Work Text:
Did you ever hate something so much,
you just couldn't part with it?
— Cazador’s portrait description
from DnD Idle Champions
Come to think of it, Astarion had always been alone, even among his brothers and sisters in Cazador’s crowded palace. His solitude echoed coldly in the scurrying of rats within the walls, in the timid footsteps of the palace servants, in the distant, heavy tap of a staff upon the polished floor. There was no one to rely on but himself. And if he was honest, Astarion was hardly the most reliable of supports—shaky, mournfully creaking, bending under the weight of sorrowful circumstance.
When the nautiloid kidnapped him, a frail hope stirred in his heart. Perhaps now everything would change. Yet the adventures ended, and with them faded the brief spark of enthusiasm. Not so long ago, he had felt alive, looking ahead and glimpsing a better, brighter future, even as the threat of becoming a vile, tentacled monstrosity loomed before him. Now, lying in the dark, he thought again and again, with cowardly persistence, that even such a wretched fate would have been better than his current existence.
Astarion had remained a slave. His pleas for help fell on barren ground. Even selling himself once again to the local hero availed him nothing. Each night, he moaned dutifully beneath the man’s sweating body, feigning ecstasy beyond compare. At times, he could not even get hard. He blamed it on stress and exhaustion, plastering a—hopefully—seductive smile on his face. All of it served only one purpose: persuading Baldur’s Gate’s future hero to help him kill Cazador.
Trancing in his well-worn tent, Astarion pictured again and again how he would deal with his former master. He imagined seizing him by the collar, throwing him to the ground, forcing him to writhe at his feet like a worm, stabbing him with a dagger over and over until his body dissolved into nothing but a disgusting pile of rotten flesh.
In his more bloodthirsty fantasies he dreamt of tearing Cazador’s clothes from him, layer by layer, carving infernal runes into that flawless back, drinking in his screams, and afterwards offering seven thousand souls to the archdevil Mephistopheles in exchange for unmatched power, for the warmth of the sun’s blinding light, for the chance to gaze upon his own reflection, for the booming sound of a living heart beating within his chest.
Instead, Astarion was left alone in the dark, frightened and forsaken.
Actually, nothing was surprising in such an outcome. He had long since ceased to expect help from distant, indifferent gods or from mortals. Yet the betrayal of his companions left a dull ache in his chest, as though a stake had been driven into it. After their little adventure, everyone had claimed the prize they sought—everyone but Astarion, whom they simply forgot and discarded.
The elder brain was cast into oblivion, swallowed by the cold grey waters of Chionthar, and Astarion himself slipped back into the darkness, each day forgetting a little more of how the sun looked, of how its rays once warmed his cold skin. He returned to the shadows, lost within the stifling, hostile dark of the sewers, prowling among rogues and drunkards. His sustenance was once again reduced to rats and other vermin. To drink the blood of thinking creatures was too dangerous. To venture to the surface was no less perilous. Cazador knew he lurked somewhere in the city, and surely the hunt for his prodigal son had never stopped.
In the early days, Astarion still clung to the hope that he might survive on petty theft, but he quickly discovered that both the Zhentarim and the guild thugs, even drunk, were far quicker than he was and guarded their purses with the ferocity of an owlbear defending her nest. So he returned once more to selling his body, just to make ends meet.
The only thing I am good for, he thought bitterly.
The constant fear gnawed at him, slowly driving him to madness. In answer to his grim thoughts about that wretched life in the sewers, the familiar cold, high voice began to rise in his mind more and more often.
Did you truly think that they would praise you as a hero, boy? That they would sing of your courage? The voice dripped with poisonous mockery. You are abandoned. No one cares for you. No one but your family.
However far he tried to run, Cazador was always there—hovering like a shadow in the corner of his miserable room, stalking his nightmares, whispering bitter truths into his ear. And it seemed there was no escape from him anywhere in all of Faerûn.
The brief, restless moments of trance were the hardest for Astarion to endure. He would spend hours persuading himself to lie down and rest, if only for a short while, yet each time he closed his eyes, he saw nothing but nightmares of Cazador, again and again, until he woke in tears, screaming.
Once, Astarion had been a magistrate. He slept on featherbeds and silk sheets. He enjoyed fine food and expensive wine. Once, he had been respected, his word had carried weight. The memories of that former life were all but erased, and perhaps that was why he was so inclined to idealise the distant past—especially now, lying upon a rickety bed with a sagging, filthy mattress.
He forced himself to close his eyes and slip into a trance—that familiar state shared by all elves, living or undead. And then it began.
***
A blinding flash of light—and Astarion was back on the night when the infernal runes had been carved into his back. Once more, he lay upon the cold stone floor of the kennels, writhing in pain.
Cazador towered over him, cruel and unreachable, his favourite dagger gleaming in his hand. His cold, maniacal laughter ricocheted off the mouldy walls, rang in Astarion’s ears, pierced his mind like needles, leaving him nowhere to hide.
Blood dripped from Cazador’s dagger—Astarion’s blood—and with every drop that fell, the wounds on his back throbbed.
“Master,” Astarion whispered faintly, stretching out a trembling hand. “Master, I can’t… It’s too much.”
“Nonsense, boy,” Cazador chuckled. “Of course you can. Stop twitching, or we’ll have to start again.”
Astarion shut his eyes. The pain filled his whole being, swelling and festering like a rotting corpse. It grew stronger, and stronger still, until nothing else remained.
***
The scene shifted. Now Astarion lay in absolute darkness. The air reeked of damp and death. His frail, wasted body was paralysed by weakness and unending exhaustion. His nails were torn from clawing in vain at the stone, trying to scratch his way to the surface. How long had it been since Cazador had thrown him into the tomb and slammed the lid shut—a day, a month, years?
In another life, Astarion’s hatred for Cazador had been so fierce that he could not bear to look at him. His contempt had run so deep that he could not stand to hear that sharp, cutting voice, those cruel words and mocking taunts. His revulsion had been so vivid that he could not endure Cazador’s touch, tender or brutal alike.
But now, when his eyes saw nothing but darkness, when the silence of the grave roared in his ears, when his parchment skin clung to his bones, he longed to see Cazador again—to hear his voice, to feel the grip of those cold, vice-like fingers. For it would mean that his imprisonment was finally at an end.
Then came a terrible crash. The lid of the coffin in which Astarion had lain for so long scraped aside, and his light-starved eyes filled with tears at the dim shimmer of dying candles. The first thing he saw, once his sight adjusted, was Cazador’s face—pale, sharp, and cold. He looked as though carved from merciless marble, another statue fading into the clammy darkness of the crypt.
“Rise, boy. Let us see if you’ve learnt your lesson,” Cazador said softly, almost tenderly. Though to Astarion—whose ears had suffered so long a silence—his voice struck like a thunderclap.
When it became clear that Astarion could not climb out of the coffin alone, Cazador, in a moment of startling generosity, helped him up. Then, sitting upon the cold stone floor—an unthinkable act for one so fastidious—he drew Astarion’s body to his chest and pressed a dead, scrawny rat to his lips. Its rancid blood tasted like ambrosia. Astarion would have wept if only he could.
He took one last swallow, and the world dissolved into blinding white light. The dark crypt, the motionless marble Cazador, and Astarion himself—all vanished…
***
Now Astarion sat at the table in his wretched little room above the tavern, trembling with terror as he stared out the window. Beyond the glass, the darkness churned with thick, impenetrable mist. Cazador had found him. He was here—close, so close—ready to seize his prey.
“My precious boy,” whispered the black cloud of mist, steeped in Cazador’s malevolent essence. “Why are you so far away from me?”
Astarion trembled like a dying leaf in the wind, ready to fall and crumble to dust.
“Let me help you, darling. Let me in.”
“No, no, no…” Astarion muttered feverishly.
His nails dug into his palms, leaving bloody crescents, while tears streamed from his wide, unblinking eyes. He could not run. He could not tear his gaze away from the window.
“Come now, don’t resist,” Cazador murmured. “Open the window, and we shall be together again, as it was meant to be. Creator and creation. Sire and child. Let me in. Let me enter.”
Astarion struggled, but his legs carried him towards the window, and his hand reached for the latch. It was impossible to resist.
He woke with a cry of despair, sitting bolt upright on the bed.
Outside the window, there was nothing—only the miserable landscape of the sewers.
Each evening before another “hunt”, Astarion told himself that his life had always been a series of ups and downs. Though if he were honest, it was mostly downs. And the ups… When had he last felt anything resembling contentment? Before they defeated the Netherbrain? Yes, most likely.
Now, hiding from Cazador and living in constant fear, everything had changed, and yet nothing actually had. Astarion was still a regular in taverns, only now his… services were paid for. The clientele, however, remained the same—drunk or half-drunk creatures, greedy to the point of vulgarity, and often cruel too. It was astonishing how easily their masks slipped, how quickly the beasts within emerged from the shadows of their souls, craving only to tear, to strike, to violate, to torment.
At first, after his turning, it scared Astarion. A century later, he was past caring. Now, without Cazador’s hand directing his every step, he even found a perverse pleasure in violence. After all, it was the only constant in his existence—the one thing that still made him pity himself, lamenting his accursed fate.
That evening, as always, Astarion came down from his room into the tavern and took a table by the wall—not too hidden, yet not too exposed. It gave him the best chance of luring a potential client.
He ordered wine—sour, foul-smelling stuff—paid for it, tossing in a few extra coins so he would not be turned out, and settled in to wait.
After the string of nightmares about Cazador that had plagued him the previous day, Astarion could not find peace. He fidgeted restlessly on his chair. Candlelight flickered across the greasy walls, and in the dusty corners where the light did not reach, shadows stirred as if alive. In every one of them, he imagined a tall, motionless figure wrapped in darkness like a funeral shroud. In the trembling glow of the candles, he almost saw red eyes glinting with malice. Everywhere he looked, he saw Cazador—predatory, merciless, ready to pounce like a wolf upon a lamb.
It felt as though Cazador had seeped into his very pores, filling him from within. Any moment now, he would burst out of Astarion’s throat as a black, impenetrable cloud, devouring everything in his path.
How far you’ve fallen, boy, whispered that familiar cold, merciless voice against his ear. Selling yourself to these swine like a common whore. Pitiful. Tell me—who do you have to blame now but yourself, hm?
Astarion flinched and looked around. He was surrounded by cutthroats and drunkards, shufflers and all manner of shady figures. No trace of his former master. The shadows were only shadows now, and the flicker of candles no longer resembled a glimmer of red eyes. Yet that voice in his head—so real, almost tangible—was driving him mad, always whispering the truths Astarion himself dared not admit.
He truly was pathetic. Fallen beyond redemption. Eating rats, selling his body… And once, he had dreamt of resting on silk sheets, lazily sipping rich wine from a crystal glass.
Astarion cursed under his breath. In this mood, he would lure no one, and if it went on like this, he would soon find himself penniless and out on the street.
Pull yourself together, he told himself. Right. Now.
An hour dragged by—slow, uneasy, dull. The tavern grew busier, but everyone came in groups. The rare loners were so filthy and ugly that Astarion turned away in disgust. He still had standards, after all.
He was about to rise and leave, to return to the tunnels reeking of mould and sewage, when someone suitable finally appeared in the doorway: a man, tall and broad-shouldered, not young but far from old. His eyes were sharp, attentive. His clothes, though worn, were neat enough—a scuffed leather jacket and matching trousers, sturdy boots. He looked like one of the guild’s, though not a petty thief.
He’ll do, Astarion thought, casting a suggestive glance from beneath his dark lashes. His finger traced the rim of the glass, stroking the cool surface.
The man noticed him almost at once. He smirked and slowly made his way towards the table.
“Is it taken?” he asked curtly, his gaze never leaving Astarion’s face. There was already a flicker of hunger in it.
“Vacant for you, darling,” Astarion drawled, almost coquettish.
He put on the familiar mask of the seducer, his lips aching from the false smile. But, as always, it went unnoticed.
The man grinned, scraping the wooden chair loudly across the floor before dropping into it, spreading his legs in open invitation.
“You look out of place among this lot,” he remarked, devouring Astarion’s face, his finger that was still tracing idle patterns along the rim of his glass, his pale, slender wrist exposed beneath the sleeve of his doublet.
“Do you like what you see, darling?” Astarion asked softly, lowering his voice by two tones.
“You bet,” the man snorted, licking his lips with a certain vulgarity. “A real cracker.”
Astarion smiled seductively, forcing himself to suppress the wave of disgust that rose at the tasteless compliment.
“Flatterer,” he giggled. “Fancy a drink?”
In truth, Astarion had no desire to drink with this stranger. He didn’t want to hear his pitiful, filthy compliments, nor to arch and moan beneath his heavy, sweating body in false ecstasy—all that just to earn a handful of coins and survive, survive, survive. Anything to keep on living.
At times, he thought the kindest thing would be to end it all. To climb up to the surface at dawn, turn his face to the sunlight one last time, and burn, burn, burn, until nothing remained of Astarion Ancunín— once a city magistrate, now a common whore—but a small heap of ash.
Instead, he smiled invitingly and waited with patient indifference while his potential client ordered a pint of ale, then another, and another still, until his speech slurred and his eyes began to wander. Lewd phrases slipped from his lips, and his hands crept beneath the table to clutch at Astarion’s knee.
Then Astarion leaned forward and murmured with a mischievous wink, “Shall we go upstairs, darling? For such a handsome man as you, I’ll offer a discount—just a couple of gold for the night.”
The man nodded eagerly and took Astarion’s outstretched hand, following him upstairs, almost glowing with anticipation at the thought of burying himself inside him. Astarion flinched inwardly and let out a quiet sigh.
See? He didn’t even hesitate, whispered the mocking, merciless voice. Everyone can tell what you are—a whore who takes gold for his services.
And then:
Coward. You can’t even end your miserable life. Pathetic little boy.
Astarion shut his eyes and shook his head, as if to drive away the ghost of Cazador that haunted his thoughts.
It was all dreadfully dull, disgustingly banal—greedy, sloppy kisses, calloused hands roaming over his body, fumbling beneath his clothes, the same crude remarks he’d long since grown to hate. Day after day, always the same, over and over again. Once more, Astarion found himself on a sagging mattress, naked and defenceless, like an insect flipped onto its back at someone’s whim. Escape was impossible—that right had been taken from him two centuries ago.
Now you chose this for yourself, boy, came Cazador’s poisonous voice. No one had forced you to sell your body.
“Shut up…” Astarion muttered desperately, barely above a whisper.
The man on top of him, wheezing loudly, thankfully didn’t notice a thing. He was too busy with his drunken kisses—his lips, rough and chapped, slid hastily along the white column of Astarion’s neck. Thick, work-worn fingers fumbled between his legs, finding his entrance already slick and stretched. Astarion always prepared himself beforehand, a habit honed over a century. Most partners, after all, never troubled themselves with such trivialities as his comfort.
“How convenient,” the man slurred, and Astarion had to resist the urge to roll his eyes.
Instead, he lifted his hips to meet him and let out a brief, insincere moan, pretending he could hardly wait for the man to move beyond those clumsy kisses and tiresome, drunken groping. The client, mercifully quick on the uptake, pushed two fingers inside his hole at once. It was hardly pleasant, even with the preparation, and this time there was more genuine pain than feigned pleasure in Astarion’s cry. The man, of course, didn’t notice it. Nothing new there.
“You’re so tight,” he groaned.
After a few lazy, half-hearted thrusts, he gripped the base of his thick, swollen cock and pressed the flushed head against Astarion’s entrance.
“I’m going to fuck you,” he announced unnecessarily, with a grin.
As if I hadn’t noticed, Astarion thought with weary sarcasm, but moaned all the same, tilting back his head and baring his pale, vulnerable throat.
The man’s cock was rather large, and as always in such moments, it felt for an instant as though Astarion’s body might simply give out and something delicate down there might finally tear, sending a jolt of sharp, unbearable pain through him. But then… by some miracle, or likely by accident, the man brushed his prostate. Astarion’s eyes flew open, his mouth fell slack.
“Yes, just like that, darling,” he moaned, this time genuinely, pleasure flaring through his nerves, sharp and vivid.
The man grinned and drove in to the hilt. He moved slowly, far too slowly, and impatience made Astarion want to scream. Instead, he offered a wanton smile, wrapping his legs around the man’s waist.
“Harder,” he panted. “Fuck me harder.”
The man bared his teeth in a grotesque imitation of a seductive smile.
“Like it rough, do you?” he growled, thrusting forward with sudden force.
He pushed in deeper, all the way down, and seized Astarion’s throat in a bruising grip.
That was so much better, but still not enough.
“Don’t hold back,” Astarion rasped. “Squeeze harder.”
Something flared in the man’s eyes—anger, hunger—and in a heartbeat, he changed. The drunken adventurer vanished, replaced by a beast, fierce and merciless. He slapped Astarion hard across the face and snarled:
“Don’t give me orders, whore.”
Astarion’s vision blurred. Now it was so easy to imagine it wasn’t some faceless, nameless client on top and inside him, but his master—the only one he had ever truly belonged to, the one he hated for it. It was Cazador who struck him, Cazador who squeezed his throat with those cold, vice-like fingers as chill as grave soil. It was Cazador who fucked him, hard and relentless, caring only for his own pleasure.
Astarion realised, suddenly, that he was so hard it almost hurt. He would have found it humiliating if only he were capable of coherent thought. A tortured moan, full of twisted masochistic delight, tore from his lips. Cazador was always above fucking his spawn, and deep down—though it was almost impossible to admit—Astarion had always regretted it.
But now… now there was no need to pretend or close his eyes to imagine it. He saw nothing in front of him but that familiar face—sharp features, predatory nose, perfectly shaped lips. Greasy, lank hair brushing his shoulders suddenly transformed into Cazador’s ink-black, soft and perfumed with scented oils. It was his cock driving mercilessly into Astarion’s hole, his voice whispering a litany of insults in his ear.
A cruel hand tightened around his throat, and Astarion’s next moan came out as a ragged gasp.
“Dirty whore. Do you like that?” the man asked, but instead of his slurred, drunken growl, Astarion heard a different voice entirely—high and cold.
“Yes—” he moaned, pleading, “yes, master, harder, please, harder…”
Another sharp slap, and pain bloomed on his cheek like an ugly crimson flower.
“What did I tell you about giving orders, hm? I am in charge here.”
Astarion’s vision flickered. He reached down, desperate for release, grasping at his aching, trapped cock, but a cold hand seized his wrist.
“You’ll come from my cock or not at all, boy.”
Astarion let out a helpless moan as arousal surged over him in a vast, merciless wave. His master would allow him to come, even without touching himself. That generosity burned hotter than the sun.
Cazador quickened his pace, pounding into him with growing fury, tormenting his body, playing him like a violin—broken and out of tune. Astarion arched his back in agony, his whole body aflame, begging for release, but Cazador paid no heed to his whimpering.
“Please…” Astarion begged, his hoarse voice pitiful even through the haze of agonising pleasure. “Please, master.”
“Whore,” Cazador spat with contempt. “You’ll come only at my command.”
Astarion moaned and met another rough thrust.
The battered bed shrieked beneath them, the sheet bunched and soaked with sweat, but none of it mattered anymore.
Cazador’s movements grew ragged, frantic, and Astarion sensed he was close, ready to spill himself, to fill him till he’s bursting—the only mercy ever worth hoping for.
“Please,” Astarion moaned again.
With a single, deep thrust, angled just right, Cazador struck his prostate and suddenly commanded, “Come.”
Astarion nodded frantically, writhing beneath that body—hard as stone—pressing up to meet the thrusts, chasing that fleeting spark of pleasure until, at last, his back arched to the point of breaking and he spilled across his stomach with a strangled, shuddering cry.
Cazador followed. He kept fucking Astarion, fast and rough, until he’d emptied himself down to the very last drop.
When the grip on his throat finally loosened, Astarion came to himself almost at once, as if someone had doused him with cold water. The orgasm was so intense his body trembled, his ears rang, yet with it, the spell was broken. Of course, there was no Cazador in this wretched room above the noisy tavern. Only a half-drunk stranger lay beside him, trying to catch his breath.
“You’re pretty good at it,” the man declared with a nasty smirk.
Astarion grimaced but forced out his usual, “Thank you, darling.”
After a while, the man started gathering his things, tugged on his trousers and jacket, pulled on his boots. Now that lust had faded and the booze had nearly worn off, he seemed almost desperate to leave.
Of course, the voice in Astarion’s head jeered, no one in their right mind would want to stay in a filthy whore’s bed.
The man tossed a few cold coins onto the table and left, not even bothering with a farewell.
Astarion lay there a long time in the silence and darkness, with seed cooling on his stomach and leaking from his used hole onto the rumpled sheet. Again and again, he turned over the same shameful thought: perhaps, when Cazador inevitably caught him, he would finally fuck him—hard and merciless, as he had always done everything else in his accursed eternity…
Each night, Astarion woke up with the same lingering thought: why wasn’t he running? Such a simple question, and yet it burned like a brand. Why not gather his few belongings and flee—far from Baldur’s Gate, far from Cazador and his hideous palace looming over the city like a shadow?
Astarion could make for Waterdeep, where Gale might take him in for a time. Or he could descend into the Underdark. Dangerous, yes—but down there, in the half-light of fluorescent fungi and glowing crystals, among the ghostly blue shimmer of susurr flowers and the sickly green gleam of bibberbang, no one would look for him. There was even that Arcane Tower—a fitting hiding place for a lonesome vampire, though perhaps too obvious. Or the myconid colony. While travelling through the Underdark, their strange little party had somehow earned the trust of those mushroom-like creatures. Surely they would not deny shelter to their former saviour.
So why hadn’t Astarion run?
Because you are weak, my child, the voice whispered mockingly.
Perhaps Cazador had been right all along. Astarion remembered the words he’d spoken when he’d pulled him, frail and half-mad, from the tomb:
“It was foolish to flee, boy. I know you better than anyone, better than you know yourself. I see all your doubts. I feel your fears. One way or another, you would have come back to me, for you are mine. Forever.”
Those words had echoed through Astarion’s mind for years. And what if they were true? What if Cazador truly knew him better than he knew himself?
No. No, no, no! It couldn’t be. The vile bastard had merely clouded his mind again, twisting his thoughts with his poisonous words. Astarion hadn’t run because Baldur’s Gate was home. Because this city—foul, dangerous, bottomless, like the gaping maw of some beast with alleyways for teeth—was all he knew. To leave a place so familiar and, in a way, dear was terrifying. Wasn’t it? Surely it was.
In truth, Astarion didn’t know—and the thought gnawed at him, driving him mad.
He understood well enough that staying in the sewers, however vast and mazelike, was foolish. Among the Zhentarim, the guild, the beggars and drifters, whispers had begun to spread. Humans, elves, orcs—all murmured of a wealthy nobleman searching for a runaway with hair like silver and skin white as snow, though snow had never once fallen in this warm city. Rumours said whoever found and captured the pale elf would be richly rewarded.
Astarion knew it wouldn’t be hard to find him—the taverner and plenty of locals had seen him often enough, and he matched the description all too well. No disguise could save him now. Too many of Baldur’s Gate’s underbelly had passed through his shabby room above the tavern. It was only a matter of time before someone gave him away.
And yet, he could still escape. He could wait for nightfall, cast a simple spell to alter his appearance for a while, pull his hood low, and slip through the shadows unseen. He had a chance of passing the guards unnoticed and finally leaving Baldur’s Gate behind.
But he didn’t move. He sat for hours in the same position, trembling like a cornered rabbit—helpless and fragile. In the heavy silence, broken only by the muffled noise of the tavern below and the occasional creak of beds, Astarion waited for the moment someone would break down his door, burst into the room, and drag him off to be sold to that mysterious nobleman.
Days passed in this torment of anticipation. Then Astarion realised, with horror and a strange, sick longing, that part of him was waiting for the moment of capture, for the inevitable confrontation with his master. Would Cazador greet him with cruelty or with venomous courtesy? Would he mock and humiliate him first, or flay him outright? Or perhaps he’d call him a filthy whore, tear off his clothes, unlace those fine trousers, and penetrate him in one merciless thrust. Astarion would scream with pain and shame—and then, at last, admit to himself what he had always known: he had been waiting for this. For him. For the only one who had ever truly known him. Better than anyone. Better than himself.
And so, when one night the silence was shattered with a knock at his door—followed by the violent pounding of fists—Astarion didn’t even try to run.