He's been shackled for almost two hundred years in the Red Palace, where people constantly revolve in and out, alive or more often dead.

Yet all it took was one malformed ugly bastard and he's lost the one place he thought was his wholly.

How the beautifully mighty fall.

Bundled under the many blankets that layer their bed, he sinks into the downy mattress, a new book in hand, because his last one disappeared while he was halfway through. The glow from the lamp, normally a soothing comfort, offers no reprieve in the still quiet, and Astarion blankly stares and stares at the same blasted page for minutes on end.

It's really not fair.

How is he supposed to cope like this?

Will he be naught but an emotionless husk when his wife finally deigns to return his attention? Hircine’s much too powerful with all her tittering cuteness and shy, fluttering-lashed smiles that reduce him to a sniveling sycophant.

Or Lolth's webby touches of evil corrupt more than just the Zau’viirs minds.

The gods truly hate to see an agonizingly beautiful, well-endowed, sociable man prosper.

When the door eases open some stretch of time later, he braces himself for more torture, expecting that grubby stain-on-Toril to prance proudly in with its snubby nose held high, all the while Hircine stumbles about and falls before its knobby feet to extol its non-existent achievements in her lovingly sweet voice.

Except, that's not what happens at all. Hircine enters their room, alone, shutting the door softly behind her before crossing over to the closets, the skirts of her nightdress disappearing behind the privacy screen.

Astarion sets his book aside, not bothering with replacing the page marker when he never progressed past page one. And I was excited about this book too! “Where is it?”

Her head peeks out from the screen, sparkling golden eyes growing dull when they narrow, assessing him and his perfectly innocent question. “Thirsk? Lexi demanded he stay with her for the night. I wasn't going to argue.”

“You weren't?” Astarion asks, sitting up straighter.

“Thirsk snores—loudly. He's so small but the noises he produces could deafen a hook horror…” Stepping out, fingers ruffling through the length of her too long hair, Hircine tilts her head, a knowing glint in her glowing eyes. “I could bring him in though, if you'd like.”

“No!” Astarion shouts, and then catches himself, urging calmness to overtake him. “Ahem, no. No need for that at all, pet. Just some time for you and I should do for now!”

There's a long, discomforting pause as Hircine stands there, staring unblinking, much too long before a single gray eyebrow finally curves up.

“Are you—” Her face is awash with disbelief. “Are you jealous?”

Astarion is taken aback, the blankets pulled up to his chest, the scandal of such an accusation an affront to his sensibilities. “What?! No! How absurd! There's nothing to be jealous about when you're here and that thing is gone. Never! Hah! Gods below, are you having a laugh?”

How could she ever think such a thing?

Hircine blinks, then nods slowly. “If you… insist.”

Crossing over to the bed, Hircine pulls back the covers, and Astarion shoots out a hand, smacking them back down. “Are you really going to get into bed like this? You’re grimy!”

She scoffs, rolling her eyes, but doesn’t argue, and turns away with her hand waving about all dramatically. “Fine. Fine.”

“And you should—Actually, let me do it!” Blankets tossed aside, he springs from the bed. Grasping her arm, Astarion shows Hircine into the bathroom, taking fistfuls of her dress collar and pulling hard, ripping the fabric straight down the middle. The dress is discarded.

“What the—Husband, what are you doing?!” Hircine shouts, hands rising to conceal her mostly naked body—she just had to put on panties. Where was this modesty in the mines?

Slender face taken in his hands, he tilts her head up, thumbs drawing across her cheeks. “You’ve ignored me all night in favor of that slimy, evil thing, and now that it’s defiled you, only I, a man of purity, can purge its tainted touch.”

Hells. And she smells like the creature too.

“By my lady’s silver-hair! What in the hells are you talking about?”

He urges her hands away so Astarion might lay his eyes on the most perfect pair of breasts: round, full and so heavy in his hands. They taste ripe and sweet, just like the rest of her, and to take a peaked nipple into his mouth is a feast all its own.

All he wishes for is to sink to his knees and bury his face between them, but the brown speck of a crumb dotting her flushed chest catches his gaze, spoiling his needs.

Fuck that ugly, dented miscreation.

He turns to rummage through the bathroom cabinet, fetching a few mossy green hand towels and cleansing oil, along with a wooden stool from the corner that he drags before the bathtub. “Sit please, pet.”

Never—ever—one to argue, Hircine sits, looking at him with concern out of the corner of her eye as she whispers. “Are you actually alright?”

“Yes,” Astarion says, insistent, “I just want you to be clean, and it must be me that cleans you.”

“Right. Of course.”

Astarion overlooks her doubtful tone and dutifully cleans around and between each of Hircine's fingers, under the nails and over the palm, using a cloth wet from the bath faucet and spotted with a few drops of oil to return her back to her pearly gray tone. As expected, the green cloth has turned a shade of trampled earth with how much dirt he's wiped away.

“Look at that! Disgusting! How can you touch that thing with the layer of grime it’s covered in? I bet it rolled in a mud puddle before infiltrating our home.”

Hircine shakes strands of moon-bleached hair out of her face, eyes flicking up to Astarion, unconvinced. “It's only dirt, and Thirsk,” she's emphasizes its name, to which Astarion promptly erases from his brain, “is like a-a, uh—well, I'd say a child, but that's insulting… and saying he's a pet is very mean too. Thirsk is just Thirsk, and I like to spend time with him.”

Astarion suppresses an eye-roll. “Children rank below that thing to you?”

“Children are ugly. Abominable.” Hircine chews on her lip, and terror strikes across her face. “Do you like—or want children, Husband?”

Not much thought has been put into children. They seem like shackles on their own what with his newest spawn sibling Leon’s little Victoria issue. “No, to both counts, dear wife. And as I've said before, I would never begrudge you your interests. Spend time with the thing all you want, but please, you should only dirty yourself for me.”

Both hands cleansed, Astarion tosses the filthy towel away and grabs a new one. “Is tonight a ‘no makeup’ sort of night, or no?” He hovers by her face, the cloth sweeping up the slope of Hircine's neck to stop at her chin.

She considers his question for a few seconds, then shrugs. “I think ‘no makeup’ is fine.”

“Wonderful!” As her cheeks and eyes are gently scrubbed of powders and tints, Astarion can't help but smile to himself, reveling in all the soft curves of her face.

It's… fun to care for someone else like this.

Once her lips have been returned to their natural state of snowy white, does he trace a finger around her lip line, mapping the curved shape and velvety feel to memory.

“Pretty girl,” he purrs.

Despite the flush rising to her cheeks at his words, her head tilts into him, now cupped by his hand. Reaching out, Hircine pulls on Astarion by the crook of the elbow, and once reeled in close, her fingers play where his shirt is tucked into his trousers. “I am sorry for how the evening turned out. I know you don’t like Thirsk, but I could—” The hem of his shirt is tugged up. “—make it up to you?”

 

Smoke, thick and hazy and rancid as ever, obscures his vision as he tracks his unsuspecting target for the evening through the tavern. A few months have passed since he was last back here, too many prying eyes recognizing his face or making deductions about his intentions. He doesn’t blame them; his face is too perfectly regal to forget.

The floor and the table he’s chosen are covered in the tackiness of spilt ale, and he’s been careful to not rest his palms on the surface. A bath won’t be easy to come by tonight.

Master is in a terrible mood. A meal must be found soon or a week in the kennels is in his future where dirt under his nails will be the least of his worries.

The target is a bit more burly than he’d normally consider as a choice, but pickiness is not in the cards tonight. They appear to be a loner, nursing a drink while their eyes occasionally flick about the room in disinterest.

Someone no one will miss.

A pint of the cheapest swill in hand, he makes his move, drawing near, and then—

He stumbles, liquid sloshing over the pint’s rim, spilling out across the already beer-soaked flooring and onto their lap.

They look up, a tempest flaring, then that rage is smothered completely when they see him in all his deadly beauty, diving to his knees, dabbing at the wet stains blooming over their trousers with a stolen handkerchief.

“Oh gods, forgive me! My boot caught on a loose board and—” His eyes seek theirs out, smoldering beneath dark lashes, and his voice drops low in the din of merrymaking, just for their ears only. “What a terrible mistake I’ve made. Please, there must be a way to make it up to you, darling.”

They always fall for that one so easily.

 

“Let go of me. Now.”

Astarion blinks. Clasped tightly in his grasp is Hircine’s wrist, straining unsuccessfully against his hold. He instantly releases her and staggers back a few steps. “I didn’t—I don’t know why—I-I’m sorry, Hircine, I—”

She rubs at the red mark on her wrist, the shock twisting into an unfamiliar emotion—anger pulses to life in her sharp gaze.

And fear swirls within. Because of him.

“You drag me around. You tear my clothes off.” Her words are barely audible as she stands, snatching her tattered dress from the ground. “You will not treat me so savagely.” To punctuate her statement, the bathroom door slams shut when Hircine leaves, the reverberation echoing inside his head.

What happened?

He was fine earlier in the mines. He’s been fine. This shouldn’t bother him anymore.

Hircine is not like any of them. Not a victim; she will never be a victim. At least not one of his.

Why can’t I move on? Is it because Cazador still stalks the planes with the ominous tapping of his cane heralding the next punishment?

Cazador’s end is near and Astarion will have his freedom at any cost. There are no other options now that he’s had a taste of no longer being ground into the dirt.

He settles onto the stool, heels balanced against the bottom rung, and Astarion inspects the creases over his palms, scratching at the fine lines with the tip of his nail. No dirt or residue or unhealed cuts from a tireless day. The skin is all there.

All the appearances of cleanliness, yet he doesn’t feel bereft of all the ick.

He was being a savage, wasn’t he? Thoughtless jealousy overrode any sane actions because of an ugly, revolting, crude, yet absolutely harmless beast that will return to the sloppy hole it crawled out from come afternoon. There’s no use denying it.

He doesn’t know why he grabbed her arm like that. In his daze, perhaps Astarion thought she was one of them, one of those faceless, nameless victims that can no longer be recalled with any clarity.

One of many.

Too many.

He did what needs to be done so he might pick his flayed carcass up from the floor and attend to Master’s next very pressing need. Survival has always been the goal. And it still is.

I should be better.

I should just be able to push through as I have for years and not worry about it.

I don’t have to play the rake anymore.

Prior words ring in his ears, uttered only in jest, yet they stick when there might be some truth to them.

Is Astarion treating Hircine like a ‘pair of tits’? Too much focus is put on them because he does like them, but… With how easy it is to slip back into these pleasing, subservient motions, he finds himself so readily putting Hircine on display before she can do it to him.

Him—always the one who has been just a body. Just a mouth. Just a cock.

She vowed to treat him respectfully, and it’s a vow she upholds valiantly, and here he is, still playing the game of ‘Will we, won’t we’ since he doesn’t know how else to act. Playtime in the mines was good, Astarion enjoyed it, that focus on him all throughout, and Hircine was very chuffed at her creative thoughts, head held high with a satisfied smile.

There was no guilt when it ended. He thought he was free of these dastardly feelings all together. Free to do what he wants. Free to enjoy it how he pleases. That is how it should be.

So why do I feel so wrong now?

Does everything have to end with sex (or the heaviest of petting) just because he feels good or wronged or uncomfortable or unsure or jealous?

I don’t have to do these things.

He does have an apology of immense proportions to construct. Hircine is much too precious to treat without care. Her family is terrible enough, and he won’t become someone else she must be weary of.

Astarion stands, considering for a moment that he might tidy his appearance. The thought won’t be appreciated, his vanity can wait.

Stepping out into the bedroom, his sights land on Hircine immediately where she sits on the sofa, back to the bathroom, curled up in a tight ball with chin resting between her knees. A sorrowful sight that makes his gut flip regretfully.

On his approach, she turns, and he’s thankful Hircine isn’t outright ignoring him. Astarion gestures to the couch. “May I sit?”

Clothed again in a different gown that hasn’t been ruined by his touch, Hircine nods, her body lengthening once again to drow form as she faces him. “I’m sorry for getting so upset. I was… surprised.”

Of course, she would apologize first. Good gods. She’s like one of those gnomish toys with the string attached that spits out a pre-determined phrase every time it’s pulled.

Seated with less than an outstretched arm’s worth of space between them, Astarion sucks in a deep breath, then speaks. “Hircine, don’t apologize. There is no excuse for how I frightened—hurt you. I am truly sorry, but you don’t need to accept it.”

“I… know.” She looks conflicted. “You’ve done this before, going still or having this… emptiness overtake you. If I’m doing something wrong, something that upsets you, I—”

Lying isn’t worth the effort. She’ll peer through any he tells like sheer gossamer. Ugh. There is no joy in being vulnerable.

“It’s not you, I swear. Things pop into my head, memories I’ve thought were long buried, and they bring back with them vengeful teeth that bite down until they meet bone. It’s always different.” He turns away. “I don’t know why I—why it can’t let me go.”

Her warm hand slips into his, offering a comforting squeeze as she talks. “I don’t want to presume, Husband, but they do seem… related in my eyes. Maybe it’s not the right time for play of the… sexual variety.”

“But I do want it.” He whispers.

“Why?”

"Because it’s all I know!" His wide-eyed gaze returns to Hircine’s solemn face, patient for Astarion’s understanding. His words get caught in his throat. “…Ho-How else am I supposed to be? He never let me be anything else.”

“You get to find out now. He can’t stop you here. There are plenty of things you already like, but perhaps we might change it up.”

“How so?”

“Lexi says ‘Complacency is the enemy of progress.’ and when we were whiny, nasty little children, she would work very hard to make every day different; take the same games and modify the rules. Familiar doesn’t mean same.”

Lexi is annoying. How is that decrepit old lady filled with so much wisdom?

“What was something you wanted to do tonight, Husband?”

“Read.”

“How do you normally read, then?”

Astarion leans closer to Hircine, finding her scent of mulled berries is no longer muddled by that filthy thing, and she guides him down gently, resting his head on her lap where she immediately begins combing through his curls. It’s strange dissecting his habits like this. “I sit on the sofa, in the bedroom or the den. Sometimes I read in bed. If it’s a book that holds information about the far realms, I keep track of it so I can share with you.”

There’s a smile in her voice, and the soothing lull of her fingers pulling along his scalp has him turning boneless. “Hmm, that’s not a bad routine at all… but I could read to you tonight, if you’d like.”

Read to him? What is he—a child?

“I think you should read to me,” Astarion affirms, though he makes no move to get up from this place. “In a few minutes.”

Hircine continues her rhythmic motions of turning him to an ooze, fingers stroking lightly down his neck and occasionally pressing firmly into a tightly wound muscle on his neck.

She does have something to add after a stretch of peaceful quiet. “I know you weren’t intentionally being inconsiderate, but I don’t enjoy aggressive displays. They’re… unattractive.” She says the word like its meaning is all wrong.

“I understand, and I am sorry… I was jealous.” He admits, remorseful.

“I know. And if you are eager for my forgiveness, you must ask Lexi to fix my dress that you ruined.”

Astarion whines. “She’s going to kill me.”

Hircine grunts, completely and rightfully apathetic.

“If she turns me to dust, will you at least keep my ashes?”

“I’ll find a beautiful urn to sweep you into, and place you beside the fireplace.”

“And then you’ll read to my ashes?”

She curls some hair around fingers. “Of course, Husband.”

Satisfied, he rolls over, now eye level with his fascinations. “Does this mean I can’t touch your tits anymore?”

Hircine frowns. “You’re acting like I’ve forbidden you from them. I don’t care what you do, but you need to be comfortable with it.”

“Fair,” he says, and sinks his face into her ample chest. “Actually, dearest wife, can you keep my ashes here?”

Hircine promptly removes herself out from under him, turning her nose up. “Go get your book and bring a blanket from the bed.” She waves him off dismissively.

Ready to pay any price for his earlier indecency, Astarion eagerly complies. Once settled onto the couch, Hircine is now seated on his lap. She pulls his arms around her waist and vibrant twinkling eyes meet his. “Is this comfortable, Husband?”

“Yes,” he says, more than truthful.

The grin Hircine flashes is astoundingly blinding, and he wonders if this is all some twisted trap laid out by Cazador to rend what willpower is left within Astarion.

If this were all fake, his mind wouldn't survive.

Book in her hands, Hircine traces the gold-embossed title. “On Apocrypha: Prying Orbs,” she reads aloud, then opens the book to begin this new story. It's an older volume, so the leather cracks and creaks, and the pages are worn around the edges from use.

This moment right here, the comfort and peace and all those things in-between that he has never experienced are real. His chin rests on Hircine’s shoulder, the vibration of her voice buzzing through her back and into his chest while she reads to him so sweetly about otherworldly beings the mind cannot comprehend, like the accompaniment to a lullaby that catches him adrift in the dark loneliness, guiding Astarion back home. With the hefty blanket cocooned around them both, he feels as if they’ve carved out a little bit of the planes, just for them.

This isn’t a place where they can get hurt.

This is what I want, and it is so right, he thinks as his head fits perfectly into the crook of her neck.

---

There's a sudden noise, and Astarion startles awake, trying without too much movement to dust Hircine’s tangle of hair out of his face while he gains his bearings.

It’s still too early, that much his body tells him as it protests sitting up, yearning to return to rest.

Did he hear something, or was it one of those unwelcome nightmares that have become fewer and far between?

Hircine is dead to the world, laid out on her side, pressed right up against his chest, her deep breaths rhythmic and peaceful. With her hair pulled back—and into his face, the two pinprick wounds from his before-bedtime drink remain. She wears them almost proudly, sure to keep that side of her neck bare, much to Lexi’s simmering disdain.

Another, more secretive spot should be found before he does end up a handful of dust.

Astarion rubs an eye, ready to welcome back his trance, but thankful for his vampiric vision, he catches sight of something by their door.

It’s open.

By the base, two eyes that somehow shine even in the pure darkness blink at him.

Thirsk. The abomination.

Lowering himself to cover Hircine in a possessive display, Astarion bares his fangs, ready to tear the throat out of that soon-to-be corpse should it take another step further into their bedroom.

Its eyes narrow, a silent declaration of war, before it recedes back into the hallway, shutting the door softly behind it. The intentions of that little creep are made clear.

It wants my wife.

But she is mine.

Notes:

Anyone seen Wallace and Gromit: The Wrong Trousers? Thirsk is to Astarion what Feathers McGraw is to Gromit.

-This was supposed to be a nice, lighthearted interlude but then the chapter ran away from me. oops

Next up: The Wizard of Waterdeep

Chapter 25: I Can Fuck It Up Tenderly

Notes:

Tenderly by Prinze George

TLBOH Playlist

An uneventfully short day in the mines, and there still hasn’t been a chance for that trip down Hircine’s memory lane of accursed eldritch interests.

Too much work makes Astarion a very dull boy.

How does Hircine carry on unceasingly?

At least she is here to sharpen the dull edges. The withered morose woman who sat defeated in her chair every day is no longer there, replaced now with a dancing bundle of moon-shine whose greatest desire seems to be soft affection from his arms only.

As their routine has developed, she wakes quietly before he does, and then the moment Astarion rises from trance, is Hircine there, smiling sweetly as she does, coquettish lashes fluttering when she asks for a kiss and a crushing hug. Apparently, having the breath squeezed out of her really gets the day started. Her words. Astarion can’t fathom what she means.

Has he been back in the family archives yet? No. He can’t return.

Guilt, even at the thought of going back to snoop, is a dead-weight dragging him down to the depths, keeping Astarion stuck where he stands. These damned attachments to others is always his downfall, and how could it be any other way when he's maritally bound to the person in question this time?

He got what he wanted, a wife that would more than lay down her life for him.

And how does he feel about it?

Terrible. Awful.

And he can't muster annoyance at that fact.

I did it to myself.

Or Hircine did it to him. Whatever.

When the elevator’s doors grind open with an ear-piercing shriek, Hircine all but throws herself out, a searing glare thrown at wrought metal as if it might oil itself in submission, and her voice is low, stern and brimming with uncharacteristic rage when she speaks. “How hard is it to fix a damn door?!”

Temper. Temper. She looks like her mother when she’s scowling like that—which is a thought Astarion will never say out loud.

As they head towards the Blue Room, Astarion turns towards more concerning matters—the wizard, and what information he might glean from their visit.

Hircine said that all these magical artifacts are kept locked away within the parent’s hall. By now, Astarion’s been given… blanket permission to enter the parent’s domain, so in the future, should he need to, he might sneak his way back in to snatch up something for his most disagreeable master.

Anything to please him… or buy time for the future.

As they pass under the marble grand staircase, Arkay struts his way out of the east hall, shyly smoothing out his slicked back gray hair, before moving on to fiddle with an elegant, navy blue eyepatch. His path leads him directly before Astarion and Hircine, who calls out to her brother with a wave of her fan, cheeriness returned.

“Dalninuk, what are you doing?”

On closer inspection, Astarion spies rouged lips and cheeks, and a lovely bronze kohl lining Arkay’s singular lavender eye.

Suspicious.

“Hi Hirce! Astarion!” Adjusting his collar with a bashful quirk of his mouth, Arkay shrugs his shoulders. “I’m going to see, uhm… Wyll Ravengard.”

Eyes flicking uncertainly to the front door, Hircine pauses. “…You’re going outside… now?”

Because it’s daytime still. So they are allowed out where the sun does shine.

Or Arkay is.

“Yes! I’ve got to go. Can’t keep Nerevar waiting, you know how he gets.” That said, Arkay flees from them in a flurry of excitement, practically skipping as he makes his way to the door.

Atypical makeup; the picking at his appearance; overeagerness to get where he’s going. Astarion might assume the boy has a crush on the Wyll Ravengard.

Good for him.

Turned to stone, Hircine stares after her brother, a conflicting range of emotions warring across her pretty face.

Jealousy? Resentment? Sadness?

Even though he expects silence or a deflection in response, Astarion asks, “Why can’t you go outside?”

The front door snaps shut, the echo loud across the elegant marble and wood foyer, and Hircine jolts out of her trance, blinking, her voice tired and hollow when she speaks. “Because then I’d know there’s something better.”

How terrible.

Is the insidious hold of her family finally lessening its grip? What does Astarion need to do to clear the remaining Zau’viir fog from her eyes?

Given no chance to ponder more, Hircine leads them swiftly to the Blue Room where they shall await this most intriguing guest. Will they be man, slaadi, or something in between? Mystra doesn’t seem to be all that picky.

Blessedly, the wait is short as they stand beside the dining table. Unfortunately, their guest is not the kind to use the door.

There’s a crackle of chaotic energy, a sparking burst of violet light, and then a massive, swirling vortex pulses into focus with hazy magic from the opposite side of the room, deafening in its roar.

Hircine jumps backwards into Astarion with alarm where he swiftly wraps a protective arm around her, as the cacophony threatens to tear the room apart. Chairs closest to the vortex slide towards the spiralling gateway, and portrait frames dangle precariously on a hair’s breadth as they strain away from the walls.

In the midst of it all, a young—relatively—human man in posh purple robes steps through and once in the room, the violent portal vanishes behind him, and all returns to normal.

Showier, and much less messy than Herma-Mora’s ‘portal’ or what the fuck ever appeared in their den. Astarion fixes his pampered curls with irritation.

The man grins and bows, shoulder-length brown hair tied back neatly from his face, proud and puffed-up at his splashy entrance. “Greetings! I am Gale of Waterdeep, here to assist.”

A streak of nastiness slides firmly into place, and Hircine scowls, incensed. “Could you not use the front door?”

Gale—of Waterdeep, fucking wizards—ignores, or does not pick up on Hircine’s irritation. “Oh, it’s no matter. Why go through all the needless ceremony when we can get down to business? I’m a busy man, after all, and the Weave waits for no one.”

Are they all like this—insufferable?

Whatever viciousness Hircine is prepared to spit is stopped when Gale speaks next, a more… proper acknowledgement offered to his hosts. “Lady Hircine, and Lord Vorn’tyrr, I presume?”

The wizard presumes wrong.

The atmosphere of the room turns downright glacial, and Hircine stiffens visibly.

But it’s not a mistake. Astarion has heard that name too much to be a coincidence.

From a worker; the most damning from Mal.

Who is Vorn’tyrr?

A lord.

In relation to a certain lady.

“My husband is named Astarion.” Hircine says cooly, a volatile rage flashing across her face before obscuring herself with a splayed out fan. Is she hiding from the wizard?

Or her husband?

“Apologies, my lady. I meant no disrespect,” Gale bows again, true regret pooling in his kind brown eyes. “Our records must have been entangled with another family.”

There is no mix-up, not when that name has been a taunted word thrown in Astarion’s face like it was supposed to mean something.

“It seems so.” Hircine turns to Astarion now, gaze sharp, but clear of any suspicious emotions. “Let’s go to the vault.”

Does he have a choice?

She said she would tell him everything.

An omission is a lie all the same. Astarion won’t forget this, and he won’t let Hircine hide behind her family secrets this time.

---

Barlyn is a collector of junk and nothing more.

They’ve gone through well over a hundred items already that have ‘traces’ of magic, which, according to Gale—of Waterdeep—means someone of great magical prowess might have laid a hand upon these items once or twice…

It’s a fucking handkerchief! Sell it!

Hircine, thank the gods, took a step back, allowing Astarion to lead the charge while she stands silent and isolated in a corner, an unwelcoming, rapturous aura cloaking her tensely set shoulders.

Why is she pouting? He’s the one wronged!

Astarion digs through mildewy boxes coated with dusty cobwebs, passing valueless and stupid items to Gale, who with a flick of his fingers, determines what latent abilities the object might possess, which so far, proves to be nothing.

A quartet of spectral-blue mage hands float about, flourishing quill or parchment as they detail whatever jumble of superfluous words Gale spits out, the most common being: mundane…

In a matter of days, Astarion will be back prostrating before Cazador’s fine-leather clad feet, and the prospects of finding anything his master could be pleased with are dwindling by the second with all this shit.

There’s something Cazador wants, and Astarion will find it. He has to.

All in the efforts to protect his future and that viciously moody wife who has concealed a critical piece of information about their relationship.

Her relationships.

Moving clockwise through the multitudinous boxes that line every wall of the room, there is nothing of interest to be found. All this rubbish. All that wasted gold.

How nice must it be to have so much overflowing wealth that it can just be tossed into a bottomless pit without further regard?

Eventually they reach a south-facing wall, where a massive object is mounted to the wood panelling with a protective dust covering draped over its strange shape.

Gale’s eyebrows rise inquisitively, eyes shining at the chance of a prize among the shoddy dirt.

Astarion tears the covering away, sending dust scattering and Hircine into a grimacing coughing fit that she furiously waves away with her fan to clear her breathing space.

Deserved.

Hidden beneath is a very real and very dead taxidermied dragon head. Its scales, once a brilliant metallic, are now dull from decay and lack of upkeep, with its maw forced open into a ferocious snarl that displays rows of flesh-rending teeth. Lacquered jade eyes gleam with lost retribution.

Whatever wonder and intrigue that radiated from the archmage disappears when disgust darkens his eyes as he identifies the creature before them. When he speaks next, his throat bobs with an uncomfortable swallow.

“Draco aeneus,” states Gale, “or bronze dragon, in our common tongue. Inherently good and majestic creatures with a sociable temperament. They prefer to blend in amongst the shorter lived species, and enjoy, as most of the more verbose draco species do, to engage in ideological hypotheticals for hours on end. By its size, I would estimate this one to be a youngling…” His gaze darts away. “To have a head—”

“It’s abominable, you can say it.” Hircine interjects, revulsion twisting her lips. “Stendarr, the idiot, purchased it for Jena. For obvious reasons, she can’t stand the sight of it, so here it lies, alone and forgotten.” And then she returns to her scowling quiet, fanning herself aggressively.

Stuffed beasts she can't tolerate, but withholding prior husbands is quite all right?

Gale clears his throat awkwardly, and re-covers the slain creature. “Onto the next, then.”

A thick tension permeates the room when they move on to the next waiting batch of useless shit, and Astarion is keen to throw up his hands in aggravation.

Why do they need the mage to be supervised when nothing of value outside of a grotesque dragon head is kept here?

Astarion, hungering for his wife’s ire, turns to Hircine, hand on his hip and defiance flashing in his eyes. “Is there anything useful here, or is this some elaborate way to further their disrespect towards you?”

There’s a visible twinge in her set jaw.

Instead of blowing his skull clean off his shoulders with her concealed magic tricks, Hircine reveals a cast-iron key from one of her sewn-in dress pockets, flicking her fan towards a side door. “Just do that room and be done with this.”

Good enough.

When the door opens, and they step inside, Gale gasps as his finger runs over the storm gray-painted wood grain of the door. “Sussur. Explains the quiet.”

“The quiet?” questions Astarion, scrutinizing the door but finding nothing out of place beneath its glossy veneer.

“Growing only within the Underdark, sussur trees, and its extensions, sussur bark and bloom, contain potent anti-magic effects—though it would be more apt to say that the trees consume magic, rendering those within their auras inert.” Gale, the talking book, directs their attention to the walls as well. “This door, and I imagine the wallpaper lining are all crafted from a sussur tree, blocking any magical interference in and out of this room.”

Meeting Astarion’s arched eyebrow pleading for more, Gale clarifies. “The room will appear mundane to anyone. It is useful for hiding high value artifacts from snooping guests—or thieves.”

All those words to say: Here be treasure.

Within this unassuming room are glass encasements of all shapes and sizes, containing weaponry, vases, cloaks and what-have-the.

Buzzing with barely camouflaged excitement, Gale casts a hand over a diadem with carvings of wings. “A circlet of flying… er, unfortunately, the circlet will enchant itself, and most likely fly off without its wearer.”

“Useless.” Astarion mutters.

“Hardly,” Hircine says. “Mal tied a lead once to Boethiah and that circlet. It took us hours to free him…”

“That is… inventive.” Gale says charitably.

Leave it to Mal to find the evilness in everything.

Delving into the goods tucked away here, Astarion and Gale uncover more objects that to Astarion are decidedly useless.

A cloak of fresh water-breathing? Pah!

Dust of sneezing and choking? Were the mages bored?

Amulet of feign death? Hilarious.

While finally, all these hoarded items are actually magical, they are wholly unremarkable, and not something a devil would hold any interest in by Astarion’s estimations.

But maybe that’s why Raphael sold these to Barlyn, who seems to like magic for magic’s sake.

As usual, it seems Hircine toils her days away, earning part of their fortune, and then the family just throws it all into a tarrasque’s mouth.

Does she buy anything for herself or is that not allowed?

The rough, never-tread road of escaping from her family is becoming a Cazador-level threat, and Astarion fears the answer to her choice.

Me—and Lexi, I guess—or them?

How can he show her that her family isn't worth the suffering?

But is she worth it if she won’t even share a critical piece of her past when all permission has been granted?

They can argue later.

Oh, what’s this?

Ebony and red quartz inlaid into a polished black quarterstaff, stands menacingly in a case. There is a silver-cast skeleton-bat creature painted with glossy red enamel perched atop, its honed claws clenched as if they might splinter the wooden staff in their grasp. The smoky eyes, tiny carved quartz shining evil and bright, follow his head as Astarion inspects the thing from all angles.

Apprehension shrouds Gale on his approach, circling around, his inquisitive, friendly demeanor gone, replaced with pursed lips and hands clasped behind his back. “Infernal magic lies within this. Quite powerful, too. Do you know where this came from, my Lord? Lady?”

Hircine straightens, an unknown infraction insulting her. “Infernal, like from the Hells? Why would we have anything like that? My family doesn’t deal with devils.”

Oh, naïve Hircine.

Catching Gale’s eye, Astarion shakes his head almost imperceptibly, hoping the archmage will mind his words. Hircine is riled up enough, no need to bring devils into the mix.

Thankfully, Gale understands the silent message and changes tune. “Apologies, my lady. I did not mean to imply that your family would commit themselves to matters of the occult. This staff could very well be smithed from infernal metals that give off residual energies from the Hells… I’d have to remove it from the case for a proper detection, but by my cursory estimation, when held in hand, the wielder would be granted access to a powerful blight spell, along with—” Gale pauses, attuning to the item as his fingers, aglow with blue wisps, hover over the glass confines. “Well, the rest would be determined if I properly assessed it.”

“No,” Hircine states. “Do the best you can without taking these out.”

“As you wish,” Gale bows his head.

Meticulously carved inscriptions in an unknown language line the length of the staff, and Gale reads them off. “‘Woe befalls thee who dost turn their back…’ Ah! How, er, friendly. Seems a betrayal was in the artisan’s past.” Chuckling darkly, Gale sidles up to Astarion, head inclined in his direction so the mage can lower his voice. “In my expert opinion, I’d dare say this was crafted by or for a devil of high rank. Magic is inherently neutral, and as Mystra’s chosen, we do not discriminate by base purpose or creation. How it is wielded is altogether another matter… Let us hope those items shall remain as they are—contained.”

Astarion nods, “Understood.”

A last long look cast on the dark staff, Astarion feels its nefarious aura calling out in invitation, begging for the right hand to hold it.

Cazador’s?

Or someone better?

At the very least, this should fulfill his master’s request. A staff created by and for malicious intent with a nasty flying rodent welded to the top. How much more thematic could it get?

The rest of the trinkets, varying in their effects fly by in a flurry of words and embellishments by the archmage. When the last item is accounted for, a scroll is rolled up and handed to Astarion, and Gale keeps the other, which disappears in a purple flash at the snap of his fingers.

“Kept for our records, but know it is purely educational within Azuth’s libraries. And with this, we are done.”

The protocol for these situations eludes Astarion as he tucks the rolled parchment beneath his arm, and Hircine is in no hurry to offer anything. “Would you care for some refreshments after all this work?”

The kind to be eaten, not the pleasures of sinful flesh Cazador offers after a successful business arrangement.

A gleaming silver pocket watch pulled from within his robe, Gale thinks. “… Finished earlier than allotted. If you don’t mind, I find myself a touch peckish.”

“Wonderful!” Hands clapped together, Astarion turns to Hircine who still glowers all by her lonesome.

Brat.

Liar.

“To the tea room, my wife?”

“The Blue Room; Father is hosting some Peers at the moment.” Hircine responds, curt.

“The Blue Room it is, then.”

---

Seated at the head of the family dining table is Astarion, with Gale and Hircine perpendicular on each side. It would be appropriate to say Astarion is trapped.

A smile gracing his lips as he sips on tea while steam curls around his features, Gale is oblivious to the hostile drow hostess he sits across from. Her eyes never rise from where they bore searing holes into the table. Astarion is expecting at any moment that she might cast a spell and send them all into chaos.

Sucking down a sigh, Astarion shoulders the burden of pleasant conversation. “By the moniker, I take it you hail from Waterdeep?”

“Born and raised by my mother, and then I studied at Blackstaff Academy for a few years, though my latent prowess over magic drew the eye of Mystra, and she took me under her tutelage. Magic is as natural to me as as the air we breathe, and I would be nothing without it.” Gale says. His eyes shift to Astarion, and there lies a knowing gleam within them that instantly sets Astarion on edge.

“My expertise here is admittedly limited, so forgive any mischaracterizations, my lord, but are you a vampire spawn? You have a lesser undead aura about you that lacks the presence of a true vampire.”

Hircine’s head shoots up, panicked, and Gale is quick to soothe. “No need to fret. This meeting is confidential, between us, and Mystra. I am only here for your artifacts, not your personal pursuits. I asked purely out of curiosity.”

Ouch. A lacking presence? Astarion ignores the urge to throttle this abrasive archmage. “I am a spawn.”

“In my admittedly meager readings of drow culture, I have come across accounts of noble houses keeping vampires as servants. How intriguing.” Gale carries on, talking as if he isn't reducing Astarion to some less than being.

Hircine hisses murderously through clenched teeth. “He's my husband!”

Am I now?

Is any of their marriage real or is Astarion just some placeholder for a more exceptional man?

This evening has been disastrous, even worse than when Duver showed his bloated face.

Astarion turns the conversation back to their guest. “Already an archmage at your… age—” By appearances only, Gale seems young for a human, with his sparkling curiosity, healthy brunette hair and trim beard, but one can never be certain about the magically gifted. “—are there higher aspirations among your class or is this as far as you go?”

Gale chuckles and there is a glint of provocative confidence within his warm brown eyes that borders on unrestrained arrogance. “Oh, there is always more for those with ambition; one needs only to find the right avenues. For now, I am just an archmage, but I hold Mystra’s favor—nay, affections. My future is limitless with the Mistress of Magic by my side, and I dare say not many of my cohort could ever aspire for the same.”

Did he… admit to a personal relationship with Mystra? Is that even allowed?

Seems all kinds of wrong in Astarion’s opinion.

The gods will abuse their followers with smiles on their faces for any crumb of worship. How long has Mystra been tangling up his strings?

And to think he believes he alone is special enough to warm a god's bed…

“There can be a plateau with magic, the physical body can only handle so much even with constant regimens and practice,” continues Gale, “but I see myself standing beside the great minds of Laeral Silverhand and Elminster—he’s a glutton, that one. Don’t let the doddering old man he plays fool you.” A biscuit is nibbled on as he thinks. “No, to stand beside them isn’t enough. I yearn to achieve something even they failed to reach for.”

To be greater than the ones before… Wouldn’t that be nice? Astarion smiles, encouraging more. “What is that ‘something’, then?”

Head nodded Astarion’s way in acknowledgement, Gale’s lips twist ruefully. “I’ve yet to find it, so for now, the search continues for my glory. Such is the way of the Weave, ever changing, yet always what we need, though perhaps not when we desire it.” A cloth is dabbed over his mouth to remove any crumbs. “How long have you been married?”

Hmm, I assumed he’d speak of himself for hours. Boring. “A few months,” Astarion answers. “An arrangement formed between our… parents.” Any other night, when he hasn't learned the truth, Astarion might have had some sweet words for their relationship, but at this moment, there is not a single shred of passion that can be scrounged for.

Gale hums, a finger tapping his chin before he points at Hircine. “Do you feed from her? I’ve wondered the biomagical effects of—”

“That is a private matter.” Astarion shuts down any further examination.

Conceding, Gale bows his head. “Of course, and I appreciate your indulgence of my fascination. I do believe it is time I depart. Thank you for this hospitality, my lord and my lady. It has been an absolute pleasure this evening.” The second his words have left his lips, with a wave of his hands and gibberish spoken, a new, less destructive portal is opened and Gale disappears into it.

Fascination? Nosiness is more apt.

Food and drink untouched, Hircine stands abruptly from her seat. “Let’s go.”

Leaving the Blue Room behind, Hircine walks swiftly, driven by some purpose down the hallway, and even as he keeps pace, she stays distant, her silk fan spinning in ceaseless circles between her hands.

When they reach the base of the grand staircase, Astarion stops. “We are going to speak about this.”

Hircine is already a few steps up on the navy velvet lining, wearing thin where so many feet have tread, a hand white-knuckling the silver bannister, and she turns to look at him. “Yes. Let's speak at home.”

“No. We will talk right here. I don't want any of the excuses you are trying to think up.” He shifts, ready with his blunt words. “Who is Vorn'tyrr?”

From below, a strange air twists their dynamic. They're always on even ground—or so Astarion thought. A rift he dares not broach nor mend has appeared, and this won’t be easily fixed.

Her gaze on him feels unfamiliar. A person, perhaps the true Hircine hidden beneath all the soft layers, stands in her place. “Vorn'tyrr was my… husband.” She says it with so much disdain. Is her anger from being forced to speak?

“You're my third.”

His own stupidity and arrogance over his position in this household is utterly appalling.

Third husband.

‘Three.’

Malacath. Vaermina. The gem cutter. And now this wizard. How many more people have slipped up, intentionally or not, and Astarion was so blinded by his wife’s alluring graces to never notice?

“Were you ever going to tell me?”

“Yes!” she starts, “I was just—”

Astarion interrupts, no room left for any excuses. “I'll be generous, and assume nothing could have been shared before you had your mother's permission, but you said you would tell me everything. And now my only other assumption is that they are dead as that seems to be the theme. Is that to be my fate? Because I have not survived this long to end up buried as one of your secrets. I showed you what he made me, Hircine, and you didn't even have the decency to return my trust!

“Am I just some nobody man here to wrestle what meager, and quite frankly worthless power you have? Am I so beneath you?”

Astarion is a singular copper in the overflowing stream of coin flowing unfettered through their doors.

He got lucky as the one picked, and then polished to their needs, but he knows, so acutely, that it could have been anyone in his place. It took the smallest edge of kindness to turn Hircine his way. Anyone with a working brain would have resorted to kindness.

Back down the stairs, her hand grabs for him, tethering them together through a tenuous, brittle connection, and Hircine speaks. “I know I made a mistake in hiding this, and I am sorry, but please, Husband, let me—”

Snatching his arm back, Astarion takes a step back, his gaze when he looks up at her is cold and unyielding. “I'm not even worthy of my name!” Astarion snaps and Hircine flinches, recoiling back. “But they surely got that dignity, didn't they? Am I incapable of measuring up?”

Horror washes over Hircine. “You are nothing like them! This is not—” She reaches for him again, only for Astarion to evade her completely.

For fuck’s sake. He's not even disparaging them and she's riding to their defense.

All this difficulty to build a connection, and he naively thought it was from inexperience. To now know there was barely any room for Astarion to begin with is such a crippling blow.

To turn his back on his wife, it’s objectively stupid when she holds his tenuous future in those delicately soft palms, but Astarion is left with little choice.

“Wha—Where are you going?!” Hircine calls after Astarion’s retreating form, voice shrill.

He turns, just enough. “Everything—Everything has been on your terms. But this—when we speak next, it will be on mine. Do you understand, or am I not allowed even that?”

He doesn’t look back or wait for her response.

---

A fox, its squealing kits, and a nesting duck do not a filling meal make anymore.

If he returns now, is that admitting defeat? Astarion doesn’t want to give in, not for this, not when she’s so cruelly stabbed him in the back.

He has been less than for hundreds of years. He can’t take the degradation from all directions when he finally thought he could be free from it.

How many times must she have laughed as he floundered with words or a touch, all the while knowing she’s been through this dance not once, but twice before?

Played for a fool time and time again.

The mugginess does nothing for the dour air Astarion drags behind him as he trudges through the damp undergrowth of the forest.

His options?

He can go home, plead guilty for his ‘trespasses,’ and live a submissive lie to appease his wife until he rids himself of Cazador.

Does she hold enough of him in her heart to sweep this under the rug?

‘Sometimes the destruction of my body is well worth the shreds of my psyche saved.’

No. To give in is to give up completely on himself. He can’t do that, not after all he's held on to for these decades of piteous torture.

Maybe Astarion can hide out somewhere in the mansion, a place where Hircine and her deranged siblings can’t find him…

Unlikely.

There are still a few hours until the clock tolls six. He has time, and what better use of his time than puttering about aimlessly with a lip jutted in an angry pout?

He could blame that pitiful, love-struck wizard for this mess, but if it wasn’t him, it would have been some other unfortunate circumstance that would have brought these truths to light.

Why did he have to find out like this?

How is he supposed to compete with two husbands probably martyred by her family?

Without Hircine, Astarion will lose everything—his chance of freedom. The ability to live. Her lov—no, he never had it to begin with.

Can they come to some kind of agreement to coexist in peace while furthering their own goals? They can part on somewhat good terms and leave it at that. He’s said goodbye more than most do. What’s one more farewell in the face of a possible eternity?

Astarion groans aloud, a finger pulling out his collar so he might needlessly breathe a little easier.

What do I do?

A filling meal feels more important. He could try to bring down a horse this time. What’s Hircine going to do, get upset with him more than she already is?

Kick him out?

Or…

The grave.

It’s his. Vorn’tyrr. It has to be.

Already out and looking for any excuse to stay out, taking another gander won’t hurt. He can’t be caught unaware again by more of this family’s devilshite.

Beeline made for this final, desecrated resting place, low-hanging dew covered branches and foliage are swatted from Astarion’s face as he treks on, feeling how the moisture in the air leaves the cotton of his shirt sticking uncomfortably to his skin.

Dirtied, empty wine bottles are the hallmarks of Hircine’s prior presence here. Did she come here all those times to remember better times with a better husband?

When Astarion enters the de-tree-ed sanctum, he stops, alarmed. Streaked with moonlit silver, long flowing gray hair greets him on arrival, and Astarion swallows, having thought he might avoid their ‘reconciliation’ or next argument a while longer.

She came here after our spat?

He calls out to her. “Hircine, wh—”

A deeper voice, one carrying the same rasp of Hircine’s, answers, “We look alike, don’t we?”

It’s Boethiah.

All it would have taken was a glance down at the moth-eaten trousers and there would have been no surprises to Astarion, because Hircine would never wear pants.

He stumbles back into a tree at the shock, braced for some kind of fight. “What are you—Why are you—”

Boethiah turns around, a wine bottle in hand, and shrugs, practically friendly. “It’s a good place to shit.”

His lax, conversational tone serves to tighten Astarion’s nerves more. To engage in casual banter after their insult-laden first meeting seems a drastic change.

Despite all that, if Boethiah is playing nice, Astarion can, too. Lexi said he would likely leave Astarion alone.

“Does your sister use this place as a toilet, too?” Astarion asks, disgust masking his sincere intrigue over the defilement of this grave.

Boethiah must sense Astarion’s true interest. Strands of hair are flicked over his shoulder when he answers, “Some people don’t deserve peace… and no. Hircine’s a bit too uptight for squatting behind a bush, and even if she did, she certainly wouldn’t come here.”

Well, that’s just untrue, now, isn’t it?

“Who is buried here?”

Eyes that uncannily resemble Hircine’s without the glowing gold turn down to the crumbling grave. Boethiah sighs, “I fear it’s not my place to say.”

“Oh, so you can call me a whore to my face, but can’t reveal the name of a dead person? It’s Vorn’tyrr’s grave, isn’t it? I’m not interested in anymore of your family’s games.”

Genuinely surprised at his harsh remarks, Boethiah blinks, and then breathes out a laugh before taking a swig of his wine. “Did you get into a fight with Hircine?”

Question ignored, Astarion moves past Boethiah, crouching down to pick up bits of broken headstone, though he drops them immediately, craning his neck to glare at his brother-in-law. “You didn’t already do something to this did you?”

“No. I was just walking by and stopped to share some curses.”

“Weirdos. All of you.” Astarion mutters.

Boethiah stoops over, holding the piece of stone with ‘Vor—’ carved into it. “You are correct. Vorn’tyrr is buried here… I think. I don’t believe Lexi dug—Nevermind.”

Freezing with the puzzle pieces of stone in his hands, Astarion can only feel betrayal. “Was she going to revive him?”

“What? No!” The ‘Vor—’ chunk slips from his grasp to crush the wet leaves beneath and Boethiah stands again. “Did she not tell you?”

“‘Did she not tell you?’” Astarion mimics in a petulant voice. “No! She—They tell me nothing, so here I am trying to understand. Why are you out here acting like a normal person and not the spider-queen’s lackey?”

If any offense is taken from his words, Boethiah appears wholly uninterested. “Lolth isn’t here,” Boethiah explains. “I’m myself for a while longer…”

“But why here? Why not find your sister or Lexi?”

“Because Lolth will come crawling right back. She... wants her broken like the rest of us.”

“I can’t stand your family.”

Boethiah chuckles sadly. “I don’t blame you.”

Back to his feet, Astarion points down at the grave they stand on. “Do you miss him, too?”

Features twisting into a deep scowl reminiscent of his sister, Boethiah shakes his head. “I don’t believe there is anyone that misses Vorn’tyrr. Look, it really isn’t my place to say, but know that whatever you might be thinking of him is wrong.”

“Well, no one likes telling me anything, so what else am I supposed to think?”

His eyes carry a dearth of pity that makes Astarion want to scream. “I’m sorry.”

“I don’t need your worthless apologies.” Sole of his shoe grinding into the damp earth, Astarion sighs, finding a change of topic since this current subject will lead them in circles. “Why do you stay here?”

“Lolth.” Boethiah responds so helpfully, and when Astarion looks prepared to snap back at him, does he then elaborate. “I’ll be like Vaermina if I step off the grounds. It’s rare, but I receive peace sometimes when Lolth finds someone else to torment. She’s on Malacath right now.”

“But I saw Arkay leave the manor earlier. How—”

Swirling the wine within his bottle, Boethiah speaks more. “No. The rest are fine, Lolth can grab them for brief moments, but me and Mina—I take one step out, and Lolth takes the rest. Vaermina is long gone. It’s complicated, and really doesn’t matter.”

Irritating. “Then why don’t the rest leave?”

“Why won’t Hircine leave?” Boethiah corrects unnecessarily. “She’s always been strange. Puts up the greatest fight against Ilhar only to capitulate. Every single time. I don’t know what she’s afraid of.”

Astarion might. “She seems afraid to leave you all behind.”

“I can’t imagine why. None of us deserve to be or can be saved at this point.” His eyes settle on Astarion, assessing him with surprising clarity. “While I don’t know exactly what you’re arguing about, know that you’ve done something others couldn’t… or wouldn’t. Take advantage of that. Do everything you can to turn her against the family. Be the only one she can rely on. It’s twisted, I know, but you’ll have no greater ally than Hircine once she’s untangled from the Zau’viir name.”

Must everyone speak so cryptically? “And what if I can’t?”

Boethiah’s face darkens, shadows from the moonlight severely cast. “Then run. If Ilhar and Lolth get their way, then Hircine will be the worst of us all. There will be no breaking that woman… Drag Lexi out if you do escape. She’ll take care of you. Always had a soft-spot for boys.”

As if Lexi will go anywhere without Hircine. They don’t show it often, but the bond between maid and lady is unusual, and it’s not one easily severed.

“I do appreciate your… candidness, Boethiah.” Astarion says.

“You caught me at a good time. Don’t expect it again.” His bottle tossed so it smashes loudly when it collides with another, Boethiah turns his neck side to side, bones cracking. “Can you tell Lexi to leave out some cookies for me?”

Astarion rolls his eyes. “I doubt she will take any requests from me when I return.”

“Oh, it must be very bad, then...”

“Wow. So helpful. Thank you!”

“I know Hircine is difficult… and strange… and really frustrating at times, or maybe even most of the time,” Boethiah smiles, almost to himself. “But she really does mean well.”

Holding back anymore flippant responses, Astarion nods graciously. “I will think on that in the future. Have a good, er, morning.” He glances at the grave once more, wondering why Hircine’s twin might feel so negatively towards this person.

There’s only one way to answer that question, and Astarion isn’t ready to hear it yet.

As Astarion begins his walk back to the manor, Boethiah calls out to him one last time. “Vaermina will be out soon. Don’t let her catch you.”

Ah. And here Astarion was planning to just let that psycho do as she pleased…

The end of the Zau’viirs along with a particularly particular vampire lord can’t come soon enough.

Notes:

-based on in game conversations, I imagine Chosen/archmage Gale was kind of an arrogant dick without being outright awful, because I have a hard time believing he isn’t always such a sweet dork.
-oh no. Mother and father are fighting 😢 gosh, who would be crazy enough to add a miscommunication/misunderstanding trope to this story?? That’s just wrong

Next up: An honest maid and a wife regretful

Chapter 26: Put Me Back Together

Notes:

Content Warnings

mention of suicide (hanging), slavery, possible infanticide, domestic abuse, familial abuse

broken people by almost monday

TLBOH Playlist

Betrayal has rooted deep into the core of his affections, shattering the foundation so carefully laid before.

Two days have passed now, and staying true to his last ‘request’, Hircine has left the matters of reconciliation—or worse—in his hands. When home, she always lingers close by, perhaps in the hopes that Astarion might be ready then, though as of yet, he still hasn’t found it in him to broach the topic. They will talk. There’s no option other than to talk.

He doesn’t even know where to start; too many hours spent reexamining all their prior moments together to see the cracks, where she might have faltered in the bumbling virgin-yet-not character, but truly, Astarion can’t find anything. Hircine has always been consistent.

She could be the greatest actor in Baldur’s Gate, or everything, from the sweet smiles to cuddly embraces have been sincere, and he doesn’t know what’s worse. That she cares for him absolutely, but still deceived him whole-heartedly with a grin on her face…

So then, why hide them?

What happened to these husbands? Maybe the other Zau’viirs did something to them, and the truth—

No, that doesn’t feel right. Something is missing.

Was it… Hircine? She admitted, most begrudgingly, that she killed someone, but by her admission, the act seemed unintentional during L’Alure. Again, it could all be a lie, as contradictory as it would be for all the other times she’s stood against violence and immoral acts.

Their first week together, he thought she was struck by a strange melancholy… Could she have been consumed by grief from the passing of Vorn’tyrr or the other husband?

Is he really just some replacement here to soothe the loss?

Round and round he goes, each knot leading to some other mess of strands that leaves him circling back to the beginning. Nothing has been answered, and won’t be until Astarion and Hircine come to a consensus.

He doesn’t feel ready for it yet.

The door to the study swings open, and he jumps out of his skin, knowing it’s much too early for Hircine to be back from the mines.

But there stands Lexi with an smirk of unbearable glee smeared over her sun-kissed face while she fluffs her skirts. “This is where you’re hiding away.”

“What do you want?”

“Came to see how you’re feeling, my lord.”

“For Hircine.”

“No. I figured we could chat, if you’d like.”

“For Hircine.” Astarion repeats with scalding irritation.

She flops down into a chair across from him. “I do exist outside of her. We can talk about Hircine, though. I’m quite an expert.”

Astarion sneers. “Why? So you can twist me around with your stories?”

“Your anger is justified, my lord, and Hircine knew the consequences of her inaction. Now she must reckon with them.” Lexi gives a considerate smile. “But, if you want some actual answers, you’ll need to stop passing around each other like ghosts, and talk.”

He knows that! “Can’t you just tell me?”

“It’s not my place.”

“Oh, fuck you.” It all has to come back to Hircine.

His book tossed to the other end of the suede sofa, Astarion sinks in, glaring anywhere but at Lexi, knowing she is right. Annoying wretch.

“Is this why you told me to return to the archives?”

“Yes.”

“But would she have been able to say anything? Wasn’t she stopped by that throat-spider?” Even the mention of it sends his skin crawling.

“It’s a bit of a loophole, not that it matters now.”

Of course. Why wouldn’t his mind-melting affection for his bizarre wife get in the way of any intelligence on his part? I’m an imbecile.

From the other night, he repeats the same question he gave to Boethiah. “Why don’t you leave this place, Lexi?”

Her inky eyes soften, and a palm slips between shoulder and neck when they wind up tight. “Everyone has some kind of weakness. Embarrassingly, no one exploited mine; all my mistakes I created on my own. In Menzoberranzan, we were bound and bred like cattle to serve our betters.” She grimaces. “Ripped from my parents the moment I could ‘please the Baenres’ and that’s what I did—or tried to.

“One… favored me, you could say. Probably a son of a Baenre, but not of the direct family, so who cared what he did, and neither did I, frankly. He kept me safe—for a slave.” Her head angles down, face hidden from view, while she speaks with regret. “I got pregnant. Twice. And the moment my sons were born, they took them from me. I never held them. I never got to tell them their names.”

She raises back up, dark eyes focused on a stain on the rug. “I hope my boys are dead. A life for a mixed-blood...” Trailing off, her attention directed at Astarion, distant gaze piercing right through him. “I do not need or want your pity, my lord. This is just the groundwork for my grand mistakes.” Lexi smiles with pinched lips, hand gesturing around broadly. “Was always a bit desperate for a family all my own after escaping Menzoberranzan, but when I found the light of Eilistraee, I tucked those wishes away when her words brought me here as a guide for others.

“I cared little for Iimithra’s descent into Lolth worship, she was miserable even before it all, so I was preparing to leave, find a fresh path that wasn’t so… spidery.” Her fingers dance in imitation of the leggy creatures. Lexi then holds her face in her hands, smiling dreamily as she speaks next. “And then, on the last eve of Marpenoth with a beautiful Hunter’s Moon hanging so brightly in the sky, two wondrously perfect beings were placed in my arms, my sweet little Hircine and Boethiah. Lady Eilistraee blessed me personally. I had everything I ever wanted.”

The joy radiating from Lexi vanishes in an instant. “That was my mistake—thinking I could do it differently. They took me from my parents. Took my sons from me. I would be no better than them if I stole Hircine and Boethiah away, so I didn’t, and I have paid dearly for that choice. Iimithra only got worse, could only treat them so terribly.” She hides her face. “To see my babies come home, crying and bloody from another beating…

“By the time I acknowledged I was wrong, Boethiah was lost, and in a way, so was Hircine, and I could never leave my babies behind… Not with Iimithra… She keeps them here chasing their tails, no matter the hurt and degradation and loss. You think a charismatic man like Malacath, who could run circles around half the nobles in Baldur’s Gate would just stay? With his pride, his ambitions? Of course not, but Iimithra, even when Malacath comes second every time, she always gets him to stay. Poor boy. Crippled by his need to be ‘one of.’”

Well, this has certainly been enlightening in the worst of ways. Astarion can at least recognize that Lexi doesn’t wish to delve further into her ‘mistakes.’

“What exactly do you mean? How does Iimithra keep them here?”

The smile Lexi gives him is almost grateful. “‘Us versus them.’ The Zau’viirs against everyone. Stronger together, weaker apart. I think you get the point. Unfortunately, I… reinforced those sentiments by thinking we could return Iimithra to Eilistraee. If the children worked hard enough, she'd change. Fat lot that did.”

“And even after all these years, you still haven’t been able to convince Hircine to leave? I—” Astarion stifles his exasperation, encouraging some sympathy for Lexi. “I’m not trying to blame you, I just want to understand.”

“That’s… kind of you?” Lexi quirks her head, squinting, confused, as if those words shouldn’t be said. “For Hircine, this horrible, indefensible ‘family’ is all she has. No, it’s all she knows, and my greed never let me consider anything else.”

“Boethiah said—” Shit. I shouldn’t bring him up.

The old maid never misses a thing, doll eyes on Astarion as she demands, “Boethiah—you spoke to him? When?”

No reason to hide it now with the tressym out of the bag. “I met him out in the woods when I was hunting the other night. He—I think he was sane? Last time I met him he called me a whore and—” Astarion waves his hand around to return to the original topic. “H-He told me if we wanted Hircine to leave, we must turn her against the family.”

“Boethiah… said that?”

“Yes,” Astarion affirms.

Lexi’s eyes squeeze shut. “Eilistraee won’t be welcoming me to Arvandor when I’m done walking the material planes.”

Her plea to her goddess, while sad, is useless.

“How do we even do that, Lexi? Mal and Stendarr’s sins are more than apparent. I can’t fathom what to do about Kyne, and then there’s—I don’t want to think about Arkay. Hircine will barely speak against them, and if she does, she walks it back as if it never happened. She’s not allowed out of the manor. She can’t—

Lexi stops his rambling. “Wait! What do you mean ‘not allowed out?’”

Gods below, does he need to relay every little conversation he has? “We saw Arkay heading to the Upper City the other day. Hircine looked confused, I guess? I never know with that difficult wom—” His hands fly up in aggravation. “I asked why she can’t go out too, and her response was ‘Because then I’d know there’s something better.’” Astarion imitates Hircine’s quiet tone.

Lexi looks at him in disbelief, then laughs darkly. “Oh, lovey… Aren’t you honest?”

“What?”

“Hircine can go outside, Iimithra would never stop her; though she prefers they avoid the sun. That big, wide expanse of anything frightens Hircine, my lord. She knows nothing of the world. Sure, she could read about it, but actually experiencing it is so different.” Suddenly, Lexi moves to perch on the edge of her chair and Astarion, though he’s sitting a few feet away, leans back uneasily from her fervor. “I bet you can do it. Convince her to go into the city for a night out! If you’ve been able to get Hircine to stop any amount of work, you can get her to leave the house.”

And then she seems to remember the current predicament. “If you want to. I fully understand that you’re at a bit of an impasse.”

Astarion does not want to know what Hircine tells her weird maid about their breaks. “Why are you taking my side?”

“I’m not taking any sides,” Lexi says. “She did this to herself. There are only so many messes I can clean up.”

Her explanations were more than he ever expected from someone this intensely loyal.

Again, he is caught at the divide, something that will only be sealed once he gets the truth from Hircine. It’s a bit annoying having all of his future entangled in the good graces of one person.

He tries one last time to pry some information out of her. “Do you wish Vorn'tyrr was back?”

Lexi goes still, face drawing down in what can only be described as profound hostility. The look ages her. “I don't want to hear that name.”

Her response mirrors Boethiah. Vorn'tyrr might not have been well liked, except possibly by Mal, who Astarion has already determined to be a poor judge of character.

Fine. He'll drag the rest out of Hircine once she's home.

Since he so luckily has all of Lexi’s attention now, Astarion turns to other matters that will be important regardless of his marital status. “Cazador and Iimithra. What do you think they’re planning?”

The maid scratches her head, fatigue replaced with annoyance. “I don’t know. None of it makes much sense. Why would Iimithra stoop so low to deal with him?”

In this sprawling puzzle of vindictive vampire lords and fanatically ambitious drow, so many dangling pieces, with their little nibs and facets that only fit just so, can’t be slotted into place yet. Information flows in with no place to go.

On the tip of his probing tongue, the answer dangles, he knows it.

Cazador ‘gave up’ one of his precious spawn, along with the rights to sections of the Tourmaline Depths.

Iimithra sacrificed her eldest—living—daughter to aforementioned spawn, and that is it.

Desperation reeked from Cazador’s dimly lit pores every time the Zau’viirs were brought up, but to strike such an unbalanced deal when the vampire lord has always been so shrewd and calculating to the highest order…

What does Cazador get from all this?

Iimithra wants Menzoberranzan. Why? To rule over the drow hell-site. How? And with what support?

The workers from the mines, and then there is that settlement of ‘free’ drow…

But they won’t go there without force.

Iimithra desires to see the Zau’viir name made eternal.

Eternal.

No. No, no. It can’t be…

He wouldn’t… would he?

“Iimithra—” Astarion begins as this puzzle piece fits so perfectly into place. “He’s going to turn her into a vampire.”

The only movement from Lexi is her eyes roving around the room, searching, calculating, and then curses flying from her lips, “Fuck! I knew that psychotic—Gods dammit!”

“So, what do we do?” Astarion stands, his limbs desiring an outlet for the tension, and paces over to the desk.

Lexi sighs, one so weary it carries the burden of a thousand tortured souls. “I truly don’t know… Will Hircine become—”

“A spawn.” Astarion finishes. “But I know him. He won’t create another true vampire. Not unless his life was on the line… and even then, I’m doubtful.”

“It’s possible Iimithra is that stupid… or she has something else at the ready.”

“The devil! But what is he gaining from all this?” Astarion muses. “Mother-in-law has pledged herself to quite a few darker powers. I fear she doesn't have much left to give—or lose.”

“I can’t believe I’ve been so blind to all of this…” She whines. “I don’t know how to deal—”

The door creaks open slowly this time, and Astarion is prepared for Dagoth to join the party like the spying little weirdo he is, but much to Astarion’s dismay, Hircine is here, home hours before she should be.

She looks a ghoulish fright; hollow cheeks, a sickly, almost green tinge to her skin that is very un-complimentary to her looks, and circles so dark lining her eyes that not even her usual makeup hides it.

Astarion hates his traitorous nature. That urge to console and caress; uplift the tone of the room with some snark so she might smile once again. Despite his proclivity for wife-pleasing, he stands stiffly with arms crossed, awaiting the reason for her hasty return.

“What are you both doing in here?” Hircine asks, voice bleak and drained.

Lexi responds before Astarion has thought up a single word. “I hid one of the lord's books and was watching him look for it…” she adds, chipper, “It's break time!”

Hircine stares blank-faced at her maid. “I told you to treat him respectfully.”

A maliciously snarky grin splits the maid's face when she says, “If you say so.”

Is Lexi trying to get him killed?

Startled by her maid's harsh provocation, Hircine balks with nothing to say back, and instead her gaze drags to Astarion’s general area, then darts away.

“Why are you back so soon?” Lexi asks.

“I wasn't getting anything done…” Hircine mumbles. “I'll be—bedroom.” And the door clicks shut following her departure.

“What is your problem?” Astarion snaps at Lexi.

She turns her hands up like this is all beneath her. “She needs tough love sometimes.”

“Tough love?! Are you seri—None of you are normal!” Then Astarion remembers her prior statement. “Did you actually take my book?”

The wretched maid avoids his eyes. “Third shelf between ‘Curse of the Vampyre’ and ‘Betrayal: Drow in Harmony’.”

Unbelievable.

He finds his lost book exactly where she said it would be.

“I was going to give it back eventually!”

“You are an evil old lady! There will be no remorse the next time I stain the drapes with wine.”

“You don't feel bad, regardless!”

Astarion sneers, “Well, now I'll spill wine with glee!” Then, he sobers quickly. “I have to speak with her, don’t I?”

Lexi shrugs, unhelpful as she is devoutly wicked.

Unfamiliar with Eilistraee outside of what Hircine has told him, Astarion can't help but wonder if the goddess handpicks weirdos as her followers. She has no shortage of them in this house.

Suppressing the urge to roll his eyes, he asks, “Do you think we can move past this? Would I be wrong to withhold forgiveness?”

“You’re—” She hesitates, “—a good man, my lord, but everyone has a limit that can’t be crossed. Hircine is wrong for how she went about it, no excuse for that, but perhaps you might understand. I don’t know what will happen, but you will be fine.” Lexi says.

“Will she be?”

“Hircine will get by as she always has.”

Lexi's words and tone do nothing to assure Astarion, and if anything, they confirm that no, Hircine will not be fine.

Is it his problem, though?

There’s only one way to determine that.

He makes his way to the door, prepared for a new beginning, or a spectacularly horrible end, when Lexi speaks again. “Before you return to him, I have papers for you. Business documents, some forged items I’ve dug up… the like. I hope it will be useful.”

“Ah, thank you, Lexi.” And Astarion pauses, one last thing to be asked before he leaves. “Your sons—what are their names?”

Her mouth falls open, then shuts fast before she titters nervously. “Uhm, well, you can’t judge me too harshly, I-I wasn’t very educated back then… My first boy wa—is named Alak, which means ‘Beloved’… and also first born,” she hurries on, embarrassed. “My second is named Masyrd. A marshal of beauty! I thought a little harder for his.”

As usual, sincerity does not come easily.

He might not understand the pain of a parent, but he understands loss. “They’re good names, Lexi.”

Her lips twitch into a sad smile, speaking softly. “Thank you, my lord.”

Leaving silently, Astarion finds Dagoth hovering by the bedroom doors, all scrawny shoulders and shifty eyes, reaching and then pulling his hand away from the knob.

Is there a meeting of the household that Astarion is not privy to?

“What are you doing?” Astarion asks, his head overlooking Dagoth’s shiny scalp.

The little man all but jumps out of his skin, a hand flying over his mouth to contain his squeak of surprise. “My-my lord! Apologies! I was—There were—I was going to collect the laundry since—”

“Hircine’s home.” Astarion says.

Caught off guard once again, Dagoth loses the ability to speak, grunts and creaks making their way out of his throat.

Maybe Astarion should just… get rid of him.

“I didn't expect the lady home so early. Dearie me, forgive me, my lord. I-I lost track of time and—”

Rolling his eyes, Astarion steps past him. The spy will live for now. “Whatever. Leave us be.”

Scampering off hastily, Dagoth disappears into the servant’s quarters, his head slung low.

Suspicious. Astarion is sure Lexi took their clothing earlier.

A problem for another time.

Entering the bedroom with a creak from the door, Astarion spies Hircine laid face down across the bed, her hair, silver threads webbed across her gaunt form.

Hircine sighs sadly into the mattress. “Lexi, could we have some tea and—”

“It’s me.” Astarion says.

Tugged into a sitting position by invisible strings, Hircine stares at him, frazzled and very unlike the usual high-class lady he is used to. “I-I can leave.”

Two days, and these are the first words spoken to him. That bodes terribly for them, doesn't it?

“No, let’s talk.” Nodding to the couch, he feels an eerie recognition from this act. This time, he isn’t the one begging for forgiveness.

Swift as her feet can carry her, Hircine plants herself squarely on one end of the couch, probably in the expectation that he’ll take the opposite side, but he doesn’t, instead choosing the armchair she used to rot on in their first week together.

She says nothing, expecting direction or for him to take the lead.

How daft he was to think it would feel wonderful having all the power in his relationship. There is only an imbalance that begs to be corrected.

His legs crossed, clasped hands settled atop, Astarion is closed off. He begins. “I want to know two things: Why you didn’t tell me, and what happened to them—your other husbands. I do not need or want your apologies. Only the truth.”

No time is wasted. Hircine nods, though it is a mere jitter of her head. “There’s not some grand excuse, not really. I wanted to tell you, but I—” Her thumb rubs into the silk of her maroon skirt as it does when she’s nervous. “I was afraid to… ruin the portrait you formed of me… It was purely to protect myself. I never considered how you would feel.”

Brutal honesty. He’ll take it, even if her lack of consideration stings.

“Uhm, my first—Tathzar and I were married in 1430, a few days after I turned ninety-five. We were… ‘together’ for twenty-three years and—”

“‘Twenty-three’!? Are you—”

“Don’t misunderstand! We weren’t close. Our relationship wasn’t bad, he was never unkind or cruel, and we only saw each other for family meals. We were more impersonal than Malacath and Chalrae.” She coughs, shrugging. “I—He preferred men, and maybe he believed he was to be tied to Boethiah. I’m not quite sure. He was angry with everyone in the beginning for ‘lying’, but I had no part in it.”

The increasing curl to her shoulders is a pitiful sight that he obviously isn’t immune to, the damned witch tugging at his dessicated heartstrings. Astarion makes no moves, steeling himself for whatever comes next.

Hircine’s eyes float from her hands to the floor, then somewhere on his person. “All his days were spent in Baldur’s Gate. He liked not worrying about money—came from nothing in the Underdark, and I let him be. In the beginning, I did try to form something, but he wanted no part of it. I’d rather his indifference than his hate. But—” A whine slips from her throat. “We were supposed to have dinner that night, and he never came out of his room. Tathzar was apparently in a much worse place than I could have ever known… He hung himself.

“His final words—a letter—said he couldn’t take being tied to me anymore. He needed escape.” Her arms encircle herself. “I never wanted that. How could I? If I could have divorced us ourselves, I would have. Immediately. But that was never within my power.”

Twenty-three years bound to someone he couldn’t stand…

“Nothing changed? Just offed himself?” Astarion asks, too callous, but curiosity plagues him.

Hircine winces at his bluntness. “As far as I could tell. But we really didn’t spend time together. He confided in Dagoth once, said I was… strange.”

If Hircine let Tathzar do whatever he wanted, then truly, as some peasant from the Underdark slums, what was the problem? He had money and freedom. If Astarion didn’t have Cazador to worry about, he wouldn’t be all that displeased with this place in life. He wouldn’t even mind the spiders.

Maybe that last bit is a lie. He would crush all these spiders if he could.

“I hate to be dismissive. You had a loveless marriage like so many nobles do. It’s unfortunate. I can extend some sympathy for that. Still, why hide this from me, Hircine?”

She just shakes her head. “I was scared... humiliated by my inability to-to do anything.”

Leaning forward on his knees, Astarion presses fingers against his temples. “Your… second husband. That’s Vorn’tyrr?”

So far, she’s been forthcoming, but the second that name drops from his tongue, Hircine changes. For the entire recounting of Tathzar, she was sad—melancholic. Now, her face is shadowed with regret, tainted by a biting anger.

“Yes.” She responds, closed off, refusing to elaborate.

“What happened to him?” He presses.

Did he run off? Was she jilted by this mysterious man? Or another sad sap disillusioned by—

“I killed him.”

His eyelids flutter, uncomprehending of her statement. “I'm sorry, it sounded as if you said ‘I killed him’ but—”

“I said that. I did it.”

Her words are at odds with her emotions, repentance warring for dominance over a cool rage that climbs its way to boiling.

My sweet, harmless, perfect drow princess?!

Astarion is unmoored, lost for words; Hircine’s floodgates have opened.

“For the first few months, Vorn’tyrr was fine, most of his interest was tied to the mines. He was… tolerable, almost pleasant, except for these bursts of anger. Never had any issue telling me I was wrong or stupid or weird, or-or unnat—” She cuts the rest off abruptly.

“Something started to change—and mind you, we were never physically entangled, at least not like ‘that’. “Hircine’s palms slide up the length of her arms to soothe herself. “He… got rough. His grip became painful, controlling; accidental pushes turned to shoves… Maybe he wasn’t aware of his own strength.”

Astarion can easily surmise that he was aware.

There’s a twitch of her lip. “He just continued to escalate, and I didn’t know how to deal with it. Shoved into a wall, tripped on the stairs, yanked my hair…” She mutters quietly. “Everything was always my fault—I didn’t watch where I was going. I got in the way. Am I incapable of using my eyes? It happened so much that I did think something was wrong with me.”

“And what was Lexi doing?!” Astarion is perplexed at how the hawk-eyed maid that was quick to turn on him wasn’t on that man from the beginning.”

“He kept it out of Darkfire, and I said nothing.” She shrugs weakly.

“Your family? They didn’t know either?”

Her lips split apart to reveal teeth, a harrowing, gruesome imitation of what might be a smile. “Oh, they knew. And he knew they knew. Kyne would give me her sweaters or a tonic and tell me, ‘It’ll get better!’. Mal would poke my bruises. And Ilhar couldn’t stand the sight of me.

“And all of that still wasn’t enough for him.” Her voice rises in pitch. “I was humiliated! Barely married six months by then, and everything—I couldn’t placate his anger. I was powerless.”

Shrinking in on herself, Hircine tucks in to the couch, a kicked dog, cornered and frightened. “Like I said, we had no physical relationship, and I had no intention of changing that, but he decided different. He came home, I was in the dining room…” She sniffs despite dry eyes. “He wanted something I wouldn't give—not willingly…

“I wasn’t—couldn't be that kind of victim, and I just knew in that moment, if I didn’t do something then there would be nothing left of me. So I did the unthinkable instead.” She shuts her eyes tight.

What Astarion would give for all those times when others’ took from him to have done the ‘unthinkable’. To take his agency back into his own hands, no matter the gore? That future feels tangible. It feels right.

Seeing Hircine drowning with regret over how she freed herself from Vorn’tyrr doesn’t sit well with him.

“He would have killed you eventually,” Astarion states.

Hircine scowls at that. “Lexi says the same. But a presumption does not justify such an action. There could have been another way. I should have—”

“Should have what? Gave him a scolding? Roll over? Enjoy it?” Astarion spits back, and then grits his teeth, reeling his frustration in knowing it’s born from his persistent shackles. “People like that will never stop. You were put in an untenable situation with little way out. Between you and him, I am glad you chose to protect yourself.”

She looks at him, unconvinced by his words.

His hand slides over his face, weariness overtaking him. “Is this why you won’t step foot in the dining room?”

“I feel like he’s there, waiting for me to choke.”

Astarion would bet what scant gold he’s ferreted away that Lexi has already performed every kind of exorcism, blessing and cleansing to appease her lady’s fears. Whatever. Where they eat does not matter to him.

“Did you… use your magic on him?”

Her stare is oddly steady for someone so regretful. “No. The table was set. A knife…”

Astarion knows its use. “You were at his grave before, dancing around… Why?”

Hircine itches her nose. “I was drunk and gloating that he was dead and I am here… It wasn’t very mature. I really have not gone there since the first time I had broken his headstone after they buried him.”

So, is Boethiah the one that goes there? What strange twins they are.

“How long ago was this?”

“1468, married a week before Returning Day.”

Then, was her sour mood on first meeting because of their marriage? Or it could have been Lolth… Or her family… Or—He could list a million things that would all sound right.

Ugh, what else?

His name—or lack thereof.

“You call me ‘Husband’ because…?” He lets the words die out, allowing Hircine to fill in the rest.

Contrite, her eyes drop to the floor. “I-I started that intentionally to demean you. I wanted to draw out any anger you might have been hiding. Obviously, you're not that kind of person, and then I just grew attached? Found it… cute.”

He can admit it was ‘cute’, but now the name has been poisoned, a dagger on the tongue.

How humorous his initial assumption of the term was correct, even if the why was wrong.

So now he knows. Hircine gave Astarion the truth he asked for, and he must make his judgment.

Is it too little, too late, or will they move past this?

He clenches his jaw shut to keep his laugh from slipping out.

Of course, they’ll move past this. He’s not completely stupid. This whole thing would have been resolved immediately if he let Hircine speak—or she just told him, but Astarion wanted to be angry. He wanted to feel like he had been fooled. He wanted to be in control.

He got all of that, and more, and it probably wasn’t worth the hours wasted while the gears in his head spun endlessly. Hircine accepted all of his faults and misdeeds and tattered fragments without hesitation. To take all the shiny broken bits of Hircine is his hands is the only thing that can be done. He likes each of those pretty, jagged pieces.

And how lonely he is without his lovely little wife perched by his side.

There is that inconsiderate behavior that needs to be addressed, though.

“In truth,” he begins, running his tongue over teeth, “I thought you had hidden them because I… couldn't measure up. I thought I never had a chance in the nine hells to be here, to be with you… and I felt that you had been toying with me until the next one came along.”

Hircine looks utterly heartbroken. Full bottom lip wobbling, golden eyes so round and wide he’s sure they might pop out of her skull, and some noise equivalent to a mouse being crushed in hand gets caught in her throat. “I am so sorry! I never—”

A tiny amount of shaming is warranted. “Hircine, I rather tire of your apologies. They mean nothing without action.”

“I-I never meant to hurt you!”

“I know.” He sighs. Truly, he does know. Hircine seems incapable of that breed of maliciousness. “Is there anything else I should know? I don’t want to be blindsided again.”

“No. An-And if there is anything else, it wasn’t intentionally kept from you, I swear!”

That Astarion can trust.

Indicating himself, he asks, “Who am I?”

She blinks, eyebrows knitting together in confusion. “What do you—”

“Astarion.” He says. “I want to be known as myself. Can you do that?”

Hircine catches on. “Yes, uh… Astarion.”

In his presence, she’s said his name plenty of times, but never directed at him. It’s not so bad.

“Again,” he requests.

“Astarion,” Hircine repeats.

Perfect.

His arms are held out, knowing they can get past this. “Come here.”

The intention was for her to be held in his embrace. Instead, Hircine throws herself to the ground before him in some strange attempt to grovel without actually speaking. By the tremble of her thin shoulders, she must be swallowing down millions of apologies.

Is this how he looks when begging Cazador for mercy while clawing at his chair legs for any speck of his attention?

‘Please, Master! I won’t disappoint you again! I swear!’

Disgusting.

He reaches down, pulling Hircine up by the forearms. “Do not debase yourself like this, love. Not for me, and certainly not for your family.” Wrapped up in a tight hug, she mumbles out another irritating apology while fitting herself all into his lap. Astarion suppresses an eye roll. “I know you're sorry. Stop saying it.”

Over twenty years of marriages with not a chance at something real.

Third time’s the charm, hmm?

Boethiah is right; Astarion has done what the others could not. As if he deserves some reward for displaying common decency to his wife. Any hatred he could have for Vorn'tyrr is wasted—punishing the dead and buried is a soulless endeavor not worth his time. And as weirdly regretful and unrepentant as Hircine is about what she’s done, she did exactly as she should have.

To realize Mal was very deliberately trying to goad some kind of reaction out of Astarion by saying he reminded him of Vorn’tyrr… Fucking bastard. Astarion’s response must have convinced Mal that Astarion knew more than he thought.

One thing is for certain: Fuck the Zau’viirs.

Fuck their family secrets.

Fuck what they are planning.

And fuck them for what they did—or didn’t do—to Hircine.

He sees the avenues to turn Hircine away from them. It will be hard, and so terribly frustrating to make her see how they ruin her, but they will be free from this poor excuse of a family no matter the cost.

A kiss is pressed right above her ear, and Hircine’s hold around his neck constricts, as if she might fuse into him so they might never part.

And they won’t.

His broken little wife will not break further under their strikes and indifference.

“It’s just you and me, pet.”

Notes:

-look at that. All they had to do was talk. What a surprise.

Next up: To please Master

Chapter 27: Careful, You’re Wasting Away

Notes:

Content Warnings

Everything Cazador. Cazador forces Astarion to service Duver. Non-con/rape at the end (fade to black for the actual ‘act’) - it starts here and goes through until the end of the chapter:
‘Before Astarion, for what he hopes is the final time until he is sent to the remorseless dungeon of Godey—”

Pieces by Des Rocs

TLBOH Playlist

Too soon he is leering at the Red Palace again in all its back-alley extravagance.

He hates to be reminded of those times—how he had to drag all those fumbling drunks up a rickety ladder, across some poorly maintained stairs and past the moronic enthralled guards while exclaiming, ‘Oh, we have to sneak in through this entrance. My father is quite strict, darling!’ as his target made haste in ripping his clothes back off for more debauched fun.

The grand Upper City entrance may be resorted to when escorting special interests or Master only, so the Lower City he has stalked; all the same sights passed, none have been missed.

With Lexi’s pilfered documents and the proverbial key to the Zau’viir vault in hand, Astarion stares up at the malachite and bronze Szarr family crest bolted above the very plain and unwelcoming mahogany doors.

He knows they’re unlocked. He knows he must enter. He knows what awaits him.

To please Master is an impossible task, especially for Astarion whose mere existence seems to be disappointment incarnate—unless he's screaming, then that brings a wicked smile to Cazador’s severely ashen face.

Hope that he might be sent on his merry way after a few lashes is the only balm to this meeting. The sooner he is nestled sweetly against his wife’s sumptuous bosom, the better.

“Who’s… dat?”

Astarion startles at this slurred, feminine voice right as Petras, the deplorable and ignorant oaf he is, comes lumbering around the corner of the balcony walkway, with a young, beyond-tipsy peasant woman hanging haphazardly on his arm like her knees might buckle at any minute.

Dinner… and a show. How lucky for Master.

Petras's red eyes narrow as a smarmy grin spreads across his equally smarmy face. “No one, sweetums. Just another beggar looking for a handout.” To make such a statement while wearing those raggedy old threads… and Astarion in fine cotton and leather? Humor was never part of Petras's repertoire.

An eyebrow lifts sharply when Astarion tuts, more than ready to strike down this arrogant display, “Such uncouth behavior in front of a lady, Petras. Have you no manners?”

The woman giggles, then burps, and laughs more loudly. “Manners? I dun think we need that where we’re going, right, hun?” She paws at Petras’s arm. Her eyes, glazed over by alcohol, flash to Astarion, his skin prickling with revulsion as she undresses him visually. “I can handle two, y’know.”

Astarion represses a gag and offers the barest of smiles. “Apologies. My evening is booked.”

Something akin to a cranky whine and hiccup rises from the woman’s throat. “Awe, boo!”

“Tch.” Petras shoves past Astarion, opening the doors so his soon-to-be sacrifice can enter first. He rounds on Astarion when she slips inside, voice a hushed growl. “They can dress you up all they like, brother, but you’re still no one.”

Unfazed, Astarion leans in. “Yet I’m still better than you. Curious, no?”

Astarion doesn’t need to be anyone, he just needs to be free.

A crash occurs from within, and the woman shrieks. “Oh, no!”

In a blink, Petras disappears inside, consoling his conquest about whatever shabby vase she destroyed in her drunken stupor.

Could Petras not wait to make a fool out of himself until after Astarion left? When Cazador’s mood suffers, they all suffer.

Collar smoothed, jacket properly arranged, and leather shoes free of any scuffs that might draw Master’s critical eye, Astarion steps past the threshold, that intangible barrier, and enters this stagnant, oppressive hell-hole that carries the echoes of bloody, garbled screams and creative etchings of fantastical misery.

Immediately, he is assaulted by the rank scent of fetid blood and stale uncleanliness. Be it the spawn dormitory or Godey’s kennels, this is where the spawn dwell. Neither have been, nor will ever be, comfortable or comforting in their bleak atmospheres.

And it’s all gaudy red, burgundy, and gold. He takes back every snarky word or thought directed at Darkfire’s overabundance of maroon, where at least he has found solace and respite in that jewel-toned hue.

Down the winding staircase to the level below, Petras and his catch go, ready to play the hours away until the bell tolls death. Astarion almost—almost—pities the woman, but if she fell for Petras’s greasy locks and stumbling words of embarrassing lust, then there was no saving her to begin with.

Dufay awaits by the rat-emblazoned doors to the ballroom, starched clothes so crisp they might shatter. He stands overly straight and stiff, as he always has, like there’s a stake threatening to pierce his arse should he slouch.

With his typical detached regard, Dufay raises his chin at Astarion’s approach. “Hmm. Two minutes early.”

“Shall we hold tea time while we wait out the last few minutes?” Astarion snarks.

Dufay’s lip twitches, but otherwise, says nothing else as he counts the minutes down before allowing entry.

Too early? ‘My, what are you trying to prove?’

Too late? ‘Boy, can you do nothing right?’

On time? That’s not good either.

The chilling fear that accompanies Astarion for his audiences with Cazador isn’t here. Apprehension, so needle sharp, lingers; there’s always a punishment right around the corner, but Astarion has the upper hand. Cazador is too conscious of the Zau’viirs and their perception of him, and if he is aiming to enslave the whole family, appearing as harmless as possible is key to his success. Too many bruises on the supposed heir to the Szarr fortune isn’t a good look…

Wait… if Iimithra knows about our vampiric nature, then she must know my place here?

He’s a player in a game shrouded by amorphous shadows. The other participants know the rules better than he, and they hold more chips than Astarion could ever imagine.

It’s not all that fair having to make do as he does.

When Dufay pushes the doors open, Astarion rolls his shoulders back, thoughts all slipping away, his head held level—eyes downcast—and then he enters, knowing calamity awaits.

Master-pleasing behavior will be exhibited tonight. Astarion has someone to return to, and to leave such a desirable and endearing lady all alone sunders his unbeating heart. Though he will admit, the way Hircine was fretting over this scheduled affair brought an affectionate flood of dizzying warmth to flush out the dread; squeezing him as tight as her willowy limbs would allow, peppering kisses over his face, while the whispers of urgent promises for freedom were murmured against his skin.

Astarion almost believes those words when such earnestly sweet lips say them aloud.

His downward gaze drifts around briefly to take stock of his siblings, finding the usual suspects of Leon, Violet and Dalyria dissolving into the dark recesses, out of sight, out of mind. For the moment.

Gods, he forgot how utterly miserable the ballroom is with its dreary lighting, tacky furniture and equally dour Master seated oddly slouched in his chair. Unable to look directly at him, Astarion can only surmise that a meal has been skipped.

The consequence of Petras being the one to provide.

Silent and quick, Astarion kneels, eyes trained on the worn-down step directly below where Cazador’s gold-trim boots adorned with the fashion of a bygone era rest. He waits to be addressed; a statue unless otherwise instructed.

The wooden frame of Master’s throne creaks when he shifts and leans back. “Well.” A command, not a question.

Procedures they have been through a million times: Astarion offers his goods, Leon checks for malignant intent and then the documents are placed into Master’s bejeweled hand.

Rustles of parchment, uninterested tutting, and long-winded sighs have Astarion’s muscles coiling with anxiety. He held no expectations for raucous accolades, but certainly not immeasurable disappointment that leads to bone-breaking, mind-shattering torture.

“Astarion,” calls Master, and Astarion can finally look up. The dim candles scattered throughout the ballroom do not reach his face, so Master’s face is enshrouded in wispy shadows. “What else?”

“The vault—I found little of interest, exc—” Astarion begins, only to be interrupted.

“So, you found… nothing.” Cazador’s head tilts on the inflection, garnet eyes catching a flame, flashing dangerously.

Impetuous responses repressed, Astarion elaborates. “No, there is one item that the wizard identified. A staff, forged in the hells, possibly for an arch-devil, is kept within the innermost vault chamber. It can manifest a blight spell and possibly other things, but Hircine did not allow the wizard to determine it further.”

“You should have led with that. Tsk. Do you ever tire of hearing yourself chatter away?”

A rhetorical question, and one that Astarion has heard an unfathomable amount through the years.

“The Zau’viirs have no plans for the staff?”

How the fuck is he supposed to know that when Master gave him zero direction?! Astarion clears his throat, thinking fast. “At this time, all the items stay within the vault. Barlyn likes to collect magical artifacts, but otherwise, he does nothing with them.”

A long, sharply manicured nail drags along the well-conditioned leather of his armrest, and Cazador hums with indecision. “For now, monitor the vault, and if they make any plans to move or sell the items, notify me immediately.” The compulsion settles within Astarion’s bones, and he knows that should there be any notice of the vault’s goings-ons, he will be planted right back here within the hour.

Cazador flaps the parchment pile in his hand. “Are these your wife’s? I knew it was impossible for the Zau’viirs to be clean of corruption, but I hadn’t expected dealings of this caliber.”

Astarion’s immediate reaction is to deny, because he knows Hircine is too pure-hearted for underhanded tactics like embezzlement, forgery and even the sabotaging of business transactions. But to come to her defense as a valiant knight would reveal too much about their relationship. So Astarion embellishes a little.

“No, Master. Hircine is temperamental, inflexibly uptight… but protective over the mines, and rarely does she engage with actual clients. She’s not very… sociable. Malacath is the primary creator of these documents, with a few from Stendarr.”

“How did you come to possess these?”

That is not a question Astarion wants to answer. It only opens them up to more complications. Can the truth be twisted favourably? “Hircine’s maid has been gathering them. She holds a grudge against the Zau’viirs, and I believe she conspires with the butler in the hall, too. They pass along notes and the like to each other in the halls.” Absolutely not true. The only time Lexi deigns to speak with creepy little Dagoth is when she is sending the scattered gnome out for unnecessarily long errands.

Cazador presses forward, chin resting on his knuckles. Curiosity drips from his tongue. “You haven’t mentioned the maid before.”

It’s not like in the grand scheme of everything that Lexi should matter at all… “We don’t interact often. She’s devoted to Hircine and highly suspicious of anyone trying to take up her lady’s time.”

“Yet this maid plots against her employers? What an ungrateful creature!”

“Hircine and her maid are close. I believe she raised her.”

“The maid’s name?”

This entire conversation is tedious to Astarion. “Lexi—Almalexia.”

Something shifts within Cazador at her name, his head cocking to the side. Recognition lights up his eyes. “Almalexia?” He questions, though it is not directed at Astarion. “Hmm.”

I should have lied. Gave another maid’s name. Said Dagoth was the one he stole documents from. Why would he implicate Lexi in all this? She knows something about Cazador, and he could very well know something about her in return. This could have been avoided if she told Astarion what she knows. Damned old crone.

A stupid mistake, one he can simply hope won’t cost them dearly.

Whatever Cazador thinks about all this isn’t made apparent, as his intrigue over the maid all but dissipates when he changes topic. “The Zau’viirs—what have you learned about them?”

Having received no forbiddance by Hircine on their family secrets—not that her commands mean anything, Astarion finds it in his best interest to come clean about it all. Perhaps knowing their plans might lead to mutually assured destruction between Cazador and his detestable in-laws.

Astarion tells him everything he knows about the coming L’Alure d’Ulnen: the matriarch’s devotion to Lolth, the weird games, the outpouring of spiders from every conceivable corner, the probable punishments, how the family treats each other. He spares nothing of Iimithra’s plans for Menzoberranzan, though carefully dances around what he believes Iimithra plots with Cazador, since that is a hand Astarion would prefer to keep close to his chest. Throughout, Master stays quiet, occasionally the slimming of his eyes with the droop of his lips the singular indicator that he is still listening.

“And what of that Raphael you mentioned before?”

“He should return to the manor within the month,” Astarion says. He’s confused by this admission. How did he even know that when he can barely remember the last conversation they had?

When finished, Astarion returns to silence. And waits.

And waits as Master stares down at him, not a blink or twitch on his marble-cut face.

Then he stands, a hand reaching for his polished cane, the other holding the collected documents out for Dalyria to take. “Dormitory.” He commands the rest, and the spawn, excluding Astarion, file out quickly, leaving him and Master.

Alone.

What did I do wrong? Astarion thought this time would be different. He had valuable information, and more about the family than anyone has ever known in the past.

The thud of Master’s cane as he steps down once is like a blow to Astarion’s head, the sound echoing throughout the room a herald to future horror. More steps, more taps of the cane that worm under his skin, squirming in between ligaments to devour marrow, before Master stands directly before Astarion, and his cane lifts, placing itself under Astarion’s chin, tilting his head up to meet Master’s discerning gaze.

“The insults you spat were thornless, and I cannot help but identify a significant lack of information about your wife when you speak endlessly of the family. Still, you have not laid with her?” Cazador asks.

“No, Master.” Astarion answers honestly.

His response appears to perplex Master, and he raises Astarion’s chin further, stretching neck muscles taut. “I find that… unbelievable. You reek of that bitch. Outside—” Stooping low, Master brings his piercing eyes level with Astarion, a furious scowl revealing his needle-like fangs as they are now nose-to-nose. “And in.”

Before any horror can well within Astarion at Cazador knowing, the butt of Master’s cane jabs into his chest, landing Astarion flat on his back. With the cane forcefully stamping down, Master lords over him, and while there is a thirst to bend and break for the disregard of a core rule, an intrusive curiosity has been piqued.

“How was it, drinking the essence of a thinking creature? You felt stronger, smarter, better, I presume. You know you can never have enough, and there will never be enough to sate that thirst. The bitter tapestry you weave of this wife, I might believe you both to be on poor terms, an unshared bed, her personality—or lack thereof, and yet…” Pausing, there is a growl of suspicion from his throat. “And yet, she allows you, a lowly spawn, to drink from her?”

Despite the utter betrayal of the tenants, Master pulls away, pacing like a sleek panther salivating for a kill around Astarion, who stays where he was placed. Any move can be disastrous. Master speaks again, “I’ve known you for nearly two hundred years, boy. Did you think your weaselly little lies would escape my notice?” A full lap made, Cazador postures by the top of Astarion’s scalp, turning his cane thoughtfully in his hand before it slams down, a narrow miss at peeling skin from Astarion’s cheek with a bang blunted by the burgundy runner.

“Do you love her?”

This is why Astarion has never allowed himself to ponder the sentimentalities of husband and wife. All it takes is one compulsion, and without thought, his guts will be gored out of him by his own hand.

When he doesn’t answer, as it was only a question, Master slams his polished cane again. “Tell me.”

The command settles in his bones, muscles contracting as the words form, though not without great reluctance. Astarion mercifully grinds out, “I. Don’t. Know.”

Cazador hovers over him, forcing his eyes, that accursed red, to meet. A malignant smirk plagues his pallid face. “Is that so? On your knees.”

Turned to a puppet, Astarion all but flails over, legs tucked under himself, hands in lap as he feels the leftover blood from his meal last night turning to jagged rocks in his stomach. He went days without taking even a lick of Hircine’s blood, expecting that Master could smell it easily the moment he graced the Red Palace again, but knowing that it persisted this long within him… What a mistake Astarion made, believing he could outsmart his master like this.

Parchment flutters to the ground, alighting right in front of Astarion’s knees. Returned to his throne, Master crosses a leg and waves his hand with a smug nod, signaling that they should be read. “I believe you’ll find these to be of interest.”

Shaking hands reach for the documents, and Astarion finds them somewhat familiar, though different names are printed here. Marriage licenses, both Hircine’s, from her prior marriages to Tathzar and Vorn’tyrr, along with the same NULL stamp that appeared on Malacath’s certificates. The dates match the information relayed from Hircine just the other day.

Stolen from the archives. The how will go unanswered, but the why?

Is Cazador… looking to drive a wedge between Astarion and Hircine?

I’m one step ahead!

A giggle of astonishment breaks from Astarion’s mouth, one so fast he has no chance to stifle it. And of course, Master heard.

“Enlighten me. What are you laughing about?”

Astarion coughs, thinking he might play it off as a slip-up, but knows that will be futile. “I already know about her other husbands.” The voided licenses are laid back on the floor, and stupidly, Astarion glances up at Cazador.

He’s surprised, albeit vaguely, and quickly, it morphs to fury, but before it reaches its peak, a sharp-toothed grin spreads, and that is much, much worse than Master’s rage.

The spawn entry to the ballroom opens once again, and Dalyria returns with an envelope, quill, and ink. Master flexes his hand at Astarion, and Dal drops the items before him.

“The preparations?” Master asks, his words left intentionally ambiguous.

“Complete, Master.” Dal responds, and Master’s grin stretches wide, becoming more sinister as Dalyria slinks out.

Unwanted attention returned to Astarion, Master speaks with glee. “Write a letter to your dear wife. Tell her your father has dire need of your expertise for the evening, and that you will not return until the following night. She needs not wait.”

How could this have gone so poorly? As usual, Astarion was too cocky, too petulant, too stupid to act appropriately. To think he could pull one over on Master, when he always has the last laugh…

Incapable of disregarding Master’s command, and not even trying to fight it, Astarion uncaps the ink and dips the quill nib, bringing it over to scratch across the parchment now unfolded from the envelope.

 

Hircine,

My father has dire need of my expertise tonight. I fear I will not return until tomorrow evening. Please do not wait up for me.

Astarion

 

It’s impersonal, cold, and not at all how he would fashion a letter to his wife, but Master gave little room for flourish. Astarion knows the second she reads this, she will be distraught and wailing to see him. He can only hope Lexi will knock some sense into her lady to keep her home and keep her safe.

Just one night. Astarion can survive one entire night of whatever Cazador has planned. He’s done it so many times before.

Once the letter is tucked into its envelope, Astarion reaches for the ink cap, and stops himself, allowing this one last defiance of his master. Hircine would approve—he thinks.

Before Astarion, for what he hopes is the final time until he is sent to the remorseless dungeon of Godey, Master leans down, his black hair a curtain around his face, ensuring there is one place to look. Fingers chilled as if doused in a frozen river, cradle Astarion’s chin. Still, the eerie smile he wears has never faltered. “What kind of master would I be were I not to give credit where credit is due?” His tongue flicks out, wetting a pale lip. “Thank you for this information, boy. And I believe you’ve earned a ‘special treat’ for all that you have brought me.”

There will be nothing special or treat-like about the coming experience.

Twisting his head between his firm grasp this way and that, Cazador examines Astarion, appraising all his facets like a jeweler. “Someone has missed you so dearly, and who am I to deny them your time?”

What is with all the fanfare? Astarion knows Godey waits around the corner, ready to tangle his boney fingers through Astarion’s hair to drag him down to the kennels, kicking and screaming…

“One request, boy, before you indulge.”

Astarion’s body betrays him as it trembles.

“Please don’t keep Duver waiting—or wanting. He paid quite a sum for you tonight, and I expect you will give him impeccable service. ”

This—this is what he had planned? Holding back an anguished scream, Astarion desperately grabs onto Cazador’s wrists, begging like the pitifully foul, wretched creature he is. “Please, Master! Don’t do this! I will do anything—be anything! Just don’t send me to him! I know I’ve made an egregious mistake, but I can punish myself! Let me—”

“Hush, none of your complaints now.” Master commands quietly. The compulsion silences all of Astarion’s appeals for mercy and Master extricates himself from Astarion’s weakening grasp. The power he holds over all of them is unbreakable. “I know it’s your greatest talent, but your whines will ring in my ears for days.”

How many more times will Duver make a house-call that Astarion must abide by?

In his hands, Master turns over the envelope that is to be delivered to Hircine, giving Astarion only his back, still smiling, still evil, still so, so terrible.

Astarion would do anything to be free from Duver, and Master knows it well. But that’s the fun of it, isn’t it? There is no choice for Astarion to make. No other possibility to take hold of. He will please Duver as he’s always done when Master commands it.

And what will be left of Astarion at the end of this?

A corpse mangled by others’ use. Rotten flesh stripped and stripped again. A body to be dolled up and put away when no longer needed. A voice to moan, and scream, and weep on request. A heart, broken and trampled, and crushed some more for the hell of it.

What’s left but the ugly and decayed, unwanted bits of him?

How does he get himself out of Duver’s bed and into Godey’s kennels?

Lexi!

“Who is Vellioth? Tell me, Master, please!” It’s not a complaint.

Cazador straightens, his posture going rigid, and he spins on his heel. Candles and lamps snuff out with a hiss, the room plunging to darkness, and before Astarion’s eyes adjust, Master recites rules of old, a ghost of the dark and foreboding.

“‘Allow none to be your equal. To share with others is to be weak. Act only when others will pay the price of action.’” His cane taps against the ground, almost thoughtful in its bearing. “We must learn to be better than the ones who came before. But you, boy, you have never learned. You think you have found an equal. You share for crumbs to be spared. You act without thought.”

His haunting, smiling visage of pure malice takes up Astarion’s entire field of vision, and Master’s voice is smoother than silk, yet deadlier than a mysterious potion offered by a swamp hag. “While you are with Duver tonight, think of your wife. If you must, pretend he is her. Her skin, her smell, her voice, it can be there. All the things you think so highly of, keep them in mind. Consider whether you might love her, or if this is all a fanciful, fleeting dream.

“Now, go be a good spawn.” Cazador dismisses him, though not before offering more unneeded words. “And enjoy your slackened leash, Astarion, because when this all ends, you will be right back where you started—next to me, for as long as I desire.”

The strings of compulsion, made of something stronger than mithral, are back, tugging Astarion out the room and down the stairs, his voice dead in his throat, never to speak again—until he sees Duver that is.

The door to that room opens when he knocks, and Duver is there, disgusting as ever. They greet each other as they always have, though Astarion hears none of it, a more familiar and wanted voice breaching through the shadowy haze. Thick, pudgy fingers flush from too much alcohol, morph into slender gray ones, and they grab onto his collar, pulling him into the room, but Astarion thinks nothing of it. There are only her eyes, the color of dried lavender buds, edged with gold, boring into his soul.

Hircine is with him now, just as Master commanded.

Notes:

Next up: Love.

Chapter 28: I Won’t Stop ‘til I Get Where You Are

Notes:

Content Warnings

References to Astarion's rape/sexual assault. Mentions of Cazador and starvation.

Engrossed in stitching iridescent buttons onto the newly applied placket of the nightgown Astarion had ripped in half, Lexi mutters in irritation about that nasty, spoiled vampire.

Hircine thinks she might explode if she doesn’t get the words out. “I think I… love… him, Lexi.”

Following Hircine’s timid declaration, Lexi’s hands go still, and her dark eyes flick uncertainly up to where Hircine lounges at the end of her bed, laid out on her stomach, feet kicking in the air, trying very hard to appear casual.

“You think?” Lexi questions doubtfully.

“Well, I—” and Hircine sits up, arms crossed over chest with a pouty huff. “I don’t know! All the books I’ve read make it sound so ridiculous. Butterflies this, fuzzy-headed that, heart palpitations there, wet loins here! What am I supposed to make of that?” She flops face down onto the velvet duvet dramatically, groaning loudly.

Lexi snorts, and Hircine hears the sewing materials get set aside, which is then followed by the quiet shuffle of feet approaching the bed. “Can I get up?”

“Please…” comes Hircine’s pitiful, muffled reply.

The soft bedding flattens with the added weight, and arms encircle Hircine, pulling her up against Lexi’s chest the same as she did when Hircine was four, or sixteen, or fifty-nine. “Lovey, it’s different for everyone. For some people, it just takes time, and it can be hard when… you aren’t surrounded by lots of it.”

“Have you ever been in love?”

Lexi shrugs. Classic. She rarely talks about her past.

Hircine cuddles in close to the warmth of her maid, her confidante, her mother, enrobed in the freshly clean scent of lavender soap and acidity of detergents she uses to clean around the hall. “But I love you, and you love me, right?”

“I love you so much. Of course, this type of love, and what you’re thinking about for Astarion are very different.” Lexi’s fingers toy with the silver arrowheads threaded into Hircine’s hair. “If you want to share, I can help you. Tell me how he makes you feel.”

Hircine barely needs to think before the words come bolting out of her mouth, while the flush that accompanies any thoughts of him burns her cheeks something fierce. “Good. Happy. A little nervous—but, uh, not in a bad way. I want to be my best for him. I like the way he looks at me. I like the way he smiles at me. I like how funny he is. And even when he’s… bratty or moody, I don’t mind. I like, er, everything about him, I guess. Is that silly?”

“No.”

“When he touches me, I want more. Even if he’s being silly and only wan—it’s all nice.” Hircine corrects herself before spilling too much information. “When Astarion holds me, some days, I think it’s all I’ll ever need.”

Lexi gives Hircine a quick squeeze. “Oh, Lady Silverhair, I fear I’m losing my place.”

Startled, Hircine pulls away, scared she’s been insensitive. “Never! I always want you by my side!” Her husband isn’t here, so she can be as childish as she wants in Lexi’s presence, though she fully believes Astarion would revel in, and actively encourage, such behavior. “Your hugs are still the best, Lexi. You know that, right?”

Coaxing Hircine back into her arms, Lexi laughs. “I’m just teasing, lovey. I’m not afraid of that prissy vampire.”

“He’s not here to defend himself. No need to be mean.”

“You’re absolutely right. When he’s back, I’ll tell him to his face.”

Hircine grunts in annoyance, and perhaps with a modicum of fear. When the letter bearing the Szarr seal arrived, Hircine tore it open, and upon reading its contents, dashed home like a woman possessed, holding back her tears as she panicked to Lexi, repeating that they should leave immediately for the Szarr manor to retrieve her husband.

Under no circumstances would Lexi allow it, and she said multiple times that if they showed up unannounced and looking for a fight in a den of vampires, it would end poorly for everyone involved. Whatever cruelty has befallen Astarion will only be made worse by their presence. They must wait for him to come home.

Trying, and utterly failing to avoid thoughts of her husband’s circumstances, Hircine turns back to their present conversation. “So, what do you think? Is this love or am I just some obsessed weirdo?”

“Hah,” Lexi sighs, exasperated. “From my perspective, it’s love, but I can’t decide that for you.”

“Do you think Astarion loves me?”

“I… can’t say in any definite terms, and it wouldn’t be fair for me to make any assumptions. In my eyes, there is a lot of affection and care from his end, and—” Lexi makes a noise of discontent, “maybe he’s… grown on me too.” She states reluctantly.

“Awe, did that hurt to say?” Hircine jokes, knowing such silliness will only be rewarded, and never punished, with Lexi here.

Clicking her tongue, Lexi deigns not to answer, and Hircine returns to seriousness. “If I want to know, I’ll have to tell him I love him, and then he’ll say he loves me back…”

There’s a weighty pause before Lexi says anything next. “… And what if he doesn’t say it back?”

That was never a possibility in Hircine’s mind, and why would it be? “Why wouldn’t he tell me he loves me back? In the books, they—”

“Hircine, you already know love isn’t like the books. Astarion is a… broken man, and I can only imagine the hellish circumstances he’s survived with Cazador there to dictate his every action. I’m trying to present alternatives, so you don’t end up disappointed, or hells, hurt.”

Lexi hums, pondering, then carries on, “Let’s say this: You tell Astarion you love him. He doesn’t respond. Maybe he cannot say the words. Maybe he isn’t allowed to. What will you do then?”

“I-I don’t know. I never thought of that.”

“Well, think on it. If you wish to bare your heart, you need to be prepared for any answer. Whatever happens though, I promise that will not be the end for either of you.”

Snuggling closer to wrap her arms fast around Lexi’s back, Hircine nods. “Thank you.”

Lexi sways them back and forth on the bed in a soothing motion.

Relief at finally understanding her own feelings are now muddled by the possibilities. Hircine never once thought that there could be any other answer than ‘I love you, too’ but to know that there is silence—or rejection!—in her future? That is an astringent tea she wishes will never wet her tongue.

She can think about this later though, it’s not so immediate.

It’s awkward to bring up this subject, especially to Lexi, but there aren’t many people she could ask. Hircine pulls away. “Are men usually so enamored by—?” She gestures vaguely to her chest.

Lexi’s eyes shut quickly and remain that way. “I didn’t need to know that.”

“Please, Lexi. Is it… unusual?”

“No, and it’s not just men. Some people have a great preference for a particular body type. I like strong, muscular arms, especially when they flex!” Lexi sighs, probably dreaming of someone that can hold her. “I dated someone a long time ago who couldn’t get enough of feet. Like really—uh, they were obsessed… Is the lord making you uncomfortable?”

“I don’t mind it at all.”

“All right. Let’s leave it at that, then.” To see Lexi so uneasy about something like sexual preferences is funny.

Hircine pats her maid’s cheek and laughs. “I appreciate you answering my questions.”

“Anything for you, lovey.”

“I have more!”

“Oh, continue, please.”

More infernal interests have sprung to mind since that wizard wreaked havoc in the Blue Room.

“Are you familiar with the Hells, Lexi?”

A blond brow quirks up at this drastic change of tone. “The Nine Hells? Sure, I know the layers, and some inhabitants, but I’ve never been there before.”

Chewing on her lip, Hircine says what’s on her mind. “When the vault was evaluated, there was a staff I hadn’t seen before, quite refined, with this terrible aura of death. The wizard seemed positive that it was from the Hells, and it certainly wasn’t some throwaway item either. I know Ilharn tends to buy rubbish from Raphael, but this was different. Why would he have something like that?”

Round, inky eyes blink as Lexi thinks, lips pressing into a thin seam. “I don’t know. You’ve barely said more than a few sentences to Raphael in all the years he’s been scampering about the halls. Another mystery for the pile.”

Something remains unsaid, though Hircine can’t quite place why she feels that way. Lexi has always been discerning, and more than privy to the inner workings of the insanity that is the Zau’viirs, having lived through the worst of the years, and a few of the better, not that there have been many. Why does Hircine feel like she’s the one looking in from the outside?

Articulation failing her, she lets it drop, knowing for now, discussion of Raphael will yield nothing, especially when Hircine has no information about the man himself.

Brushing the framing strands of hair from Hircine’s face, Lexi smiles kindly and asks, “I made some jammy cookies earlier. Shall we have some tea?”

“Yes, please. With chamomile!”

“You read my mind!” And Lexi smothers Hircine in a wiggly hug, leaving them both giggling. “Let me know if you want anything else. I’ll be back soon.”

When she leaves the room, Hircine lays back out across the bed, hands resting on her stomach, feeling the rise and fall of steadying breaths. She loves any time spent with Lexi.

But I hope Astarion comes home soon.

She misses him terribly, her fears for him so severe, they might unwind her very essence. The mines and even Darkfire feel oddly lonely without his presence; the sarcastic remarks and fleeting fingers dancing across her skin have left their mark. His side of the bed was empty when she crawled in earlier this morning, and Hircine inched her way over to find some consolation in the persisting scent of rosemary and bergamot. But none came, and her rest was fleeting, hoping in vain, that he might burst through the door at any moment.

He never did, and it will be a quarter to ten in the evening soon. The sun must have dropped below the horizon by now, allowing him a safe journey home. Soon, he will be back in her arms.

ḍ̷̬̰̱̣͉̻̼̀͌͐͐͆̓̚͘̕͜͝j̵̨͒͋̍͆͂̅̂̚͠͝a̴͎̖͖̝͌͝ļ̶̐̐̍̓̊̍̓̅͌̍̃͐̚͠͝ ̸͇̹̗̺̗̂̈́̇̊͂̄͊͑͘̚h̶̪̎̿̓̊̾̋̓̂̈̈́̀̑̍̚͝i̶̧̡̦̦̙̘͚̻̻͇͇̫̭̖͗͜ā̶̡̡̪̪͔͉͙͔͚̱͉̭͕̼̹̉̉͝͠ć̵͔̫͇͓͜ͅơ̵̜͉̲̼̭̼͖̘̭̥̝͐̂̈́̽͠c̶̢̡͚̞͎̞͙̠̱̞̠͚̩̔͑͘͠ͅ ̴̨̣͈̀͗͐́x̴̢̠̗̤̪̭͍̽̏͘i̸̦̞̹̺͙̬̙͂̇̋̐̈́̓̈̐̈́͑̕͝͝͝ͅş̷̡̦̻̗̰͚̪͕̘̲̱̼̗͒́͑͘͘͜͠ḧ̸̝́͒̀̽͒͗̽͘͝͝ả̸̝͙̯̝͋͑̍̈́̾̎̓̀́̾̋͑C̸̗̟̭̯̪̅̏̆̔̓͛̑͛͂͗̅̒͘͘J̵̨͓̳̮̬͇͖͚͉̫̳̐̂̂À̸̢̯͖̫̇̎͆̀͜S̶͚̣̼͊̔̓͘o̵͇̯̗̺͛͑͜

Ŏ̶̥̠͇͚̩͓̙̲͍͇͉̎̃̈́̀̄͊͛̇̎͐͘͘P̴̡̢̧̻̯͓̗͈̰͈̦̗̮͆͌͛͂n̵̗͌̆̈́̒V̶̥͕̈́̾͒͋͗̂͝Ơ̷͚̺͚͖̪̈́̌̍̊́̌͆̑̌̒̍̎͑̚͜ ̶̨̧̮̖͕͙̳̤͈̩̬͓̤̰͑̈͆ḧ̵̯̘̲̯͙́̉̓́̉̐͋̆̾̈́̚ą̷͇̥̗͇̄̈́̀͒̑͆̽̿̓̆͗̊̉ȉ̷̢̼̗͖̼̦͈̟̀͑̄̈́͂o̷͉̖͋̀̃̇͂̍̌͝͠͝s̴̞̖̑͛̂̄S̶̙͙͓̞̙̊̈̍͋̏̂͋̋̈̌ ̸̢̱̼̭͔̱͇̘͇̲̟̀͆͑̿͂̋̍͝s̴͈̥̯͍̗͇̱̩̣͎͌ủ̶̯̓͑̊̋̊͘͝a̶̡̫͖͇̘͔͔͓͔͖͈͎̓͂Ư̷̢̩͎̯̖̖͎̼̥̰͚̙̬̭͓̊͆̐̈́̀͠I̸͕͈̳̖̞͙̊̋̀̑̏̈̈́V̸̝͂̄̍̈́͂̓́̒̂̊̏͠

Oh. I haven’t heard from Herma-Mora in a while. Has her mind been so consumed with thoughts of her husband that there has been no room for him?

She feels… bad? What a confusing thought, to feel pity for this unknowable and unfeeling and sometimes unwelcome being of indescribable power. For so long, it was just Hircine, Herma-Mora and Lexi, even if Lexi would say Herma-Mora doesn’t quite count.

These days, it’s Hircine, Astarion and Lexi, with a little Herma-Mora slipping through the cracks.

To have someone else—a bit more tangible—on her side has been wonderful. Kyne was right… Even if they aren’t on speaking terms since Hircine came clean to their mother.

“Have you forgotten about me, my dark hunter?”

A whispering voice of seductive corruption creeps in, plunging Hircine into an ice bath of alarm. She springs up, head whipping around for the source of her voice.

“You rely so much on that man. What will you do when he betrays you, my sweet spiderling? They always hurt us, crush us in the palm of their hands, drag us down so they may stand tall. You have so much promise, so much strength. I won’t allow you to fall, not by a man’s hand, not again.”

From where she sits at the center of the bed, Hircine sees no person or thing, so she is unsure of how Lolth has invaded her home. The fireplace and windows are all sealed shut, then further reinforced with magical barriers to keep even the smallest spider out.

Unless someone came through to remove all of Lexi’s wards…

“My dark hunter, you think such trifling magic wrought from my daughter’s heresy could stand against me? I am your queen. Your mistress. Your weaver. When I call, you must listen.”

No, I will not.

Hircine’s eyes snap to the right, an apparition built of billowing webs and obfuscating shadows has formed at Astarion’s side of the bed. A door to—and from—the Abyss. A dusky purple hand, so exquisitely posed with tapered fingers draped in clinging spiders, reaches through, latching onto the maroon bedding, and yanks, dragging Hircine closer.

Whatever scream Hircine was prepared to loose gets caught, and only a shrill squeak makes its way from between her lips as she crawls in a frenzy away as a second hand launches from the Abyss, another tug made, another foot Hircine is pulled closer to madness.

A burst of strength, fingers tearing holes into the silk sheets, and Hircine claws her way to the opposite end of the bed, body colliding with the floor when she throws herself off before another pull of the bedding has her within Lolth’s embrace.

Gaining her bearings as the sting of hitting the ground subsides, Hircine feels the tickle of millions of small, insistent feet dashing across her skin. Eyes cast down, a voracious torrent of jewel-like arachnids overtake her bedroom; walls, floorboards and rugs are buried beneath venomous chelicerae and hairy legs. She tries to stand, but there are so many; her hands, feet and legs have been consumed in their mad rush.

“Why do you run, my dark hunter? Only I can protect you. Only I can reward you.”

In all her darkly delicate and horridly disgusting glory, Lolth, as she should be, The Mother of Spiders, rises from beneath Hircine’s bed, the wood frame splintering as the body of a massive spider erupts from the floor. Her face, cut to drow perfection with a beauty so hideously enchanting, carries the warmth of a mother reunited with a lost child.

“Only I can love you.” And hands, so many hands, reach forth from Lolth.

Hircine is silenced once again as spiders pour down her throat.

 

Her eyes open, a hand clutching at the silk over where her frantic heart beats a thunderous pace. Frigid beads of sweat are wicked away by the tangle of bedding when Hircine sits up, tremors stuttering the gasping breaths pulling air into her lungs.

It was a dream! Only a dream. Lolth isn’t here.

A shudder reminiscent of those hundreds of thousands of spiders tracks across her skin. Palms sliding across Hircine’s face, she whines weakly and chokes back a sob, biting it down, down, down.

No crying. You must endure.

It probably hasn’t even been twenty minutes since Lexi left to prepare some tea.

Ḫ̴̡̨̟̂̈́͊͠Ĩ̸̠̗̣̳̺̩͚͈͍̏̀̓̔̂͘͝ͅL̶̝̹̭̽ľ̶̻̼̼̩͓̱̰̤͗͒̓̈̉̓̃͝͠ķ̷̦̙͌̊̆̓̌̄̔̃͌̕j̸̧͖͕̻͍̺̳̔̋̑͠͠b̴̧̡̺̖͚̩̙̦̤͉͙̤̜͔̀͋̀̎̒B̵̤̰̪͉͎̊͐̍̄̏̒̿J̷̢̠̤̠̅̍̀͝ ̵̡̨̫̪̝̭̟̥͕̦̠͉͍͛̑͑͗̋̇͑͑̃̑̕͝N̵̨̢̢̨͙̙͔̖͔̪̩̝̔͒̇Ļ̶̛̺̘̳̘͔̲͊̃̉̎̑̎̔͊̈͐̕g̸̻̒̌̀̏́̈͂͗̑̈́̑͑͘͜͝y̸̡̢̨̛͎͎͙̦̝̽̆́̑̚̚͝ͅB̵̛̮̤̰̾̈́͂̏̚K̴̡͇̻̦̞͕̻͎̮̥͕͙͇͖̔̍̚͝ͅJ̵̧̼̮̬͒̉̃͗̔̄́̅̋͊̚͠͝f̴͍̒̐́̓ư̵̜̺͍͍̰̳̻̱̘̯̝̜͆̃̄̓͑̿́͊̉͜͠

Astarion is gone for one whole day, and all the craziness that lives in her head comes swirling right back.

Scanning around the room for more invaders with a few too many legs, Hircine finds nothing out of sorts. She’s briefly tempted to check under her bed for a goddess scorned, but the thought sends a new slew of shivers skittering down her spine.

Lexi can be relied on for these matters. She’s not afraid of Lolth or her tricks.

A thin blanket is pulled over her shoulders, chasing away the chills of her frightfully destructive, yet short-lived nightmare.

She is fine. She is home. Astarion will be back soon. He has to come home soon.

She needs him.

A commotion from beyond the bedroom doors reaches Hircine’s ears, people talking, and one voice, stifled as it is by the wood, is the one she’s been waiting for.

Her chest swells with sweet emotions while a smile lights up her face, and before Hircine can open the door, it opens from outside instead, and in comes Astarion.

Her smile disappears, fear once again taking its despotic place inside Hircine.

What has Cazador done?

Physically, there is nothing to be found, every finger and hair right where they should be. Cazador did not lay a hand on her husband this time.

But he is haunted. His skin dulled, more deathly than it’s ever been. The ruby eyes that meet hers lack the quick wit and soulful sheen so often harbored within. Usually standing taller than Hircine, Astarion appears small, weak. Crushed. A bird with clipped wings.

When they meet, his feet carry him backwards in a mad scramble away from their room—or from Hircine—shoulder clipping on the door frame, sending him crashing to the ground. Astarion continues to drag himself back until he hits Lexi’s shins, his chest heaving in short gasps.

Hircine looks behind her, seeing nothing that could cause this reaction. Still no Lolth. She gets on one knee, reaching towards her husband, but he recoils further, drawing in, taking hold of skirt hems as he tries to disappear beneath Lexi.

“M-My lord, what’s wrong?” Disturbed by Astarion’s hysterics, Lexi is frozen, caught between helping and moving out of his grasp.

“I-I don’t—Ho-How do I—” he stumbles over his words in panic. “Is it her? I-I can’t tell!”

Lexi and Hircine exclaim in unison, “What?”

A boulder rolls its way down into Hircine’s stomach, crushing any of the tingly, fluttering flumphs that normally fill her with their lovey-dovey feelings.

Dread, cavernous and hungry, devours all.

Something is fractured within Astarion, if not irrevocably destroyed.

What. Did. Cazador. Do?

Deciding on a course of action, Lexi gently coaxes Astarion to his feet, guiding him into the den since he seems to be seeking out her comfort. “Come sit, my lord. Take a deep breath.”

It’s strange to be left out. She didn’t know Lexi and Astarion had grown close in such a way when all they do is make nasty faces at each other. To see that he feels safe enough to rely on Lexi in this time of uncertainty, that gives Hircine some relief. He deserves all of their support.

Astarion shoots a quick glance at Hircine, checking the distance, checking that it’s… her? But it’s so fast, and he’s whipped around again, shoulders hunched.

She caught that look.

There was fear. Fear of her.

Hircine can’t find anything out of place.

Too many questions are brewing, all of them terrible. She can’t speculate like this. Astarion needs—well, she doesn’t know what he needs.

Cautious and quiet, Hircine follows far behind them, pulling a chair to the opposite corner of the den, out of Astarion’s sight, giving him space when it seems he can't bear to see her. The distance hurts, but she’d rather him at peace than filled with panic.

With Lexi and Astarion on the sofa, Hircine speaks, “Astarion, I—” and he flinches so visibly that all her words curl up like dead insects in her throat.

He can’t even tolerate the sound of her voice.

f̵͔͕͖̖͚̗̩͖̘̪̖̥̳͎̈́͑̿̐̏̐͂̈́̔̒̿̈́͜͠͝ḥ̵̗͚̩͙̹̭͓̠́̈̓̈͘̕ù̸̧̧̪̬̳͈̹̱̣͑̏̌̀́́͑͗̇̄̔͑̚͝ ̸͕͓̳͑̊̏̈́͂̊̈́̓̎̊̇͘A̶̧̻̺̩͔̱͐Ŏ̵̗̮̪͖̤̖̘̙̤͌̃̅̅͊̐̾̈́̏͒͝͝ͅb̶͓̖̹͙̓̓͑̀̒͜a̵̢͈̭̤̘̠̹̜̰̳̘̼͚̰͋͜u̷̧̡̡̻̤͇̝̯͈͕͕͓͖͎̯̎̓͒́ȕ̷͓̙͕̤̺̿̀͌̏̄͑̿̎̚͝͝ ̶̨̖͈̞̣̼͙̳̩̙̖͓͎͓̅̎̈́͘͜g̴̹̿y̷̻̹̎̏͜u̴͖̲̩̳̻̠̺͚͉͑̑̎̒̍̐͜d̴͖͊̉͑̃̓̿̓̾͌͝Y̶̧̞̲̦͚̭̪͈̝̳̯̹̥͎̺͂̊͋̽̔̅̾̃͋V̴̧̹̱̱̳̥̼̞͓͈̔̃̉͜Ứ̷̢̨̛͙̟̤̥̝̲͖̫̘̻̗͆͒̿͌̈́̄̏̄͘̕͠ ̴̘̠̭̅̏͐̉̓̀͐ą̵̨̛͈̻̹̱͖̻͈̲̤̥̯̬̒̓̐̔͆̀̈́̊̋̕h̷̢̬͚̤͙͉̮̰͕͇̖̯́ͅY̸̢̻̖̲̙̟̰̩̪̣͗͗̽̒͒̀̔̒̄̑̿͐͠g̸̡̞̹̔͐̒̂́̎̀̏̿͘͝ͅͅḣ̷̡̧̹̬̪̖̘͕̉͑̾͌̃͌̕͜ͅG̵̰̖̣̰͚̰̝̤͕͓̹̈́͂͋̃̀̕

A dull thud beats behind her eye sockets, the threat of a staggering headache, or Herma-Mora’s retribution for whatever vengeance Hircine wishes to exact all too real. Any price will be worth paying.

‘Speak to him for me, Lexi.’ Hircine sends.

Nodding, Lexi adjusts, facing Astarion across from her while maintaining a careful distance. “My lord, you are safe here. What happened?”

Whether he believes those words, Astarion still opens up to them, his voice soft, deeply afraid. “I… broke the first rule.”

Lexi looks to Hircine for guidance, and she only shrugs. Hircine has not heard of any rules.

“What is the first rule, my lord?” Lexi asks gently.

“‘Thou shalt not drink of the blood of thinking creatures.’”

But Hircine thought— ‘I thought he chose not to drink a… ‘thinking creature’s’ blood.’

Lexi repeats that thought aloud.

Astarion doubles over, a sorrowful sight, his arms wrapping under his thighs. “That was never a choice for us. Master took their lives—the ones we brought back—and we never so much as saw a scrap.”

“He starved you,” says Lexi definitively.

“We received cats and rats… the occasional bug…”

Do bugs even have—? No, nevermind.

Gods, the depravity to which Cazador subjected them too… How does it still get worse?

‘Ask him what Cazador did.’

Brows knitting together with concern, Lexi sighs. “And then what happened—when he found out, my lord?”

Rising up, Astarion’s stare is so empty as he looks across the room into the empty fireplace, all hope extinguished, and then he turns to Lexi. Hircine can no longer see his face, but Lexi’s eyes go wide, rounding out, disturbed, her lips pressing together with concern.

“He sent me to D-Duver,” Astarion begins, voice breaking, “but in his place, I only saw her—only felt her as Master commanded. I can’t tell Lexi, is sh-she herself? Did I even leave that place? How am I supposed to tell the difference when my body—my mind—betrays me?!”

Dirty. Defiled. Corrupted by noxious evil. Cazador took something pure and dragged it through the viscera, and for what? His enjoyment to break what is already broken? To exert his already unshakeable hold?

Hircine has been dirtied; tainted; muck and gore smeared over her portrait to form a grotesque mutation that is unrecognizable at any angle.

A hand placed over her mouth, Lexi holds her composure even with the revulsion settling between them. Hircine digs the heels of her palms into her eyes, pressing until sparkling white dots splash into view. She doesn’t want to think about this. She’d prefer anything, even one of Herma-Mora’s leathery spike legs puncturing through her brain than to have the image of what Cazador did in her mind.

She doesn't know how to fix this.

Why? Why did Cazador do this? Why must he go so far for his control?

A cruel man with even crueler intentions… And her mother willingly, proudly, works alongside him? Vile. Unrepentant, to stoop so low.

Or maybe the Zau’viirs never came up off the ground to begin with.

“My lord,” Lexi starts, her words chosen carefully, “how can we reassure you? A compulsion is not something I can dispel. I can confirm my lady is herself, but is that enough for you?”

Reserved and downtrodden, Astarion hangs his head, studying how his fingers interlace together. From her unobtrusive corner, Hircine can see how severely he frowns.

“Wh-What would you do, Lexi?” Astarion asks.

A blonde eyebrow rises. “Hmm… Without magic, then we must go old-fashioned. I hate to rehash your pain, so I’ll be brief…” Lexi straightens her shoulder, preparing her thoughts. “Strictly put, Cazador put a mask of Lady Hircine on Duver. He still had all his thoughts, his words were his own, even if they sounded like they came from her. There are things Lady Hircine would never say or do, to you, or anyone for that matter. She will have memories only the two of you know. A mask, a facsimile, can’t share those.”

Astarion catches on, nodding, though doubts persist. “But doesn’t she tell you everything?”

“No!” says Lexi quickly. “There are things I’d rather not know.”

Being talked about as if she isn’t in the room with them is certainly a new one for the books. Hircine won’t complain though, not when Lexi might have found a brilliant solution to ease Astarion’s confusion.

Turning so slowly, Astarion peeks at Hircine just barely, his shiny red eyes darting away. “Something only we have experienced…” he repeats quietly, and gaining some confidence, Astarion asks, “What did Thirsk steal from my desk?”

Her cheeks heat involuntarily. Twice now, that tryst in the mines has come back to haunt Hircine.

“Uhm… he… took my… underwear.” Hircine gets out eventually, trying not to look at Lexi, though from her peripheral, Lexi’s head is shaking as if saying ‘Good gods, you two!’

Hircine’s answer emboldens Astarion thankfully. He faces her, eyes still not quite meeting. “Who walked in on us after game night?”

Lexi whines, “Do I need to cover my ears?”

Ignoring her maid’s suffering, Hircine responds, “Dagoth.”

“Wait, what? What do you mean Dagoth—” Lexi asks, and is continuously ignored when Astarion moves on to his next question, genuinely ready for the answer. “What was your prize for… ‘felling a great vampire’?”

Oh, Hircine had forgotten that entire exchange. “I… hadn’t decided yet.” And with this reminder, she won’t forget again.

Astarion sits back against the couch, a ray of hopeful satisfaction puncturing the gloom, all the while Lexi holds her face in her hands, unable to listen to any more of the couple’s private recollections.

Unfortunately, the doubts are too hard shake. “Why are you home? Shouldn’t you be in the mine?” Astarion asks.

Well, hells. Hircine hadn’t realized a deviation from routine would be an issue. “I wanted to be here when you came home. I-I can go?”

“No, I—” Squeezing his eyes shut, Astarion groans. “I know you’re you. But it’s so hard untangling those bits of him when they shouldn’t be here at all.”

How can Hircine assure him that she is herself all the time?

“We can get rid of him!” She blurts, and immediately regrets ever saying such a thing, especially with the way Lexi and Astarion stare at her like spiders have come crawling out of her nostrils. Astarion isn’t looking at her of course, he stares at a spot right behind her head.

“I-I mean, y-you know, scare Duver away, so he never returns.” It would be wrong to just kill a man like that. And still nothing can be done about Cazador, so why not go for the next best… person?

Lexi appears somewhat intrigued. “And how should we go about that?”

Hircine, as usual, did not think that far ahead before opening her mouth. “W-we could, uh, tell him the Szarrs are vampires?”

Fingers braced against his head, Astarion sighs, disgruntled. “Duver knows we are vampires, Hircine. That’s why he pays such a heavy price for our time. We can’t say no, but the prostitutes of Sharess’ Caress can… And he’s been banned from there.”

So perhaps murder may not be totally off the table.

No! Hircine, get it together.

Duver knows exactly what he does and is more than happy to pay that price? This man deserves the absolute worst, and he needs to understand what he’s done.

It probably shouldn’t be Hircine’s decision. She’s not the one wronged.

“Then, what would you want to do, Hus—Astarion?”

He suddenly looks fatigued, a fog of despair pulling over his shoulders, skin sagging, eyes boring holes into the new rug—a backdrop of navy detailed by intricate vines and swirls of maroon. Astarion’s choice. “I don’t know,” he whispers. “Can I… think on it?”

Lexi jumps in. “That would be for the best. Hasty decisions make for shoddy work, and movement now could easily be linked back to us. Cazador could very well be expecting it.”

Any light that had returned to Astarion is snuffed out once again. “I’d—I think I’d like to be alone.”

“Of course. Whatever you need.” Hircine stands, relieved that as she draws close to pass him by, Astarion does not recoil away. “For the rest of the night, I’ll be in my tower.” Should Hircine go to the mines? Yes, undoubtedly. She can feel the oppressive weight of all the documents being laid on her desk from here.

But then it would take her ages to get back up if Astarion or Lexi needed her, so she’ll just continue to ignore all that work for a while longer.

“If you need anything from me, ring the bell, my lord!” Lexi chimes in, hot on Hircine’s heels. “I’ll bring the tea up for you, lovey.”

Hircine murmurs a thanks to Lexi, and when the maid disappears, Hircine pauses before entering the hallway, casting one last look at her husband hunched over on the couch.

She feels as if she’s failed him. He experienced something unimaginable, and there is nothing she can do, not with this worthless power she possesses.

Shameful.

---

Why he was fine with them sharing the same bed so soon is beyond Hircine’s understanding. She was more than happy to take the sofa, or go squeeze into Lexi’s bed with her, but no, Astarion insisted.

Separated on opposite sides, it doesn’t feel as if they are sharing the same bed, so alone she sleeps once again.

She’s not complaining. She has nothing to complain about.

She’s angry. A red-hot, hissing beast manifested through hateful rage coiling within her chest.

Angry at Cazador. Her family. This world. Herself. Definitely herself.

Weak little Hircine. Stupid little Hircine. Incapable-of-doing-anything little Hircine. Passive. Inept. Thoughtless.

Her husband is hurting so much, the pieces holding him together shedding off with each passing hand, and she has done nothing to help him.

He wants to be free.

He needs to be free.

A vampire lord stands in the way of Astarion’s happiness, his freedom.

And there might be only one person who can deal with this sinister monster.

Iimithra Zau’viir.

What power does Mother possess for such a feat, and how does Hircine take pieces of it for herself?

L’Alure d’Ulnen is so close. Mother is keen on including the Szarrs in whatever game she manifests at Hircine’s urging. But will it be enough? What if Mother is all bluff?

No, there has to be more to it than that. Hircine will find out who or what is helping her carry so much confidence in dealing with Cazador.

Turning over onto her back, Hircine stares up at the gray-scale ceiling, again wondering if Herma-Mora might manifest here and drag her—and her husband—down to Throrgar. No one can hurt them there.

Well, Lolth probably can. Damned bitch.

Head lolling to the side, Hircine jolts, chilled slivers of fear spearing through her nerves.

Astarion is facing her, laid on his side, face stark white and bed-ruffled curls more than blinding in her darkvision. His eyes, pools of obsidian glass, very open and very unblinking, watch her every move, waiting for the right time to strike.

Where once would lay familiarity and mirth, there is only danger.

Hircine’s tongue is heavy in her mouth. “I’m s-sorry for waking y-you up.”

Rising, propping himself up on one arm, Astarion leans over, his actions precise, measured. “Close your eyes.” He says quietly.

She does. He wasn’t making a request.

There’s movement, the bed dips as he looms near, Hircine trying vainly to hold steady, and then a puff of air against her face. The familiar sharp scent of rosemary steeped in a bright brandy wafts by, but with it comes unfamiliarity, a cologne of another, too heavy and cloying it overtakes everything else. She wishes she didn’t know who it belonged to.

Something cold and soft, yet firm—a fingertip—his fingertip presses in beside the outer corner of Hircine’s right eye, unusually close for comfort. Thankfully, his finger drags down, stopping and pulling up at her lips, once, then twice, before drifting further downwards to the column of her throat.

“You look like you,” His statement is true, but he says it like a lie. Astarion moves closer, his shapely nose just beside her ear as he inhales deeply. His voice is loud, rough, and Hircine clenches her eyes shut tighter, willing herself not to tremble and shake.

“You smell like you…” And he woefully whines like a beaten-down animal. “But so did he.”

The hand at Hircine’s throat wraps around, fingers at the back, thumb pressed against her larynx, no pressure, but a threat is all she can sense.

“Who are you?” He asks politely, a steep distance in his tone.

Hircine swallows, feeling the pad of his thumb move with the muscles, then she wets her lips. “H-Hircine.”

“Full name.”

“Hircine… Zau’viir.” Desperately, she wishes to open her eyes, yet she is fearful of the man she might see on the other side.

With the hand still on her throat, perhaps feeling how she speaks, the other draws gently across her scalp, and Astarion sniffs, a tearful, painfully sad warble in his voice. “You… are different.”

Different bad? Or different good?

“Can you tell me something only you know?”

Astarion did have a point earlier; Hircine tells Lexi almost everything.

It’s not like he asked for anything of consequence, she thinks.

“Uhm, I—When I was little, Lexi kept these hard candies in her bedside drawer. They tasted of berry compote, and I snuck some here and there… until there were none left.” Hircine jumps when Astarion’s roaming fingers tug ever so lightly on an earring. She clears her throat, acutely aware of his other hand still firmly in place there, able to easily crush her windpipe in no time at all. “She came to me, asking if I ate them… I lied, and said I caught Boethiah running out of her room earlier. It wasn’t true at all, but the strangest part is, he had been stealing them too! So he took all the blame, even though I ate most of the candy! I never fessed up.”

It’s not like Lexi got angry anyway. She only sighed with disappointment at Boe, and then made sure he ate an extra helping of mushrooms for dinner that night. Hircine had felt so guilty, but she was worried that her lie would bring about worse consequences. Mother always punished them so harshly for lies, why wouldn’t Lexi?

A ridiculous thought looking back now. Lexi never laid hand nor object on them, no matter the tantrums or bratty attitudes.

“Naughty,” says Astarion, though there is nothing playful about his tone. By his breath against her cheek, she knows he is close to her once again. “Did you want to be punished?”

Danger. Fear. Run. Her sinews scream to be free, to get away, to not know the pain of a hand striking her again. An incorrect word comes from Hircine’s mouth, and maybe Lexi will be wrong for once, because this could be the end of more than just budding love.

Hircine’s lips wobble. “N-No. I didn’t want to ge-get hurt.”

Both of his hands, somewhat warmed by the temperature of her own skin, rise to cup Hircine’s chin, and she takes a shuddering breath now that uncertainty has passed. Something wet splashes against her face, and this time, Hircine can’t help but open her eyes.

Her husband, Astarion, this cynical, playfully sarcastic, only-ever-smirking-or-frowning man, stares down at her with tears streaming down his face. A harrowing sight that leaves emptiness gnawing at her core.

Their eyes still don't meet, his blown-out pupils, devoid of any emotion, track where his thumb smears his tear across her cheekbone.

An eyebrow twitches, more tears spill, and a tumultuous blend of confusion and despair mar his handsome features. “With you, I felt safe—seen. And now he's taken you, innards torn out, your skin draped over another. I know this is you. But I-I don’t know… Shouldn't I be able to tell?”

Under typical circumstances perhaps, but they are living through atypical times.

She looks up at him, hoping all her sincerity comes across properly in his frazzled state. “Astarion, this—I don’t think this will be something we can sleep on, and everything will be better come afternoon… but if there is anything I can do to set you at ease, tell me. I will do it.”

Finally, they make eye-contact, uncomfortably close, and in this frenzy, Hircine isn’t that sure it’s a good idea, but she would not dare turn Astarion away.

His eyes narrow slightly. “When you received the letter from… me stating I wouldn’t return, what did you do?”

“I immediately came back here and told Lexi. She wouldn’t let me leave.” Hircine hates that she admitted that. “I should have left anyway! I’m sorry—!”

Astarion laughs… or at least, that’s what Hircine thinks it was—a laugh, all breathless and choked up when it left his mouth.

“That is exactly what I thought would happen.”

“Is that… good or bad?”

Sniffing, and wiping the wetness from under his eyes, Astarion finally moves away, something related to a smile on his lips. “It’s good, you…” and he laughs again. “Ah, my perfect girl. How could I not know?”

Hircine chooses not to answer. They know why.

He returns to his side, thick blankets pulled over his shoulder and pillow fluffed slightly. “I’m sorry. I just—I just need some time.”

“I know.”

“Thank you.” Laid down, Astarion reaches across before pulling his hand back. “I—goodnight, Hircine.”

“Goodnight, Astarion.”

It would be a lie to say she wasn’t scared absolutely witless about what he did, inspecting and testing her resolve to be herself. Everything turned out fine, so… they’re fine.

All will be fine.

Notes:

++++

A/N: This fic will be going on indefinite hiatus. I do not know if/when I will ever come back to it.
I really appreciate everyone sticking with this for as long as they have and can't thank you all enough for your comments and support!

Notes:

I appreciate any questions, comments and concerns!

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 1 of We're all just broken people, and we don't know why