Chapter Text
“There’s a circus in town.”
Astarion could wait for the punchline for a century and it wouldn’t come. Cazador Szarr is not in the habit of making jokes, but neither is he prone to spontaneous fits of whimsy. The circus isn’t a hunting ground and neither is it one of Cazador’s strangely mortal proclivities. That he mentions it at all is baffling, but Astarion isn’t in the habit of asking questions while he’s on his knees.
Astarion keeps his eyes low. His body heals fast, but he has no interest in inviting violence upon it. As of late, Cazador’s enjoyed tearing open the scars he rendered upon his spawn’s backs. They were inflicted long ago, but each time they heal, the scars raise a little higher.
When Cazador’s staff tilts Astarion’s chin upward, he doesn’t rise. His eyes stay averted until Cazador says, “Look at me, boy.”
“Master.” If Cazador’s title is glass in Astarion’s mouth, it’s still the only thing Astarion’s eaten today.
Cazador raps the butt of the staff against Astarion’s jaw twice. Astarion flinches once, and his reward is a third strike with the staff, but this time he stays still. “The circus is in town,” Cazador repeats. “And there’s something there that I’m very interested in adding to our little family.”
“Yes, Master.”
If there was room for anything in Astarion’s mind but gnawing, gaping hunger, he might have been worried. Instead, his knees dig into stone as the Lord of the Crimson Palace describes a tawny-skinned beauty of a half-elf with a crown of antlers wrapped in ivy and a mind filled with more color than the most radiant break of dawn.
“She’s a jewel, to hear others tell it. Bring her back to me. This is a more involved job than most; you have until her troupe leaves the city. And if you fail, I won’t be as kind as I was the last time.”
And then, too, Astarion should worry. Astarion hasn’t failed a hunt for decades; the cost is too high, and for Cazador to threaten something worse than the last punishment is testament to the intensity of his desire, but his mind can only organize so much.
- Go to the circus
- Find the half-elf
- A rat skitters in the antechamber. Perhaps, if Astarion is quick, he can–
His single-minded focus misses Cazador’s maw splitting into a smirk. The butt of the staff drops from Astarion’s chin to his chest, and it slams into Astarion’s chest with more force than the three other strikes combined. He doesn’t need to breathe, but air evicts itself from his chest on impact anyway.
“Get cleaned up.” Even when Cazador turns his back, Astarion doesn’t move. “You’re most useful when you’re pretty.”
It would be easy to assume that, given how much time Astarion spends in backwater dives and dingy alleys, he might enjoy an evening in a more well-lit and joyous environment. Joy, however, is in short supply always when he has no choice but to return to the Crimson Palace by dawn.
Astarion’s been on edge from the moment he got the order for tonight. It’s rare that Cazador has a particular mark in mind, and rarer still that he allows for the possibility that Astarion (or any of his spawn) won’t be successful on their first attempt, but there’s no guarantee that he won’t change his mind.
Cazador is as fickle as he is cruel. His generosity of affording Astarion multiple chances; Astarion has no doubt that he’ll pay for it later. Le Cirque Ephémère visits Baldur’s Gate for a tenday, and it’s already been in town for six nights.
He has five opportunities if he’s lucky. And Astarion’s rarely been lucky. Briefly, he sucks on his teeth. And then, when he’s steeled himself and the ticket seller is distracted, Astarion takes advantage, slipping into the circus undetected. There’s no point in paying for entertainment that he’s not going to enjoy.
It’s not as if he could have afforded it anyway. He has neither the time nor the gold.
Le Cirque Ephémère is a travelling circus, and it shows. It sprawls out before him, a number of tents of varying interest, but it’s the largest one he begins with. Their big top is warm but well-maintained, and they’ve long finished their setup, but if one knows what to look for, it’s easy to see its nomadic nature: posts that can be torn up in a moment, workspaces that convert to sleeping quarters, and a skittish look in the eyes of each of its members. These people – they don’t settle down, and most of them look used to running. Whether they’re running from something or not–
Astarion doesn’t particularly care. He has more pressing issues to address – namely, he can’t find the woman Cazador wants. Asking for more information would have been akin to asking for a flaying, but only having an appearance to go off of means that all Astarion can do is scan the crowds as he flits between attractions and hope to find a dark-skinned half-elf with antlers. Asking questions of others would do nothing but draw attention, and Astarion doesn’t even have a name.
In short, he’s fucked. He comes to the conclusion quickly, but he searches, still, until he stops, stepping out into the cold as if that will somehow reset his luck. He pauses to rest on a bench and watch people pass by on the off-chance that his mark shows itself.
Astarion pinches the bridge of his nose. Cold doesn’t affect him, but the snow is irritating. It falls in his hair; he should have pulled the hood of his cloak up over his head the moment that he set foot back outside. Instead, he tilts his head upward, flakes melting on his face. There hasn’t been a single indicator that the otherworldly beauty that Cazador is looking for is here, and yes, he has three more nights to find her, but he doesn’t even–
“Are you alright?”
That question’s not for him. People don’t ask him things like that. Astarion crosses his legs. There are still several more hours until dawn. He could–
“Sir? Are you okay?”
Movement in front of his face activates a primal part of his brain. Astarion doesn’t properly register the forearm he grabs until it’s already in hand and he’s on his feet, staring down at a teenage girl with golden lipstick that extends past her lips in an exaggerated smile and elaborate seafoam diamonds drawn on her face that use her eyes as their anchor. Her lips part, but she doesn’t shy away from him. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
Astarion drops her arm as quickly as he’d grabbed it, the ghost of her pulse under his fingers still heavy in his mouth. “As if you could.”
The girl quirks her lips as if she doesn’t believe him. “Sure. Are you alright?” she repeats again.
Astarion’s immediate instinct is to dismiss her because his hunger’s made him stupid. She’s a clown, after all; the makeup gives it away. What use could she be to him?
But.
Astarion sighs. “Oh, my dear, I’m perfectly fine so long as I don’t think about what a dismal, drab disappointment this sorry excuse for a circus was.”
He expects her to turn indignant, to sputter and stumble, but instead, she crosses her arms and sets her mouth in a line. “Is that so?”
If Astarion wasn’t feeling particularly sorry for himself, he might see her playing him. When he looks back on it later, he’ll remember her lips twitching. Now, though, he pushes a curl back off of his forehead. “I heard tell of a beauty of a woman here, but everyone I’ve seen is remarkably plain.”
And again, Astarion expects indignance, but the clown catches him off guard once more when she laughs. “Oh. That makes sense. You came here for Viv.”
“Viv?”
She laughs a second time, a jingling, bouncy sound like she’s never known pain, and the resentment that spirals up Astarion’s spine is instinctual. The clown waves a hand at him. “Yeah. Brown-skinned half-elf with antlers?”
Astarion blinks. “How did you–”
The clown thrusts a hand out towards him. “I’m Auri. Viv’s my sister. This happens more often than you’d think.”
Astarion squints. “She can’t be that beautiful–”
“She is.” Auri cuts him off again. “She’s that beautiful and then some.”
“If she’s that beautiful, why isn’t she your headliner?” Astarion doesn’t take Auri’s hand, and finally, she lowers it.
And she turns her back to him.
It’s naive. Astarion could gut her in a second if he wanted to, but that seems like so much work. Instead, Auri flops onto the bench next to him, her hands on her knees as her legs stretch out in front of her. “She prefers to work behind the scenes. Fireworks, pyrotechnics – she’s not much for the stage herself.”
That, at least, explains why Astarion hasn’t seen her. “Seems a waste.”
Auri makes no move to get closer to him, but she tilts her head to the side to better look at him. “Maybe. But it wouldn’t have mattered tonight anyway. She ran off with a guy someplace, but she’ll probably be back tomorrow. Maybe. Probably.”
If Cazador meant what he said about Astarion having until the circus left town to bring the mark back to the palace, that’s not the worst news that he could have gotten. This presumes, though, that Cazador won’t change his mind. If he does–
It can’t be worse than the hundreds of punishments he’s doled out before, but Astarion would prefer not to relive them. His fingers twitch, a reflex to try and run his fingers along his back, but he stifles the urge.
“The circus isn’t all bad, though.” The clown – Auri – is still talking. “Even without Viv here, there’s plenty of fun to be had. The fire swallowers’ act starts soon, and if we went now, we could probably catch the end of–”
“Don’t you have an act you’re going to be late for?” Astarion drawls, but Auri’s grin only widens, her makeup exaggerating the effect.
“I’m done for the night.” Of course she is. “So why don’t you let me show you around? The knife thrower’s on right now, and he’s awful, but– oh! Douldric and Danlan are putting on a sideshow, I think. Douldric’s an antipodist, and–”
He should refuse. He should try to trick her into leading him somewhere he can pick up Viv’s scent. But Auri’s eyes sparkle no matter how ridiculous her facepaint is, and her earnest words are matched only by the way she bounces on her heels.
And Astarion’s hungry, and he’s tired. The only protest he can offer up is a question.
“Why are you being so nice?”
He means for it to sound sarcastic, but it mostly comes out pathetic, and Auri’s lips part. “I– you just looked so sad.”
Yes, Astarion supposes, he probably did. It’d be easy to trick this girl; she stands up and offers a hand to help him onto his feet, too. She isn’t what Cazador wanted, but she smells sweet if a little broken. It might soften the blow of his failure. “How old are you?” Astarion asks.
“Just turned seventeen.” Her cheeks are round like the child she is. “But I’m not worried. You seem like the trustworthy type.”
If Cazador’s changed his mind, Astarion’s going to pay anyway.
“What’s an antipodist?”
He can pick up a different victim later.
Auri brightens all the more when he lets her pull him to his feet. The warmth of her hand radiates even through his glove, but her touch doesn’t overstay its welcome. She turns her back to him like his daggers and teeth aren’t both sharp enough to run her through and says, “It’ll be easier to show you.”
There’s pain at the end of every road.
Astarion might as well see where the one with the clown leads.
The elf is sad, and he holds onto his name for longer than Auri expects. She’s good at cracking people open, usually. It isn’t hard.
She smiles. She makes them laugh. She makes them feel better.
But there’s no chink in the elf’s armor to wiggle her way into. He’s old – Auri can tell that much from the way he carries himself – and he’s beautiful, but other than that, he gives nothing about himself away. The closest she saw to something real from him was that moment when he tilted his head back and let the snowflakes melt on his face.
He looked like a broken angel.
Astarion, he’d called himself, a downright regal name.
He also, for all his protests, doesn’t try to leave her behind. Auri can’t make everyone feel better, but when people don’t respond to her brand of cheeriness, they’re usually quick to cast her off. It’s the reason she tries so hard in the first place.
People have a much more difficult time tossing her aside when she’s a chipper ray of sunshine. What she feels – it will never matter more than that. She can handle it.
As long as she isn’t alone, she can handle anything else.
“You still haven’t told me what an antipodist is.” Astarion’s gaze surveys their surroundings lazily, but there’s a clipped edge to his eyes that Auri almost recognizes.
“Easier to show you than tell you.” She jerks her head over her shoulder. “Follow me?” Astarion huffs and scowls, but when Auri turns away, he follows. She’s only able to tell when she looks behind her; he’s all but silent, and he’s hunched over, too. “Are you hiding or something?”
Astarion blinks. “What?”
“Are you hiding from someone?” Auri rephrases, walking backward so that she can face him as she speaks. “I can help you with that, too, probably. Unless you’re a murderer.”
He makes a choking noise; one of the contortionists, a yuan-ti pureblood named Zsilka who’s nude but for the full-body paint that lends her a tigress’ appearance and a warming spell, greets Auri as they walk past her. Auri grins and waves back before Zsilka says, “Landed a cute one, Auri!”
Auri blushes. “N-no–”
But Zsilka only winks. “Easier when Viv skives off, huh?”
Astarion only wears a wry smile. “Clowns aren’t my type, and she’s a little young besides. Now, if you’re free later–”
“Nice try. I’ve got a girl waiting for me at a tavern down the way.” Zsilka’s eyes narrow. “Touch a hair on Auri’s head, though, and you might just see me anyway – and you won’t like it.”
“It’s not like–” Auri starts again, but Zsilka’s already gone, and she sighs. “Sorry,” she says to Astarion. “She means well.”
“She’s smarter than you,” Astarion answers lightly. “You’d do well to have a little more caution.”
Auri rolls her eyes and starts moving again. “Like I said, I’m a good judge of character. And I asked if you were a murderer.”
A crackling sound draws her attention, but Astarion doesn’t flinch, his eyes trained on her. “A murderer would lie. And I never got a chance to answer anyway.”
“What are you going to do to me here?” Auri shrugs. The ring where Douldric and Danlan are performing is separate from the big top and just around the corner; the firecrackers she heard are part of their act. “You could probably kill me if you wanted to, but you’d never make it out of here. And you’ve got no reason to kill me. Who wants to die over killing a clown?”
Auri stops walking. Once they’re watching the act, it’ll be hard to hold a conversation; Douldric and Danlan are good at what they do, and it’s nothing short of enrapturing to watch them. Astarion only scrutinizes her, half-smile tugging at his lips. “Who would be worth killing then?”
“Dark.” Auri snorts. “Not a clown, in any event. I don’t know. Someone with money, maybe?”
“Money.” Astarion waves a hand dismissively. “Boring motive.”
“Are you sure you’re not a murderer? You’re saying a lot of things that a murderer would probably say.”
“I never said I wasn’t a murderer. You assumed–”
Auri groans with amused disdain. “Gods, you’re– just shut up. Let’s watch the show.”
He tenses when Auri grabs him by the wrist, tugging him over the threshold and into the ring where the performance is being held. A wall of heat washes over them, and a bellowing voice rings out, “Fear not for my companion; I’ve dropped him never once!”
“A dwarf and a halfling?” Astarion raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. “You couldn’t have shown me an act that was easier on the eyes?”
Douldric and Danlan, the dwarf and halfling in question, both bow before Douldric lies supine on the podium-chair between them, something he and Danlan call a trinka. Auri watches as both of Danlan’s hands meet one of Douldric’s and Douldric lifts him effortlessly into the air. Absently, to answer Astarion even as she watches, Auri says, “I’ve always found Douldric handsome.”
“Well, you’re hardly taller than a dwarf yourself, so I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.”
Auri flicks a hand at him and laughs, and Astarion blinks. “You’ve already met Zsilka. It doesn’t get much easier on the eyes than that unless Viv is around.”
Douldric bends the arm that holds Danlan and then extends it with interest, flipping Danlan into the air. Danlan somersaults and lands lightly on the soles of Douldric’s feet; Douldric doesn’t even flinch.
The cheering is raucous, and Auri applauds with all the rest of the crowd. Astarion doesn’t, and his eyes are still frosty, on edge. Amusement tugs at the corners of his mouth anyway.
Why he’s still here is beyond him, but he is. Auri’s led him all over the circus and then some, and a few times, Astarion’s almost forgotten that he’s hungry.
He is. Hungry, that is. But it’s remarkable that he’s almost managed to forget, even if only for a moment or two.
And Auri– there’s something wrong with her. There might even be a lot of things wrong with her. He hasn’t been putting on his usual rakish act, but she doesn’t seem to mind the version of him that she’s been getting. He could have killed her a hundred times; he’s snarked and rolled his eyes and been the ever-so-charming version of himself.
Auri just keeps showing him a little more of this life that’s so different from his that he almost can’t comprehend it. The night passes so fast that he almost doesn’t notice how close dawn is to breaking.
It’s Auri’s yawn that clues him in. Her makeup’s stayed intact despite all it’s seen this evening, but her eyes water. “Sorry to be a killjoy, but I think I have to call it a night. I go on again in about twelve hours.”
“And gods know you need to be well-rested for whatever it is you bring to this festival of freaks.”
She shouldn’t let him get away with saying it, but she does. Auri laughs like Astarion’s told a joke, her smile as bright as sunshine if Astarion tries to remember what it feels like. “Do you feel better?”
Hours ago, she’d told Astarion he looked sad. It wasn’t quite right, but it wasn’t wrong, either, and now Auri asks if he’s feeling better.
“I don’t know,” he says honestly, and Auri frowns, tilting her head to the side.
“I hope tomorrow is better for you.” Her earnestness is foolhardy, and she chews her lip. “You probably have better things to do, but if you want to stop by again tomorrow, you should. You can see my act, if you like.”
Astarion doesn’t have any interest, really, but that doesn’t stop Auri from saying, “Hold out your hand.”
When he does, Auri reaches up and fusses with something at her ear. When she’s done, an earring’s missing; she drops it into Astarion’s open palm. “If you decide you’d like to stop by tomorrow, show this to the ticket seller.”
Astarion didn’t pay today to attend the circus, but he’s hardly going to tell her that. Auri mistakes his silence for hesitation. “I don’t want you to have to pay twice. It’s no trouble. We’re friends now, after all.”
Friends – stupid girl.
“Calling us friends is generous.” And again, his prickliness doesn’t put her off. Auri only smiles wider. “That beauty I mentioned looking for – might she show up tomorrow?”
“Viv?” Auri shrugs. “Maybe. Probably. She doesn’t usually disappear for too long. Amar worries. I can maybe even put in a good word for you with her if you like.”
Maybe this night hasn’t all been for nothing. If Cazador doesn’t beat him until he can’t walk, Astarion might just succeed in finding the prey he was sent out to hunt. “Until tomorrow, then,” Astarion says, Auri’s worthless costume jewelry light in his hand.
And Auri’s a fool. She nods with all the enthusiasm of a child. “Until tomorrow.”