Chapter Text
After being freed from Cazador’s reign, nothing is certain.
It isn’t certain Astarion will manage to get out of the Nautiloid ship alive, let alone survive its crash and stay unharmed by the sudden sunlight on his skin. It isn’t certain the outcome of getting closer to that weirdly shaped sigil will be good, but for the most part, he doesn’t regret providing a helping hand out of his own free will for the first time in his unlife. And by no stretch is it certain he’ll make it out of the encounter with that Gur unscathed. That leech outed his vampiric secret to the group before he was ready for its reveal, and if his heart hadn’t stopped beating two hundred years ago, he’s sure at that moment it would’ve stilled.
This new world is uncertain and full of surprises.
To say Astarion isn’t frightened by any of it would be a blatant lie. But he can’t allow himself to be stopped by it. He’s done sitting idle; he isn’t trapped anymore. He is free. Well, almost free. So, in order to gain his full freedom by making Cazador a new grave he can’t crawl out of, he decides to view the uncertainties that stumble his way as opportunities.
And opportunities exist to be seized, don’t they?
So when he and his companions reach the Gauntlet of Shar and that devil is standing before it, he knows he must wait for the right moment to make his move, even knowing the risks.
Raphael rhymes his little rhyme and offers the group a warning about a formidable creature, another devil sleeping at their destination, who must find its death at their hands.
“Kill it,” Raphael commands, and soon he is ready to say his farewells.
It won’t do. If there’s anyone in this bloody plane who could tell Astarion what the hell is written on his back, it’s this bastard.
A few nights ago, when sleep was too far away, he dreamed of that torturous night again. On his knees, bound to the nonexistent mercy of his master, he could feel it through the suffering and pain. What had been carved into his back were not words, not decoration or art, but runes. Runes written in infernal.
So Astarion stops the smug devil to make a proposal of his own, even though he doesn’t want to spend another second in the presence of that dangerous wretch.
Sadly, the existence of his scars—a fact he considered extremely private up to this point—is revealed by the rash decision.
“What are you talking about, Astarion? What scars?”
Of course the curious wizard can’t stop himself from querying about it. Of course he’d continue feigning care and consideration even after all this time, even after refusing Astarion’s offer back at that joyful, horrible celebration.
Astarion should’ve been used to it by now. To Gale’s worried eyes, to his soft voice and kind words, to Gale treating him like he is his own fucking person—
But no. Even this small question stings, though at this point, the emotion that bleeds out of his own violation is more akin to sadness than to anger.
“You haven’t told them? And you’ve kept your clothes on this whole time? How unlike you.” Raphael’s smile reeks of foreboding. “Why not let them see? Don’t be shy.”
With a flick of the devil’s hand, his clothes are gone, vanished into tiny particles of nothing. The cold, eerie air of the cursed lands kisses his skin, and the shudder running through him tells more of his odium than the chilly temperature of the place.
Astarion clicks his tongue, begins to state his protests, then starts again. “Gods damn it.”
He isn’t ashamed of his physique, no, not at all. But he doesn’t want the pitying eyes and comforting words of his companions. He knows that his back is a sight to behold, and not in a flattering manner, as proved by the shocked gasps filling the silence around them. And now, without the ability to keep the ugly carvings under the cover of his armor, the best choice he has is to embrace said pity and use it to his advantage.
Yes, at this moment, he’s been played with. Violated. Against his will, without any say in the matter, and despite having told himself it would never happen again. Once more, his body isn’t only his own. He leans into the wretched feeling; the corners of his lips don’t fight the turn downwards. Playing the victim isn’t comfortable, but if that’s what he has to do to dull the sting of his second secret-keeping, so be it.
Behind the mask, though, his eyes dig daggers into the devil in front of him.
“Don’t pout, spawn. Just destroy the beast and I’ll happily reveal your secrets instead of your skin.”
He hates him. So fucking much, it just might be better to kill him instead. But no. He’ll contain his rage until he gets what he bargained for.
“Yes, fine, we’ll kill this damn creature of yours.”
“Then we have an understanding. I look forward to our next meeting. Scars often tell such wonderful stories—I think yours might be truly exquisite.”
Yes, wonderful. He’s quite sure nothing wonderful could ever come out of Cazador’s hands. The so-called “poem” etched across his back is no exception. The story of how those words were carved into his flesh couldn’t have been further from wonderful.
It was sordid, the ceaseless engraving. Repeating, repeating, the knife going over it again, and again, and again, until he couldn’t scream anymore. Until he couldn’t tell reality from the nightmare he lived. Until his tears ran dry and the only thing left was his will to end it all. To let the world burn, taking him along with it.
Not anymore. Not ever again. Now the only will he has is to kill. To know that monster’s secret. Revenge.
Why isn’t Raphael leaving? Astarion said they’ll complete their side of the deal. The silence around them stretches longer than comfortable as Astarion tries not to think of his bare form, but the hell is he going to keep talking with that smug-faced devil.
Instead, he turns to the wizard, who has his face covered by the curve of those magic-capable fingers. Gale tries to carefully meet his eyes, and his eyes only, a pained expression peeking between the digits. It couldn’t get any worse than that, really.
Astarion clicks his tongue. “Well. Now you know.”
“Why didn’t you tell me earlier?” Gale asks, concerned, with a hint of hurt and the blunt edge of accusation.
Excuses lie at the tip of Astarion’s tongue. Because you had matters of your own to deal with. Partly true. It doesn’t mean he couldn’t have shared at least some of it.
Because you wouldn’t shut up for a damn second and listen for once in your short, sorry life. Wrong, because Gale did listen, often asking Astarion what was on his mind, asking if he could help, or even directly saying he was listening.
Because your bloody goddess is the only thing you think or talk about. Apart from all the other times Gale talked about everything else, apart from the times he’d seen and cared for what everyone around him was experiencing; apart from the times he did just that for Astarion—
Pity.
Astarion has his pity now. And with how humiliating it is, he still has to use it while it’s fresh from the fires of hell.
“Perhaps I should’ve,” Astarion sighs, rounding his eyes. “But, ah, I’m not used to asking for help and being met with, well… help.”
Gods, he sounds miserable. Is it enough to pull at the strings of empathy from the rest?
“But, what’s done is done. So how about we stop discussing it and just kill this beast?”
Gale’s eyes flicker down for a shameful split second. If Astarion didn’t know better, he could almost think there was some heat in that gaze. That furiously misleading hint that once led him to believe Gale might have been interested in him—
He couldn’t have been more wrong in his life.
“Although I should probably get dressed first.” He chuckles, trying to brush off the bitter memory as quickly as he can.
Raphael is still smiling at them, as if he isn’t the fucking cause of this bullshit. With a hum and a little bow, he disappears from sight, vanishing into flickering particles much like Astarion’s clothes have.
“Too bad,” Raphael’s voice rings from behind them again. “A little mouse, running off to please yet another master as soon as he can.”
The group turns as one, alarm tightening their movements, suspicion anchoring their hands to their weapons.
Why is Raphael back?
No. He’s not back. Someone else has taken his place, his face, his voice. The figure standing before them is all skin, a scorching shade of red, the same gleam flaring in Astarion’s eyes as he snaps his gaze toward it. His hand flies to the hilt of his daggers, only to realize they are probably gone with the rest of his garments, lying in a pile a few meters away.
Something is extremely wrong here. The man, no, the creature that looks like Raphael, smiles at them lazily, a pair of long, bat-like wings stretching wide behind him, no fewer than four horns curving up from his temples.
What is this creature doing here? Why did he take this… revealing form? And what the hell does he mean by a new master?
“I agreed to your terms, devil. Why are you still here?” Astarion growls, eyes narrowing, studying it with thinly veiled mistrust.
Orange-flame pupils rake down Astarion’s body in turn, and an involuntary shudder runs through him. It feels probing, intrusive, as though he is nothing more than a piece of meat to be evaluated and appraised. Not a shred of shame on that sly face, no regard whatsoever for the fact that he never offered himself up for display. Red lips twist into a pointed smile, and the devil barks out a short, sharp laugh.
“Devil? You think I’m Raphael? Ha! No. You will have a far crueler master than Raphael, soon.” One taloned finger traces a deliberate circle before stopping, wickedly steady, just over the pair of punctures marring Astarion’s neck. It’s so near he can feel the phantom chill of it on his skin, and he does his utmost not to flinch as the devil leans closer, studying the scars as though admiring a piece of fine craftsmanship. “But all in good time. After you finish that little task he requested of you, I’ll come find you.”
Astarion has had more than his fill of cruel masters. Cazador was more than enough. Cazador will be the last master he’ll ever have, and Cazador will be dead soon. As soon as Astarion reaches Baldur’s Gate and makes sure it happens, with a band of reliable companions at his side. He is never bowing his head to another master. To no one, in this world or any other. He will never beg, never plead, never suffer under anyone else’s hand. He’d kill anyone who so much as tries to make him kneel again. He’s had enough pain, enough shame for a thousand, a million lifetimes.
Never again.
He grits his teeth with a snarl. “And what makes you think I’d listen to you, you—”
“Haarlep. Oh, and you will want to listen, little mouse. The powers I could offer you are not to be taken lightly.
He smiles, slow and poisonous. “Until then.”
With a flare of his red palm closing, Haarlep is gone.
Not only does the devil want to dance with him, but now his poor imitation can’t pass up the opportunity.
Wonderful. Just wonderful.
︶︶𓆩˖ ࣪ ִ𖤐˖ ࣪ ִ𖤐˖ ࣪ ִ𖤐𓆪︶︶
The venture inside the Gauntlet of Shar had been eventful, to say the least. Not only had they encountered the devil they were meant to slay—an orthon who wasn’t asleep as promised but instead had opted to try and blow them to pieces—but after facing the Nightsong, it was clear their party needed time to process the whole ordeal.
Should Shadowheart have spared her as she did? Should she have killed her instead? Astarion cannot fully put himself in her shoes. He will never yield to any god. No god ever came for him in all those years under Cazador’s command, no matter how much he prayed or pleaded. Though he understands and even supports the cleric’s hunger for power, he isn’t sure the price for becoming a Dark Justiciar is worth it in this case. Not if it means entangling herself further in her mistress’s web. Not if it means losing yet another layer of herself to the one she submitted to. And if the alternative is reclaiming something that was stolen, without her consent or memory… well, he knows he would’ve gladly slaughtered a few worms for the chance to hold memories that aren’t just filled with his myriad of vile acts and torment.
As Shadowheart threw away that spear, the walls began to shake and crumble above them. They fled from the collapsing chamber and managed to save themselves by the skin of their teeth. When they were finally out, each of them expressed their thoughts on what had happened, offering sympathy or a comforting pat on the godless cleric’s shoulder. They agreed to give her some time before attacking Moonrise Towers. Two nights to rest and prepare. And then, they’d have no choice but to storm ahead.
Just as they’re about to return to camp, a flicker of a red wing catches Astarion’s eye from behind one of the broken pillars.
Should he go? No, he shouldn’t. He doesn’t need any more deals, any more contracts to bind him. Only recently did he learn that the scars on his back marked him as a sacrificial lamb for the Rite of Profane Ascension.
And if he could fulfill it himself instead of Cazador, if they could defeat him, Astarion could take his place on the ceremonial pedestal and he’d finally be truly free. No tadpole shall be needed to allow him to walk in the sun. No constant hunger, the same kind that twists inside him more often than not in these shitty, cursed lands. And of course, those unimaginable powers would finally be his.
However, that crimson, sleazy fiend did mention great powers. If Astarion is to try to overthrow Cazador in his bloody ceremony, he shall need any and all advantages he can get. It might not be the safest method—any creature related to Rafael surely doesn’t have their hands clean—but no doubt Astarion has dealt with worse in the past. Truly, what does he have to lose?
He tells his travel companions to return to camp without him, providing some lazy excuse about trying to find some nutrition in these dead lands.
“Stay safe, Astarion,” Gale says before he departs, hazel eyes full of warmth for a devastating split second. He turns his head to the road then, and puts a calming hand on the back of Shadowheart, who nods her head in acknowledgement of his effort.
Honestly, why is Astarion still so affected by him? He shouldn’t be. Astarion shouldn’t care for this man who’s dead-set on killing himself. He shouldn’t let his soft expressions and sweet words pull the strings of his long-dead heart. Even though his gratitude for the man threatens to overflow and stain his well-crafted mask with unsettling frequency these days, he absolutely shouldn’t let it get to him—even when Gale promised he’d help Astarion kill Cazador if his eyes still held light in them by then.
None of it matters now.
He walks slowly, cautiously in the direction of Raphael’s mimic, hands hovering above his daggers, ready to be unsheathed in a fraction of a second. Haarlep stands, relaxed, with his back against the pillar, unfazed by the tense hostility in Astarion’s stance.
“Talk.” Astarion nearly spits out the word.
“You cannot command me, little mouse,” Haarlep answers while taking a single step forward, hovering just a touch higher than Astarion in their current standings. “It is very naughty of you to try, though. Whatever are we to do?”
“On with it, demon. You’ve had an offer for me?”
The said demon doesn’t hurry to answer. His eyes slide over Astarion’s form, moving down and then up, before coming to a halt at the curve of his lips.
“Ever heard of the effects of an incubus’ kiss, spawn?” A wicked smile slithers over his face. “They say it feels better than any other; they say it feels so good that life might get sucked out of your soul. They say one can become a true vampire after receiving it.”
A true vampire. To be as powerful as Cazador is right now. To have a good chance at killing him, even without having to rely on his travelmates. Can Astarion truly turn down such an offer? Even if the last thing he wants is to kiss the abhorrent incubus in front of his eyes.
A repulsive feeling makes his throat tight, a reminder of the years his body was used for such endeavors without his will. It’s just a kiss, he tells himself, his shoulders tensing up. Just a moment of disgust to force yourself through, and it will be over before you know it.
But this prize surely won’t come free.
“And what do you want in return?”
Haarlep’s eyes flash a dangerous orange. “Why don’t we play a little game? You win, I give you everything you desire. But you’ll enjoy yourself more if you lose…”
So it’s sex. Oh, of course it is. Of course this bastard wants to sleep with him, like any other fool who’s crossed his path. But should Astarion give his body to this… creature? After the first time in so many years he finally isn’t fucking compelled to? It ought to be a small price for the powers of a mighty true vampire. To turn into mist, to mend flesh and bone before the blood even dried, to even command a pack of spawn of his own. It’s a possibility he only ever dreamed of for the last two centuries of his unlife. Yet still, with the revolting way that bastard stares at him, he hesitates.
“What’s the game?” Astarion asks, stalling for time, considering his options.
He is fairly sure they could take down Cazador even without Haarlep’s offer, and that afterward, those very same powers would be his by right. Their merry band is strong and proven to be quite lucky, as he’s come to learn the last few tendays roaming with them. And he doesn’t know what will happen if he loses this game. What if he’s locked away for this demon’s entertainment? What if he does something to him, and the effects will never fade? It might not be worth the risk. Can he even get out of this situation? He could try to melt into the shadows, and if it comes to it, it takes merely a second to draw his two brand-new handbows, or his reliable daggers. It is slightly concerning that he’s running out of healing potions, though, but he’ll manage. He meant to steal some from Gale’s tent later that night; hopefully, he could still leave this place and execute this plan as intended. But perhaps even more concerning is the fact that, unfortunately, Astarion doesn’t know much about incubuses—not about their weaknesses, powers, or attack patterns. He takes a cautious step backwards.
“See, you can be complacent when you want to, spawn.”
Did Haarlep take his damned question as assent?
Before he can take another step, a twisting blend of red and black weaves through the air as Haarlep closes the distance between them.
“Up.” he commands, and Astarion’s hands swing upward on their own volition above his head. What—
“Meet me at the north-east room in Last Light Inn, we shall make our little exchange there.” The demon thinks for a moment before he leans closer, its sulfur-rotten breath invading Astarion’s nostrils. “I’ll even sweeten the deal for you, give you an additional incentive to come.”
Haarlep runs his hand to the front of Astarion’s form, not touching, yet a foul sensation runs through his veins all the same. Suddenly, there’s lightness, heaviness, and then the usual void in his stomach disappears. Instead, there’s a low heat, a flickering candle beginning to burn. The sensation is too faint to name, yet alarm bells ring in Astarion’s mind all the same.
“What did you do to me?”
“A simple hunger replacement. I think you should thank me, little mouse. I doubt you had many creatures to sink your teeth into around these parts. But don’t worry, I promise your new cravings shall be more than fulfilled when we meet again.”
Only then does Haarlep finally release his hands. “I will be waiting. I advise you not to stall, as it will get… harder for you the more time passes. See you soon.”