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Chapter Text

The clocks were striking midnight when the void came back for him. 

Before the bells rang, before the void, Astarion and Tav were walking through a tiny alley in the southern ward of Waterdeep, debating the potential location of Gale’s tower. They knew it had to be near the coast because the fool would wax poetic about the whisper of waves as he studied his Netherese curse. That was years ago, of course, but wizards had a way of keeping their towers sealed until they were well and truly finished with them. Surely he’d left behind some kind of lead on how to contact him. They’d tried all other methods, and it wasn’t like they were well acquainted with many others who might have access to advanced resurrection spells.

Their wizard went missing once the crown was retrieved following the Illithid Crisis, likely canoodling with his goddess among the stardust in some other plane entirely. Though not a follower, Tav tried praying to Mystra first… but as with all gods but Bhaal, he’d received no answer. This left them with few other options beyond breaking into Gale’s former home and hoping that the man hadn’t set too many traps before he’d left. Any wizard tower would be a dangerous game for a thief, but Gale was on-again, off-again lover to the goddess of magic. They both knew that he wasn’t the kind of mark one should casually steal from, despite Astarion’s reassurances on the matter. Besides, they weren’t even stealing. They didn’t even know where to look.

“He’s nothing if not ostentatious,” the pale elf said. “His tower is probably gilded in gold and glittering with pixie dust. We’ll just look for the most sparkles.”

Tav’s sigh could compose a thousand poems, and Astarion would be lying if he hadn’t considered writing a few of them since they’d met. Cazador had ensured that he learned the talent in another life, and they both learned that given the proper motivation, limericks could skate along Astarion’s tongue like a fine wine. It had helped to lure more than a few marks into the dark with him.

‘Ode to my Bhaalbabe,’ he’d call it. The way Tav’s dark eyes crinkled and his jaw set into a firm little line held some of Astarion’s favorite verses. Then there were the fists, curling, uncurling, fidgeting with his pockets, and skating along the harsh stone walls of the alleyway. Tav’s fists could never quite sit still when he was frustrated, too used to gutting any who made him feel that way. Though the Urges were long gone, some habits were not. Astarion loved to tease them out, to glimpse a peak at the terrible demon he’d fallen in love with.

A demon determined to find Astarion a cure for his vampirism, either by scroll or wizard. Gale was their best bet on the matter because even if he couldn’t provide a spell, he had a direct line to the goddess who could potentially offer one. Astarion had his reservations, of course--he wasn’t even sure he  wanted  to be cured, because absolutely nothing came without cost, especially spells of that potency. He’d long learned his lesson after the Rite. It was better to be content with the way things were, so long as Tav continued to walk in the dark with him. 

For however long that lasts, Cazador’s sniveling whisper reminded him .

“And the traps, Star? I want to find him as much as you do, but there has to be another way.” Gale might never mean them harm, but it wasn’t likely his security systems could tell the difference.

“Surely you jest.” Astarion wrinkled his nose as if already looking at the pathetic hodgepodge science projects that Gale could possibly call ‘traps.’ “He doesn’t know the first thing about a good snare.” When Tav expressed his doubt with a helpless shake of his hands, Astarion whined, “You wound me, love! A little bit of trust wouldn’t hurt here. I’ve disarmed countless contraptions for you and your clumsy feet since we've met, and your toes owe me their lives! Gods, remember that arsehole’s basement in Rivington? What was his name? Anton?”

Tav was ready to strangle his lover until he stopped moving, but instead, he relented with, “Arfur.” He might fulfill that fantasy later, once the sun came up. Assuming Astarion would let him.

“Yes,” the vampire chirped. “A basement full of teddy bear bombs! And did you lose any of your cute little digits?”

They were deep into the alley now. It smelled of bodily fluids and rot, and its dark shadows were perfect for a bit of mugging should the occasion strike. While others might have felt wary in such territory, especially at night, the two believed they had earned the right to be careless. This path was the quickest way towards the dock ward, and they’d followed it naturally where it funneled in from the main marketplace. The alley began quite large but gradually narrowed to a tiny width as a butcher shop and grocer squeezed tightly together. Most buildings in the southern ward of Waterdeep were bulging with life, like a barrel of fish full to bursting. 

It took a long moment before Tav confessed, “All accounted for.”

“Despite your best efforts to the contrary, each of your wonderfully dexterous limbs remain intact.” Astarion wriggled his fingers, then rolled his eyes so wide they might have popped out. “Besides, I was down there for  hours  making that place safe after you insisted that those thieving little devil spawn might find them, gods forbid--”

“Which, thank you by the way--”

“--so trust me when I tell you that I know what I’m doing.”

Tav stopped suddenly and peered deep into his lover’s crimson soul, looking for some apparent secret that Astarion wouldn’t confess to otherwise. He had far too many of those. The vampire felt exposed at that look, but he couldn’t bring himself to mind. Tav had earned the right to see it and knew too much already. 

“I… I believe in you, Star,” he said seriously. “I always have, and I always will.”

“So very dramatic.” Astarion’s little smile was only ever meant for the two of them, sincere and sweet as marshmallow candies. ”Now tell me that you love me and won’t underestimate me ever again .  And  mean  it this time, please.”

Tav darted a quick kiss to Astarion’s cheek, chaste and sweet in all the ways they weren’t. He took the vampire’s icy hands in his own, pulling him close, and Astarion relished that warmth like a sunbathing cat. Waterdeep’s early winter was still cooler than he’d like, and his hands in particular felt sore in the sharp chill. It hadn’t snowed yet, at least, and the roads had proven clear enough. Tav hadn’t wanted to wait until spring, damn him.

“I’m sorry,” the beautiful bastard mumbled into Astarion’s fluffy hair. “I love you and won’t underestimate you ever again.”

“Thank you, my dear. Give us a hug.”

Tav did so and then pulled away with a frown moments later. “But…” And with that, the mood was ruined. Tav’s strong, calloused hand slipped away from him, and gestured vaguely towards the dock ward, to Gale’s tower, to reckless endangerment. “But also, I just think--”

“ Ugh. ” Astarion continued their trek, resisting the urge to pull out his pristine white curls. He worked hard to keep his hair perfect, and it wasn’t worth the frustration. Behind him, he heard a bottle clatter against granite. Birds fluttered in panic high above them, spooked by something he couldn’t care to learn. Not then, at least. “What’s the worst that could happen? We die horribly?”

“ Yes .”

“At least it’ll be entertaining!” Suddenly, Astarion burst into giggles. They were musical and pitched with irony. He bounced on the balls of his feet and said, “Imagine Gale’s horror when he finally comes back. Ha!”

Despite himself, Tav smiled in response. A horrified Gale finding their corpses in his home would be a hilarious way to end things. “Sure, but you can’t die yet. Not until you see the sun again. We agreed.”

“First off, you’re two centuries too late. Also, you  are  my sun.” It was an old, familiar argument. Astarion flicked his wrist with the cheeky flair that he knew often drove Tav wild. “You domesticated me, now you’ve got to deal with my laziness. I’m content now, darling. A whole new spawn, one would say.”

A rush of footsteps on the roof above them. A creak of metal against stone. A bum behind a wall of trash cursed softly into his moonshine. A rat squeaked in panic and then crawled into a crack in the wall of the grocery. These were the things that neither of them noticed.

Tav inhaled the scent of drying meat from the nearby butcher and pinched the bridge of his nose. “So we’re just looking for a cure to pass the time, is that it?”

“Precisely,” Astarion beamed back. “Because there is no  cure, my dear, it just is. You know this as well as I, but if it keeps your silly need for adventure sated, then I will follow you to the ends of Faerûn. I wouldn’t have my little sunshine bored, you know.”

The clocktower rang for midnight. The bells chimed throughout the southern district, which never slept its ceaseless industrial groan. 

“It’s true. I do hate being bor--”

Void. The blink of an eye, the guttering of a candle. A sharp breath blew out the flame of life and light all around him, and he could smell the smoke of it in his nostrils. Nothing but black and black and black and  silence . Between the beats of Tav’s heart, the world winked from existence. Astarion lurched in confusion, clawing at his own throat when he realized that he couldn’t hear himself scream. He could feel someone’s grip squeeze his wrist painfully tight. They tugged him towards some random direction, and he tripped over his own feet, tumbling to the ground.

He could smell Tav’s blood. He could feel it on his fingers where they scraped along the cobbled street. He was still in the alley. That’s what a tiny portion of his brain whispered to him. No, no, he was back in the tomb, the rest insisted. This had all been nothing but a long, carefully constructed dream to escape from the tedium. The nautiloid, the Illithid Crisis, the Rite of Ascension, the… many, many years of torment afterward when Cazador finally let him crawl free of the dark. He must have hallucinated the whole thing. He did that sometimes. He went mad down there, he knew he did. Trapped in the dark, he raced through sunlit meadows, arm in arm with valiant heroes who would save him over and over again, many of them wearing faces exactly like Wyll’s. They would whisk him away in arms of iron, Cazador’s head dangling from a hook like a trophy. 

But Wyll hadn’t come, nor the tedious clones of his heroic brothers and sisters. Cazador had. He could hear the scraping of stone against stone as the lid was finally shoved aside, and he breathed in cool air for the first time in three hundred sixty-five days. The moonlight was scalding on his skin. A fluttering heartbeat rumbled through his bones, owed to a tiny creature that leaped into his lap with pure trust in its eyes. Then there was fur between his teeth and desperate mewing in his arms, little claws digging into his skin, ripping into him as he--as he--

But he couldn’t move in the tomb. And he was alone down there. A hand grabbed the back of his jacket, roughly dragging him somewhere safe. Astarion reached up behind him and clutched the arm that it was attached to. He didn’t know if it was Tav or some other enemy, but it was a lifeline all the same. He knew he must be whining low and deep in his throat, that terrible sound an animal makes when it would gladly accept death just to make it stop. Cazador loved that sound.

He could still smell the cat’s blood, ripe with terror. What had he named it? Kordae? Kirryn? Kol. K-something. It should have known better than to linger near a vampire’s tomb.  Silly thing waited for you, boy.

No. This wasn’t feline. He brought the sticky blood to his lips and licked it. It tasted like Seldarine secrets, with hints of poetry and bloody rituals. Tav. He used that to try to ground himself, to believe that the alley, Gale of Waterdeep, the entire war, the bloody chamber with Cazador’s cold body beneath him, the dagger that he’d plunged into his master over and over and over again, it had been real. He was dead, he was dead, the monster was most definitely dead and never coming back. That tomb couldn’t haunt him anymore. He refused.

Tav had held him that night while he shivered like a leaf in the wind. 

Inhale. Hold. Savor. Tav’s blood had carried hints of divinity once, but he’d lost it when Bhaal stole it back from him. A note of something  special  remained in its place, something that Withers had put there among the pieces Bhaal left behind. It smelled like a savory meal on a winter’s night and tasted like the sweet, bubbly wine Cazador would toast with when addressing his doomed party guests. To the pleasures of the flesh and never knowing pain again. To fortune. To grand finales. To death itself.

Desperate hands cradled his skull, and rough lips collided with his own. Calloused thumbs rubbed his tears away. This was real. It had to be. 

But then they were gone, and they didn’t come back.

He knew he must be wailing like a child, but he couldn’t hear it. There was nothing but the impassive quiet, the unrelenting dark, the cold stone beneath him and above him and all around him, trapped by the terror that had been instilled in him so long ago. He grabbed at the wall of a nearby building for any sign of life--from the smell, it had to be the butcher--and felt a sharp wooden splinter slice his palm. He could smell his blood now, mingling with Tav’s. 

To be a vampire afraid of the dark… that was something altogether new, though not for Astarion. After the tomb, he just couldn’t bear it anymore. For years, even a dark room made him shiver, and sometimes Godey would use that to torment him without laying a single bony finger. The asshole would wink out all the candles in the kennel and stuff Astarion into very tiny spaces until he begged to be whipped instead.

The Master thought it was endearing. He let Astarion sleep with a lit candle if he earned the privilege, remarking ‘I adore this pathetic, empty-headed boy of mine.’ Cazador had missed his favorite toy in the year that he went without, and he never let Astarion forget it. After the tomb, he’d slept in the Master’s chamber for a while, and they made up for lost time together. He was bathed, preened, caressed, and doted upon. He was stabbed, whipped, caned, bitten, raped. Astarion moved sluggishly in the wake of it, lacking any of his usual grace. Cazador slowly fed him rat by rat as the days progressed, never quite enough to let him walk without stumbling, nor to quiet the constant trembling in his fingertips. It seemed that Cazador liked to keep Astarion weak, and relished the precious moments when his toy would finally become catatonic, pliant, and perfectly submissive. Astarion still dreamt of faces like Wyll’s, only to wake in some new, fresh hell every single time. The tomb had trained him how to shut down and submit without complaint. When he did, Cazador’s touch became a gentle one, professing a disgusting, twisted love that neither of them knew how to feel.

And sometimes, he felt it back.

Most of the city lords knew that Cazador was a vampire, but hardly cared to address it so long as he paid fealty to them. Astarion was his favorite to share with the most degenerate among them, often using such exchanges to gather even more power. The Master would sit in his high-backed chair sipping blood from a wine glass as Astarion lay spread in his bed, being peeled, prodded, ripped open,  touched.  Hands on his legs, his arms, in his mouth, in his body. Sometimes they were gentle, and sometimes they were… not.

‘Your boy is a wonder. Thank you for sharing him.’

‘He is a pretty little thing, it’s true. I’m very proud of him.’  Not proud of  him. Proud to own him. The most prized of possessions, a cherished thing to be broken, remade, broken, remade, broken… 

Eventually, Astarion regained enough strength to piss Cazador off again. It took years, weak as he was after the tomb, but it finally earned him a reprieve from his master’s chambers. Blessedly, he was sent back to the kennels for a vicious round of torture, so brutal that Astarion couldn’t even remember what he’d done to earn it. And then he was forced to hunt marks again. Those who knew called him the most prolific whore of Baldur’s Gate, and Astarion wore it with no small amount of pride. It was the only accomplishment that he could cling to in an otherwise dark and terrible night.

He must have curled into himself in the void, pressed up against some corner in the walls of the alley. Hands were suddenly touching him, gentle but startling. He flailed, forgetting where he was and what had happened. They were too armored to be Tav’s. Cold metal gauntlets, the body wrapped in hard armor when he punched back in his panic. Another body joined the first, then dragged him forcibly out of his hiding place. Despite his squirming, Astarion was half-carried somewhere. And then burned.

Hours must have passed because he knew the burn of sunlight like an old lover. He must have shrieked, surely. This was a deep-rooted and instinctual fear, one that no vampire could help. To die in a rushing river would be preferable. A scuffle, and the arms holding him nearly dropped him. He was shoved back into the shade and pressed up against a wall. 

Someone had their hand around his throat. Choking him. He didn’t need to breathe and didn’t realize he was even doing it until the air was trapped inside of him. He was roughly shaken by the neck like he were a dog in need of discipline. He hissed angrily, a sudden fire swelling up from his belly, bubbling free of his fear. He finally remembered his daggers--if the alley was real (had to be, had to be,  had to be ), then he was still armed. His left hand found Rhapsody’s hilt with familiar ease, a trophy of freedom that never failed to soothe him from his nightmares. A while back, he’d enchanted it to poison those that it cut, and he slammed the blade into the arm that held him, praying that it would kill them. He was released.

Then a spell shivered through him, locking his bones into place. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t--

A second spell joined the first. The choking hand finally released him, and he tumbled down like a bag of bones. His cheek pressed into the filthy cobbled street as dreams stole him from one moment to the next. The last thing he felt was a muzzle being forced around his mouth, his wrists bound behind him with thick iron shackles.

Chapter Text

Lieutenant Velora Vexxus was not the prettiest of women, or so her mother often said. The complaints were as numerous as the stars and etched into her mind like a burn behind her retinas. Her large nose would drive away any proper suitor, and her thick, meaty arms were more acquainted with lifting heavy swords rather than the delicate, embroidered handbags of the other noblewomen. She had odd scales that ran down her body in strange and unwieldy ways and an odd forked tongue that flicked about her pointed teeth in distracting hypnotic patterns. Despite her parents being human, she’d had horns at birth, but they were filed to stubby lumps as a baby. They popped up beneath her long, shaggy red hair like the promise of something more, and her bangs never quite managed to cover their presence no matter how artfully she arranged them. 

But despite the near-daily reminder that Velora was a terrible disappointment to her breeding, those who worked under her strict command in the Watch had come to love her dearly. They often claimed she was “actually quite the lovely lass once you can stomach all that bloody moralizing.” And that was fair enough. She spent an awful lot of energy swimming through the murky waters of this corrupt city in search of good moral standing, and she'd yet to find it. 

As the central trading hub of the northern cities in Faerûn and a significant educational center for the magically inclined, the local dialect of Waterdeep held over sixty-two different words for ‘commerce,’ ninety-six concerning ‘magic,’ and only one for ‘charity.’ Velora was a minority among her kind, but certainly not the only one--after an entire career doing her part to fight every last injustice the city had to offer, she wasn’t simply tired of the careless cruelty she'd witnessed, but  angry . She felt that if she could introduce a bit more nuance to the discussion, then perhaps people would start to care when the homeless began to clutter their precious market stalls. Instead, yet more hostile architecture was erected daily in the hopes of driving the rabble back up into Field Ward ‘where they belonged.’ Not even the Watch went up there, but she’d chased more than a few cases into the bowels of those cold, cluttered streets over the years. She'd long learned that the hungry didn’t stop drooling once they left the line of sight, and hungry people were the most dangerous and unpredictable.

Velora loved Waterdeep more than most, but she sorely wished that it could be the glistening towers and starlit streets it was known for, and not… what she’d seen at its roots. During her career, she regularly fought against cruel, pointless laws and the corrupt nature of the Black Robes, but even her considerable standing could only do so much in the shadow of a superior. Too many victims went unspoken in the wake of their games, and someday soon she’d drive herself mad trying to save them all.

Today could very well be that day. She was on escort duty again, babysitting yet another Robe with cruel notions far beyond his station. He was of considerable rank, which made it all the worse. The highest among them answered only to the sixteen Lords, serving as their physical bodies within the city. They were entitled magistrates who knew the law intimately and held the authority to rule over any case at any time for any reason. Like the Lords, each Robe's identity was a closely guarded secret, and they donned simpler black masks to emulate their mysterious masters. They also used code names within their security detail, and the one she had been assigned to today was called ‘Nox.’ Nox, it turned out, held the personality of a swamp hag’s backend. 

“Gods, but you are ugly,” he said. His first words to her, and unfortunately not his last. 

Resisting the urge to punch him and thrust her entire career into chaos, she saluted back with perfect precision and hid her contempt behind a pristine, professional stare. “Sir.” 

Nox gestured his gloved hand behind Velora, where some of her best men stood ramrod straight in the presence of divine authority. Their discipline made her proud. “Are these slovenly idiots your men, Lieutenant Vexxus?”

“Yes sir.” Don’t punch him. “Best of South Ward, sir.” That meant something as far as she was concerned, and Nox could screw himself with his opinions on the matter. The southern ward of Waterdeep housed its densest population, and the entire area was bulging with life from an endless flood of visitors constantly pouring in from South Gate, as well as the many different tradesmen, artisans, and merchants who constantly sought to take advantage. The area held the most demand from the Watch on any given day, as the local population outnumbered their own far more severely than the other districts. The fact that her streets were still relatively clean most nights was nothing short of a gods-given miracle, and clear evidence of the good work they did.

Nox was not convinced, but she hadn’t been expecting him to care. “Is that so…” His stern gaze scanned them all from behind his featureless black mask, then turned back to her as if bored he couldn’t get a rise from any of them. She’d trained them well to tolerate such bullshit. “We’re going to patrol the Narrows today,” he said. “Bring four of your best and come with me.”

“Yes sir.”

They followed Nox in a familiar pattern, three at the flank, two at either side, their tread slightly lagging to let the man lead them wherever he liked. Escort duty was Velora’s least favorite part of her job, but given how some of the Robes went mad with power when left unchecked, she preferred going herself even when she didn’t need to. Before her tenure, more than a few Watch cadets were murdered for bowing improperly, speaking out of turn, or looking even remotely like prey. Many of them were a cruel and fickle bunch, and frankly, she hated all of them.

At first, their patrol passed by like any other quiet night, and the men who’d left with her marched in lazy, meandering patterns that spoke of their quiet boredom. But as the clock tower struck midnight, they heard terrible screaming from somewhere deep in the market district. It wailed alongside the deafening gongs of Old Tor and shivered down Velora’s spine with a foreboding omen. With her stomach lurching up into her throat, she raced ahead of Nox to protect him and investigate the commotion. 

A thunderous  bang  rippled all around them, nearly knocking her off her feet. She heard her men stumble back as raw, potent power from some sort of spell thrummed through the surrounding buildings with an ominous groan of unhappy stone and timber. A terrifying moment of silence settled as each of the hairs on Velora’s neck stood on end. Old Tor’s happy tones were muffled as the world held its breath for a brief moment. Then glass shattered all around them. She felt a shard graze her cheek. Someone was screaming like a banshee. She instinctively spread her arms wide over Nox, but he roughly batted her aside and marched straight towards the commotion. She ran ahead of him once again, still determined not to file her first report on a dead Robe. 

“HAHAHA! REMEMBER ME?”

It was the mad roar of a woman from somewhere deep in the shadows of an alleyway. There was a negative hiss in response--male, adult. He sounded impassive. Beyond that, the terrible screaming continued in pitchy, panicked breaths, lurching out of the victim’s throat from somewhere deep in his core. Another man? Possibly young, though it was hard to tell.

There was a rough scuffle, the trade of blows, and metal clanging against metal. She heard a grunt of pain. A stabbing, maybe. And then another flash of light as spells were traded back and forth. Rubble clattered and tumbled in the chaos, and innocent civilians still awake shrieked in panic as they fled the area.

Velora’s boots skidded along the cobblestones when she reached the alley, just in time to see a slender drow with a long dark braid dragging another man to safety. The victim was very pale, with shock-white hair that seemed to glow in the pitch dark of the alley. He was curled in on himself, clearly in a great deal of pain. From her distance, she couldn’t see any wounds on him, though there was blood streaked among the cobblestones. From the glass? From the fighting? It was too dark to tell.

“This is the City Watch! Halt!!”

From what she could tell, the victim seemed to be an elf, likely not too deep into his first century. His screams finally quieted to desperate whimpers when the drow pulled him into a kiss. He wiped tear-streaked cheeks with a loving caress and muttered something soft into the other’s ear. A confession of love, perhaps, or maybe even an apology. Only the shadows knew for certain.

“Faex,” Nox cursed behind her. “I know that face.” He seemed to tremble with quiet rage of his own just then, and Velora quirked a brow at him. “Sanguis proditor.” It took her a moment to translate the old undercommon dialect: blood traitor.

Nox seemed to be another drow, or at least, he spoke like one. She shoved that particular detail into her mental box for later, and rushed towards the two men, shouting, “I won’t ask again! Tell me what’s going on, or I’ll arrest the lot of you!”

The drow in the alley let his partner go and then raced after the woman who’d attacked them both. He left the elven man bereft of an anchor, and the poor kid slid to the ground like a broken doll. He stared off into the void with no sense of clarity to the world around him, but at least he was alive. Small mercies, and all that.

“For the love of Torm,  stop!! ” She chased after the man, her men and Nox hot on her heels. “I just want to talk!”

It was a new moon that night, and with winter storms slowly gathering overhead, it was too dark to see much further beyond her nose. She couldn’t quite tell where the drow had gone, but she heard him shriek with rage before another huge explosion rocked the alley. Velora was knocked backward in the wake of it, her breath punching up out of her lungs in protest. This time, she was certain the raw magical power they’d felt was coming from the drow himself. Light exploded outward around him, bathing his form with rippling energy. 

Just beyond him was the silhouette of a woman. Tall, black as a shadow, and spewing righteous fury at her mark. “You’ve forgotten, but there is no forgetting, Taverine! Not for us and never for me! It’s finally time, time, time-- ”

“What did you do to Astarion?!”

She chuckled a mad, aching thing as if the sound had been dragged over cut glass. “Nothing that he hasn’t experienced already. On and on and on we went… oh yes!” Her voice shuddered towards the end of it, suddenly overcome by an onslaught of divine ecstasy. Or agony. It was hard to tell. “So many times. What a little whore.”

The energy around ‘Taverine’ continued to ripple with malevolent intent. Velora could feel the raw, crimson hatred of it. The spell, whatever it was, snaked around his form as he jabbed a finger in the direction of the shadowed woman. 

“Die,” he uttered. The word was a death knell that reverberated along the walls of the alley like a living thing, causing the entire world to shiver again. Velora felt murderous intent sink into her bones and linger there. She knew that should it come to blows, neither she nor her unit could take this man. He could kill them all with a thought.

But whatever magic was building within him, the strange woman did not allow him to cast it. She giggled with apparent delight and snapped her fingers. The two vanished like bloody smoke.

Velora slashed her hand toward Nox and demanded, “What in the nine bloody hells just happened? Who was that? You recognized him!”

Despite her clear insubordination, Nox said nothing. He slowly walked by her like she were little but air, carefully treading further down the alley where the two had vanished. Her second, a loyal old dwarf named Helric, prodded for her attention.

“Sir, the victim… he needs a master cleric. I believe he’s been cursed.”

She immediately spun on her heel and marched towards the young elf, who was silent as a mouse now. He was still staring listlessly up at the stars as if lost in the sea of them. Catatonia. “Type?”

“Not sure,” Helric muttered. “Something wicked, though. Looks permanent. Some kind of fear spell is my guess, combined with something that limits the senses. We’ll need someone from Blackstaff, it's real advanced shit.”

“Is he physically wounded?”

“We haven’t touched him yet, sir. We… we don’t want to scare him.”

“It… might be too late for that, Helric.”

Her boys fluttered back a bit as she carefully knelt before the young man, recalling his potential name. Astarion. It meant ‘little star’ if her elvish was correct. Someone loved this boy… or had, once upon a time. 

He was clutching his knees with his face buried between them, his back pressed hard against the wall where he’d been left behind. He was very slender, but there was corded muscle to his tight frame, and she was surprised to find him armed. Daggers, apparently forgotten, were still clipped to either hip. His clothes were well-kept and whispered traces of nobility, and he didn’t look abused other than the curse itself… though she remembered the word ‘whore’ and narrowed her gaze a bit. She prayed to any who would listen that this was not yet another runaway who had been stolen from his family and sold into the slave circuits. He looked exactly the type and was entirely too young for it. She knew enough of elven culture to recognize a young man when she met one.

Velora’s tone lost its edge with some effort, growing soft as the viola petals her men often named her after. “Astarion, was it? Hi there. You’re safe now. It’s going to be alright.” Not so much as a twitch. “My friends call me Viola,” she said gently. “Can you hear me, sweetie?”

When that didn’t gain a response either, she snapped her fingers right in front of him. Then she clapped her hands next to his ear. Whistled.

Absolutely nothing. 

“Shit.”

“Agreed. He’s either catatonic or blind and deaf,” Helric muttered. His thick, dwarven accent slipped through as sudden irritation made him pace back and forth behind her. “Hells, probably both. Fuckin’ magic. Always with the curses. They never play fair. Rather a blade to my eyes than fuckin’ magic.”

“Could at least stab a man ‘fore you broke him,” another added. “This is brutal, Viola.” There was a grimace towards Nox as he marched back towards them. “Uh, sir.”

Knowing that she’d startle him either way, Velora crept closer to Astarion and gently grasped his shoulder. He reacted badly, of course, and flailed his arms in panic. He managed to punch her in the jaw with a surprisingly good hook, and she careened backward in stunned silence for a moment. But then he whined in terror, completely defeated. She tutted at him like one would to any child in pain, instantly forgiving him. Helric joined her, and together they managed to lift Astarion from the ground and carry him back toward the city proper.

Behind them, Nox cast a dawn spell to bathe the entire area in sunlight, likely intending to examine the alley in greater detail.

Astarion screamed.

His skin began to peel away into ash, and he lit on fire. They both nearly dropped him in their panic, and Velora shouted, “Nox!!  Dispel it! Please, sir! ”

The light winked out a moment later, and it was only then, with the boy shuddering in her arms like a wounded babe, that she noticed the bite mark on his neck. His teary eyes were a deep, dark crimson.

“Vampire,” Helric hissed. “Can’t say I saw this one coming.”

Nox closed the distance between them and added, “A spawn to be precise. And so very far from home.”

From one moment to the next, Astarion was grabbed by the neck and shoved into the brick wall of the nearby butcher shop. Nox seemed in no mood for mercy tonight and shook the boy roughly. Velora shouted in protest behind him, but her superior ignored her like a lion would to a fruit fly. 

“Cazador’s little pet,” he purred. “How quaint.” Nox’s tongue clicked in his mouth, something soft and mocking. “Squirms just like I remember it, too.” Velora’s eyes narrowed as Nox spoke with disgusting intimacy. Whatever history these two shared, it was dangerous territory to demand the details right now. 

“Tell me, boy. What was the sanguis proditor doing in Waterdeep?”

Astarion scrabbled at the fingers that cut off his breathing and tried to peel himself free. It was obvious that he couldn’t hear Nox and had no idea what was happening, but that didn’t stop the bastard from shaking him again. 

“Maybe this is for the best,” Nox hissed, continuing his wicked train of thought. “You always did have a nasty little tongue, and frankly, I don’t care to hear it at the moment.”

Astarion finally woke up a bit, apparently regaining some of the fire in his belly. With stolen breath still stuttering in his throat, his left hand went for his dagger before either Velora or Nox could stop him, and he thrust brutally right through Nox’s forearm.

To his credit, the Black Robe merely grunted softly. He released his captive and cast a holding spell with the blade still stuck through his arm, the magic flowing gently between them both in fine silvery threads. He hummed as one would to a particularly ornery cat, his tone much too familiar and incredibly demeaning. It took every last bit of willpower Velora had not to question him. She knew it would ultimately be pointless, and Astarion would only suffer further for it.

A modified sleeping spell followed. Astarion froze in place, a cry of fear spilling from his lips again before it was promptly cut off. He tumbled like dead weight, his forehead cracking roughly against the cobblestones. 

Nox sighed with no small amount of disgust and suddenly yanked the blade free from his arm like one might a splinter. Blood streamed in rivers down his wrist, and he didn’t seem to care when it began to drip all over his robes. The silver blade was a wicked-looking thing, toothy with spiral cuts, and laced with something deadly if the purple hue were any indication. “Poison,” he muttered. “A new addition. What a petty little creature.”

“Sir, I can try to cleanse your wound--”

“No need.”

The expression he wore as he stared down at Astarion was entirely unknowable. His wound continued to bleed, and Nox seemed unconcerned about it or the unknown poison now coursing through his system. To Velora’s men, he ordered, “Bind and muzzle the beast. Take him to the dungeons and leave him there to rot. I will hunt down his murderous lover and bring him to justice.” When Velora looked ready to argue, Nox glared at her with something truly terrifying gleaming from behind the mask. He added, “Do not cleanse him of the curse until I order it. Is that understood, Vexxus?” 

“...Yes sir,” she said quietly. She dipped her eyes towards the ground, knowing which battles should be fought, and which should be surrendered for the sake of her life. For the sake of her men’s lives. “I’ll arrange for blood to be delivered. We can ask the butcher here--”

“Don’t be droll, Lieutenant Vexxus. It will hardly kill him to starve.”

Velora might be a soft-hearted fool, but she had no intention of letting this go. Something rotten had slipped into her heart that night, and his name was Nox. The very sound of it infuriated her now. This wasn’t a sorority, this was South Ward and she was its keeper. The others could play their petty games, but she refused to participate. She  would  report him to the Lords, and they  would  listen to reason. For the first time in her entire career.

Her men must have realized her rebellious tension halfway back from their journey, because one of them quietly slipped away, treading back towards the butcher with coin in hand.

It was one thing to suffer ego from these monsters. It was another to witness blatant corruption and the ongoing, horrendous abuse of an obvious victim. Regardless of Astarion’s race, it was clear that he had been wronged in that alley, and it rubbed her raw to treat him like anyone other than a client in need of care. This was why many in her unit gladly served in the first place. Others could bend towards lethargy and abuse all they liked, but Vexxus’s boys were honest to a fault, and she was proud of the work they did. Nearly every person in her unit came from a broken home or some other awful place, and sometimes it felt like she was the only one in a city of thirty thousand willing to treat them like people. Because someone had to. Waterdeep would fall into the sea if she didn’t.

Gods, but she was furious. Astarion’s status forced Velora to reconsider her loyalties and career path for the thousandth time, and she knew that she wasn’t the only one within her unit to do so. No one else would care to help Astarion, as he had been abandoned by the whims of Nox and the other Robes, many of whose morality stopped at the lining of their own pockets. She couldn’t cleanse Astarion of his curse without being removed from office, but she refused to starve him. There was also a way to communicate with the poor kid, to at least reassure him that he wasn’t alone… but she wasn’t happy about the risk it would incur. They’d have to proceed carefully. Perhaps he knew what sanguis proditor meant. It was clear she needed to find out what Nox was up to before this poison within their ranks spread any further, and killed the lot of them. 

They took Astarion to the darkest and quietest section of the prison, a cell with a loose brick on the northern wall that Velora knew full well could potentially lead to an escape route at some point. It was a drab little thing of faceless stone, chain hooks, and a mildewed cot covered in ancient rags. They didn’t remove the shackles binding his wrists behind him, for his safety as well as their own. They also didn’t remove the muzzle, knowing full well that fangs were the only weapon even a spawn needed to kill most people.

He was entirely unresponsive when they sat him in the far corner, his skull thumping gently backward, eyes still shut, and wandering dark, terrible dreams. 

“I’ve got his weapons and other effects,” Helric said softly, somewhere to her right. Velora couldn’t stop staring at Astarion’s frail form, a bitter taste sliding around on the back of her tongue. “But I let him keep his ring.”

“Marital?” She recalled that man, ‘Taverine,’ kissing him before running off. 

“Seems to be,” Helric said. “I don’t think it’s worth taking.” There was an underlying understanding that drifted between them: hopefully, its presence would give Astarion some comfort. Hushed, he added, “Pray to the gods that the prison guards won’t spot the thing.”

“So long as Astarion remains passive, it’s likely they won’t even look at him. That might be the only silver lining in this whole debacle.” She knew the guards liked to play with their toys sometimes. Velora fought hard against the practice, of course, but she was only one woman and there was only so much she could do on any given day. If Astarion proved to be boring prey, he would be safe. 

She knelt beside the crumpled heap of vampire and carefully nudged his shoulder forward so that she could reach his bound wrists, and took his ringed hand to examine it closer. The fingers were slack, cold, and delicate. They had bitten nails and callused areas likely gained from the consistent use of a bowstring. The ring in question was on his left middle finger, cuddled deep against the webbing like it never left him. It was a silvery blue color and etched in dark runes. They parted for tiny elvish writing: If lost, return to Tav or Halsin.

Velora wasn’t the most magically inclined among her peers, but she’d been practicing after realizing how useful cleric abilities were regarding her job description. Even with limited training, she could sense the flow of the weave in that innocent little ring. “I think it’s enchanted,” she muttered. “We’ll leave it, though.” If it helped him get out of her hair, she’d gladly look the other way.

She darted a look to the two men behind Helric with that stern, motherly expression they knew to obey without question. “Get him better sheets,” she said. “Clean ones that don’t have rips in them.”

“Sir.”

“And… when Samis gets back with the blood, have him give it to Helric. We’ll need to be careful. I don’t want the guards seeing us feeding our charge.”

“Understood, sir.”

Hours later, she found herself back in the alley, combing through various debris for any kind of lead. The path was still deserted, civilians not yet willing to tread where signs of violence still lingered. She wanted as few eyes as possible to witness the curiosity she held far beyond her station, and thus it was only her and Helric on this one. As far as she was concerned, solving this case was her top priority until an outright murder crossed her doorstep. Another one, that is.

There wasn’t much to go on. She’d found a scrap of bloody cloth farther down the alley where the woman had been, and she pocketed it for safekeeping. Had to be the woman’s blood, or so she hoped. Most wouldn’t get much out of it, but they did have a vampire on hand. Maybe he knew the scent? 

There were no traces of the spell that had whisked the woman and Tav away. She spotted a few half-empty bottles of liquor and a cute little rat hole that led into the grocery, but nothing else too sordid. Nothing that pointed an obvious blinking sign towards the direction the two had gone. 

“Damn.”

Helric stumbled up behind her, out of breath from running. “Viola, we might have a witness.”

Her heart lurched with hope. “Indeed?”

“You know Batty Ben? The vet from Baldur’s Gate?” A bum who lived in the trash around here, feeding from willing hands who took pity on his war stories. He was a sad survivor of the Illithid Crisis who’d lost his entire family after they’d been turned into mindflayers. According to legend, he’d killed his daughter with his bare hands during the height of the final battle. No one survived a thing like that without going mad, and Batty Ben was no exception.

The Watch didn’t have a tap on every single homeless soul in the wards, of course, but Velora made it a point to keep her eye on special cases. Batty Ben was the violent and unpredictable sort. Sometimes, he’d suffer waking nightmares that made him think the people around him had sprouted tentacles, and he’d go for his knife. Her boys had been called in more than once to convince him that the war was over and the brain was dead. Poor man could truly benefit from a mind healer, but there weren’t many in Waterdeep who took on cases like this for free. Aside from the bright-eyed bushy-tailed students of Blackstaff looking for test subjects, anyway.

When she nodded, Helric continued, “He was sleeping here. In this alley, I mean. Ben’s got an agreement with Nelly, the lass who runs the grocer. She’s another refugee from the Gate, so they’ve become kindred spirits I guess.”

“He was here last night?”

“Pretty certain of it. She seemed real worried about him, said he’s been MIA all morning. She left him with a few bottles of whiskey less than an hour before the attack.”

“Then we find Ben and get him to talk,” Velora sighed. “He’s our only lead.”

“Easier said than done. No one hides out here better than the homeless dregs, ma’am.”

He was right, of course. 

It was three days of appeals, distractions, countless letters, and thousands of dead ends before Velora was finally able to return to the dungeons and visit Astarion. Their hunt for Ben had gone completely dry, and she was frustrated. Nox hadn’t returned either, and her appeal to the Lords went unanswered. She found herself caught between letting Astarion continue to suffer and a dishonorable discharge. To say that she wasn’t sleeping was the least of it.

Helric had been feeding the man as quickly and quietly as he could, offering a nice warm bottle of pig’s blood every morning. He would dart in and out of the cell between the prison guard’s daily shift change, and seemed to have the whole process down to a science now. He was fairly confident he hadn’t been caught yet, and she believed him. For an old battle-hardened warrior, Helric had very light feet and quick fingers.

“It wasn’t easy. Got bit the first time I removed his muzzle. Should have figured he’d be ready,” the dwarf told her, holding up his bandaged arm. It looked like a nasty wound, but it was healing well enough. Helric had certainly fared much worse throughout his career. It probably wasn’t even his first vampire bite.

They were alone in the prison together, safe for the next few hours after she’d slipped a potent sleep potion into the guard’s liquor stores. The prison guards answered to the Robes more than her, despite it being located directly next to the barracks. She simply refused to take the risk that they’d report something back to Nox, wherever he was. The less who knew her seditious thoughts, the less tongues would start wagging.

“I hate to say this,” Helric continued, “but he’s like a kicked dog. I didn’t fight back, and he just… let me go. Could’ve pulled a decent sip from me had he wanted--”

“Could’ve killed you,” Velora interrupted. 

“Yeah, but he just sat there, starin’ into space. Like he didn’t know what he was doin’. I think… hell, I think he just wanted physical contact, boss. He’s barely interested in the bottles I give him. He just wants me to ground him for a few minutes. Remind him of reality, you know?”

“I know.”

Astarion seemed to be awake, though he had his back to them. He was curled up on the cot like a coiled spring, his hands still bound behind him. He didn’t breathe through the muzzle, didn’t utter a single sound or move in the slightest. According to Helric, the only words to pass his lips since leaving him here was a soft, barely-there “thank you.” For the blood, the first time Helric fed him, and got bitten for it. He hadn’t protested when the dwarf put the muzzle back on, likely too lost in some other plane to notice.

She studied his hands at his back--they were inflamed at the fingertips like they’d been scoured against something rough. His fingernails were jagged, growing unkempt and uneven. When she came closer, she noticed dried blood mingling in the bedding. 

“He’s been clawing at the wall,” Helric said, catching her look. “I don’t know why. He lays down in the cot with his back to it and then scratches the stone for hours. I tried to stop him when I came the second day, but as soon as I was done, he kept at it.”

Though she couldn’t see his face, Astarion looked miserable. Velora sorely wished she’d found a cleric with the ability to cleanse him. It had to be hell to be isolated in your mind for so long. It wasn’t like she hadn’t been looking, it was just that they had to be… tactful. There weren’t many master clerics who didn’t abhor vampirism on sheer principle if they’d even quietly break the law for one.

She knelt beside the cot and hovered her hand over Astarion’s shoulder, wondering how to do this. There would never be an easy way to rouse him. With his senses dulled and the fear spell doing its best work to keep him tame, any light touch would likely set the poor man off into a spiral. 

“This whole thing is crazy, boss. You ever met a vampire who doesn’t chow down at the first opportunity?”

“I haven’t had the pleasure.”

“Ah, well, it wasn’t so bad. They’ve got this venom, it numbs the pain. I didn’t really feel it.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Probably so they can bite their victims without waking them up.”

“Useful.” She’d never really thought about vampire physiology before. Now, she was certain she’d be reading entire tomes of it, given the time. This wasn’t going to end without bloodshed. “Well, Nox mentioned that Astarion’s a spawn. Any idea who his master might be? Cazador, wasn't it? Not that we’re… giving him back, of course.”

“Funny you should mention that.” Helric scratched the back of his head, a bit nervous now. “Brings me to my next bit of news. I… heard back from some of my contacts,” he sighed. “And it ain’t good.”

Velora’s mind ran wild with possibilities. Astarion could be the runaway she’d initially feared him to be, but this time from a vampire lord with far more firepower than she could handle. “Don’t keep me in suspense,” she said.

“It’s… well, you know the markings on his ring? The names?”

“Tav and Halsin, yes,” Velora recalled. “Tav must be Taverine, the man from the alley. I couldn’t find a record on ‘Halsin’ though.”

“He’s that bigshot archdruid who cleansed the shadow-cursed lands,” Helric said. At the blank look she shot him, he rolled his eyes and demanded, “Do you not read your Volo? This is big stuff, Viola!”

“Can’t say I’m a fan of his work. Too… flowery.”

“Gods. I can’t believe you. Listen, Tav is that Tav, the one from the Crisis. Taverine of the Undercity? The one who just saved us all from becoming squids?”

The world tilted slightly. Velora stared at her best friend, her second, the old dwarf with a chip on his shoulder who loved her dearly and would kill for her in a heartbeat. They shared so many secrets that his wife was known to be jealous at times. And he wasn’t known for lying, not to her.

“I’m serious,” he said, absorbing her expression. She didn’t doubt him, exactly. It was just… hard to believe that they’d stumbled upon something so ridiculous. So…  big . Big things happened all the time in Waterdeep, but it hadn't involved the heroes of world-ending apocalypses before. “We’ve got a bloody legend in chains down here, and I don’t know about you, but his boyfriend is not someone that I want to provoke. Trust me on this, Viola. That’s why we drugged the guards.” Helric gestured vaguely down the hall, where the men were likely still snoozing in their own armor. “I wanted you to make a choice tonight. You  know  how Baldur’s Gate is about their sodding heroes. Even with Tav out of play, it’s going to get political real fast if word gets to Ravenguard that we’ve got their favorite vamp chained and tortured in our prison for no reason other than a Robe told us to keep him here. Starving and cursed, I might add.”

Velora retracted her hand from where it hovered over Astarion and stared at Helric like he’d grown three heads. “Well… shit,” she said. 

“Forget court martial. Waterdeep could face a war over something like this.”

“You really think Ravenguard would do that over…” She hesitated. ‘Over a vampire’ hung in the air between them. She’d seriously considered risking her entire career for this one, and yet every other vampire she’d ever crossed paths with were psychotic murderers. Or seemed to be. What made Astarion so damn different? But she already knew the answer to that--he was a client in need of care. That’s all he needed to be. If he wanted to be a psychotic murderer  after  being freed from unjust torment, then by Torm’s grace, he should be allowed to make that choice. At least then she could arrest him properly. It would make things a hell of a lot simpler.

Helric frowned at her with that disappointed dad expression he often wore for his daughters, as well as when his ‘Viola’ did something particularly uncouth. “From what I’ve heard, Ravenguard doesn’t waste his time. War or not, he won’t take this lightly.”

“Fine,” she sighed. “Let’s say we break him out of here. Where would we even stash him, Helric? He doesn’t exactly blend in, and I can’t uncurse him. I don’t have that kind of skill.”

“I don’t know, but the longer he’s down here, the more likely it’ll spread around, and then we’ll have a diplomatic incident even the Lords won’t want to deal with.”

“If we don’t shit on our careers first…”

“Some things are more important, Viola.”

“I know.” At his look, she insisted, “I know. I do. But maybe the Lords should respond to my requests for council. It’d be obvious to a baby goat that Nox is corrupt. We could end this tomorrow if they’d--”

“But they won’t. They never do.”

“I know,” she sighed, deflating like a sagging balloon. Gods, what a mess.

Helric paused for a moment, absorbing the treasonous tone they both held. He could see the connection Velora was drawing towards plain as day. “Do you think Nox interfered somehow? Is he blocking your communique?”

“No, I think…” Velora hesitated, then looked around the cell with paranoia in her gaze. She leaned in closer, and whispered, “I  think  Nox isn’t the only one compromised here. The Lords may keep their secrets, but there aren’t any between them or their men. It’s in the masks, you know that. They all track each other constantly and listen in on each other’s conversations. They must know this stuff already, especially if they’re ignoring my requests.” Her mind was whirring now, and she stood up abruptly, pacing back and forth in the tiny cell. “Nox recognized both Astarion and Tav that night, and he said nothing about this. You’d think he’d want to share that this case could become a political shitshow, but instead, he told us to  starve  the poor guy and keep him docile. The Lords know about him, mark my words. If we know, they know.”

“And they’ve done nothing?”

“They’re focused on finding Tav,” she continued. “The woman who attacked them is likely unrelated to Nox’s aims, or they’d have him by now.”

“What makes you think they don’t?”

“Astarion is still here,” she gestured like it was obvious. “Nox made it pretty clear that he was coming back for him.” Like a conquest to be earned from a hard-won battle, she knew. A thing to be passed around the victory table. Gods, she’d die before she let that happen. “I think the Lords must have been brewing on this for a while, this… this conspiracy to capture Tav, because Nox was eager to seize the opportunity once he recognized his target. They probably know as much as we do about the woman who took him… which is to say, fuck all. Our only saving grace, I guess.”

Helric’s expression was hard to read, but it was certainly unhappy. “ Sanguis proditor.  You ever learn what that means?”

“‘Blood traitor.’ Pretty sure Nox is a drow, by the way.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Call it a hunch.” She waved her hand carelessly, then faced him with renewed vigor in her eyes. Nothing like watching a case unfurl like a big summer blossom. “Anyway, no clue what blood traitor implies. Blood of what, traitor to who, could be anything.”

“Could be racism,” Helric offered. “If he’s a drow.”

“Yeah, but it sounded… bigger than that. And he didn’t call Astarion that.”

“Astarion’s a vampire, Viola.”

“And an elf. Give him some credit. Besides, Nox used it as a title. There was an article in front of it. ‘The’ Sanguis proditor. It means something important, I’m sure of it.”

Chapter Text

Astarion slowly rose to a sitting position, likely sensing movement in his cell. His shuttered red eyes looked right through Velora, but the tight tension in his shoulders told her he was present enough to realize he wasn’t alone. He’d been given the softest muzzle they could find, one of black leather that covered his mouth and buckled around the back of his head. After days of constant use, the straps were likely irritating where they rubbed along his upper jaw. She’d never had a client who wore them beyond an hour or two before. They were generally only used when transporting violent offenders between locations, particularly the rabid sort like feral goblins and insane sewer-dwelling maniacs. 

But they’d never held a vampire before. Most ended up dead before ever landing in a cell. She’d probably risk removing it even so, but with the curse limiting his senses and leaving him edged like a cornered animal, Astarion could kill someone in his distress. And that would get him killed by the rest of the Watch in turn.

Velora glanced down at her hands, rough from duty and built for killing rather than consolation. She was generally able to reach troubled people through the blunt honesty of her actions, but Astarion wouldn’t be listening, and there was simply no other way to communicate, loathe as she was to admit it. Sensing her sudden anxiety, Helric’s shoulder knocked against hers in the easy camaraderie she always took for granted. She relied on the old dwarf for absolutely everything, but he never seemed to mind it. She was so lucky to have him. “You ready, kiddo?” Endearments he only ever used when they were alone and when she needed to hear them.

“No,” Velora admitted. She flexed her fingers and then glanced back at Astarion. “I haven’t done this since I came of age. And afterward…”

“...your father sold you to us,” he finished. “Yeah. I remember.” Helric didn’t know her before the Watch, but he was her first friend and ultimately the best she’d ever gained during her career. He believed in her when few others did, and embraced her like one of his many children. He patiently cultivated her potential like a master farmer tending to his crops. She’d sprouted, blossomed, and eventually towered over the evils of South Ward because he’d taken the time to feed her roots when no one else had. Her father was a cruel and bitter monster, but Helric had given her what he had not.

She loved the dwarf dearly, and would not let him down. That didn’t ease her fears, though. “I had headaches for weeks,” she muttered. “Bled through my nose and everything. Father was furious. Beat me pretty badly for it, too.”

“And I'll rip his sodding balls off if I ever meet him, but he’s not here now.”

“This won’t be pretty,” she insisted. “I could end up hurting us both. Last time--”

“Somehow I think he’ll understand. It’s this or the both of you learn drow fingerspelling.” When she didn’t move a muscle, he added softly, “I’ll be right here, Viola.”

He was right, of course. The old man was always right. Velora grit her sharp teeth like she always did before a particularly brutal battle, and then carefully, feather-light and barely there, touched Astarion’s left temple. She needed skin contact for this. 

He jerked violently, of course, frightened by the sudden touch. She followed his harsh movement, not breaking contact. Strangely, Astarion stilled immediately afterward, though he continued to shudder with obvious anxiety. He began to breathe quickly through his nose, staring on and on into the black.

“Shh. It’s going to be alright,” she said, even though she knew he couldn’t hear her. “I’m sorry. I haven’t done this for a while. I need to… to concentrate…”

Like the metal click of a lock hooking into place, she suddenly felt joined to his mind, and his mind in turn joined to hers. There were no gentle words, no graceful prods asking permission to connect their thoughts. She thrust herself into his soul too harshly, the anxiety ripping her off of her footing like a lunar tide as it washed over her and then to him and back again. She felt terror surging through them both as he grabbed her, desperate for landfall. They sank together deeper and deeper into the ocean black, then a presence,  angry , snatched her wrist and pulled her back up. She surfaced in the cold water of Astarion’s mind, gasping for breath. 

He was a mighty tower above them both, below them, and all around them. Everywhere, everything, all at once. “Who in the bloody hells are you?” His growl was caged and beaten, starved for days at the back of a kennel. “Get out!!”

She was thrust from his mind like a door slamming shut, and she was rocked backward on her knees. Helric caught her before she hit the floor. But before he could stop her, she reached for Astarion again. The vampire was much more present now, glaring in her direction as if he could actually  see  her. Those eyes screamed with fury at the unwelcome invasion into his mind. She didn’t care. Helric pulled her arm in protest, but she brushed it off and then touched Astarion’s temple again.

“I’m trying to help you,” she told him. Out loud and in there, in the dark swirling torrents of his thoughts. She might as well have been whispering into a hurricane for all that he heard her. She was swept away with the force of it once again, and she found herself tumbling into his memories. 

She was forty-three when Sebastian kissed her. They were the sweet little caresses of butterfly wings, and the act made his cheeks flame and his heart beat like a caged bird inside of his warm, soft skin. She chose to spare him the first night, the second, the third, the fourth. Cazador ripped the skin from her hands when he finally noticed and then made her scrub the study clean with lye. 

‘Rule four.’

She screamed until her throat gave out. She screamed until she realized that no one was listening. She screamed until the pain became so familiar, that she’d forgotten why she did it.

She brought Sebastian home with a timid little smile that hid the horrors just beyond it. He asked her why she seemed so nervous, tugging on his sleeve and blushing like the precious pink virgin she knew him to be. 'Just nerves,'  she said. 'You're so beautiful, darling. I don't want to hurt you.'

And yet--

“Fine,” Astarion rumbled inside of her, outside of her, all around and underneath her. “Go on, then. Share with the class. Tell me who you are.”

When Astarion was twelve, his father beat him so severely, he thought he might die right there on the floor of the kitchens. The asshole was slurring his reasoning with stale, mead-sweet breath and a fire of such pure hatred in his eyes, they’d burned a brand into his soul that he’d carry for the rest of his life. ‘You’re not mine,’ he said, over and over again. ‘She won’t tell me who it was, but he must have been real ugly. This thing did not come from my loins.’

It wasn’t until he was well into his Watch training that his mother confirmed it. No details. Not a hint of regret, altogether delivered like one might the daily newspaper. ‘ Don’t be stupid, child. The man is sterile. Neither one of you came from him.’

“Oh my, how scandalous…”

When Velora was sixty-five… sixty-six? When Velora was still meandering through her first century, she decided that she would no longer feed the Master any Sebastians. This one was a pretty little thing named… she couldn’t remember. A pretty young man… no, a pretty person, a stylist… a… journalist? Working in the upper district. Golden eyes that gleamed in the dark like twin suns. Or were they blue? Pale blue like the morning sky he could barely recall. A soft voice whispered the promise of safety in his ear. 

He yearned, gods he yearned. But he scared the pretty thing away with a hiss and some fang, orders be damned. No more Sebastians, he’d said, not ever again. Cazador saw that rebellious, twisting fury swelling inside of his pet like a sickness. He ripped it out with such fervent jealousy that Astarion screamed--

“No.”

--and screamed as he was left in the dark, in the silence, in the stone. Clawing at the lid of the tomb until his fingernails peeled away and the madness settled in his aching, empty gut. He kept dreaming of sunny meadows only to wake in that horrible fucking tomb, on and on and on, with no Sebastian to offer him bliss, no valiant hero to pull him free. He’d beg Cazador to flay him a thousand times over if it meant not one more minute in the cramped, forgotten dark--

“Stop it!!”

Velora surged back to awareness with a groan of pain. They were deep into each other’s minds, too deep to tell one another apart. Damn it all, but she never could control this properly. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I… I don’t know what I’m doing. But it’s the only way I can talk to you.”

“What the bloody hell is going on?!”

“Some kind of telepathy. I don’t know, I’ve only done it a few times--” 

“Tadpole didn’t take the first time around, is that it?”

“I’m not a mindflayer,” she hissed, trying to ground herself. Cazador wasn’t her past, and Tav wasn’t her future. She was Velora, spurned child of the Vexxus estate. She was a lieutenant eager to protect her men in a city ripe with corruption, and she was not a vampire. She was… in the prisons with her hand to Astarion’s temple. She’d come here to promise him freedom.

“Freedom?” He laughed derisively, and it echoed all around her, deep into her core and out there in the real world. She heard him do it behind the muzzle. Astarion was in the dark all around her, inside of her, but in front of her with the promise of death in his crimson stare. He would kill her once he was freed. He would kill them all for letting him fester in the dark like this. Never again.

“I-I’m sorry.” His anger was a ripe sickness that settled into her belly. It clenched like a fist around her insides, shaking her roughly and reminding her that she wasn’t her father’s spawn. No need to care for a bastard. “I haven’t been able to…” He resented every meal she consumed, calling her a parasite living beneath his roof. “I haven’t been able to cure you yet.”

“What in the hells is happening?”

“My name is Velora,” she hissed, and clenched her teeth. Breathed in. Exhaled. Lieutenant Velora Vexxus, Matron of South Ward. Viola to her friends. “Astarion, please. Calm down. Focus.” She was still in the prison cell. She was kneeling in front of him, her finger to his temple, and the two of them hadn’t spoken a word in several minutes. Helric was still pacing behind her, muttering dwarven obscenities under his breath. She latched onto the sound, remembering why she was here. “Do you know where you are?”

The tomb. Tight stone walls and stale air, and she couldn’t breathe--”No,” she said, forcing the memory away. “Concentrate. You’re in Waterdeep. You’re with me, in a prison cell. Can you--”

“Prison?”

“You were cursed,” she explained patiently. Finally, he wasn’t thrashing her psyche about like a cat with vermin between its jaws. He stilled, trying to absorb her words. “We found you in an alley.”

“Tav.” A heartbroken little whisper. A plea.

“He was taken by a woman. I’m… sorry. We haven’t found either of them yet.”

“Why am I bound?”

“To keep the muzzle on. You’re a vampire. We… we couldn’t take any risks.”

“We don’t bite without permission, darling.” The words were a memory of a different time, to a different face. They were still tangled up in each other, and she could feel the old promise bind him as surely as any chain. It was in the ring that he wore, the names etched into them, and that night in camp years ago when he’d woken from a nightmare and found himself lurching towards Tav’s slender neck with no thought but to feed and feed and feed… Cazador had never let him sate it and with that first realization of freedom brought with it a new kind of beast to tame. But he did tame it because Tav had made him promise. 

She heard the ancient confession float gently between them. ‘This is a gift,’  it whispered. ‘I won’t forget.’

“I… I know that now,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

Astarion’s mind was a wild, frightened beast, cornered, caged, and tortured. He lashed out at the word ‘sorry.’ He’d suffered too many empty apologies to know that it meant nothing. “Free me then.”

“Will you hurt the others? We want to help you.”

A hand clapped on her shoulder--out there in the world, not here in Astarion’s shattered mind. She heard Helric whisper into her ear: “Nox is coming. We need to leave.”

The name brought forth memories of a black mask, the hissing tenor of his voice, his threats for Astarion, and the implied history between them. The vampire shuddered both out there and throughout his mind, a sharp spike of fear lancing through both of them at once. Another memory bubbled up from the ocean depths, and it swirled into a sudden, ferocious torrent that swept her away once again.

They were back in Cazador’s chambers, held down by geas on the cold stone floor, in an unassuming corner his master always kept ready when in the mood for private torture sessions. He was made to kneel with his back to them both. To Cazador, and a drow he did not yet know the name of. Astarion had caught a glimpse of him when he’d first entered the room--red eyes, slick-backed white hair, and a wicked smile that promised agony in the hours to come. 

“You have four hours,” Cazador said coldly. “Do what you will.”

“You promised six.” The man who would be Nox moaned like a wanton creature and giggled maniacally. “Drip-dropping his bloody guts on the floor, you promised us six, not four.” It was that same lilting tenor from the alley, though younger, softer, with less grit to it. Madness that Nox hid well in the future-past was potent here. His mind was ravaged and raw. 

“You requested my Star.” Stern claws traced idle patterns on his scalp. They sifted through his curls, then tightened harshly, yanking his head back. Astarion’s soft whimper was well-trained as he was pressed against Cazador’s body, though his gaze was already far, far away from here. His master smiled sweetly, with a hint of aching tenderness that Astarion knew to fear more than any knife. Or he would have, had he felt anything at all.

“Six for the Star, yes, Father wants him dripping.”

“He will get four,” Cazador growled. “Take it or choose another.”

“But we want the Star, we need to hear him sing!”

“Then you get four.”

The tension was suffocating, and Astarion was too deep into his trance to remember that he didn’t need to breathe. He trembled, nude, served warm on a silver platter for this strange man to feast upon. A slab of meat, and nothing more.

“...Very well, culex. We will sluice the stolen blood from its pretty hide, drink its screams, make it broken. Four hours for your prettiest, favorite thrall. The Urge will come on the morrow, and give you the pattern in exchange.”

The claws that curled in his hair tightened again. “My conditions. Speak them.”

A sigh of impatient disgust, then, “We do not kill. We play. We play for four hours, and not a moment more.”

“If you kill him--”

“You will make us suffer, yes, yes,  yes , such delicious promises, Master Szarr...”

Pain. White and hot, a piercing, eardrum shattering, bone snapping pain. Pain that scratched her throat raw and made her reach for her skull to pull her hair out strand by strand. Agony skipping down her spine like a rock in water, her muscles twitching, limbs curling, tongue heavy and dry. The ripe, burning, unyielding and relentless pain.

Cazador ripped her away--Helric ripped her away, and she swiped at him with claws--with fingernails before she recognized his scruffy dwarven features. He lurched back to avoid the strike and then pressed his finger to his lips in the sign for silence. She was breathing heavily, her eyes wild. Astarion’s screams still battered against the inside of her skull. She knew now that a vampire could survive every limb cut from them piece by piece… even the head if they weren’t staked, sunlit, or doused in running water. Or perhaps that was due to some kind of charm Cazador had set ahead of time because clearly, Astarion had survived it without any physical scars to speak of. Perhaps it was some kind of spell to protect the pristine alabaster skin he adored so much, some kind of profane ritual that reconnected ligaments and bone with no hint of the torture they’d endured, over and over again--

“What disgusting lack of discipline,” Nox hissed, from somewhere down the hall. She was in the prison. In South Ward. In Waterdeep. Far, far from Cazador’s chamber. She’d drugged the guards, and it was likely Nox had found them, there in the prisons where they did not want to be seen conversing with Astarion. Her career depended on it. Her men--

“You shall all report to me for punishment after shift. You will learn to mend this gross negligence or be dismissed from duty.”

“Sir!”

Helric grabbed her arm so hard it would likely bruise, and dragged her from the cell to hide in an alcove nearby. They pressed up tightly against one another as she struggled to ground herself. She could still feel Nox gutting him open, tugging long dormant intestines out slowly and gently like a twisted lover. He etched symbols into the cold stone floor using Astarion’s cursed blood. It formed a skull cradled in drops of gore, with harsh slashes of crimson dotting this way and that.

They cut off his fingers, his hands, his arms, his--

The dwarf clamped his thick hand over her mouth to quiet her desperate keening. She could hear Astarion shuffle in the cell they’d left him in and wondered if he was still reliving that nightmare. How many others did he revisit since they’d let him suffer in the dark? He’d thought he was still in the tomb, he’d thought he’d been left there to suffer for the rest of eternity. A vampire couldn’t be killed by boredom, by blood loss, by starvation, by sheer will alone. They could survive so many things, so many--

“Shh,” in her ear, and gods but she was crying now. She could feel his pain lancing through her body, she could feel her fingers sliced clean onto the stone floor, could hear Nox’s maddening giggle as he plucked out her eyes and she screamed for him to stop until her throat gave out and there was nothing left to say of it, no one was coming, no one was listening. They didn’t even need chains to bind him, he simply did as he was told because that’s what it meant to be a slave for Cazador Szarr. 

How did Astarion live like this? How did he survive something like that, knowing what she now knows, and feeling what she felt in him? In the ocean depths of his mind there was an abyss of pain, of loss, of things that he couldn’t bear to keep and thus let them drown down there, in the cool, gentle, unassuming black. 

He’d forgotten it like he’d forgotten so many other encounters. But she reminded him. She hadn’t meant to, but she did.

Nox stood before Astarion’s cell dressed in full Robe regalia, his stance the very pretense of official business. He noticed the unlocked door with a frown and glanced back towards the prison guards now cowering at their posts. Despite his shoulders pinched in fury, he decided against confronting them on their negligence once again. Astarion hadn’t left, despite the door being unlocked. They both knew he had nowhere to go, with no one to save him. 

Nox clicked his tongue as one might to an old, frightened dog, knowing full well the vampire couldn’t hear him. He entered the cell with an easy, graceful stride, and while Velora could not see what he was doing, she heard Astarion hiss in pain a moment later. 

She silently fought against Helric’s hold, thinking only that this needed to stop. But the dwarf was strong, steadfast. Earnest to a fault. He knew they couldn’t take on Nox alone, and the guards would likely fight them if they tried. Each of them were quite loyal to the Robes and were paid generously for the privilege. It was why she’d drugged them in the first place.

Regardless of the act, Astarion would survive this encounter. Nox would not kill him. But if they tried to save him here, they… they wouldn’t make it. They both waited in the shadows for what must have been hours, days, weeks, years listening to the sounds of muffled pain as Nox relished in whatever he was doing to cause them. When he finally grew bored with it, he muttered softly, “Such a good puppy. It remembers its training.” He clicked his tongue mockingly. Whatever madness had consumed Nox in Astarion’s memories was back in full force now. “We need proper space to love it like it deserves. We’ve missed it so very much.” He was huffing with exertion, likely dragging Astarion’s unwilling body along with him. “Come.”

Panic traded for rage that shook through her whole body, and Velora snarled out of Helric’s hold, finally breaking free of him. She rushed into the cell, sword in hand, shield raised with righteous fury. By the grace of Torm, her body glowed with divine light. “Release him.” Her voice reverberated with that of the god she loved so dearly. If she had to use her one favor of divine providence, she would. Anything to make it stop.

“Ah! I was wondering when you’d show yourself, Vexxus.” Nox was entirely unconcerned. His nonchalance should have made her pause, but at that moment, she could only snarl and point her sword at him, ever the feral beast her mother always knew her to be.

Nox hummed happily at the sight and absently combed his fingers through Astarion’s hair in the mimicry of what Cazador had done earlier in the vision she’d witnessed. The vampire was kneeling on the floor, leaning against him with his cheek pressed to the Robe’s left knee, crimson eyes trapped in some far-away place. His neck, abdomen, and left hand were bleeding. She doubted he even noticed.

“The little incubus has a wicked way with people, doesn’t he? I suppose he is worth treason.”

“Treason?!” She barked a cruel laugh and slashed her sword at him. Nox easily dodged out of the way, but it meant he was no longer petting Astarion. The vampire tumbled to the floor, the sudden movement jarring him out of his daze. He looked around by reflex, wide-eyed, but knew nothing other than the cold floor of the cell beneath him. Cowed, submissive, terrified.

Nox followed her gaze and smiled sweetly. “Such a shame that Szarr is dead. He was an artist, the very best of us.”

“You’ve dishonored the Lords,” Velora growled, “broke your vows, betrayed the entire gods-damned city. Everyone will know what you’ve done here, Nox. You’ll be hung for this.”

“Will I?” He was bored now. He glanced down at Astarion with something strange and dark twinkling in his eyes. “I wasn’t aware that vampire spawn were so beloved in these parts.”

She hated him with every fiber of her being. She gave into it, slashing an all-out assault against him. Her blade was an extension of her will, each strike laced with divine energy that was sure to promise pain should they connect. But they didn’t. Nox outclassed her in every single way.

The cell wasn’t very large, and it seemed inevitable that one of them would trip over Astarion where he’d scooted against the far corner. Velora was careful not to kick him as she struggled against Nox’s spellwork, but she did brush close enough to his body that the vampire’s arm found its way around her knee. Astarion must have recognized something about her--the plate armor, the scent, the familiar care she took to avoid hurting him. She was expecting a broken man when she glanced down at him, but he was utterly furious instead.

A fire that hadn’t been there since they’d met burned brightly within him now. It was the same vicious hunger she’d felt in the ocean depths of his mind: ‘Let me hurt him. Let me maim him. Let me consume him.’

Nox wasn’t expecting her to drop the keys to Astarion’s cuffs, from where they’d been hooked at her hip since entering the cell an hour ago. She raised her shield against the strike that took advantage and then kicked the keys back towards the vampire with her heel. He felt them brush against his knee, clarity dawning in his eyes. With an easy twist of his body, he snatched them up and freed himself with such terrible ease, that a tiny, terrified part of her wondered if he’d stayed here entirely by choice. 

Until now. 

She dropped her sword and kicked that at him as well. Closed her eyes. Breathed a quiet prayer.

Nox managed to knock the wind out of her with an eldritch blast, and then viciously yanked her with some kind of telekinetic spell that sent her flying towards the northern wall. She felt pain blossom from within her chest plate, and her breaths hitched wet and raw in the wake of it. She tumbled to the ground when her right knee gave out. Broken. Blood welled up in her mouth. She spat it back towards Nox's face, who was now quite content to ignore Astarion in favor of killing her.

“I truly didn’t want to do this,” the Robe sighed, ever the drama queen. “There is so much paperwork when killing lieutenants. But you’re becoming a troublesome little bitch… and I suppose some sacrifices must be made.” 

Behind him, Astarion ripped the muzzle off his face. His jaw clicked as he worked the muscles, happy just to have freedom of movement again. He’d found the sword she dropped for him, and seemed very eager to use it. 

“By Torm’s loving grace,” she hissed, huffing with pain, “I accept this end if it means that I no longer need to hear your inane prattle.”

That lip earned her another blast. The scent of acrid hellfire lingered in the air, and it proved easy enough for Astarion’s nose to follow back toward its source. His eyes narrowed despite seeing nothing, and he lurched up behind Nox, stabbing him with brutal efficiency right through his back. He must have cut into the spinal cord because Nox fell like his strings were cut. He shrieked in shock, an indignant whine spilling out of him like a child deprived of his toys. Astarion was a silent, menacing shadow towering above him. 

Nox tried to cast a spell up at him, but even blind and deaf, Astarion’s reflexes were terrifying. He snatched the wrist before the motion could be finished, and then sliced it clean off in one swift, easy movement.

The Robe’s screaming should not be as satisfying as it felt. Velora’s vision became spotty, and she wondered where Helric had run off to. She wondered how many soldiers they’d have to fight on the way out, and how many were loyal enough to the Robes to kill them outright. She wondered how long it would take to die from the blood loss.  Not long at all , the stuttering pitter-patter of her heart answered back.

At least Astarion would be free. 

“I remember now,” he said softly, his voice a little hoarse from disuse after days bound and muzzled. “It was… like this, I think.” He took the severed hand to his lips, and bit into it. He wore no expression as the blood smeared along his lips, casually consuming the hand’s gore like one might an hors d'oeuvre. There was nothing in those eyes, save for a sleepy, barely-there, “Yes. Yes, I think it was.”

Astarion straddled Nox with sickening familiarity, the blade aiming for his throat where it lay hidden beneath the robes and mask he wore. “I remember this too,” the vampire whispered. “Amazing what one can accomplish in four hours, isn’t it?”

Somehow, he knew exactly where to strike, even blind, deaf, and half-aware. Nox muttered something soft and indistinct under his breath. Before Astarion could finish him off, he vanished into a cloud of black smoke. Her blade connected against the stone with a sharp, metal tang.

“Shit,” Astarion muttered. Then: “Velora?” The fear was back. “Are-Are you still there?”

She didn’t know why he called her name, knowing full well that he wouldn’t hear a response. He followed the scent of her blood nonetheless, crawling along the stone floor until his leg bumped against hers. He still carried that creepy severed limb but dropped the sword in favor of touching her body. His blind, wandering hand slowly navigated up towards her chest, to the marred plate meant to protect it and the gaping wound free-flowing all over the place.

With a bloody, shaky finger, she carefully touched his temple. Their minds locked again, this time far less violently.

“Get out of here, Astarion. Don’t let them catch you.” 

His slow blink was the only answer for a long, painful moment. She could feel his mind retreating into the black, into the dark recesses where few could reach him. As if by autopilot, he knelt his chin towards her wound, and with no thought for any decency, parted the broken plate to lick it clean. 

“Stop it.” Now wasn’t the time for bloodlust. She tried to pull him off, but her strength was long gone. Her heart stuttered and skipped several beats, valiantly trying to keep her alive even as she begged him to let her bleed to death. “Get out. They’ll find you--”

“You’re dying,” he said by way of explanation. 

“I don’t care.”

He rolled his eyes towards where he thought her face must be, and hissed, “How disgustingly heroic.” He was fully aware again, present at least enough to recognize the danger they were in. His clarity kept coming and going like the tides of a vast ocean, as fickle as any other force of nature. He didn’t seem to have any real control over it. 

His lips and chin were stained crimson, and if any should find them, they’d assume that he was killing her. Muttering an insult, Astarion dipped his head back down and continued to lap the wound clean. The blood flow crept to a slow, reluctant halt under his attention. As they swam together in the unyielding dark of Astarion’s mind, Velora finally felt realization sink into her bones. He wasn’t simply feasting on her flesh; he was trying to close her wound. Vampire saliva could do that apparently, with enough time and effort.

“I’m not worth saving,” she said, as true and knowable as any other fact about the world. “You should leave me.”

“I’m not worth saving either, darling, but we all have our burdens to bear.”

“Please just go. I’m sorry I couldn’t fix the curse, but I know you’ll figure it out--”

“Quiet.”

“Astarion, please--”

“Shut. Your mouth,” he hissed. He took the sword in hand again, still clutching Nox’s severed limb to his chest with his other like it were some kind of lifeline. “On your feet.” At his stern order, she did what she was told, and slowly, carefully, painfully managed to wobble upright. Her right knee didn’t seem broken after all but was sprained and unwilling to support her weight. White hot spots danced in front of her vision, but by sheer miracle, she didn’t faint. Not yet, at least.

Too focused on staying awake, she accidentally severed the link between their minds. Astarion wasn’t deterred. He slung her arm over his shoulder and held her upright. Nox’s hand had finally disappeared somewhere on his person. “You’re my eyes, and I’m your sword,” he said to the silent black. “Point us the way to freedom.”

‘Freedom.’ What a novel concept. She wasn’t sure what that meant anymore, but she marched him towards it nonetheless.

Chapter Text

Astarion was more than ready to kill while blind, deaf, and holding up a half-dead woman in full plate armor, but he’d really rather not if he didn’t have to. Fortunately, they’d somehow managed to escape the prison without further bloodshed. He was in no state to question such blessings when Velora tapped him on his shoulder to signal that he could let her go… or perhaps to warn her that the dwarf was here and willing to take over the duty of holding her upright. He didn’t realize another person was even present until those familiar hairy arms brushed up against him, gently pulling Velora from his hold. 

Astarion resisted, shaking his head and holding her tighter against him. To lose contact after so long without it… it was pathetic, but he needed her like Karlach needed that stupid bear. He barely even knew the woman, but she was the only thing keeping him sane. If she left him alone in the vast void even for a moment, he would drown. He didn’t want to go back, not again.

Velora’s tender fingers traced his jaw, then pressed up against his temple. He knew now what it meant, and waited for her to sink into his mind like a deep-sea mermaid swimming through his thoughts. Though he couldn’t see or even hear her, he could sense her words as if they were his own. The sensation reminded him vaguely of the tadpoles, except that she held the reins entirely here, and was far less elegant in her technique. It was such a bizarre method of communication, but one that he’d have to adapt to until they could cleanse this infernal curse from his mind.  If  they found a way to cleanse it… maybe killing the bitch who’d apparently cast it was still an option. She likely still had Tav, so two birds, one stone.

“We’re safe for the moment,” Velora whispered. A tiny squeaking pixie in the quaking void building inside of him. He was absolutely not panicking at the idea of being stuck like this. He knew he’d be fine. He’d survived far worse. A few more days blind and deaf to the world would not kill him. This was not the tomb. He knew it wasn’t, of course it wasn’t. This was different. He’d escaped the tomb, for one thing. He’d escape this too.

“Shh. Calm down. Helric’s here. Let him take over.”

Anxiety never did Astarion any favors. He’d thought he was done with it after leaving Cazador’s battered corpse in those ruins, but gods forbid life ever be so simple. Peace had a way of… peeling apart layers of his mind that he didn’t know he’d hidden away. It used to be so easy to cover his terror with a laugh, sultry eyes, and a perfect smile. But now, he couldn’t quite escape the butterflies that battered against the inside of his chest, nor the twitch of his fingers, the bite of his lower lip, the feeling of tiny spiders skittering up and down his spine. “I… I can’t,” he muttered. Terror was an old, familiar friend, ever there to greet him from the shadows. 

He’d forgotten. It wasn’t just peace that had made him more amenable to it. It was the dark. He was a vampire afraid of the dark. Specifically, being alone in it. Gods, Cazador had loved that one. 

“I-I don’t know if I… if I…”

He swallowed the rising bile that had climbed up into his throat and grimaced at his own pathetic whimpering. He couldn’t hear it, but he knew for certain that it was happening. He was trembling like a child. Deep breaths. He wasn’t trapped. He wasn’t alone. He could let her go. He could absolutely let her go now because everything was fine.

His fingers didn’t seem to agree.

“I’m not leaving you, Astarion. I gave you a promise.” Sensing his confusion--when did that happen?--she explained, “The curse. Until we figure it out, you won’t be alone. I vow it by Torm’s grace and the honor of my ancestors.”

He didn’t want to remind her that her father held very little honor at all, from what he’d seen of the matter. Neither did her mother, truth be told. He wondered what Velora actually looked like to be considered hideous by so many people. It was strange to experience that feeling second-hand, after knowing his own beauty to be the only thing of value that he could claim in the last two centuries. Cazador had made it clear that if Astarion were a mediocre sight, he’d be dead. He served no other purpose.

Astarion felt her wince and realized that she’d gotten caught in the stream of his own thoughts once again. “I need you to trust me,” she said. “I’ll be right here.”

With a shaky sigh, Astarion did as requested. She was pulled from both his mind and arms a moment later, and he felt a scuffle of movement to his left. Alone. He swayed in the darkness, resisting the urge to crumple to the floor and hide. For a moment, he felt demons lingering just beyond his reach, salivating and licking their teeth. He heard the clatter of bones--Godey?--and then a strong, calloused hand took his. Grounding him again. As promised, Velora led him further from the dark. 

Days passed. Years. Perhaps even centuries, he couldn’t be certain. Eventually, they parked him in a room that felt soft, and then there were smaller, slender hands gently leading him to lie down on a comfortable bed. Someone pried the sword from his fingers--he’d forgotten he was even holding it. He could smell cinnamon and a meaty, home-cooked stew. He could smell cinder, too. Warmth kissed his skin, and he suspected there was a fireplace nearby. If safety had a smell, it would smell like this.

The small hands carefully tended to wounds that he didn’t know were there, let alone where he’d gotten them. Pain was a distant concept even before the curse, and Astarion’s mind was too foggy with the void to bother processing anything anymore. He’d often felt like this in Cazador’s care, generally after he’d reached an insane threshold where the agony had become too potent, violently pulsing throughout his body like a living thing. It would grow so vicious that his mind simply shut down for days or weeks at a time, unable to continue further. The world lost all sense and meaning in the wake of it, and he would drift, helpless and pliant as a newborn babe.

His master seemed rather impressed with how much it took to bring him there. Pain was an orchestra that swelled in Cazador’s hands, and Astarion was his star violinist of undeniable talent. First chair, in fact. The others had been so very jealous… he wished they’d had more turns on the stage. 

Possessive claws sank into his sides, and there was a nibble on the shell of his left ear: ‘Play for me, boy.’

Astarion shivered as the small hands--not sharp claws, not those claws, those had been left behind in an ancient ruin, bloodied and broken, never to touch him ever again. They were gone, they were gone, they were-- ’Fuck you, and fuck everything you did to me.’

Yes. 

He shivered as small hands, kind and sweet, traveled over his body. He tried not to think about the claws or the thousands of other hands that had touched him over the years, hands that were not Cazador but just as unwelcome. These were gentle… clinical in nature, like… like a mother, almost. Like the way Jaheira would tend to him sometimes, muttering criticisms and anecdotes all the while. ‘Perhaps you should reconsider sparring with bears, no? Next time, ask. I will not have you going hungry.’  He’d been very, very hungry after leaving the shadow-cursed lands. There’d been nothing to eat but cursed undead filth, and before that, freaking mushroom people. Both would kill him if he tried. He didn’t dare take from Tav or Halsin or anyone else in camp, as all of them needed to be at their best in the fight against Thorm. And so Astarion went without, gladly, easily, happily.

He’d been meaning to hunt down the biggest, bloodiest creature he could find to sate his lust once they were finally rid of Reithwin’s curse and the abominations beneath Moonrise Tower. It was a near thing, ignoring the temptation of pulsing necks all around him, but the bear was found, and he’d gone for it near-feral and mad with hunger. He’d even managed to drain the beast fairly quickly, it was just that his chest looked like he’d wrestled one once he got back. Jaheira was having none of it. It didn’t matter that the blood he’d just consumed would heal him well before morning, it didn’t matter that Astarion was over two centuries old, it didn’t even matter that he clearly didn’t want her to bother with it, because when Jaheira looked at him, she saw a hopeless child who needed tending to. She clicked her tongue and pounced on him like she might have one of her children. And Astarion let her, because he’d learned from Tav that it was… nice, to let other people care for you. To pretend, for a brief moment, that you were worth caring for.

Gods. He was so tired. The small hands finished patching a wound on his abdomen when he finally sank back into reality again. They moved up towards his neck, which he realized, in a daze, felt sticky and very, very sore. It was a rather sensitive area for any vampire, and Astarion was no exception. He couldn’t remember who’d hurt him nor how it happened, but they’d clearly bitten him right over Cazador’s mark. Viciously, with teeth that didn’t even have fangs. It must have hurt like hell… the mark of a sire was the last place any vampire would want to be marred, and not for the romantic notions bards liked to sing about. It was a spot sacred even to Cazador and Godey, and bitten over only when his master was feeling particularly possessive. Which was… all the time, admittedly. 

Odd that Astarion couldn’t recall it happening… but keeping track of anything was impossible at the moment. He was a slave to the whims of the dark. He wondered if this new bite over Cazador’s was symbolic, or if the person who did it was just an asshole. Either way, he was rather done with people biting him. Not that it mattered. The mark would heal as it always did, and Cazador’s indents would remain. Evidence that no matter how often he reimagined stabbing the monster sixteen times, this particular nightmare would never, ever end. 

Rule four.

Even though the small hands were gentle, Astarion shuddered with pain as they pressed what must have been a cloth against the wound. He’d hardly reacted to the other injuries, but this one actually hurt in a way that he couldn’t easily escape from. Someone took his hand and held it firmly, likely meant to be comforting. He couldn’t tell if it was Velora or someone else. 

It didn’t matter. The pain, the hands, the hold on his body, he felt panic burst forth up and out of his core, and then he was in a different place, in a different bed, over a hundred years prior. He could sense his master to the right, who didn’t have the geas trapping him for once. There were smaller, feminine arms pinning him down, and he was told to struggle. To escape, resist, fight back, kill. If he could kill her, he could rest.

When Astarion twisted his head, Cazador was sitting in a high-backed chair like some kind of vampire king, sipping fine wine from a goblet. There was a cruel twitch to his lips. Astarion couldn’t catch sight of the woman pinning him down, only the flash of her long white hair. Her growl was deep and guttural. It was the sound a vampire made when they were furious.

“Fight back,” she ordered. “Gods, Astarion, where’s your spirit? I said fight back!!”

He couldn’t. He’d been starved, beaten, and overworked. It had been days since his last rest, longer since his last meal. He might as well have been a kitten fighting an ox. She roughly thrust him into the mattress, then released him with a disgusted sigh. He curled up into himself instead of attempting escape, as there was no point. His head met his knees, and he buried his face there, trying to disappear entirely. “He wasn’t like this before. You broke him, Cazador.”

“Would you like to learn how it’s done, my dear?”

“Don’t.” If Astarion didn’t know better, he’d thought he heard tears well up in her voice. She sounded utterly wrecked. He didn’t dare to look and remained curled as tightly as possible.

“Oh, my little Rook. You really do need to let this go. It’s for your own good, after all. My own sister was my first, you know, and it was a lesson well earned. Consider this… a rite of passage. For both of you, in fact.”

“I don’t want your lessons,” the woman spat. She shook Astarion’s shoulder where he’d buried himself to hide from the world. “I want my Star back. He belongs to me. To my--”

“You tread dangerous ground, young one. He is and will always be mine.”

“Stolen property,” she shot back.

Cazador’s sigh was the impatient one he expressed right before drawing knives. “Liberated. I saved his life.”

“Bullshit. I deserve proper recompense, Cazador!”

“Lesson one,” his master intoned. “A vampire deserves nothing. They take, and what they take, they have earned the right to keep until such time that it is taken from them. My spawn are mine until they prove the strength to overpower me. Such is the way of things.”

“And if another lord sparks interest in what is yours?”

“Then they will pry him from my cold, bloodied corpse. You may partake from the others with my blessing, dear one, but Astarion is mine.”

She hummed thoughtfully, like she was seriously considering the offer, though Astarion was only half-listening. He knew well enough that freedom would never happen, not for him, and likely not for her either. Cazador often held the attention of a spoiled toddler, and once he grew bored of his games with this one, he’d kill her all the same. Even if she brought Cazador all the gold in Elturel, Cazador would kill her before he’d let her take anything from him, let alone his favorite chew toy. And Astarion didn’t want to be with her, anyway. At least Cazador was familiar. This Rook, she was… she… 

And she’d never take Cazador on directly, and certainly not in his own mansion. So it didn’t matter. 

“Tempting as it may be, I will not fight his battles for him. You said it yourself. Such is the way.”

“Fascinating.” Astarion could feel the grin cutting through the back of his neck like razor wire. 

Pain. Small hands on his neck, over the mark. Other hands on his shoulders, pinning him down. He was breathing harshly, looking wildly about at nothing but black. He couldn’t hear what they were saying. Something about rabbits. Something important that he’d already forgotten and tossed back into the black. He didn’t care. It didn’t make sense, and he didn’t care. More mind games. More details to forget later. 

He tried to curl away as the small hands continued to hurt him, but other hands forced him to stop resisting. Then there was a bandage wrapped around his neck. That was… new. He stilled, confused now. Cazador never had him bandaged. Two hundred years, and it was either potions, magic, or vampire physiology. Never the soft, clinical intent of bandages. The other hands, strong and rough--the dwarf’s, perhaps?--left him, and someone pressed a bottle to his lips. A healing potion, judging from the thick, heady flavor that slid down his throat. He thought he must have whined a bit when they pulled it away because the flavor was intense like this. Each of his other senses were working overdrive to compensate.

He recalled that Velora had tasted like dragons. A divine kind of spice, flavored with an intense ancient magic she likely didn’t know she harbored. It explained her telepathy, at least. Not that he’d ever had a dragon before, but he’d had plenty of dragonborn to know the difference. Vampire thing. One can learn a lot from blood. Like the fact that she was kind to a fault, nearly as stubborn as he was, and graced by one of the gods--likely Torm, given how often she prayed to him.

He didn’t get near enough nibble from the dwarf to learn much other than his species, but he knew there was strength and loyalty in the flavor. Someone steady and reliable. A wall to lean against. Halsin had a similar flavor…

Astarian’s breathing finally slowed down. He was in a soft bed. He could smell cinnamon, baking bread, and a stew bubbling away on a stove nearby. It was warm, he was safe, and he could finally rest if he wanted to. He could trust these people to care for him in the meantime. Velora had promised, and he knew from her blood that she was too honor-bound to lie to him. The dwarf seemed to have much the same intent.

The small hand patted his shoulder, then gently took his hand in hers. She touched his wedding ring as if to remind him that it was there. A blanket was placed over him, and he curled beneath it, holding the ringed finger to his chest. He spun it around and around absently, feeling the runes etched into it. He’d forgotten. He didn’t know how, but he did. He felt the distant tug of magic, and the comfort in its presence quickly lulled him towards slumber. They were spread in two different directions. Halsin, a distant tugging sensation no doubt leading towards Reithwin. The other… he’d find the other. He’d find and kill whoever took Tav from him. After… after a short nap, anyway. Maybe he could get Halsin’s attention somehow. Stupid oaf deserved to know what was going on, and he was better at dealing with curses than most anyone else in Faerûn. 

It hadn’t ended on the best of terms. Tav and Astarion hadn’t talked about it since they’d left him behind, neither willing to broach the subject. It turns out that marriage is… complicated, even when it’s just two people. Three strong personalities, each of them traumatized in entirely different ways… yeah, they all knew a break was inevitable. Or at least, Astarion knew. He’d been hurt, sure, but shocked? Hardly. 

But Dammon had made the rings in good faith before he’d left for Avernus, and they were further enchanted by Gale in celebration of the marriage itself. As far as Astarion could tell, Halsin kept his even after they’d left, despite his apparent reservations on the matter. The wedding had been fun at the time, a fanciful affair in the House of Hope, done purely so that Karlach could attend it. She’d cried into Wyll’s shoulders at the sheer saccharine quality of their vows. 

Tav’s to Astarion had been particularly jarring, and he’d memorized it word for word: “I promise to protect you until my dying day, and the many days after should you remain as I slumber beneath the earth. You will never know pain by my hand. I will love you, cherish you, and hold you in all the ways that you deserve. My love. My life. My eternity.”

Astarion’s own were full of dirty jokes, as was his way, and Halsin’s were sincere and sweet, laced with both metaphor and honey. They’d made it a total of two years before Halsin decided he couldn’t continue. He didn’t break his vow, per se, but he did amend it.

It began with an argument between him and Tav. Neither would tell Astarion what it was about, but it was ugly and visceral and all the things that two lovers should never say to each other. Astarion became convinced over time that the argument must have involved him in some shape or form. Curiosity drove him mad at the time, but Tav kept insisting that it was for the best that they just let it go, let Halsin go… the big brute would be fine, Tav said. Halsin was strong, adaptable, and mature to a fault… and Tav was full of shit, generally. They weren’t the closest between the three of them, but even Astarion could tell that Halsin’s heart was bleeding all over the place. His decision to part ways wasn’t a casual one. 

Even so, Astarion didn’t have it in him to truly protest when they left the druid behind. He wasn’t in it for Halsin, after all, he was in it for Tav. And Tav came with Halsin, up until he didn’t. Which meant that Astarion made due as he always did.

During and after the Crisis, he and Halsin each orbited around the same man like two moons never quite colliding. Maybe… maybe Halsin came to resent that once the adrenaline died down. Maybe that’s why it started. Things were going too well, the world was too peaceful, the high had settled, and there were too many silences where they’d each been left to think. Perhaps Halsin… wanted more. Not that he’d ever asked Astarion for anything of the sort, because Astarion was a fragile little fawn who’d apparently shatter at the very mention of sex. Ugh. He’d been quite comfortably sleeping beside them as they rutted almost nightly. If he had a problem with it, it should have been obvious. Astarion could adjust like he always had. He very loudly and maturely stated that he did not approve of the divorce whatsoever. 

Stupid beautiful bastards. Both of them. 

Halsin used to hold him in a way that Tav simply couldn’t. He was bigger, sweeter, and physically stronger. As Astarion sank deeper into the sheets, lulling close to dreaming, he admitted to himself that he really missed the poor sod’s big pillowy chest. He missed the comforting, steady beat of his heart. He missed his stupid derpy smile and the annoying wooden shavings he’d leave everywhere when whittling ducks. He missed… he missed them both. If Tav was dead, Astarion would never, ever forgive him. Neither would Halsin, probably.

He woke later to the sensation of magic pouring through him. His chest arched as it tried to physically pull something from him--it didn’t hurt, but it was extremely uncomfortable. He panicked, arms flailing wildly. There was a struggle, and then the magic multiplied in force. It ripped through him, yanking… something from inside his core. It wasn’t the most gentle experience he’d ever suffered, and he was pretty sure he was screaming. 

He could most definitely hear someone screaming, actually. And a man, his voice deep and laced with authority, shouting, “Stop this bloody nonsense, Viola! You’re scaring the shit out of him!”

“I’ve almost got it! Just… just hang on.”

“Let him go!”

Another struggle, somewhere to his right. The spell finally ended, and Astarion collapsed on the bed with a shaky sigh of relief. He could hear his own breathing. He could hear a fire snapping and crackling nearby. The struggle to his right continued, a woman and a man trading blows. 

“Gods damn it all, I almost had it!”

“No, you didn’t, girl. I believe in your talents, but we both know this curse is well beyond your ability. You could kill  him.”

“At least he’s awake now.”

“That’s… that’s true, I suppose. But Viola--”

“We can’t just…” The woman, her voice deep and thick with sorrow, paused as if to collect herself. “We can’t leave him like this. No one in this godsforsaken city is going to help a vampire. I’ve tried every temple, every damned medical-related unit, even the Shar worshippers. None of them can be trusted. It has to be me, Helric.”

No, it didn’t. Not if they could find Halsin. He didn’t realize he’d said so out loud, but the woman, likely Velora, said, “What?”

Astarion sighed happily. It was a pleasure just to know his own voice. “I… I think I can hear now.” A small relief. He smiled, adding, “Thank you. I was…” genuinely worried he’d be stuck like this. “At any rate, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you, darling.”

“You can hear?” Velora’s excitement was palpable. “Can you see too?”

“No.”

“Shit.”

“It’s better than before, sweet thing. I can… I can hear.” He was absolutely giddy, now. He bounced a little where he sat on the bed. “How long has it been?”

“A week since escaping the prison. Thirteen days since you were cursed.” That startled him. He did seem really peckish, actually. He’d only had three feedings since the alley, plus whatever he’d gotten from Velora. “After we came here, you fell into some kind of coma,” Velora explained. “I don’t know what caused it… I couldn’t rouse you, and the curse seemed to be getting worse, so I… I tried to cleanse it.”

“She means that she panicked and took matters into her own hands. You’re both lucky it didn’t get worse.”

“It was already worse! Besides, it worked.”

She must have gestured towards Astarion, because the dwarf acknowledged, “True. The name is Helric, by the way. It’s good to see you awake, princess.”

“A pleasure.” Astarion’s practiced smile had a bit of fang in it. He was really, really hungry actually. He could hear the thumping of their hearts, and feel the warmth of their bodies emanating in the small room. They smelled a bit too delicious, the dwarf a fine brisket, Velora a perfectly seasoned steak.

Velora likely caught his look, because she said, “You must be starving. We couldn’t feed you while you were in a coma. You weren’t swallowing it. I’m sorry--”

“I’ll be fine,” Astarion dismissed with a wave of his pale hand. “I’m hardly feral.”

“Yeah, well, you look awful. No offense.” She was at his side a moment later, kneeling in front of him. Her warm hands found his own, and she leaned in close. Inspecting his neck, he realized. He could smell her delicious pulse within biting distance, and he shuddered as his fangs descended from his gums of their own volition. “This took a really long time to heal,” she said. “I tried to use magic, but it wouldn’t take. It still looks a bit sore… does it hurt?”

“I… don’t think so.” It was hard to think when the bloodlust was so potent. His head felt… foggy. He could feel the impression of a wound on his neck, but it didn’t hurt unless he touched it. Which he did with a grimace. “Did someone bite me? Rude.”

“You mean you don’t…” Velora cut herself off and sat backward, likely giving him a full look over. He could smell the worry emanating from her body. “It was Nox. You don’t remember? You cut off his hand, and he hightailed it. You kept the thing in your jacket, actually. We, uh. We got rid of it while you slept.”

No. Nothing but blank and black. The whole thing felt oily, and the more he tried to hold onto such tangled thoughts, the more they slipped away. He didn’t absorb much of what she said, his face a pale, blank stare. But then he blinked, and asked, “...Who is Nox?”

“Do you remember escaping the prison? Do you remember how you got here?”

“Only bits and pieces,” Astarion muttered. “You were in my head, I think… and there were hands…” He rubbed his forehead and grimaced again. “There was a woman. She had white hair. She was… I think she was my…” He made a noise of disgust, or perhaps terror. It was hard to tell what he was feeling. Everything, nothing. He only knew that it hurt. “I-I can’t remember.”

“There was… no white-haired woman. It might have been a dream.”

He brought both hands up to rub his temples. Pain was blossoming just behind his eyes, a knife slicing through the inside of his skull. 

Velora gently felt his forehead with the back of her hand. “Headache?”

He grunted in confirmation. 

“I could try to cleanse the rest of it, but--”

“No,” Astarion cut her off. He heard Helric intake breath to do the same. “I appreciate the offer, but… there’s someone better. I need you to contact him.”

“Halsin,” Velora confirmed. “We’ve sent a message to the Emerald Grove, but there’s been no response.”

“Because he’s not there. He’s in Reithwin. At least… I-I think he might be.” Astarion felt his ring. Halsin’s own was tugging him southward. Waterdeep was so far away, and it was hard to tell. “That’s where we left him.”

“When was this?”

He blinked slowly again. For a moment, he was caught up in the memory of Halsin’s glistening eyes and the bitter tone of Tav’s voice. Astarion didn’t want to go. But where Tav went, he went. “Three… years ago. I-I’m not sure.”

“Is there anyone you know in Waterdeep that can help?”

He scrunched his nose at the pain still swelling in his mind, then rubbed at his temples again. He squeezed his eyes shut. 

A hand on his shoulder. Gently shaking him. “Are you alright?”

“Fine.” He wasn’t, not really. But he didn’t want to voice that. It was nice just to be able to hear things. He’d take the pain if it meant keeping this much. “Wh-What did you say?”

It seemed like Velora was ready to protest, but after a moment of silent deliberation, she repeated, “Do you know anyone in Waterdeep?”

“Gale has his tower here,” Astarion muttered. “That’s where we were headed when…” He could feel Tav’s lips against his if he concentrated on the memory. Words he couldn’t hear whispering against his cheek. Promises of love, perhaps. Promises to come back. 

“Astarion?”

He slowly shook his head. “Gale’s off sucking Mystra's mighty teets, so the plan… the plan was to break into his tower here in the city and see if we could contact him somehow. Tav wanted to… to… I-I don’t remember.”

“You mean Gale Dekarios?”

“Yeah, why?”

“The Dekarios clan are substantial nobles around here. They could be worth approaching for help.”

“I’d rather not. They don’t know I exist, and I’m sure Gale would love to keep it that way,” Astarion said. “Besides, the relationship with his mother sounded complicated.”

“But breaking into his tower isn’t?”

He scoffed, rolling his eyes. Familiar footing at last. “Breaking and entering happens to be my specialty, darling.”

“But you’re a vampire. Don’t you need an invitation for these things?”

“We had an arrangement,” Astarion tossed his hand, careless. Gale made sure to invite him before he left, though it had been for tea at some point. An offhand remark, but a valid invite all the same.

“There has to be a way to get Mystra’s attention,” Helric muttered, somewhere off to the left. “If Gale is her chosen, she’s got him on another plane of existence.”

Astarion laughed bitterly at that. “Good luck. It took the Crown of Karsus before she bothered to check in on her dying chosen, and I’m nothing to her. That man has the world’s shittiest taste in women.”

He could feel Velora’s frown. “You realize you’re talking about a goddess, right?”

“With a very lovely rack and the personality of a swamp hag's asshole, yes. Actually, no, I take that back. Ethel was a lovely lady.”

“...Well, uh, that being said, if we can get Gale’s attention, he might be able to remove the curse.”

“Yeah,” Astarion admitted. “But I still want you to contact Halsin.”

“We will.”

Velora suddenly dragged something--a chair, he realized--right up next to him. She sat on it and leaned in close. He heard her move her hair out of the way, so he could only assume her neck was in full view right in front of him. “I’m assuming you know how to feed without killing me.”

“Of course, but--”

“Then do it. You’re starving enough that you can’t think straight, and I can’t risk you nibbling on Helric’s family.”

Did that mean they were in Helric’s home? Strange. Bold, even. They barely knew him, but they trusted him enough to play nice with his wife and children. “I… I appreciate the offer, of course. But… what about the pig’s blood? You were feeding me pig’s blood before.”

“This will heal you faster.”

“It won’t be enough,” Astarion said. “It’s been too long. I can resist the bloodlust when I haven’t fed yet, but it’s more difficult once I start drinking.” She hummed in understanding. He doubted she ever could, but it was nice to know that she was trying. “Give me what you have from the butcher first. Then I’ll take whatever you’re willing to give from the source.”

An awkward, and somewhat tedious half hour later led to him and Velora sitting in chairs across from one another. He’d fed on their entire store of blood, which wasn’t much, but it was sweet they’d kept it ready for him. He was feeling absolutely ravenous now. His hands shook with the need for more. After two centuries of operating on scraps, his body had become rather greedy for every single drop available. Even so, he paused before diving in. He wasn’t without his manners.

“Are you sure about this, darling?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Is the dwarf still here?”

“Right behind you.”

“Good.” Astarion nodded, trying to collect his confidence. It was easier said than done. “I… I should be able to control myself, but you can’t be too careful.”

“Your care is quite surprising,” Helric spoke up, now somewhere to his right. “I’d think any vampire would be eager for a free meal.”

“When I’m in my right mind, sure. But right now, it’s all…” He gestured vaguely up towards his head. “...jumbled. I… I just don’t want to…” He trailed off, not wanting to admit the shame of it all. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d hurt someone like this due to carelessness, and he knew well Velora wouldn’t be nearly as understanding as Tav was.

“I trust you,” she said as if sensing his thoughts. Her warm, gentle hand caressed his knee. “I’ve been in your mind, remember? I know you’ve done this before. It’ll be fine.”

“Okay…” He bit his lip as the apprehension took him, then grunted in disgust at his own actions. He wasn’t a fresh spawn. It wasn’t even his first time. One little sip, and he’d be right as rain, that’s all this needed to be. “Just a nibble, my sweet. It shouldn’t hurt too much.”

Velora’s hand slid up his arm, and then she pulled him closer. “Quit stalling,” she said. “I’m not a delicate flower, you know.”

He didn’t need sight to navigate towards her pulse. He could feel it thrumming and twisting throughout her body like a siren song, luring him towards the rocks so that he might smash against them. He let his fangs guide him towards her artery and bit down as gently as he could. The venom was quick to follow, numbing the wound. He was hesitant as he dragged the first pulse from her body, but once the taste of ancient magic kissed his tongue, he felt himself climbing into her lap, desperate for more of it. He heard someone whine--someone that sounded a lot like him, gods damn it all. Velora cradled him instead of pushing him away, a soft sigh escaping her lips.

He’d asked Tav what it felt like, once. Tav just smiled that secret little thing he did when Astarion said something particularly sweet. ‘If I didn’t like it, Star, I wouldn’t offer my neck so often.’  He wasn’t sure what that meant, but if the positive reactions were anything to go by, then damn Cazador for forcing him to become the most prolific whore in the Gate. He could have easily lured so many with just a little nibble and the lie of more to come. No roaming hands, no filthy mess to clean, no dark thoughts when he was left alone with no one to remind him that it was over. Had been for years, and yet he still thought about the best way to manipulate someone to follow him back to the upper city.

The dark thoughts slipped away as easily as they had come. He could taste dragons on his tongue. Metallic. Probably… iron? Steel? As Astarion’s hand went up to caress her scalp, he felt light scales dipping down below her jaw. He could taste human in there too. It played subtle background notes to the intense draconic nature, filling out the edges and making her all the more delectable for it. 

As her heart began to stutter in protest, Astarion parted reluctantly. He licked the wound closed, then settled back into his own chair, breathing heavily. “Gods, but you are delicious,” he huffed. Her blood was nearly as powerful as Tav’s, and he could feel it working something absolutely divine within his body. The wound on his neck mended instantly. He could feel the skin there restoring back to Cazador’s eternal mark, and his hand came up to touch it absently. 

“I’m alright,” Velora said, likely to Helric who was probably making sure she wasn’t dead. “That was… not at all what I was expecting. It didn’t even hurt, not really.”

Astarion felt like he could take on the world now. He stood up, kicking the chair back as he did so. He bounced a little on his heels. “Good! Thank you for that. I feel wonderful.” He stretched his aching bones, feeling the tension of what he’d been through finally slipping away. A whole new man, at least for now.

“What do I taste like?”

“Hm?” Astarion paused, not quite processing what she said. He was still a bit drunk on the power she’d just given him. 

“My blood. What does it taste like?”

“Oh, it’s… it’s fantastic.”  He giggled a bit. He felt a bit buzzed. He wanted to wrestle a bear, but there wouldn’t be one for many days beyond Waterdeep. “Like a dragon,” he said. “A metallic one. I’ve never had a dragon before, but I’m pretty sure you’ve got some of it in your blood. A pretty near ancestor, actually.” He made a happy noise and bounced on the balls of his feet again. It was hard to sit still. “Was your father a dragon? Never heard of a hybrid before, but anything’s possible. There are godsforsaken dwelfs, so I’m not judging.”

“You mean… wait, what are you saying?”

“You don’t know? Gods. I’ll bite your mother free of charge if you like. She sounds like a real bitch, and I promise you the world won’t miss her.”

“Astarion--”

“You’re a dragon-human hybrid, sweetie.” Astarion lifted his brow towards Velora, clearly not computing the woman’s apparent distress. “What would you call those? Dumans? Hagons?”

“Surely not ‘hagons,’” Helric muttered.  

“Duman, then. Yes, you’re a duman!” The ensuing silence told him that she was not impressed. “Anyway,” he sighed with a sassy wave of his wrist, “you’re not the standard slice of boring, my dear. Likely explains a lot, doesn’t it? You’re entirely too tasty. Your mother must have found some pretty thing hiding out here in Waterdeep and got terribly lucky. I’m rather jealous, truth be told. Karlach used to babble on and on about dragons walking among us, but I’d never put much weight to it before…”

Velora’s response was quiet, delayed. Thoughtful. “I’d always wondered…”

Astarion clapped his hands, still unaware of her internal crisis. He was bursting at the seams with energy and would be climbing the walls soon if they didn’t do something fun. “Yes, well, happy to help! What time is it? Is the sun down? Let’s go find Tav.”

“Oh no, absolutely not!” He felt Velora move near him, likely gesturing back to the bed and implying that he should climb right back into it. “You were comatose all but forty minutes ago, you’re not going anywhere.”

“But--”

“And you’re still blind. What if you fall and hurt yourself?”

Astarion rolled his eyes and clicked his tongue in disgust. He crossed his arms petulantly, like a child deprived of candies. “I resent that. I happen to be very quick on my feet, thank you.”

“I don’t doubt it, but--”

“Your delicious gift has worked wonders for my health, sweet thing. I feel amazing. ”

“Be that as it may--”

“Besides, if you don’t let me leave,” Astarion’s voice dropped an octave, his eyes narrowing to thin slits, “I’ll find my own way. You’ll drop your guard eventually, and I happen to be the best in Faerûn at picking locks.” He clutched his own chest dramatically and pressed the back of his hand to his forehead like he was about to faint. “Oh goodness, I might get seriously hurt out there! Who knows what might happen, all on my little lonesome?”

“Ugh. Fine. But we’re not going far, and only for a few hours.”

His grin could probably banish the shadow curse. Hero types like these two were such easy prey, but it never failed to amuse him whenever he managed to trap them into doing his bidding. He bounced a little and clapped his hands excitedly. They weren’t Tav, but they’d be perfect fodder on the road back to him. “Wonderful! Let’s go.”

It was shortly before midnight when they left Helric’s home. Turns out, the easiest way to avoid the local Watch hunting them down was to operate at night when it was much harder to navigate the streets. “I hate to admit it, but my men are compromised,” Velora explained. They were headed back towards the alley. Astarion relished the sound of the water puddles sloshing beneath his shoes and ended up stomping around in them a few times before the two sour duds he was stuck with pulled him away.

It was just so nice to be a part of the world again. Even just a little. He was still utterly blind, but it was much easier to navigate now. He only needed Velora to warn him of the occasional step once in a while. 

With Astarion still lost in his own joy at the prospect of not being deaf, Helric spoke up, “I don’t think he’s listening.”

Astarion jerked his head towards the two of them, from where he’d found and kicked a bottle. The sound of glass scraping against the pavement was musical. He wanted to do it again, and so he did. “Hm?”

“You’re not listening,” Velora said. Her steps were heavy and dressed in full plate. Astarion didn’t much see the point if they weren’t expecting a battle, but old habits probably died hard. “The situation is tense out here. We’re both wanted by the Watch.”

“Sure, but you were running South Ward until about a week ago. Aren’t your men still loyal? You said this Nox guy is an asshole.”

“Many of them, yes,” she admitted. Then she snatched his wrist when he began to wander off towards the bottle again. “Focus.”

“Apologies, Mother.”

He could hear her eyes rolling around in their sockets. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter. Even if most of them are still loyal, I don’t want them to risk their careers over this. Curb, three paces.” Astarion easily found it with her warning, and they continued walking. “My men have families.”

“You have a family.” Astarion pointed vaguely in the general direction of Helric. “Or at least, he does. I smelled kids. A wife. They’ll need protection. Allies could be useful right now.”

“They are protected. That’s why they weren’t home. And we won’t add more innocents to the line of fire, Astarion. We keep a low profile, and my men will look the other way. Turn left.” He did as he was told. “That means be subtle, by the way.”

“Said the walking battering ram clambering around in full plate. But don’t you worry, darling. I can be very, very subtle.”

“With that hair? You glow in the dark, kiddo.”

“I’m probably at least two hundred years your senior, you know.”

“Oh my apologies, old man. No wonder your bones creak so much.”

To Helric, he asked, “Is she always so rude to her elders?”

Helric didn’t answer. The dwarf gently snatched Astarion’s wrist and signaled for him to stop. To Velora, he asked, “You see him?”

“Batty Ben! About time, I’ve been looking all over this city for the crazy fool--”

“Who’s--”

“Viola, wait. If he sees you in that armor, he’ll run off again. How about me and the kid take this one.”

“I’m not a--”

“Damn it. You’re right. Astarion, go with him.”

“Ugh.” He crossed his arms but followed the warmth and steady heartbeat to his right. Helric was an enigma, but Velora trusted him, which meant that Astarion did too. For now, anyway. “Fine. Are you going to tell me who this Ben guy is?”

“Homeless fellow,” Helric said. “Refugee from Baldur’s Gate. Lost his family in the Illithid Crisis.”

“Ah, so he’s totally sane then.”

“As a bag full of rats,” the dwarf admitted. “This could get dangerous. Be wary.”

“I’d be more wary if you’d let me have my daggers back.” Before leaving Helric’s home, they’d let him touch the blades, safe and well-maintained in their scabbards. He was incredibly grateful to know that Rhapsody wasn’t lost. It was his own personal trophy for obvious reasons, and he’d happily murder anyone who stole it from him permanently. Orin’s dagger he could take or leave, though. It was just a nice, sharp, enchanted blade with the proper amount of balance. She might have been a rabid dog, but Orin had good taste in weaponry. (Then again, perhaps it had been Tav's originally, before the head injury. Orin seemed to relish stealing everything from her brother--including Halsin, apparently. That... hadn't ended well for her. A fantastic battle to witness, though. Gods, Tav was incredibly attractive when he was angry...)

Focus.

The others had insisted on leaving his weapons at home, despite Astarion's many protests. It wasn’t that they didn’t trust him not to kill anyone, but they… didn’t trust him. Especially not while he was otherwise disabled, and apparently out of his godsdamned mind. Astarion of course believed his mind to be perfectly fit, thank you very much, but Velora kept insisting there were wide gaps in his memory, and… well, how was that new, exactly? He wasn’t exactly senile, but he’d been inclined to forget things long before the curse slammed through what was left of him. It shouldn’t matter.

At any rate, Astarion didn’t have the heart to remind them that he didn’t need blades to kill people, as it certainly wouldn’t help his case. Besides, he didn’t want Rhapsody for wanton murder, he just liked having the weight of it on his body. He felt… naked without its presence. And not in the fun way.

“You’re blind, princess,” the dwarf said. Astarion wasn’t quite sure why the fool kept calling him ‘princess,’ but it was hardly the worst nickname he’d been stuck with over the years. “More importantly, we’re not stabbing Ben. We’re just going to have a nice, calm chat.”

“Why? We don’t have time for wellness checks.”

“He was a witness in your attack.” 

“Gods, maybe you should have led with that.” Astarion brushed past him, and immediately tripped over what felt and sounded like a plank of rotten wood. Helric caught him before he planted himself face-first into the filth-ridden alley. He felt himself blush a little with shame. His own grace was a matter of pride, and it felt awful to lose that simply because he couldn’t see. “Thanks, groundhog.”

“No problem, princess. Stick close, will you?”

Batty Ben was a raving lunatic, but he recognized Astarion immediately. The vampire only knew this because he heard the man shriek in terror, probably pointing at him like he was seeing a mindflayer. “The pale one!! You were there!!”

“Um. Yes,” Astarion smiled sweetly. With fang. “Yes, I was.”

“She cast it from the roof. I saw her glowing. Hair white as snow-capped volcanoes, fingers crooked and hot with flames. She took the bhaalspawn. I could smell the taint of it in his fingernails.”

Astarion felt Helric’s arm brush against him and realized his hand was going to his sword hilt by pure instinct. “Bhaalspawn?”

“Tav,” Astarion hissed. When he clarified, Helric seemed to relax a little. “That’s not common knowledge, Benny. Where did you learn that?”

Neither was ready for Ben to close the distance between them. He leaped on Astarion like a flying, hissing rat, and smelled like one that had been bathing in piss and liquor. His hot breath wafted over Astarion’s face, and he shook him roughly. “She had eyes like yours, little vampling. Glowing crimson in the dark. A hatred I have never seen.”

Astarion could hear Velora’s pounding footfalls as she caught up to them from the end of the alley. She was shouting Ben’s name, and hell hath no fury. Helric was desperately trying to pry Ben off of him, but Astarion froze in place. His gaze was elsewhere, to a different time, a different city, a different version of himself from over a hundred years ago. ‘ You broke him, Cazador. ’

Ben was finally yanked off of him, and Astarion stumbled backward. He could see a curtain of white hair. Pale skin. A pained smile.

“The bhaalspawn ripped this from her chest. It fell and I took it for keeping. It’s yours,” Ben said to Astarion, apparently ignoring both Velora and Helric entirely. The two were shouting demands, but they were muffled warbling noises in the background of Astarion’s mind. He felt Ben press something into his palm. Metallic, round, on a corded string. An amulet? “I remember the rabbit. They had such lovely parties…”

Astarion traced the shape of the amulet with his finger. If he had a heartbeat, it would stop entirely, and if he could get any paler, he would have. If he needed to breathe, he would be hyperventilating. He stumbled backward until he met the wall, and didn’t breathe at all. His head was knocked back against the bricks, and he closed his eyes. The world was spinning too fast. His mind was pulsing with agony again, and he pressed the heels of his hands up to his eyes, wishing he’d see the stars. 

“Sorry,” Ben said, either to him or to his current comrades. To the sky, to the Hells. Hard to say, really. “Rabbits are flighty. You’ve gotta snare them properly. I've made mittens from one once, but the bats took them away.”

In his memories, Astarion saw the vision of a rabbit leaping over a silver star. He heard Velora’s muffled shout as he slid to the ground, nausea slamming into him like an oxen cart. He vomited some of her blood, then slurred an apology at the waste. Everything felt heavy. Her arms dragged his head into her lap with gentle shushing noises, and someone said his name. He tried to crawl back out of them, but her grip was firm. Worried fingers combed through his hair. Someone pried the amulet from his tight fist, and he mourned its loss. 

A name, long forgotten, was a whisper in the wind. His lips shaped it, and then he knew no more.

Chapter Text

Gale wasn’t sure when apathy first sank its fangs into him, but there was no going back to a time without it. Its venom slipped into his aching dreams and poisoned every single one of them until he woke trembling, pressing his palm to the starving orb no longer trapped inside of his chest. Secretly wishing that it was still there. He’d been terrified at the time, knowing one little slip of control would result in the annihilation of all life within a city-wide radius, but now… living had become a chore. Being her favored plaything, more so.

He couldn’t say when he first realized it, but he knew. What Mystra felt for her Chosen was not love, and it never had been. Not in the way the bards sang it, certainly not like the beautiful, fragile thing that he’d witnessed sprout among his friends in their brief time together. He didn’t… he couldn’t relate to that.

It was a sacrilegious concept that infected his mind, and Gale feared what she might do should she sense it. He worshiped her utterly, drank greedily from her breast like a babe to milk, but  love ? Was she even capable? Was he, after what she’d done to him?

These thoughts were a very secret thing that he kept cuddled close to his chest where the orb had once been, a dangerous concept that sounded a lot like betrayal, sounded a lot like… like Astarion’s quiet tenor, of all things. It was that exhausted, bitter quality he took to shortly after bathing in Cazador’s blood. In the sleepless nights that followed, he rarely said much to anyone, even Tav or Halsin. He needed time, they said. Time and patience.

In the lull of night, when everyone else would creep into their tents for slumber, Astarion instead sat like a stone sentry and watched over the camp from dusk ‘til dawn. He was a constant ethereal shadow bathed by the flickering light of their campfire. He overheard Gale wake from a nightmare during one of these solemn watches, Mystra’s prayer tumbling from her Chosen’s lips in a desperate plea for mercy. Gale stumbled from his tent choking and gasping on air that wouldn’t quite fill his lungs, and the vampire was there to greet him, his slender body coiled like a spring. His crimson eyes were twin razors as they raked over Gale’s shuddering form, flickering with a knowing, familiar hatred. 

“I thought I loved him too, once,” he said quietly.

The words would haunt Gale long after the netherbrain was dead, though neither of them knew it at the time. Or perhaps Astarion did, but Gale hadn’t been ready to understand what he meant. He didn’t bother to explain. It took the vampire two lifetimes, seven thousand souls, and a vicious stabbing to draw his conclusions on the matter. Gale was just a boy by comparison. A boy not too grown from the one Mystra stole away, keen to claim him as hers at the first sign of real potential.

Watching the others, Gale learned that love was not about possession, mind games, or the desperation to please one’s partner. Wyll went to the  hells  for Karlach, and Shadowhart sailed the stars to kill a goddess for Lae’zel. And Tav... Tav loved Astarion even when he lacerated them all with his sharp tongue, desperate to shove foreign affection away in trade for the familiarity of pain. Halsin loved both of his partners fiercely and protectively, and he asked permission in every touch, every kindness. They spoke of consent, communication, and careful, quiet kisses beneath the moonlight. Astarion did not understand love any more than Gale did, but he'd been blessed to find partners willing to teach him.

Through observation alone, Gale learned that love was meant to be shared, and given willingly between both parties. He also learned that he was  not  loved. He was a possession. No different than Astarion had been, but perhaps… just a little less tormented. Mystra’s was a nicer, gentler touch meant to lull him into believing that love equaled worship, that worship equaled fear, the fear of disappointment, the fear of rejection, the fear… of never being enough.

Gale could never quite earn her attention the way he’d prefer, consuming whatever she deigned to give him like a touch-starved child to an unyielding mother. He alone would never be enough for her no matter how much he might strive for it, though she had trained him well to desire it a great deal. From birth, he spoke her prayers with great reverence and serviced her needs when called upon without a thought for his own desires. He was not a husband to her, and they were not, would never be equals. Mystra did not love him. She  owned  him, purchased and documented by the mother who’d sold him as a babe barely free of her milk in exchange for the goddess’s favor. 

He’d thought he’d loved her too, once. But now…

When Gale finally grew the courage to announce his intention to leave, snakes coiled and squirmed around in his stomach, hissing at the very thought of hurting her. Even then, bitter as he’d become, he couldn’t bear her disappointment. 

“I-I just need… I need a break,” he said, the words catching in his throat. He fiddled nervously with his fingers, ever the frightened child in her presence. He thought he might change his mind as she stared back at him, slowly absorbing the words like they’d been some dead, foreign language forgotten in time.

Her starlit gaze was as penetrating as Astarion’s had been years ago. She knew. She always did. She knew every last one of his seditious thoughts and had nothing to say about it.

“I understand,” she said, and it meant nothing at all. “It hasn’t been the same since you came back to me.”

Since he’d crawled to her feet with his tail between his legs, happy to blame the Netherese crisis as a folly of his own making. Stupid Gale Dekarios, desperate to please an impossible woman. Surely, he should have known better. But she’d trained him to need it like the air in his lungs, to seek that approval at every opportunity though she rarely ever gave it to him. It was…  exhausting , being her lover .  And he didn’t want to live like this anymore, not when he’d seen the potential for better. Mystra’s biggest mistake was letting him fester out there in the mortal plane, fighting for his life alongside others who introduced the possibility that perhaps… perhaps love wasn’t meant to be that way. 

And then he was angry. More than he’d ever been in his entire life. If she knew his thoughts, then why did she let him linger for so long in the hell of them? If she knew, as she always did, then why did she stand by to watch him suffer, over and over again? Why did she never reassure him, hold him, forgive him, let him fail as any other mortal would have in his place? Why did she set impossible standards, only to punish every failure with deafening silence? He was tired of feeling alone. He simply couldn’t abide it, not anymore.

“No. No, we’re not doing this again.” His voice trembled with the pain of it. The fear, the horror, at all the things he wanted to say, but couldn’t. Did she like to watch him suffer? She must have. Surely, she must have.

“Gale--”

“This is why Elminster left you. Isn’t it?”

She narrowed her eyes at him, and he knew that he’d overstepped. Despite the fear, despite the snakes still coiling and hissing angrily in his gut, he continued, “You do this to all your lovers. You know no other way.”

“That’s enough. I know you’re angry, but do not insult me or my Chosen.”

“Is that why you take them young? Was it the same for him? Is it like this for all of them?” He’d barely begun to walk when he was given to her grace, to live with her among the starlight. It didn’t seem so important before, but apathy had given him the proper distance to appreciate how awful that truly was. “I was so desperate to please you, to be enough for you, that I consumed the stolen magic of a dead god just to give it back to you. But you wouldn’t take it. I kissed your feet, knelt before your glory, and gave you my very soul as tribute... only for silence. I paid penance for the crime of wanting to be worthy of you, I ached for you in ways one should never ache for another being, and when I needed you the most, Mystra, when I needed you to tell me just once that it had all been worth something, anything, you--”

“Gale,  stop .”

“You said it yourself. I haven’t been the same since I came back. Maybe I’m tired of pretending otherwise.”

Her broken gaze would have been enough to shatter his resolve at any other moment, but his temper burned far too hot to care. “Then leave,” she demanded, her upper lip curling around perfect teeth. “I won’t bear the blame for this… this ridiculous spiral of yours.”

“Blame? You told me to kill myself,” he shot back, his voice finally breaking. Hot tears came forth and spilled from his eyes in righteous fury. This had been a long time coming. “Ah, but  no , you forced  Elminster  to deliver the message for you, because heavens forbid you show an ounce of care for me! How soon would you have replaced me for another child after I valiantly threw myself onto that spear for you? Is that love, Mystra? Is it?”

She couldn’t answer him. Her fury whipped the weave into a frenzy around them both, but it was too late not to voice it now. 

“I tried,” he said, “I really did. I tried to love you like you want me to, like you can’t love me back. But after walking those lands in fear of constant death, I can’t just forget the lessons I’ve learned. I’m not your perfect supplicant. Not anymore.”

Her expression was so full of hurt, of rage, that he thought she might kill him. The wicked scorn of a goddess burned by her favorite lover. Ozone sizzled and cracked around them both, and Gale would be terrified if he’d not learned to welcome the threat of death as the peaceful reprieve it might finally prove to be. At least then he wouldn’t be her slave anymore. At least, in the eternal words of Karlach, he could die with some fucking dignity.

“You don’t love me,” he spat. “You don’t know how. I think… I think I might deserve better.”

She snapped her fingers. There were no words, no apologies, no well wishes, not a single curse. He was thrown violently from her realm between one blink to the next, a tiny ragdoll caught in a planes-wide hurricane. As he collided against something hard, his vision exploded with angry white sparks. He was certain he felt blood trickling down the back of his head, but he didn’t move. He lay there and chuckled like a man drunk on power, the pitch both maddening and desperate. 

A month passed by in a haze of stale air and rotten thoughts. He didn’t bathe, didn’t shave, didn’t eat, didn’t leave his tower at all. Barely left his bed, in fact. Though he was half expecting Elminster to come knocking with a message about penance, it didn’t happen. Gale swam in the deafening silence of it all, fighting the urge to crawl before her shrine on his hands and knees, begging forgiveness, demanding punishment. He’d do anything just to fill the air with something other than his own, panicked breathing. 

He hated being alone, and Mystra knew exactly how to hurt him. It wouldn’t take long before Gale would break once again just to fill the silence with something, anything. If he committed to prayer, she’d bend him as easily as she’d ever done, making him pliant and perfect in her arms again. She’d remove every last thought in his head save for service, arranging him like a toy meant to hold, touch, lick, pet, surrender. 

Until the thoughts of freedom crept back into his head. Until Astarion’s quiet words cut into him like one of his wicked daggers. Until Gale rebelled against her in the wake of that voice, again and again, his resolve growing stronger each time he did it. In his worst madness, Gale was certain that she still loved him, and that he was a monster for having hurt her after all he’d promised when giving back the crown. He was certain that he must have loved her back. If he hadn’t, why did it hurt so much to lose her? 

‘I thought I loved him too, once.’

Her cold, menacing shrine waited patiently in the room near his chambers, and whenever Gale passed by it, he could feel her stone gaze burning through him from beyond the curtain. One morning, he woke from a nightmare about starlit kisses and decided that he couldn’t take it anymore. Muttering curses under his breath, his mind still swimming in the celestial sea of her possessive embrace, he dragged boxes and cabinets to block the doorway entirely. Like a child trying to keep the demons out. He’d read the wrong book once when he was seven and blocked his bedroom door one night, terrified they’d come bursting up from the hells to kill him. 

It didn’t work then, and it didn’t now. She was still waiting beyond the clutter, knowing that he would break. There was a hammer and chisel in the workshop two levels below, and he dreamt about them day and night, knowing the only true way to end it was to ruin her once and for all. He found himself bringing them back upstairs, shoving the cabinets aside again with strength he didn’t know he possessed, marching towards the shrine with cold fury in his eyes, and he--

and he--

He couldn’t. He held the chisel to her stone eye, and she stared back at him knowingly, a smug little smile curled at the corner of her lips. His hand trembled as he held the hammer, aching to swing that first terrible sin against the promise left behind years ago. He’d been a different man when he’d built this shrine into his home… the needy, compassionate slave she’d made him, full to bursting with what he thought had been love. Was instead submission. 

He knew no other way to live. With tears of frustration burning in his eyes, Gale screamed and dropped the hammer and chisel. They clattered to the ground with a terrible cacophony, and he pressed his palms to his ears with a shudder. She continued to smile her secret little grin, relishing in his pain. 

He marched from the tower without care for his appearance and headed straight into town for the supplies he’d need for a scrying spell. He couldn’t do this alone. And fortunately, he didn’t have to.

Though the merchants curled their noses at the horrific stench of an unwashed wizard and his unkempt, sticky beard, Gale found a crystal ball easily enough and gave them plenty of coin for the hassle. He placed his brand-new toy on a cushion at the kitchen counter and then hid from it for hours afterward. Though it was merely a quick walk into town, and he’d said barely three words the whole way, Gale was utterly exhausted. He avoided going back to his chambers because  she  would be there waiting for him, and instead draped himself on the bench in his balcony, bathing beneath the afternoon sun like it might cleanse him. He didn’t sleep, though he did close his eyes and sorely wished that he could, just for a little while. Mystra plagued his dreams lately, and while he couldn’t remember most of them upon waking, he could still feel her lips dotting possessive bites along his neck. Her celestial hand would dip down between his legs, touching him in places that he’d never consented to, and he’d let her do as she wished because she owned him, and to deny her meant failing her. He’d wake with a start, thinking,  ‘When I begged her to mark me, did I do that because I loved her?’

Astarion might know the answer to that, loathe as Gale was to admit it. Tav was the better choice, here--he was the diplomatic one, knowing exactly what to say and how to say it. He could make the stone in Gale’s heart ease, just a little. 

With a grunt, he marched back into the kitchen and plopped himself unceremoniously in front of the crystal ball. It was clear, pristine quartz, and in surprisingly good condition despite buying it on such short notice. He felt like a charlatan as he sat there, one with crooked bones for fingers, swirling his palms over the glass and muttering inane lies about the future to his desperate, wide-eyed clients. With some rudimentary beadwork and various charms tied into his robes, he could easily pass for a fortune teller. He’d surely earn his gold back tenfold by spreading rumors that the goddess of magic had granted him foresight in exchange for bedding him.

If only he were so interesting. Instead, Gale sighed, his bones creaking like an old man as he toddled back into the tower proper, braving the upper floors in search of his study. He still didn’t dare acknowledge his chambers or the shrine room attached to them. He couldn’t remember exactly  where  he’d left his sketchbook, but he sincerely hoped it wasn’t still lying on his bedside table. It was a ridiculous keepsake that made him feel safe and reminded him of a more pleasant time when the only fear to utterly consume him was that of dying a hero.

The others had never noticed him doing it, but he’d wile away the evening hours drawing his companions and committing them to memory in case one or all of them might perish. It was his private way of honoring them. He’d picked up the skill during his time with Mystra years ago, drawing her general form, her hands, her eyes, and the perfect lips that had claimed him over and over again. The first half of the book was like this--Mystra’s presence committed to charcoal and paper like a lover, consuming every single thought, every intention.

But after she'd shunned him from her side, there were drawings of Tara hunting pigeons, Tara curled up by the fireplace, Tara exposing her belly with an evil glint in her eye, tail flicking mischievously as she dared him to rub her there. And then, when the nautiloid came--sketches of Shadowheart’s beautiful dark eyes, Lae’zel’s peculiar nose, the cold twitch of Astarion’s lips as if in the middle of some savage, flirtatious remark.

The sketchbook was not in the study. It was indeed left by his bedside, a cold comfort for terrible nightmares. He darted in quickly, ignoring the sound of the statue’s mocking laughter thundering in his ears as he scampered by the shrine room to grab the thing and flee from his own bedroom. It was pathetic, but this was why he’d decided to scry for his friends in the first place. If he were left alone here any longer, he’d slice his wrists to be free of her. They’d never forgive him for it.

When he arrived back in the kitchens, Gale was breathing heavily like he’d run halfway across Waterdeep. He slammed the old sketchbook on the counter like it had personally offended him for being left up there, in those awful rooms with that awful statue ever mocking him. He’d deal with it later. He didn’t need a chisel, he was a wizard of considerable skill. It was how he’d gotten here in the first place--she didn’t fall for stupid people. He’d take the whole goddamn tower down if he had to, one fireball at a time.

He caressed the old leather that bound the thing and flipped it open. Winced at all the art of Mystra, thumbing halfway through the book to avoid recalling every moment he’d drawn them. He found Tav’s face not too deep into the tadpole phase of his life. Pale blue skin, a button nose, his long black hair tied into a thick braid and styled like Orin’s had been down in Bhaal’s temple. He had sharp, pointed ears, and distant gray eyes with black sclera always staring off into the void in search of the bloody memories that eluded him. A vicious scar danced across the upper bridge of his nose and slid down underneath his left eye. Gale knew there were worse scars beneath his armor and suspected brutal ones cradling his skull, likely given when Orin had attacked him in the mindflayer colony before they’d met.

He had plump lips that both Halsin and Astarion seemed to find quite kissable, though they were often used to console rather than seduce, to mend, to usher kindness and deep respect. Despite Tav’s darker nature, he rarely relished hurting other people. A strange habit in a legendary bhaalspawn. Gale often wondered how much of Tav’s ugly past was of his own making and how much had been decided for him. Not unlike he or Astarion, or Lae’zel, Shadowhart, Karlach… hell, even Wyll. Cruelty seemed to be a pattern that united them all far beyond what the tadpoles ever could.

Gale held his hands over the crystal ball, and wisps of faint purple magic began to swirl and dance at his fingertips. He concentrated on the surprisingly deep baritone of Tav’s voice--it would echo with menace whenever he cast spells, and rumble sweetly whenever he laughed. An image began to appear in the crystal, a location to where the man might be now. He'd let Gale in whether he knew or not, and the wizard’s grateful smile dropped when he opened his eyes to look.

Tav was dead.

Curled up in a dark, dank prison cell, Tav's slender body was ravaged with countless stab wounds. There were signs of torture, the slice and dice of little cuts all over his face. It was hard to tell, but his eyes seemed to be missing in all the gore. Someone had plucked them out one at a time.

Gale startled back, nearly breaking the connection in his panic. He knew, rationally, that Tav couldn’t be dead. If he were, the scrying wouldn’t have worked. The variant that Gale used connected directly to souls, and if he were an empty corpse, he would have received no response at all.

But as he carefully watched Tav’s chest for any sign of life, it wasn’t moving. He wasn’t breathing. He was most certainly, definitely dead.

“Oh no. No, no, no ... ”

Gale searched the room as best he could through the scry, trying to determine where his friend might be located. It was a cell like any other, unfortunately--stone walls, chain hooks, rusted cages, a rack of torture implements not too far beyond the cell door. There was no one else down there. Nothing but Tav’s mutilated corpse, and a small rat that scuttled into a nearby sewer grate.

He held the spell as best he could, swallowing the surging bile back down into his stomach. His fingers trembled as he kept the magic working through the crystal ball--this couldn’t be happening. No one could kill Tav, not even the god of murder. It simply did not make sense. It just wasn’t happening.

Tav’s whole body suddenly jerked, and then he thrashed about like he was having some kind of seizure. He gasped and choked, clawing at his own throat, and then he was  breathing  again .  His wounds slowly knit themselves back together, his eyes reforming in his skull until he was blinking wildly and scanning the room for his jailor. The magic that had revived him was not Tav’s familiar red hue. It was a sickly green color, likely necrotic. It seemed familiar, somehow… but Gale couldn’t quite place where he’d seen it before. 

Tav’s fingers, once broken and now mended, combed over his own body in search of injury. Despite the painful process of his apparent resurrection, he seemed relatively unharmed now. Bloody, battered, covered in his own gore. But unharmed. He stood and began to pace the cell, running his hand through dark, matted locks. His braid was twisted and unkempt from long-term abuse, which was not at all like Tav, who obsessed over hair care even more than Astarion. Gale was no expert, but he could guess his friend had been trapped down there for quite a while. 

Keeping his focus on the crystal’s image, Gale tapped his temple and concentrated on Tav’s presence. A sending spell might reach him. He had to try. 

‘ Tav. This is Gale. I tried to scry your location, but I can’t figure out where you are. Who did this to you?’

In the crystal ball’s image, Tav whirled immediately when he heard it. There was a collar around his neck etched in strange, angry runes. It likely prevented the use of magic, and it seemed he couldn’t cast a sending spell back. He knew Gale must be watching, however, because he tossed his arms and shook his head. Message clear:  I can’t answer.

‘Is Astarion with you?’

Tav shook his head again. There was a worried crease in his brow. Gale knew the expression well enough--deep, terrible concern for his lover. Astarion would never let Tav be taken willingly, and he must have been hurt in the attack that led to this.

‘Is he alright?’

Tav shook his head again, biting his lower lip in worry. Gale’s heart lurched in his chest. 

‘I can’t maintain this magic forever. I’m going to find you. Please don’t die again.’

He wasn’t expecting Tav to laugh. It was a cold, cruel thing that seemed to shudder up from the menacing, black place Bhaal’s divinity had left behind. Tav’s dark eyes screamed with bitterness. Then he slashed angrily at the air, and gestured to his throat, to the bite mark Astarion generally left there during their adventures together. The message was clear in this as well:  forget about me. Find him.

‘I’ll find him,’  Gale sent back.  ‘I promise. I’m getting you out of there. I’m coming, Tav. Please.’

Gale cut the spell reluctantly, though he was shuddering with the exhaustion of maintaining both the scry and several sending spells at once. Tav’s final expression was one of hopelessness and utter despair. He’d never seen it before, at least not on Tav’s face. The others had broken from time to time--Karlach in Gortash’s chambers, Shadowhart after her parent's deaths, Astarion over the bloodied mess of his former master. Tav had always been the unbreakable one, their otherworldly, divine-touched leader, who could take on dragons and gods without so much as a flinch.

Whoever had left this mark on him was not to be trifled with.

Gale flipped through his sketchbook in search of Astarion’s face instead. He studied the sad, lost expression the vampire wore, drawn that night after leaving the Szarr estate. He traced his finger along Astarion’s slender jaw and tried focusing his features into the crystal. Unlike Tav, there was no answer, no matter how hard he pressed, no matter how long he waited. Either Astarion resisted the intrusion, or… well, he wasn’t  dead , surely… at least not beyond the normal means.

Exhausted and frustrated, his heart hammering in his chest, Gale hunted down his old gear. Staff, armor, components for spells, and a potion of arcane vigor for good measure. He was rather exhausted after all the scrying, but he knew one last place to look. He avoided praying to Mystra that the fool was still exactly where they’d left him five years ago, because if he wasn’t… well, Gale had never been very good at actual detective work. He hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

In the years following Ketheric’s death, Moonrise Tower and Reithwin had undergone several fundamental changes. For one thing, the entire mindflayer colony beneath the tower’s foundations was methodically burned to ash. The horrific brain library that Gortash had created was an especially disgusting find, and weeks were spent cataloging what the victims had to say before mercy killing each of them in their jars. A large stone monument was erected before the front gates, listing known victims and the final words they’d whispered within the library. They found thousands of nameless dead down there, as well as countless more having succumbed to the curse itself. Behind the monument, Thaniel planted a beautiful tree with glowing golden leaves. To honor the dead. And a part of himself, perhaps, lost to the shadows so long ago.

The boy would never fully recover from what was done, but Oliver proved to be good company. The two could be seen flitting about the city and deep into the forest, leaving little spots of flora wherever they stepped. The locals often woke to the sound of giggling and strange gifts left on their doorsteps, by their windowsills, or even beneath their beds. The sprout of a flower, a friendly young squirrel, an intricately stacked set of acorns. The gifts varied like blades of grass, and it made sense only to the fae. Halsin felt blessed to be a part of it all. It had been quite hard these last few years alone. Thaniel could sense his pain from the connection they bore and proved to be pleasant company at times… if too young to truly understand where it came from. 

“I don’t get it,” he said, flopping down next to Halsin where he lay on the forest floor. The druid was quiet, a joint of smokeleaf gently burning between two of his fingers. He’d been smoking for hours now, and a gentle buzz lulled the heartache in his chest just enough that he felt… well, not quite content, but the closest he could manage these days. He’d been staring up at the swaying treetops as he savored every pull, contemplating the wonders of the heart and the universe. 

Thaniel didn’t like this new habit, but he’d given up trying to convince Halsin to quit. He nudged Halsin’s shoulder to get his attention. “Why don’t you just tell them that you’re sorry? Oliver threw a mudball at me earlier, and I’ve already forgotten about it.”

The druid’s smile was only half-mast, most of his spirit still lost to cold and bitter things. The buzz that coated his mind in a hazy, comforting blanket eased some of the tension in his spine when he answered, “They already know.”

“Then you’ve got nothing to worry about! Just go meet them!” Thaniel scooted on top of him like an excited toddler, and thumped Halsin’s broad chest with his small hands. “I’m sure they’d be happy to see you again. I like seeing you all the time!”

“It’s not that simple, Thaniel.”

“Oh yeah? Why not?” Small hands searched his fingers for hints of silver. They didn’t find it, but Halsin kept his joint clear just in case. “You’ve still got that ring, don’t you?” The boys had stolen his smokeleaf stash more than once over the years, replacing them with various vegetables, fruits, and even a very confused pigeon. “You could find them, quick as a snap. We could help!”

“Yup,” Oliver chirped. “After I catch you, maybe!” He’d been hiding behind a tree, and plowed into Thaniel, sending them both tumbling and wrestling in the dirt. Thaniel pulled Oliver’s hair, who then tugged one of his brother’s horns. They giggled, parting a moment later with breathless wonder twinkling in their eyes. 

Oliver flopped onto his back and nudged Thaniel gently in the side. He pointed at Halsin, pouting a bit. “He’s doin’ that thing again. The  broody  thing.”

“He just misses his friends, is all. I’ve been telling him he should go visit, but he won’t listen!”

“That’s because he’s old,” Oliver said sagely. “Old people are stupid.”

Halsin couldn’t disagree. He did feel pretty stupid. Astarion would certainly attest to that if he knew the true reason he and Tav had split in the first place. It was phenomenally stupid, beyond any hope of redemption. But things had spiraled so quickly. Halsin was certain that with time, his heart would mend and that he would find another to fill the emptiness they’d left behind. But another had yet to come.

Oliver blocked Halsin’s view of the treetops from where he stood with his little fists on his hips. He was always the more aggressive of the two and loved to tell anyone his opinions on all sorts of things. Today, it was no doubt an entire prose dedicated to how Halsin was an ‘old fogey bogey,’ that kissing was gross, and that being sad was dumb when there was no reason to feel that way. “We’ll make you leave if we have to, you know. Thaniel doesn’t like it when you mope around like this.”

Again, Halsin couldn’t find fault in his words. Except for the kissing part, anyway. 

“My apologies, Oliver.” He finally sat up and shook the leaves from his long hair. He flicked the joint onto the ground and smiled when Thaniel squished it with his foot. With the flick of pretty floral magic, it was turned into a tiny red mushroom. “What would you like to do?”

“Hide and seek!” The boy bounced in place, as if ready to burst at the seams. “Please, please,  please !”

This time, Halsin’s smile was full and genuine. “Again?”

“Yeah! We’ll hide, you seek. C’mon, Thaniel!!” Oliver dragged his friend off by the wrist, and before long, they’d disappeared into the woods again. He could hear them giggling where they waited just beyond his vision as he loudly counted down from ten.

When he reached three, Halsin let the bear take over. Oliver would probably call it cheating if he dared to reveal his location. There was a boyish grumble of annoyance, at least. At the ready, Halsin’s nose twitched, and he followed the scent of magic flora in their direction. He was nearing close when a loud bark came up behind him, and white fur dashed in his peripheral. 

Scratch. With… something in his mouth. Halsin shifted back to his normal form and took what seemed to be a letter from the pup with a nod of thanks. Scratch wagged his tail and waited patiently for the head pats he knew he’d earned. Halsin happily obliged after tearing the seal of the envelope. As he unfurled the letter, his heart skipped a bit when he caught a familiar name within it.

To Halsin of the Emerald Grove:

I am in dire need of your aid. My name is Velora, and I was a lieutenant of the Watch here in Waterdeep until recently. Your friend Astarion is in great danger. He is critically ill due to a mysterious curse that has limited his senses, and it is well beyond my ability to cure.

There is no easy way to write this. Astarion is not well, and I fear for his safety. He is currently trapped in a deep coma, and will not wake despite my best efforts. He requested your presence several times when he was still able. I hope you manage to find this letter swiftly, and then meet us here in the southern ward. 

You cannot trust anyone in Waterdeep. Do not approach the law. Go to the White Gull tavern and ask for Violet’s special brew. I will find you and bring you to him.

Velora Vexxus

Thaniel was the first to pop out from behind a tree. He gently took Halsin’s hand and tugged for attention. When Halsin looked down, his vision swam a little. “Is everything alright?”

He very nearly lied to the fae. Troubling his old friend was not something Halsin enjoyed, but Thaniel wasn’t a normal boy, and these were hardly normal circumstances. “No,” he admitted. “I’m sorry, Oliver. I need to go.”

Oliver revealed himself with a sad grumble. There was a twig stuck in his hair. “Aw! Alright, then. I suppose you’re allowed, but you  have  to play when you come back. The others don’t do it like you do!”

Thaniel reached for the note out of curiosity, but Halsin carefully swiped it from him. “I will,” he said softly. “I’m sorry. I don’t know when I’ll be back. But--”

“You can stop worrying about us, Halsin. Oliver and I are safe now. Go.”

“I’m sorry,” he repeated. “I’ll return as soon as I can.”

Thaniel just beamed up at him, his soft eyes twinkling with something strange and ethereal. Oliver made a noise like the giggle of a pixie, and he poked the center of Halsin’s chest. Leaves whirled around them, whipping about like a sudden tornado. He was whisked away a moment later, and Scratch along with him.

He found himself standing in the middle of the Moonrise Tower courtyard. Scratch whined in confusion, clearly unhappy with the sudden mode of transportation. Halsin bent down to pet him reassuringly, then pocketed the letter. He was marching towards the stables when a sudden hand grabbed his shoulder and spun him around. 

Halsin blinked. Twice.

“ Gale?”  The wizard had seen better days. He wore a scraggly, unkempt beard, greasy hair, filthy robes, and he smelled like a sewer grate. The man was rather vain when they’d last met, and Halsin couldn’t help but stare. “You look--”

“I know,” Gale interrupted, catching the way Halsin’s eyes traveled his form. “Don’t say it. We need to talk.” 

Chapter Text

The kennel was silent. There was no rattle of bones, the clink of chains, no scurry of rats nor the nails of his brethren scratching on the walls. He lay in pieces on a dirty cot, left with his severed hands, elbows, feet, and knees, like a broken doll awaiting his seamstress. They’d left all the bits necessary to put him back together again, and Astarion sorely wished they wouldn’t. Begged them, more than once. Despite his pleas, they didn’t take his head, but the knife often lingered there, promising the sweet release he would never know in Cazador’s care. They did not pierce his heart, nor drag him into sunlight, nor douse him in running water. He ached for it, screamed for it.

A quick cut to his windpipe eliminated that possibility. He recalled that he was relieved to become a thing afterward, to be dragged around, toyed with, touched, and maimed. The blame lay entirely on his master should he die from this. Bhaalspawn were the worst kind of patrons. Niloth, perhaps the worst of them all.

A soft gasp greeted him to Dalyria’s horrified stare. He couldn’t see the master behind her, but Astarion knew that he was present. He felt the pull of his cursed blood tide towards that shadow, though he had very little left to give. 

“The brat isn’t dead, my dear. Though he might wish it.”

He must have really screwed it up this time. Astarion couldn’t recall much beyond the severing. The shadowed face of a drow, some maddened words about a father… and a terrifying well of gravity emanating from the dark corners of the room. A cruel, bloody grin. At best guess, his pain was meant for some kind of ritual that would benefit his master. He must have done something to properly anger Cazador to warrant it, and feeding him in a deal to the bhaalspawn seemed punishment enough. A lamb to be slaughtered, or something of the sort… it didn’t matter. You couldn’t kill what was already dead. Astarion was pretty certain he’d died for the second time in that room. This was just the epilogue.

“H-How is he still… I-I beg pardon, my lord, but I don’t know how we can save him--” Dalyria’s sharp cry seemed ludacris with Astarion lying in pieces right in front of her. It was likely Cazador had struck her. With claws, he hoped. Fuck the lot of them, and Dalyria in particular for her fucking sympathy.

“Use your pretty head, girl, or I shall remove it. Arrange the pieces. I will mend him.”

The hoarse, wet thing that came out of Astarion’s mouth could hardly count as a laugh, but a laugh it was nonetheless. He felt like he was drowning in his own blood, which was quite likely. 

“Shh, boy. That’s enough.”

He didn’t stop. There was a sort of freedom, being this far gone. Cazador could certainly try to hurt him more than he already had, but he was nothing if not possessive, and Astarion was dying. If they didn’t get on with it, he’d be dust by morning. He sincerely hoped they wouldn’t.

Either Cazador cast some spell, or he fell back into the black. It was hard to say. He felt no pain, so far beyond the concept now that it seemed like an insipid thing to cry about. He thought he might have heard his master reciting a spell as he was carefully sewn back together by soft, trembling fingertips. He felt himself sink into warm liquid and smelled the blood of a dozen sacrifices mending his body. His Master’s claws traced the mark on his neck, singing so quietly that hardly anyone else would hear him. “As love and its decisive pain,” he sang, “oh, my sunlight, sunlight, sunlight…”

There were two fingers pressed to his left temple. 

She was back.

Cazador’s singing faded like ink drops into the ocean. It had been a memory. One of many that he’d forget as he always did… he wasn’t certain if he should hold onto this one, not that he had a choice. His mind was a sieve dripping, dripping… He could hear her calling out to him. She was swimming in the dark, demanding that he answer her. 

He did not.

Recalling the severing was a strange experience. Like with the tomb, he wasn’t the same after it was done. He would hurt himself, hurt others, and float listlessly no matter what was done to him. He’d crawl into the dark places of the palace and wait there for peace to return, and when it didn’t, he would scream until his throat gave out. Cazador’s slow, steady efforts to repair him did little, and his master acted strangely in his attempts, almost… apologetic. For a little while, he let Astarion get away with far more than he’d ever done before, and it didn’t make sense, it wasn’t helpful whatsoever when all he wanted was  order . 

And then eventually, like the kiss of a healing spell, Astarion forgot. He wasn’t sure how, but he was simply…  fine, one day. Back to normal with a hop and a skip, spitting venom at his siblings, scheming for power, bedding half the population of Baldur’s Gate in the name of survival. Same as ever. Cazador saw fit to ignore him once he was well, and Astarion was returned to the lower city to gather more victims on his behalf. He quickly regained his place as the favorite by luring more snacks than anyone else dared. Though sometimes he woke to the strange sensation of falling to pieces, he never once questioned the faults in his memory. It was bliss, or the nearest thing to it. He’d become a still lake, reflecting only the wants and needs of his marks. A sultry look here, a gentle touch there. A pretty shell with flesh made to smile, caress, push, pull, empty, empty,  empty --

“Astarion?”

Until the man with the Urges fell from the sky. Tav filled him with something that Astarion didn’t understand at first. Something that was not flesh, nor sultry, nor heinous. The beautiful moron was a murderous drow who woke covered in the gore of bards, and yet he held Astarion’s hand with such disgusting tenderness, that it was mildly offensive at first. When Astarion followed Tav and Shadowhart into the House of Grief, he was too madly in love to wonder if the Sharrans had done some work on him. It would make sense, given all the gaps in his memory. There were so, so many, and Cazador had struck countless deals with them in the past…

“Astarion!! Answer me!”

He found her swimming in the vast, open, abyssal black of his own mind, and he snatched her foot where she kicked, trying to keep herself above the surface of the water. She gasped for breath, fighting his pull, but she was a tiny thing in the infinite expanse he had claimed for himself. He dragged her deep into the dark like a predator with prey, deeper than he’d ever been before, than he’d ever dared when alone. Down, down, down.

They reached the ocean floor, and then there was air. Light. Life. 

“You’ve  got  to stop doing that,” the woman said. She seemed none the worse for wear. When he didn’t respond, she nudged him gently. “Astarion?”

He didn’t answer. Not by intent, of course. He simply didn’t know how to respond. Everything felt a bit too raw now, and none of it made sense anymore. He couldn’t even remember who she was, but he knew they’d met at some point. She didn’t belong here, but she’d come many times before. It was… exhausting, trying to keep track of what he’d lost. 

He was dressed in dark red finery from another life and time. His skin was pink, and he could hear the gentle thump of a tiny drum beating life into his chest. When she carefully took his hand in hers, he shuddered and pulled it away. Her touch was cold and clammy. She was still chilled from the water, and he didn’t like the sensation. It reminded him of something he couldn’t quite recall.

“I’ve been looking for you,” she said gently, like a rider might to a spooked horse. “You fell into another coma. I can’t wake you. I’m… worried that I made it worse. You’re not well.”

They were standing side by side in a long, dark hallway decorated with ornate paintings. The portrait in front of them bore the sadistic grin of a drow, and behind him, hidden in shadow, was the figure of another. Pale blue skin, menacing gray eyes, a flame tattoo licking up his neck like a promise. His shadowed lips seemed to twitch with a knowing, bitter secret.

“Isn’t that Taverine?” The woman pointed at the shadowed drow in the painting, squinting her eyes a bit as she leaned in for a closer look. “I think it might be. He looks… different. Did you know him before the Crisis?”

When Astarion didn’t respond to that either, she sighed unhappily and examined Niloth’s wicked smile. “This must be Nox, I guess. Score one for me.”

He nodded a slow, stilted movement. He could feel the tiny drum inside of him banging against the inside of his rib cage, desperate to escape. His vision swam, and he felt himself stagger backward. Suddenly, she had her arms on his shoulders, her eyes wide and wet and worried much like his own. Their minds interlocked like one of Cazador’s wooden puzzle boxes. He knew that he was still out there somewhere, slumped in Helric’s bed, silent as a corpse. It’s been weeks. She’d come to make sure he wasn’t dead, and it hadn’t been the first time. 

“I know you’re in there somewhere, kiddo. I need you to try and talk to me.”

With effort, he managed, “Not… a child.”

She laughed with warmth, full of sunlight and life. It made him ache for something he didn’t quite understand, and it struck him, then, that she was very beautiful. She looked different each time he saw her here, though he wasn’t sure how he knew that. Today, she was a steel dragonborn with hues of blue, and a vibrant furled crest fanning along the back of her skull. She had long, reptilian dreads and tiny horns. Her eyes were twin moons, silver and full as she looked at him. 

“Glad you’re not dead, old man.”

He’d had many like her over the years. Each with hopes and dreams, some with families, some desperately seeking a small taste of heaven in their dark and terrible lives. He promised them joy, pleasure, peace, escape. They would follow him through familiar paths up to the palace, giggling all the while like children sneaking out after dark. They were little more than sacrifices, to be left starving in a pen with thousands of others. Astarion remembered slamming that wicked staff into the ground, numb to the world. Killing them all. He’d called it a mercy at the time, but he dreamt of Sebastian’s hateful glare that night. For many nights afterward.

Cold, clammy fingertips caressed his cheek. He blinked at her slowly, then shied away from that touch. 

“You don’t remember me, do you?”

He shook his head. She didn’t seem surprised by this but was disappointed all the same. “I’m Velora,” she said. “My partner and I have been taking care of you.” She hesitated, darting her eyes to the painting of Niloth for a moment. “Do you remember Halsin? We contacted him. He should be arriving any day.”

The name meant nothing to him, but he felt a strange yearning all the same. Anger, too, mingled somewhere in between the cracks of his mind. She sighed when she noticed his lack of reaction. “Alright, then. Later. Tell me more about these paintings.”

Most of them featured moments from his time as a slave. Things that Cazador didn’t want him to know, and things that he’d forgotten just to survive with his mind intact. He didn’t look at any of them, head bowed to the carpeted floor. Velora would gasp at some, point at others, and ask questions. He didn’t care to listen or absorb any information about them. He kept a slow and steady pace down the hall until they reached a foreboding black door at the very end of it. There was a silver crest etched into the wood. A small rabbit leaping over a silver star.

He stopped, with his hands held behind his back. 

“What’s in there?”

Astarion shrugged. He had no idea and didn’t really care. There were plenty of secrets down here meant to hurt him, and this was just one of many others.

“That’s the same symbol as the amulet you got from Ben. You touched it, and…” Catching his blank look, she muttered, “Yeah, never mind. Can I open it?”

He did nothing but wait for her to make the choice for him. He would never open this door alone. He didn’t dare. Still, when she wrapped her fist around the knob and began to turn it, he grabbed her wrist. His stare was unknowable, his lips twisted with a strange expression. Not quite fear, not quite sadness, absent of pain. As blank and dark as the expanse of the ocean she often met him in. 

“I need to see,” she said softly. “For Tav. It’s the only lead we have.”

For Tav. 

Strange that Astarion could forget so many faces, but his husband was not one of them. A testament to love, perhaps. He felt some other part of him, the part that ached when she mentioned Halsin, scream in pain. Slowly, he released his hold on her wrist. He didn’t breathe. She began to open the door--

Gone. Like the snap of a thread, she was gone from his mind, and he was alone. He shuddered away from that door, far from the warm sunlight peeking from beyond it. He heard a man’s hoarse cough. Heart in his throat, he swam away, swam back up into the sea, as far from that door as he could manage. Back into the black where it was safe.

Chapter Text

“Ah! There we are. How much for Violet’s special brew?”

The bartender of the White Gull was an annoyed-looking half-orc with vivid purple hair and a scar slashing over her right eye. Halsin stared at the color without shame and wondered why they were standing here in a busy downtown tavern when he could feel the gentle tug of his wedding ring leading northeast. Astarion was likely very close.

When Gale asked him for the ring, Halsin went to his quarters to retrieve it. The blatantly knowing look he’d gotten from the man seemed a bit unfair, considering Halsin was quite tactful to avoid mentioning Gale’s own state of affairs. They each carried their broken hearts on their sleeves, and neither was in any mood to talk about it. Which was just as well, as they had far more important things to worry about.

It had been years since he’d seen the wizard, but Halsin remembered a better-groomed and far more patient man than the one he’d met at Reithwin. Once hidden in an alcove, Gale stuttered out some crazed explanation about Tav dying in a scrying glass. Halsin’s heart lurched into his throat with that news, but the wizard assured him Tav somehow resurrected himself a moment later. 

Tav was a creature of many talents and had already defied death at least twice. But that had been with the help of an unknowable, incredibly powerful lich who’d decided to follow them around on a whim for the sake of ‘balance.’ Withers could not be found after they had parted ways in Baldur’s Gate, and it didn’t seem likely that he would randomly appear by Tav’s side now for no other reason than the man was in danger. Even if he liked Tav enough to do so, Withers did nothing without cost.

It was a philosophy that Halsin found easy to empathize with, as nature held a similar sense of balance. The druid knew well that one didn’t simply revive themselves from death, and even if they did, the cost would surely demand many other lives in return. Such was the way of things. Both he and Gale sincerely hoped that whatever ritual tying Tav to the mortal plane wasn’t due to something quite that nefarious, but they had no way of knowing. Not that they weren’t thankful.

When Halsin shared his letter with Gale, the wizard grabbed his hand without a word. Gale snapped his fingers, and suddenly they were all flitting through the weave several ten-day travel from Reithwin. They spilled onto the chilly docks of Waterdeep moments later with a confused whimper from the dog and a look of disappointment from the druid who cared for him. Gale had the decency to seem apologetic but he didn’t actually speak the word. Instead, he flourished a wrist over his purple attire and cleaned himself in an easy movement. He was still in dire need of a shave, but at least the man didn’t smell like the backend of a ferret's nest anymore.

Then Gale marched the dog and his druid into the White Gull tavern, striding up to the bar like he’d been there a thousand times before. Considering how the orc crossed her arms at Gale’s request, it was likely they’d met, and not on the best of terms.

“Dekarios. It’s been years. You know your tressym killed Harry.”

Gale’s eyebrows crawled into his hairline. “Who in the bloody hells is Harry?”

“My hamster,” the bartender growled. Her fists slammed on the countertop, causing various bottles to chime nervously. 

As Gale began to backpedal, Halsin wondered if he should step in. “Well, uh, maybe he just ran off--”

“She left me the  bones . In a neat little pile right on my doorstep. Real psychotic animal you’ve got there.”

“O-oh,” Gale stuttered. “I see. Well, um. I can talk to Tara. Maybe… maybe she’ll apologize?” His voice ended in a squeak. The bartender didn’t seem very impressed, but Gale’s pathetic display was enough to appease her for the moment. Halsin wondered if it had been intentional--Gale was a lot of things to a lot of people, but meek hardly seemed one of them anymore. He’d changed after leaving Mystra. At least, Halsin could only assume he’d left her, considering the current state of him.

“Mini giant space hamsters aren’t cheap. You owe me five hundred gold.”

“Five  hundred--”

“Or a new hamster. Take your pick.”

“...Fine,” Gale sighed. “I’ll come back tomorrow with your recompense.” He clapped his hands, eager to get down to business. “Now. I believe I requested--”

“Viola’s in the back,” the orc gestured vaguely. There was a ratty, curtained doorway behind the bar. “Get moving.” She lifted the latch to the counter and then ignored them in favor of an actual patron. 

Scratch kept close to Halsin’s heel as they followed the wizard through the curtain into a cramped storage area. They were greeted by a strange woman sitting on a wine barrel and writing in her notebook. She looked up at them, eyes alight with recognition, then continued scribbling. 

“Just a moment.”

“Are you Vel--”

“Not here. Give me a moment.”

Though Velora was dressed in simple attire, it did little to hide her powerful nature. Even a layman could tell that she was built for battle. Like Halsin, she was very tall and broad, with strong arms and thick legs that could and likely often had carried the world around her. The twisted, sawed-off stumps of horns were barely hidden in her long, shaggy red hair, and she had steel scales running down her cheeks, around her neck, and into her blouse. Her pupils were cat-like and the color of an inferno, flickering with flames. Her nose looked like it had been broken at least once, and she bore a rough scar along her upper brow. Battle-worn and ready. At least Astarion had found someone capable of defending him.

Gale, forgetting his manners, leaned in close for a moment. Halsin understood the confusion. Her ears, skin color, and size were human, but the rest of her screamed dragonborn. Her teeth were pointed and menacing, like those of a lizard, and when she spoke, her tongue seemed to be long and tapered. She didn’t seem to have a tail, though her lower body was built for one. They’d never seen anything like her.

“You can stop staring, you know.”

“Ah! Pardon my rudeness. I am Gale Dekarios, and that’s--”

“Halsin,” she finished. “Yes, I know.” She slammed her notebook closed, and then hopped off the barrel with a small huff of impatience. The notebook was tucked safely under her arm. “Follow me.” Catching Halsin’s eye, she added, “He’s not doing well.”

Halsin’s heart had climbed back up into his throat, and Scratch proved to be a comfort. Sensing his distress, the dog brushed up against him and whined softly. He asked the druid what was wrong, but Halsin scratched behind his ears and didn't answer. He let Gale continue the talking. 

“ How  ‘not well’?”

“He’s dying.” Halsin and Gale exchanged panicked looks, thinking of Tav. Velora caught them both with a wince of sympathy. As they each left through a backdoor out of the tavern, she pulled a low hood to cover her face and led them into a narrow alleyway. They walked in the general direction of where Halsin felt Astarion’s gentle tug. 

A rat squeaked by Scratch’s paws, muttering something about beasts from the sky. Probably that tressym, if Halsin had to guess.

“Poor kid’s been in a coma for three weeks,” Velora continued. “Woke up for all of a day after the first week, then collapsed right back into it and hasn’t responded since.”

“Has he fed?”

“I know he’s a vampire, if that’s what you’re asking.” 

“And?”

“And… we’ve been trying,” she muttered. She sounded frustrated, though not with Gale’s pressing questions. They turned right through another narrow alley, bypassing a bum smoking some sort of foul herb that had Scratch hiding on the other side of Halsin. From the smell, he knew it was something far more potent than smokeleaf. “When he’s comatose, he won’t take the blood we get from the butcher. I let him tap the source when he woke the first time.” She gestured towards her neck. “And that invigorated him for a little while. But then he fell back into a coma and hasn’t fed since.”

Gale shot Halsin a look. “Long enough for his body to stop responding?”

He shook his head. “He has great resilience when it comes to hunger. I'm told he starved for over a month in the shadow-cursed lands.”

“Oh. I didn’t know that.”

“Neither did I. Jaheira told me.” She’d been furious that Halsin let ‘his’ vampire starve so easily without thought to feed him. She gave Tav the same scolding, well out of earshot of Astarion himself. While the vampire didn’t seem to think he needed a keeper, he had at least three conspiring for his well-being. 

Velora didn’t understand the exchange and didn’t pretend to care. They passed under an archway and then tread down yet another alley. This one smelled like urine, and Scratch found the scent very interesting. He kept pausing at various dark corners to sniff the air, his tail gently wagging. 

“I… tried to wake him up after the first week,” she continued, “and I’m… well, I'm pretty sure I made it worse.”

“Worse how? What symptoms does he have?”

“It began with blindness and deafness, both of which were permanent. Normally a standard curse to cleanse, but this one has been insidious since we found him. I suspect a fear spell is involved, though we haven't been able to confirm that. It's been affecting his mind. Even if we didn’t suffer… err, complications, it's been pretty clear that he needs at least a master cleric to fix this. And before you ask, I've had no luck finding one trustworthy who'll work on a vampire.”

Halsin could tell that Gale was cataloging everything in that genius mind of his, already comparing the effects to known spells. “What else?”

“Memory loss. His mind is a soup like I said. More than just from the extended sensory deprivation. The guy hasn’t been a happy camper, no one would be. But now… I don’t know. He forgot my name. Doesn’t know where he is half the time, and he doesn’t remember you,” she said, nodding to Halsin. “I told him you were coming, and he didn’t even react.”

Halsin’s eyes narrowed, though he kept his tone even. “You claimed he was in a coma.”

She stopped and turned to look at him with calm, innocent eyes. “He is. But it’s… well, it's complicated. I can, um… connect to his mind.”

“Telepathy?”

This seemed to be a sensitive subject for her, but they knew trust did not come easily. There was little time to respect such boundaries. “Of a sort," she confessed reluctantly. Her hands balled into fists, then released with a nervous hitch of energy. "I can’t do it all the time, and it gives me wicked headaches. But it’s the only way to tell if he’s still alive. He… he doesn’t even breathe now.”

“That can't be good,” Gale muttered.

“Agreed. That’s why I’m glad you’re here. If we don’t cleanse this thing soon, he’ll either be dead, mistaken for dead, or too mindfucked to know the difference.”

“We’ll figure it out.” Gale’s tone suggested that he was desperately trying to convince himself. Even with their significant experience brought to the table, it sounded like it might already be too late. “He'll be okay, Halsin. We’ll fix it. We always do.”

Scratch bumped against his leg when Halsin said nothing, sensing his distress again. They walked the rest of the way towards Velora’s safehouse in relative silence.

They soon found themselves walking into a small blue house meant for people who were not Halsin. He had to duck down once they entered, the low ceilings and doorframes causing quite the crick in his neck. He didn’t complain, returning Velora’s apologetic smile with one of his own. She led them to a quiet room in the back of the place. It was a family home, with toys tucked away in cupboards and photos of young dwarves on the walls. A meaty stew bubbled away on the kitchen stove, the front room was home to a lit chimney decorated with various photos, trinkets, and ornate carvings.

When they reached Astarion’s room, the door was closed and a scruffy-looking dwarf stood guard in front of it. He was old and wizened and had seen more battles than most would in a lifetime.

“Helric,” Velora introduced with a gesture. “He’s my second. Or he was when I was still working for the Watch.”

“I’ll always be your second, Viola.”

She smiled softly. It was clear they’d been friends for a very long time. “This is his home.” She handed him the notebook she’d been carrying. He opened it, examining the pages with a furrowed brow. “That’s all I could find,” she muttered to him.

“Are your children here?” Halsin jutted his chin towards a small bedroom door decorated in colorful, childish drawings. “There could be trouble, and I won’t risk them.”

“They’re safe,” the dwarf said, a grateful glisten passing through his weathered blue eyes. “The princess proved difficult to move, given his nature. My home has been the closest place still free of suspicion. We’ve been searching for alternatives, of course, but things are getting bloody complicated…”

Gale sighed, looking a bit tired suddenly. “I keep forgetting that he’s vulnerable to the sun now.” He glanced behind them, towards the brightly-lit living room and its many sunny windows happily illustrating the time. “I might be able to move him through the weave--”

“We haven’t even seen him yet.” Halsin was a man of great patience, but it was hardly infinite. The bear would claw that door down if they didn’t open it soon.

Sensing his frustration, Velora moved to do so, but she paused right before twisting the knob. She gave them both a conflicted, sorrowful look that had Halsin balling his fists. “He’s not dead,” she reminded them. "I checked this morning."

“Open. The door.” He loathed the aggressive tone of his own voice. Though very large by most standards, Halsin had never been quite this aggressive before. When the wizard gently nudged his arm, concern dancing across his eyes, Halsin amended the harsh tone with a “please.” At his side, Scratch whined softly and sat on his haunches. His tail wagged nervously. 

Velora sighed and did as requested. 

The room was dark. The sheer curtains the other rooms wore were not enough to shutter the sun’s light here, and so a thick dark blanket was pinned over the window to protect Astarion from exposure. A candle flickered gently on a nearby table, stacked with books related to vampirism, medicine, and curses. Though a relatively featureless room compared to the rest of the home, a large painting of a war horse hung above the bed like a promise.

That bed was the smallest and most insignificant thing anyone could possibly look upon but it held Halsin’s entire world within it. He felt pulled to its gravity like the well of a great star. Swallowed by the sheets was the unmoving form of his ex-husband. His white curls peeked out above the blankets, and Halsin tried not to imagine a burial shroud as he noticed how very…  still  he was. 

Dropping to one knee, Halsin carefully pulled the blankets free. Scratch hopped up when he smelled his old friend and licked Astarion’s pale cheek as soon as it was revealed. He whined again when the vampire didn’t react with his usual smarmy comments. The old dog was smart enough to know something was terribly wrong and quietly asked Halsin how to fix it.

"I don't know," he told the dog. The world was sinking. He felt pulled down, down, down into the earth, to be claimed by nature and eaten by her vermin. This was not the world he'd woken to in Reithwin. This was some other world, meant for some other man that was far better than he.

Astarion was very, very pale, the palest they'd ever seen, and even more thin than usual. His lips were a desaturated hue of red that was hard to look at. While he’d lost much of the sun’s luster after the netherbrain died, Astarion retained a bit of color through regular feedings from his husbands. Recalling Jaheria’s words, Halsin knew they’d also seen Astarion starve for far longer in much rougher conditions, so the pallor and gauntness here didn’t quite make sense. It had to be the infernal magic slowly killing him.

Gale crept up behind Halsin and muttered a soft curse. “He looks awful.”

“Yes,” Halsin whispered. He brushed Astarion’s jawline with the back of his knuckles, his brows pinched with worry. The vampire was room temperature, still, and lifeless. He felt and looked like a corpse, but neither was in the mood to voice it yet. Velora had been surprisingly tactful. 

“Mystra's sweet mercy! Wow. She’s right, he’s still in there. But his soul is... it's... well, it's not good.” When Halsin glanced back at Gale, surprised by the words, the wizard’s eyes were glowing a bright, vivid violet. He knelt by Astarion at Halsin’s side and extended an arm over the vampire’s body. Swirls of the weave emanated around his palm, leaving trails of wispy light wherever he moved. "Gods. He's a bloody mess. Are you sure it’s just the one curse?”

“Mostly,” Velora spoke from the doorway. She was leaning against it with her arms crossed. The dwarf had vanished, likely attending to some other business. “We have a witness. Not a very reliable one, I’ll admit, but he seemed pretty certain the attack was spontaneous. A swift, single strike.”

“There’s a lot of confusing spellwork here. Most of it is necromantic, but there are hints of divinity… Not sure which god, but it tastes like a cleric’s handiwork.”

Velora snorted. She seemed mildly offended for some reason. “Tastes?”

“Yeah.” Gale was still staring off into the weave with his glowing violet eyes. “The magic from each deity tastes different.” He shrugged carelessly. “I don’t know, it’s a wizard thing.”

“Or a you thing,” Halsin said. Despite the dire circumstances, he smiled a little, oddly comforted. 

Gale smiled back. “Or… a me thing, I suppose.”

Velora seemed in no mood for it. With a huff of impatience, she demanded, “Well, on with it. What’s this one taste like?”

“Liquorice.”

They could both hear the roll of Velora’s eyes in her voice. “And that means…?”

“I-I can’t…  ah.  I see.” Gale blinked, and then the glowing eyes dimmed. He clapped Halsin on the shoulder and frowned. “Sharrans. Has he ever gone to them in the past? For their services?”

“I do not know.” Astarion rarely talked about his past in detail. It would come up in his tormented reveries, in nightmares and flashbacks, in moments alone staring up at the stars, but never in casual conversation. Never while sober, and never with Halsin. Unlike Tav, the druid was wise enough to know when to let the dead lie. He did not ask. “What are you saying?”

“That’s where the memory loss is coming from,” Gale muttered. He extended a glowing palm back over Astarion’s curled form, likely trying to confirm his theory. “At least… some of it,” he said, with difficulty. “It feels similar to Shadowhart's scarring. And like her, there are so many imprints here… Shar has had her claws in him long before this curse came to be. I can’t believe we didn’t see it sooner.”

They both knew this train of thought likely led to some very dark conclusions, and it wouldn't be fair to Astarion to tread that path any further than necessary. Halsin ran his fingers through the soft white curls, silently wondering at how long they had gotten. It didn't seem like he’d cut them since they’d parted three years ago. 

From the doorway, Velora asked, “So? Is that what’s killing him?”

“In part.” Gale’s brow furrowed in deep thought, and he stroked his scraggly beard for a moment. The glowing dimmed once again. “At a guess? A very brief, not at all educated guess, mind you. I think… I think the curse itself was likely meant to debilitate, not kill. But it seems the remains of Shar’s magic and whatever else Cazador has done to him must have spiraled out of control. Every spell is competing for the same territory, and you’ll recall that Cazador didn’t like to share. Goddesses don’t like to share, either. Well…  some of them, ” Gale added bitterly. He swallowed it down a moment later, and continued, “The weave within him is… tangled, for lack of a better word. It’s pretty messy in there. It would take even a master cleric quite a while to sort this out. Or me, of course.”

Velora lurched from the doorway, looking back into the main area of the house as if she heard a noise. She didn’t remark on it though, too interested in Astarion’s welfare. “You said his soul was damaged?”

“There’s a lot of scholarly debate on what vampirism does to a person’s soul, but this injury runs deeper than that. Could be from Cazador’s… err, treatment. Difficult to say, but it’s surely not because of the curse. It’s much too old.”

“Centuries of torture,” Halsin quietly reminded him. He carefully moved Astarion to lay on his back. The pale elf had been curled up on his side, buried into the sheets like a mole nesting in the dark. His eyes fluttered open at Halsin’s movement, but they were dull and glassy, with no light to be seen in them. It was easy to forget that vampires were undead. Astarion was normally so full of energy, a boisterous, highly animated creature who spoke with wild gestures and demanded an audience in all that he did. He drew and deflected attention like someone who’d mastered the craft for centuries. One could tell his moods based on the breathy pitch of his laughter. 

Halsin hated realizing that he might not hear it ever again.

“Right. Well.” Gale cleared his throat, desperate for a path forward. He adjusted his robes, and continued, “We’re either dealing with a very powerful magic user or someone connected to one.” He stood and addressed Velora, leaving Halsin to his bitter thoughts. “The curse is a custom job, so probably a wizard. I’ve never seen anything like it before, and I’ve seen… a  lot .” The name ‘Mystra’ floated about the room like a ghost. One that Gale cared not to acknowledge. “There aren’t many mortals who could disrupt the weave this way.”

“But you can fix it.” Velora wasn’t in the mood for a no. 

Fortunately, Gale wasn’t either. “Of course I can,” he sniffed. “But not here. We need to get him back to my tower.” He looked back down at Halsin meaningfully. The druid was still gently stroking Astarion’s cheek, as if the man were merely napping and this was a quiet moment between two lovers. 

The movement was almost… content. A slow, steady trace of jawline along the back of large, calloused knuckles. It was an easy motion that Halsin had done countless times before. Astarion’s back was off-limits when it came to physical contact, and this was a welcomed alternative. Sometimes, Astarion dreamt hard in his meditations, and often those dreams were violent, making him twist and turn about the sheets like someone dying. If Halsin were present for it, he learned to stroke him just like this until he woke up again. Tav taught him the technique. He said the gentler you were, the more likely Astarion would come back safe and sound.

Gale knelt beside them again and rested a calming hand on Halsin’s shoulder. He whispered, “My friend, listen to me. I promise you, with every fiber of my being and all the power that I possess, I will find a way to save him. We’ll save them  both . But I need you with me on this. I cannot do it alone.”

Halsin’s affirmation, whatever it was, was drowned out by the shatter of broken glass. Several deafening howls and bangs thundered throughout the tiny home. They heard the dwarf, Helric, shriek in agony. There was a violent clattering in the kitchens and then many strange, fleshy abominations suddenly barrelled down the hallway on all fours. Velora screamed Helric’s name and unleashed radiant energy at the creatures. Though the blast did some limited damage to those in front, they all shrugged off her assault and bypassed her, moving straight for Astarion.

From one breath to the next, the bear was unleashed. The tiny guest room was hardly large enough for so many inhabitants, but Halsin wasn’t in the right mind to care anymore. He roared with a deep, bellowing fury, and slashed his claws across the nearest creature. Scratch snarled and bit into the throat of another, a flash of white streaking by. Halsin’s victim slammed into the western wall and squealed in pain. It landed badly and its neck broke instantly. The blood that splashed across Halsin’s muzzle was ripe with iron, and he felt drool pooling into his mouth. The bear was  starving . He gored a second with his claws, then bit around the neck of the thing and swung it around like a toddler with a ragdoll. Scratch claimed a second moments before it could sink teeth into the druid’s thick hide.

Gale cursed and snatched Velora’s hand where she stood defenseless by the doorway. He dimensional-doored them both through the cluttered hall, heading towards the kitchens where they’d heard Helric scream. Before running off out of sight, Gale shot a cheeky fireball down the hallway behind the mass of creatures. It exploded with an awful, shuddering bang and lit the house on fire. The creatures screamed in agony and two of them were incinerated on impact. Flames began to lick up the walls, and smoke filled the air. 

Halsin growled as he realized that he, Scratch, and Astarion were now trapped in a burning building. Reckless, impulsive wizards. At least little had changed in the last five years. He tore through the mob by leaping on top of one with the weight of his body and then ripped into the belly of another. His bloody muzzle twitched with the delicious smell of burning flesh, and the room filled with incoherent screams. Coughing as the smoke continued to rise, Halsin shifted back. He lifted a wall of vines through the floorboards to block the room's sole doorway from further assault. The vines were already happily burning away, and he knew it wouldn’t be long before the entire place was consumed in flames.

Despite the winter season, the sky was free of clouds, and Halsin buried his growing panic. He could find a safe shadow nearby, but the burning might spread, and then they’d be well and truly hopeless. Gale could put out the fire with enough time, but they didn’t  have  time. 

Halsin stared at his ex-husband’s still form, aching for this beautiful, fragile creature he’d left behind. If Astarion died here, he’d never know the truth, and Halsin didn’t want to live in a world where that wrong could never be righted. He’d rather burn here with the rest of them, Gale or no Gale.

Scratch barked at him with urgency, snapping the man out of his daze. With a whispered apology to Astarion, Halsin tore the heavy blanket pinned over the room’s only window. The sun’s rays sprang forth like holy light seeping down from the heavens, and immediately, Astarion’s skin began to flake and burn where it licked him. He didn’t react. His expression was almost serene as he lay there, quickly turning to ash. Halsin covered him before more serious damage could be done, wrapping his entire body in the heavy fabric until he was certain the man wouldn’t erupt into flames. He lifted him in a bridal carry. The lump of Astarion’s head found his shoulder and bobbed there gently at Halsin’s movements. 

Halsin readied a spell to break the window apart when it blew out on its own due to violent purple magic. He shielded himself, Scratch, and Astarion by twisting around at the last moment. A few glass shards bit into his back, but at least both the dog and his charge were safe enough. He heard Gale call out to him from the street. “Sorry! I forgot!”

The druid was absolutely done with him. “You  forgot ... that fire  burns ?”

A menacing crackle collided against Gale’s shield spell, and it burst. He was thrust backward into view of the wall where the window had once been, head knocking back against the gravel road with a groan of pain. Scratch raced out of the house once the path was clear, eager to avoid his fur lighting up like a candlewick. Halsin ran after him as the flames continued to climb up around him. The smoke became intense enough that he couldn’t properly see anymore. He carried Astarion into the street and blessedly clean air, only to skid to a stop when he saw a powerful spellcaster facing off against Gale. 

Gale slowly climbed back to his feet, teeth clamped into an expression of utter contempt. “Yes,” he said to Halsin, still glaring at the fool who was currently trying to kill them both. “It’s been a while!” He released a barrage of magic missiles from his fingertips when he gestured in frustration. They screamed through the air and slammed into their target with sickening accuracy. The man, dressed in black robes and donning a black mask, stumbled backward from the assault. “I’ve spent the last five years with  her ,” Halsin caught the hitch and frowned at him, “so forgive me if I  forgot  about the silly concerns of mere mortals.”

“You're forgiven,” Halsin hissed, and though he meant it, his low tone indicated that he wouldn't forget any time soon. This wasn't even the first time. “Now explain. Have you left Mystra, then?”

“Now?!” The strange spellcaster threw a series of nasty eldritch blasts in their direction but Halsin easily shrugged them off with a shield spell around both he and Astarion’s covered form. The ones aimed at Gale met nothing but air. “You want to discuss this now?! In the middle of a bloody battle?”

“Pray tell, why shouldn’t we? You’ve become exceedingly reckless. It’s one thing to discount your own life, it’s another to discount  his.” The weight of Astarion’s life was very heavy in Halsin’s arms. It seemed the single most important thing in the world at that moment.

“Oh, that’s interesting.” Gale muttered an incantation offhandedly, and a wicked sword burning with green fire spilled into his palm. “Mister Nature’s-Gifts over here.” He lunged towards the stranger, who dodged out of the way with a curse of his own. “What have you been doing the last few years? How long has it been for you?” Each question was enunciated with an angry slash of green flames. “Why were they alone out here, Halsin? If you were here--”

“Don’t dig up graves you have no business touching, wizard.”

"What?"

"You wouldn't understand."

Forgetting himself, Gale spun around and gestured wildly at his friend, the flaming sword winking out of existence. “Then  make  me understand!”

The stranger took advantage. Gale was slammed by a spell that was hot and white and angry. It etched the world into sharp contrast for a moment, and Gale died right there in the street, on his knees, screaming bitterness to any who would listen. But then he gasped back to life and slowly climbed to his feet with a shuddering sense of rage about him. He licked the blood from his lips and trembled.

When Halsin looked to apologize, Gale hissed, “No.” He spit the rest of the blood welling into his mouth and slowly turned around to greet the stranger. “You have my attention,” he muttered dangerously. “And for the record, I do apologize. I believe I may need some therapy, and you are the only person here that I can hit guilt-free.”

“I’m only here for that filthy spawn,” the stranger said. He looked quite nervous now, his raised palms a timid little gesture of submission. “My quarrel is not with you, wizard.”

If the man were hoping to be spared, it was the wrong thing to say. Gale’s fists began to glow with malevolent, flickering magic. His eyes were suddenly bright white, his dark hair twisting wildly as weave whipped into a storm all around them. When he spoke, his voice reverberated on itself, layered with years of pain and regret. “That's quite unfortunate for you, then, because your poor choice of phrasing has led to your untimely demise.” It was all the more menacing because this was Gale at his edge. Sweet, bumbling Gale Dekarios, now full of fire and brimstone. "Any last words?"

“Give me the spawn," the stranger repeated nervously, "and I will leave. We need not fight."

"Not very smart, are we? Ah, well. Sadly, I will have to decline such a generous offer. I'd much rather kill you.”

“Please, I-I don’t understand--”

“Have we moved on to begging yet? Good. This is going to hurt, after all. But don't worry, when he wakes up, I’ll let him know that you died swimming in your own fluids . ”

Halsin’s first thought was for the hundreds of innocent lives in the small suburban district around them. His second thought was for Astarion’s safety. He and Scratch ran off with their precious bundle safe in hand, searching for shade and silently praying to the oak father that Gale wouldn’t burn the world down around them. Again.

Chapter Text

When Gale was thirteen, he was made to kneel for a very long time. Days, perhaps. Weeks, even. The passage of time was hard to track in the weave where Mystra waited. He couldn’t remember what he’d done to earn the punishment, but his goddess seemed very insistent that he learn his lesson. He begged her to let him move, sit, stand, lie down, anything but on his bruised, sore knees. But she insisted that the boy was going to suffer for his own good. She said that he’d be happier for it in the end, and… he was. She kissed him as he cried when finally let free, his legs failing him when he tried to stand to greet her. She lifted him up off the ground like a mother with a tiny child, whispering soothing empty promises into the shell of his ear. She nuzzled his tear-streaked cheeks and then kissed down his neck like a mother never would.

He thanked her for the lesson and begged her to touch him more. She did not heal his knees, nor give him the strength to walk properly. They would mend themselves slowly, over several days. Days that he spent crawling after her grace because he knew no other way to function. 

If Mystra were watching where he stood in that street glowing with the rage of the weave, she likely mourned the loss of him. Gale was nothing if not a perfect student. He’d learned to comb his fingers through magic in a way few others dared, and he’d turned down godhood just to please her. At the time, it soured him to know the power he’d given up for someone so unworthy, but now he knew he didn’t need it. To erase this pissant from existence, he needed only fury. After so many years spent burying it down deep inside of him, there seemed to be an infinite well to draw upon.

“P-Please,” the stranger begged. He held a gloved hand up to appease the terrible agony Gale promised for him. It was only then that the wizard noticed a missing left hand. “You know not what you do. I am a Robe of the city--”

“A corrupt official in a position of power who has abused his authority to hurt countless others. Where have I heard this tale before?”

“If you kill me, you’ll incur the wrath of the law here in Waterdeep. As well as--”

“You think they’d care for a bhaalspawn?” The air hung heavy with that revelation. Gale glanced towards the burning house, now black and charred, crumbling to its foundations. Fortunately, the fire hadn’t spread to the other buildings yet. 

He would owe Helric’s family big after this. It was bad enough that the dwarf was injured... Gale had sent him with Velora to a nearby clinic, cutting them both through the weave with what was becoming an increasingly difficult trick. Though he didn’t look like it, Gale was fairly exhausted at this point. He’d have to kill this idiot soon and take a long, hearty nap before he keeled over.

“Cute. You think you’re subtle,” the wizard spat. Gale closed the distance between them, still radiating with arcane fury. The man in the mask was hard to read, but his terror was fairly potent. “I recognized the abominations you sent to attack us. We’ve fought them plenty before. They’re malformed slayers. Not quite the rabid power they used to be, I’ll admit. Is daddy dearest not yet recovered from the slaughter we dealt him last time?”

“Bhaal will not stand for--”

Gale rolled his eyes, thinking back to Orin’s own brand of confidence many years prior. She’d been so convinced that Bhaal would never let her die, only to realize she stood alone as her half-brother ripped her apart. The god of murder did not discriminate when it came to his hunger. “Do you really think he’d save you, fool?”

“We kneel before the father and bathe in his bloody sacrifice,” the man uttered proudly. He fell onto his knees, hand raised in prayer. Gale almost pitied him. Like Orin, he seemed little else but bloodlust. “You know nothing of our ways.”

The power in Gale’s hands crackled dangerously. He’d have to release the spell soon or be consumed by it. Pooling the energy into one hand, he grabbed the man by the collar with his free one and shook him. “What do you want with Astarion?”

The stranger laughed. His sudden fearlessness surprised Gale enough to falter. The man ripped off his mask, revealing an effeminate drow male with dark violet skin and shock-white hair. His eyes were pale and full of malice. He spread his arms wide, and tipped his head back, cackling at the sky. He let Gale hold onto him without a care in the world.

But Gale was in no mood to repeat himself. His arm shuddered with the urge to release the energy he’d built, and he fought it with clenched teeth. He shook the monster again, a bit rougher this time.

Finally, the drow said, “Same thing as you, I’d expect.”

“And what’s that?” If he implied any sort of salacious act, he would die. Gale was hungry for it.

Instead, he was answered with, “Information.” The two blinked at each other, and Gale let him go. The drow’s eyes narrowed with hate, and a long, wicked staff was summoned into his palm. He used it to stand up again. “We seek the sanguis proditor,” the drow explained. “He must answer for his sins against our father.”

Gale wasn’t considered a genius for nothing. He sorted the context clues fairly quickly and stood breathless at the realization. “Blood traitor… You mean Tav. Bhaal wants Tav back.”

“Father always did play favorites,” the drow whined. He shuddered and dipped a sensual hand along his belly. “He will be cut, cut,  cut . We will mold his wicked flesh back into the pretty thing he was before the red bitch ruined him.”

Gale wasn’t certain why the drow was monologuing. Perhaps he thought he really was going to die, perhaps he felt there was an edge to be gained somewhere. Even so, it was obvious how they’d gotten here. “And you believe Astarion can find Tav.”

Another giggle. This one is near-maniacal. “That little whore knows many things he ought not to.”

To be a wizard was to embrace restraint. They were creatures of rules and habit, following spellwork to its exact origins without any room for deviation in their methods. This was a lesson carried down from Karsus, lest any other commit his folly. But Gale was not like other wizards, even from the start. He was reckless, a fair bit impatient, and quite capable of making his own damned follies. Though he enjoyed the structure and was a model student in all that he did, restraint never quite fit him. It was why Mystra had been so enthralled with him in the first place. 

Other wizards followed rules and regulations because that’s what they were meant to do. Gale followed rules and regulations because that was the only way he knew how to keep himself in check.

He finally released the spell with a soft, slow sigh. It sent the drow flying up into the air with a sharp crack of bright red energy. There was eerie silence for a moment just before it connected, and then a loud, rumbling bang. The buildings around them shuddered in protest. The drow plummeted from the sky a moment later, crashing further down the road as a pile of twisted flesh and bone. Gale slowly walked up to him while the man screamed and screamed and screamed. He did not smile. He did not rage. His face was utterly void of any emotion, save for the purest bone-aching exhaustion.

The drow was missing an arm and a leg on the right half of his body. His remaining leg was twisted in on itself like a pretzel, and his only arm was still handless, cut at the wrist in what Gale was only just now noticing had been a fairly recent wound. The poor bastard was desperately waving his stump into the air like a flag of surrender. Pleas were tumbling from charred lips, but his throat could not quite squeak them out.

Bhaalspawn had limits the same as anyone else.

“Do it again. Call him that word one more time.” The apology was clear in the drow’s eyes, but Gale didn’t care to hear it. A sword was summoned into his palm again, green fire licking along the blade. He held the tip to the man’s stuttering throat. They were inches apart, now. “Mercy,” he whispered. “That’s what you’re trying to dribble out, isn’t it?”

The drow nodded his head with a panicked twitch of his neck, ugly crying up at him with snot dripping from his nose. He didn’t want to die. 

“Fascinating concept, that. I used to have plenty of mercy stored up inside of me, entire oceans of the stuff given freely and easily for the merest of transgressions. But now…” The last glimmer of light in Gale’s eyes died. His lips twisted into an ugly, mean thing. “I don't know. You just don't seem to be worth the effort.”

He plunged the sword into the man’s throbbing neck, and cut through his larynx. He watched, cold and dead, as the drow convulsed on the ground, clawing at his own throat with his useless stump. It took him three excruciating minutes to die.

Gale snapped his fingers as he saw the Watch finally running down the road towards them, footsteps thundering like the sounds of a calvary. He and the body vanished into the weave, leaving no trace for them to follow. 

Gale sent a message to Velora and Helric letting them know where the tower was. He also moved Halsin and his cargo through the weave so they’d be safe and out of the sun. Now his nose was bleeding and his brain felt like it was going to start oozing out of his nostrils. He’d gone well beyond his limits today, and this migraine was probably going to kill him. The body of that drow was also bleeding out all over his living room floor, and honestly, it felt like petty revenge at this point. Just the perfect sauce for the shit sandwich that was his life today.

Halsin huffed with exertion as he adjusted Astarion’s weight for the sixth time in a row. The poor soul was still wrapped in a blanket, and quiet as a corpse. “Gale? Gale, we need a room.” Beside them, Scratch busily licked the blood from his paws.

“Right… um…” Gale blinked and saw stars. His brain was hammering against the inside of his skull, clearly resenting being stuck in there with such an idiot. “Sorry. Up… upstairs. Follow me.”

“Are you alright?”

“Just… tired,” he managed. 

“I…” The druid was normally not one to hesitate, but he did when he caught the resigned glimmer in Gale’s eyes. “I, um. I couldn’t help but notice the state of the body…”

“Halsin, please. Not now.”

“...Alright,” he said quietly. “Just know that I worry for you. You’ve been… different. If you ever need a confidant…”

“I know.”

With slow, weary steps, he led Halsin and Scratch towards a small guest room that was unfortunately far too close to the shrine room and his own adjoining quarters. They had to pass by the entrance, still cluttered with debris from Gale’s previous tantrum up here. Scratch nosed around the boxes with a wag of his tail, but grew bored when there was nothing of interest. Gale was certain the hammer and chisel were still waiting by the foot of her statue, demanding that he commit to his promises and destroy her once and for all.

Halsin absorbed the scene with a tired expression and said nothing. Either he didn’t care, or more likely, he’d already guessed what it all meant. Gale stuttered to a stop when he caught sight of Mystra’s judgmental stare from the shrine’s entryway, but the pulsing in his brain proved too much to ignore. One pain out-screamed the other. He moved on.

The guest room was home to a small window that Gale shuttered immediately, as well as a modest wardrobe, a colorful painting of Tara, and a soft bed that was just barely big enough for the two of them. He knew well enough that Halsin wouldn’t leave Astarion’s side for the foreseeable future, and was proven correct when the druid sat down on the bed and got comfortable. Scratch hopped up beside them, examining the heavy blanket and its cargo with a confused tilt of his head. His ears perked up as Halsin slowly unraveled Astarion from the blanket like the world’s most terrible gift.

When Gale had seen them last, it was at their wedding in the House of Hope. They were so disgustingly happy, each of them wearing custom suits and clinging to each other like the world might be ending all over again. Astarion on the right, Halsin on the left, Tav squished in between them grinning from ear to ear. He’d never seen a more lovely, saccharine sight in all his life. 

And now Astarion was dying, Tav was… gone, and Halsin didn’t even wear his ring anymore. It was one thing for he and Mystra to be ruined, but these three were rock solid. They were supposed to have it all figured out. It was supposed to make sense.

Gale had enchanted their rings as a gift. It was a spell meant to lure them towards each other when they wore them because he knew how often both Tav and Astarion could find themselves in danger on any given day. It was a sweet gesture meant to ensure they’d always find themselves back in each other’s arms. As Gale caught the silver glisten of Halsin’s ring where it vanished into Astarion’s long curls, he wondered if it had worked. Or if, perhaps, he’d just made things more complicated.

Velora claimed Astarion didn’t even know who Halsin was anymore. And frankly, Gale didn’t either.

If Gale had come back to find them troubled because of something the vampire did, that would have made sense. Hells, if he’d come back to find out it was something Tav did, that would also be incredibly understandable. He loved the two of them very dearly, but they could be incredibly bitchy and unpredictable sometimes. More than anyone he’d ever met, really. 

But Halsin? Sweet, steady, reliable Halsin? Halsin, who’d become the rock of their little tadpole squad, the one who’d pointed the way in their darkest of nights? Who softly encouraged Shadowhart to act on her feelings, who challenged Lae’zel’s brutal disregard for affection? Sure, Tav did those things too, but he couldn’t be everywhere. And Tav had his own faults and wild opinions about things. Halsin… did not. He was the only one to support Karlach’s right to die on her own terms, and he held Wyll’s confidence when the man sobbed brokenly one night, terrified that he might lose her. Halsin did not cast judgment, nor did he ripple the waters around him. In a group full of so many strong personalities, the druid was the soothing salve they needed to function without killing each other.

This man who held Astarion in his arms with the kind of bone-deep guilt Gale wished he couldn’t relate to was not the same one he’d left behind. So he offered it back in kind. “Halsin… listen. If you ever need someone to talk to…”

“I know,” he said.

“I’m sorry for… for what I said earlier. It’s not your fault that they’ve been hurt.”

“I… I know.” Halsin seemed less certain on that one. His hand paused where he’d been gently stroking Astarion’s jawline. He shifted the vampire so that his face was pressed into Halsin’s neck, and Gale winced at how dead he looked. Normally, that was a surefire way to wake him up from even the deepest slumber. He’d complain about their hearts beating too loudly, and to please shut up about it. To see him so still was awfully disturbing.

“I was just… angry,” Gale explained. “Everything makes me angry lately. Seeing Astarion like this makes me angry, the way that drow spoke about him made me angry. Seeing you look so lost, Tav missing and apparently dying, this whole situation, it all just makes me…”

“Angry. I understand.” The thick blanket that had been protecting Astarion from the sun was slowly discarded. Halsin maneuvered the vampire’s legs to drape across his lap and then settled them both further onto the bed so that Halsin could lean against the wall with him. Scratch adjusted so that his head lay by Astarion’s legs, his fur brushing against cold and delicate calves.

“Yeah. But it didn’t start there, it started with her. And you were right. I… I couldn’t do it anymore. I finally stood up to her, and… and that went as well as you’d expect.” Gale swallowed the memory and felt his bones ache in weariness. He sat in the room’s only chair with a light groan. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.”

The druid kicked off his boots. “Done what?” Astarion was barefoot and pale, his dainty toes peeking out from beneath the covers. It was oddly intimate in a way that Gale hated.

“I shouldn’t have said what I did. I don’t know why you weren’t here with them, but it’s none of my business. And it’s not your fault. Given how messed up this situation is, you’d probably be dead if you were here. So… honestly, I’m just glad you’re okay.”

“Shh. It’s alright, Gale. Calm down.”

He blinked and didn’t realize his eyes were welling up with tears until they spilled down his cheeks. He wiped at them in confusion, and his voice sounded a little too watery when he spoke. “Is it?”

“Yes,” Halsin said. It was so matter-of-fact, so confident and put together that the wizard smiled at him. Maybe there was still some of the old Halsin in there after all.

 “I... I really missed you.”

“I can’t say that I’ve missed your fireballs. But I’ve missed you too.”

“Can I…” Gale wiped the tears with his palms again, frustrated when he noticed more of them coming. “Can I sleep here? I can take the floor…” He swallowed. His voice was twisting and turning into a horrific display of feelings.  The more he tried to fortify himself against the tidal wave of his mind screaming at him, the bigger those waves seemed to become. “I just don’t want to be alone right now,” he muttered brokenly.

He wanted to die. And he didn’t, at the same time. It was a terrible state of affairs that he wished on no one but Mystra. And even then, despite his continuous quiet rage… he still wanted her back. The world just made more sense with her in it.

“Get up here. We’ll make it work.”

After a moment of reluctance, Gale crawled onto the bed to sit beside Halsin against the wall. The druid arranged Astarion to lie between them, with his head resting comfortably in the crook of Halsin’s neck. Astarion’s legs rested over Gale’s, and the wizard laid his arms over them, gently stroking a pale calf to reassure himself that everything would be alright. At least, for now.

“I’ll fix this when I wake up. I don’t know how… but I will.”

“I know, Gale.”

Scratch brushed up against his hip, and curled into a contented little ball. It wasn’t the most comfortable sleeping position Gale had ever found himself in, but it didn’t matter. Lulled by the weight of Astarion’s presence, as well as Halsin’s slow, steady breathing, he quietly slipped to a deep and dreamless slumber.

Chapter Text

Velora ducked from alley to alley like a ghost. She was careful to hide her face behind veils when in public, and never made direct contact with anyone who didn’t need it. She spoke softly, quickly, and with great purpose. She didn’t like wasting time. Being on the run from the same law she’d trained to hunt her down did not make for easy relations. 

Still, it had been inevitable for quite a while that one of her men would find her. But to have it happen with Helric bleeding in her arms was not the most ideal situation she’d ever found herself in. The poor man had fallen unconscious right before the steps of the clinic Gale had teleported them to. She’d been here before to pick up clients. They didn’t accept payment for their services, though they did accept donations from those who could part with the coin. They were genuinely sweet people, as far as she could tell.

Bright yellow suns were stained into the windows of the clinic, and the symbol was woven into dark red banners that whispered in the breeze high above them. A Pelor priestess noticed Helric’s injuries on her doorstep and rushed over to help lift him off the ground.

“Oh dear! What happened?”

“Um. I’m not sure,” Velora said. The attack had happened so fast, and she’d only caught a glimpse of the creatures rushing down the hall before Gale brought her to Helric, and then teleported them both out of there. She hadn’t even discerned what was wrong with her friend, only that he was bleeding from somewhere in his chest, and his arms looked badly burned. “Can you help him?”

“Of course, Miss Vexxus.” Velora jerked at her own name spoken so freely from foreign lips and pulled back like she’d been burned as well. The poor priestess stared, her mouth agape, wide-eyed and lost. “Is everything alright, ma'am?”

“We’ve met?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that.” The girl was fairly young, a half-elf by the looks of things. She caught the peak of red hair beneath her bonnet and noted her bright blue eyes. “But you’ve come here plenty often. My name is Amelia.” An innocent enough name for an innocent enough woman.

If Velora made a scene, it would become apparent that she and the law weren’t exactly on the same side at the moment. This was just a civilian like any other. She forced the fear back down into her belly with a hard swallow and moved back to Helric’s side. Together, they managed to get him to a small cot. The young priestess examined his injuries with a delicate wave of healing magic. It was a warm, golden color that soothed all pain in Helric’s body. His expression eased a little, though he was still unconscious. 

“He will need plenty of rest, but his life is no longer in danger. I’m glad you brought him here as quickly as you did, Miss Vexxus.”

“Call me Violet. I’m not on duty.”

“Um. Of course, Violet.” Amelia didn’t look like she was comfortable with being on a first-name basis with a lieutenant of the Watch, but fortunately for her, that was no longer Velora’s function, nor her real name. “Shall I alert the guard to bring him back to quarters?”

“No!!” They both nearly jumped out of their skin, and the air was thick with sudden tension. Velora forced herself to calm down and breathed in deeply. She exhaled slowly, carefully. “No,” she tried again. “How soon do you think he’ll be able to walk?”

“He can do so now.” Amelia smiled nervously, her fingers fiddling in her lap. She was still sitting beside her patient. “He should wake soon, though he will be quite tired. If you plan on leaving, please make sure he finds rest as soon as possible. Spells will only do so much.”

“Thank you, Amelia. It… it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Of course, Miss Vexx--Violet.”

The young girl bowed with deep respect and vanished behind a creaky wooden door. Once she was gone, Velora immediately tried waking Helric up, but he didn’t respond. Behind her, she heard Samis’s soft tenor and her skin tried to crawl off her body.

“You’ll get him killed someday, ma’am.”

It was strange to think that all this had happened over three weeks. It seemed like centuries ago that she’d thrown her career out the window for the sake of a vampire who didn’t even know her name. Despite their precarious positions, she was glad to know that Samis hadn’t changed at all. His use of ‘ma’am’ was evident enough, as well as the way he looked at her. Full of fondness, a slight smile twitching at the corner of his lips. He was still the same tiefling boy she’d pulled from that dumpster years ago, abandoned by his parents for reasons known only to the gods. He’d been too young to join the Watch back then, but she sent him to foster care with the promise that she’d accept him if he chose to join up later. Like any young man with big dreams, he was desperately eager to prove himself. He’d become one of her best men because of it.

Even though she was supremely grateful that it was her precious Samis and not someone less… forgiving, it took Velora quite a long time to dislodge the frog in her throat. She sat down in the chair beside Helric’s cot with a dull plop and numbly held his hand in hers.

Samis leaned against the wall near them and crossed his arms. His dark crimson tail lashed with irritation behind him. “Helric’s too stupid to tell you no. Always has been.”

“I know,” she finally said. “I’m sorry for--”

“Need I remind you that I was the one who fetched blood for the vampire? It was my idea first.” Samis did not seem eager to hear her apologies. Be it for leaving so suddenly, for endangering Helric’s life, or for being outrageously stupid... well, there were too many reasons to do so. 

Velora smiled a little at that. She could always count on him for his honesty. “I remember, Samis.”

“And my plan was much better than attacking a superior in our own damned prisons,” he continued. The tiefling was gesturing wildly now, his irritation thrashing through every word. “I had it all planned out, ma’am. There was a hidden tunnel in the cell, and it led straight to the--”

“--docks,” she finished. “I know. I had a similar plan.”

“Then  why  did you--”

“Nox was going to take him back to Castle Ward! He… he fucking bit him.” Samis blinked at that news. Nox was a creep, but feral was a whole other category. She clenched her teeth and stared down at Helric’s pale face. This was getting too complicated. “I had to do something. I wasn’t going to let Astarion spend another day in that man’s custody.”

“So you cut off his hand?!”

“That… was Astarion. But just desserts, believe me.”

“Oh I believe you,” the tiefling muttered. “But it did little to help your reputation right now. They’re all riled up back at the tower, screaming about treason.” His lips twisted then, and he amended, “Well. Not us. But we’re off the roster now. Anyone loyal to you is either fired or working in a different sector right now.”

Velora’s heart dropped. “I’m sorry, I didn’t--”

“I was fired, by the way. But that’s fine. Found a new job as a baker. It’s been pretty great, actually.”

She couldn’t tell if Samis was lying or not. He certainly wasn’t dressed like a baker. He was dressed in leather, armed with knives, and looked like a merc on the hunt for easy coin. “I’m--”

“Stop it. I don’t need your apologies, ma’am. I need you to get Helric off this case and back to his family. Did you know that his house just burned down?”

“ What ?”

“From the same attack you just ran from, I suspect. Good thing the fire didn’t spread. Better that his family wasn’t home.”

She lifted a brow at that--it wasn’t common knowledge that Helric’s family had been moved, let alone where they’d gone. Samis just shrugged at her, a knowing little gleam passing through his fiery eyes. 

“If you’re fired, you have free time,” Velora said.

“Yup.” Samis enunciated the ‘p’ with a little pop of his lips. “Lots.”

“Then you can stay here and deal with Helric. Get him back to his family and tell him that I said he’s done with this. I’m going it alone for now.”

“Good. Because if you were planning on dragging him back to Gale’s tower, I was planning on breaking your legs.” She scowled at him. The tiefling just smiled beautifully, revealing sharp, pointed teeth, and explained, “I’m a friend of the Dekarios clan. Did business with his mother a while back. Good woman. Gale too, but he’s always been a few clowns short of a circus. He’ll get this old man killed faster than even you might.”

She couldn’t really argue with him, especially since Gale had apparently burned his house down not two minutes after stepping into it. "Fine. Get Helric to a safe house, and do  not  let him follow me. I’ll see if I can convince Gale to help his family find a new home once this is over. It’s the least he can do.”

“Sounds like a plan, then. Good luck, ma’am.”

Velora crossed the distance between them and clapped Samis on the shoulder. He was strong, sturdy, and reliable. Like all of her boys, she knew he’d weather this storm as well as any other. “Thank you for looking out for them. You’ve always been my favorite.”

“You say that to all of us,” he shot back. Still, there was a gentle blush creeping onto his cheeks. His smile was genuine this time. “Don’t let them win, Viola.”

“Never.”

Gale’s tower did not have a door to enter it. At least, that’s how it appeared at first glance. And second glance. And… third glance. It was featureless stone on every wall, and when Velora asked others in the area how to enter the damn thing, many of them stared blankly at her and asked why she’d want to do that in the first place. “Don’t you know who lives there?”

She was busy examining the haphazard thorny bushes happily growing out of control where the entrance should be when she felt herself pulled through the weave like Gale had done to both she and Helric earlier. Suddenly, she was standing in a dark entryway in front of a frazzled, hairy face and bruised eyes that clearly needed a good night’s rest. “Sorry,” Gale mumbled and ran a hand through his long, messy hair. “I forgot about that.”

Okay, but what? “You… forgot to add a front door?”

“Yes,” he groaned, clearly not in the mood to have this conversation. “I removed it a while back because I didn’t want visitors. And then I… well, I forgot to put it back.”

“I, uh. I see.”

“Yeah… sorry.” One could cut the awkward tension between them with a knife. Gale stared at her like a toddler reporting to his mother about the mess he’d just made. His guilt was palpable in the air. “So… is the dwarf okay?”

“Helric,” she corrected. “And he’s off the case now. A friend of mine is taking him back to his family.”

“But he’s okay.”

“Yeah, he’ll live.” She wasn’t thrilled that this was happening, but at least Helric wouldn’t be sacrificed to the bullshit they’d gotten themselves into. “His house is ashes, by the way. Did you  have  to burn it down?”

“Um. No.” Gale blinked at her, and stared, expression utterly vacant of any thought. “Um. Sorry. I’ll see what I can--”

“You’re sorry?”

“Yes, I’m sorry--”

“His home is rubble! You were only there for a few minutes--”

He groaned again, louder this time, and rubbed a tired hand over his eyes. “I know, I know! I just…  forgot . About fireballs. And flames. I’m… listen, there’s only so much I can do right now. But he’s alive, right? That’s… that’s good, right?”

Velora’s scowl was a mean one, but she had the heart to let it go when he looked completely and utterly overwhelmed. With a sigh, she peaked behind him into the tower proper. That’s when she spotted the body. It was a twisted, broken pile of flesh and bone that barely resembled a person anymore.

“Holy--”

“Oh, right. I forgot about that too.”

Velora shot him another look and then slipped by to examine the remains casually splayed out on the living room floor. “I see the ditzy, absentminded wizard trope holds true at least.” Gale held his hands up in surrender, muttering softly to himself about making tea. As he puttered in the kitchens through a doorway not far from her, she knelt by the corpse and examined it. One half of the body seemed to be… missing, and the remaining leg was bent over backward. The only arm present was cut off at the wrist. A broken neck tilted awkwardly, where a horrified drow face was gaping up at the ceiling in what seemed to be a cut-off scream. She carefully closed the poor bastard's eyes, noting the Robe regalia.

“This is Nox,” she muttered. “I can’t believe you killed him.”

“Oh. Um. Did you know him?”

“He’s the reason we’re in this mess.” Velora wanted to strangle him, but Gale was an extremely powerful wizard and absolutely mad. She’d get as far as thinking about it and then she’d be a frog hopping around on his living room floor. 

Wizards were a tricky bunch, and she wasn’t their biggest fan. Waterdeep was a haven for them, a city that flourished on knowledge above everything else. It was why the Robes and Lords functioned with so much secrecy. Masters of the arcane adored their privacy, and the city thrived on their many secrets. There were entire colleges dedicated to the spellcraft in nearly every ward, and Dekarios was only one of many magically inclined nobles she’d encountered during her time as a lieutenant. They all generally came with waterfront property and enough eccentricities to make Batty Ben jealous.

Still, she’d heard plenty of rumors about this one. He was a legend even before the Crisis. Chosen by Mystra last she’d heard, and very…  spirited  compared to his kin. Not a murderer, though.

And yet, here she was crouching over the evidence. Nothing about the man made sense. With Gale’s scruffy appearance and the month-long shadow kissing his jawline, he looked anything but the toy of a goddess. If Helric were here, he could at least point out whether or not this was normal behavior. She really did not want to read Volo’s documentation on the matter. 

She heard a glass chime from the kitchens as Gale prepared his tea. “Wait,” he said and popped his head through the doorway to look at her. “This guy is the one who attacked Tav and Astarion? That doesn’t make sense. He was nothing.”

It was difficult to imagine how anyone could view a force of nature like Nox as ‘nothing,’ but this was the chosen of a god that she was talking to. Torm only knew how dangerous his friends were. “No, no, he’s--damn it. It’s complicated.”

“Well now’s as good a time as any to explain things.” He smiled innocently at her from the doorway and then slipped back into the kitchen again.

She rolled her eyes, then cringed at the corpse in front of her. It was a truly horrific sight. She’d seen worse throughout her career, but not by much. This kind of damage was easily in the top ten. The morgue crew back home would love it.

“How about you tell me why he looks like a pretzel first?” She heard a mug slam against the kitchen counter and wondered what he was doing in there. “And why did you bring his body back here?”

“I have questions,” came the muffled response, “and he’s got answers.”

“Last I checked, the dead weren’t talking.”

“Anything can talk with a little bit of prompting, friend.”

“Ah…” Wizards. Nothing was sacred around them. Still, it was a useful ability to have in cases like this. Too many went cold from secrets only the dead could keep. She’d hire one on occasion for particularly brutal murders, but they were bloody expensive and the city didn’t always want to endorse it. “I don’t know if I want to be around for that.”

“Suit yourself.” She could hear the shrug in his voice. “Though it will help with your case, lieutenant.”

“It’s just Velora now. I became a fugitive the second I broke your vampire out of prison.”

Gale came out of the kitchen with a mug in each hand. One of them was bright yellow with a happy sun symbol, and the other was black. He kept the black one and handed her the yellow, a small smile gracing his lips like a peace offering. She took it with a raised brow. She didn’t realize he was making them both tea, and she accepted the offering for what it seemed to be.

“‘My’ vampire?”

It smelled floral and sweet, gentle puffs of steam wafting from the cup. She took a sip. A little tart, but nice flavor overall, and warm. It soothed the back of her throat. “You mean he isn’t? There’s a return to sender script on his ring,” she said.

“Pretty certain he’s his own vampire.”

There was something in Gale’s voice that spoke of dark and bitter things. She remembered what she’d seen in Astarion’s mind, and how she’d panicked back in the prisons, still caught in the throes of his nightmares. She didn’t understand how anyone could suffer that and come out sane, but she wasn’t sure that he had. Not after watching him cut Nox’s hand off and eat it like a damned treat. “...Agreed.” She shuddered a little, then finally stepped away from the body. Suddenly, she didn’t care that Nox was twisted and warped and discarded on the floor like trash. Fucker was trash.

Gale gestured towards a sofa with violet floral patterns wrapping around the arms. It was a big cozy thing with lots of pillows, and the primary feature of the living room area. Nox’s body sat center stage in front of the long wooden coffee table. When Velora’s expression told him the scene was too grisly for casual conversation, Gale sighed and flicked his wrist. Nox vanished with the warp of purple weave, leaving only a large puddle of blood behind. He flourished again to remove the mess with a cantrip. 

“Sorry about that. He’s in the basement now.”

“Good. It’s not… sanitary.”

Gale snapped his fingers and the fireplace lit up with a warm glow. She felt herself slowly relaxing as the snap and crackle of the flames began to sing for them both and tread towards the sofa to sit beside him. Being so close to him like this felt oddly… intimate, but the wizard didn’t seem to notice. He closed his eyes, savoring a long sip of tea. The bruises beneath them told a tale of utter exhaustion, and she wondered if she could hold off this conversation until he had some rest.

Before she could suggest it, Gale's sharp gaze snapped back to her. He gestured towards her forgotten tea. “Drink. It’s palmarosa.”

She studied his expression for any sign of malice, but he shrugged when she hesitated and took another sip of his own mug. “Does it have any effects?”

“Other than reminding me of a cambion we used to know… no, not really.” It was so strange, being in the company of someone so… mythical. At her incredulous look, he chuckled, and added, “Raphael would like you, I think.”

“Is that good or bad?”

“Most surely bad,” he said. “You should have seen his guests at the House of Hope. One of them worshiped his chamberpot. Covered in the stuff from head to toe.”

“You mean… you went to the hells? And came back?”

“Oh yes! Plenty of times. We’ve got good friends there.”

“I see.” She didn’t, not really, but the conversation was too strange to properly absorb, and she found herself staring into the flames of the fireplace and wondering how she’d gotten here. Gale was so disorganized and unkempt, that it was hard to rationalize this was the same man who’d spent the better part of his life in the company of a goddess. She took a sip from her mug to avoid asking what Mystra was like. She’d caught the related bitterness when he was examining Astarion’s condition back at Helric’s place, right before everything fell apart: ‘ Goddesses don’t like to share.’

Perhaps being a plaything to the very embodiment of magic was not as glamorous as the bards tell it. 

“You were going to tell me about Nox,” Gale prodded gently.

She blinked back at him for a moment, then sat her mug down on the sturdy wooden coffee table in front of them. “He was a Robe. Do you know how Waterdeep governance works?”

“Of course,” he sighed. With a wave of his wrist, a small coaster slipped beneath her mug to protect the coffee table. It winked into existence with a gentle pop of violet swirls. “I grew up here. My uncle was one of them, from what I’d heard.”

At his sour expression, she was grateful to know that he didn’t much care for them either. “Well, then you know that the Robes are very secretive. I didn’t know him very well, and only under the codename Nox. I have reason to believe his real name was Niloth.”

“He was a bhaalspawn,” Gale said, nodding back. She was shocked to hear this, and he lifted his brow at her in surprise. “You didn’t know? The things that attacked us were malformed, weaker versions of the Slayer. Probably doppelgangers, if I had a guess. He confirmed it right before I killed him.” 

“Shit. I mean, good riddance, but that begs the question of how many of his kin walk among the Masks. They might keep their secrets from the rest of us, but the Lords must have known his nature. Surely there are more of them among the ranks.”

“Corruption is hardly new to this city,” Gale pointed out.

“Agreed. And it makes sense. I saw some of Astarion’s memories… Nox tortured him a very long time ago. Before you’d met, I wager.” ‘Torture’ seemed far too simple a word for what was done, but she knew not to linger on the details. It would stir Gale into another frenzy. “Astarion didn’t know why, but it was likely part of a ritual that benefitted his former master. A deal struck for power, perhaps?”

“Very likely…” Gale settled back against the sofa, holding the black mug close to his chest. His expression slipped to a far-gone memory, lips falling into a frown. “When I examined Astarion, I sensed more than one curse.”

“I remember,” she said.

“And most of them are far older than either of us. One felt at least a century old, maybe even two. I suspect… Cazador did something to him shortly after turning him. Perhaps some method of control beyond the usual techniques for most spawn.”

“That’s… horrible.”

Gale nodded, his tone bitter. “He didn’t die slowly enough.”

“At least he’s dead then,” Velora sighed. “I was worried that I was dealing with a spawn on the run from his master. I wanted to protect Astarion when we met, but fighting vampire lords is not something I’m very experienced with.”

“Yes, see, that’s what I don’t understand. The Watch was perfectly fine protecting a vampire? You knew his nature from the start I take it.”

“He’s a victim. A client,” she insisted proudly. “We’re… we were different. My division didn't treat justice like a chew toy. And vampirism or not, the kid needed help. I don't...  didn't  arrest victims based on preconceived notions about their race, that's just stupid. But Nox believed otherwise, which is how we came to blows.”

Gale studied her with deep, unfathomable depths in his dark eyes. His smile was warm at her words, and she felt herself blush a little when he whispered, “You’re amazing. And a little naive, but I mean that in the most loving way.”

She shook her head. He wasn’t the first to say it, but after so long under her parent’s tutelage, it never rang true. “It's not naivete. I know evil exists, Gale. But someone has to take the chance and do the right thing for once. Might as well be me.”

He continued to smile at her but didn’t press the issue. “Tell me about the attack.”

“We were on patrol when we heard a commotion down an alley,” she said. “I saw a woman and Taverine in battle with each other. Astarion had already been hit by the curse at that point. The woman seemed very, very angry with Taverine, as if they knew each other. I’m pretty certain he was going to kill her before she cast some kind of spell and they both vanished.”

“And then you took Astarion.”

“We didn’t know that he was a vampire at first, but Nox cast a dawn spell and he obviously reacted badly. Nox had us muzzle him on the spot and ordered us to throw him into prison. He recognized both Astarion and Tav during the attack, which was very confusing. He kept calling Tav ‘sanguis proditor.’”

“Blood traitor. Yes, he said the same thing to me,” Gale said. “Tav’s a bhaalspawn too. During the Illithid crisis, something… happened, and that divinity was later removed from him. From Nox’s brief, mad words on the matter, I’m guessing Bhaal wants Tav back in the fold.”

“Well, that’s… um, troubling.”

“Very. You see, Tav wasn’t just any bhaalspawn, Miss Vexxus. He was created directly from Bhaal’s flesh and was the god of murder’s chosen for over a hundred years before the Crisis. But then he lost his memory, and he… well, he became a decent person, I guess. We’re still not sure how, but he’s honestly one of the best people I’ve ever met.”

She really wished she had read her Volo because none of this made sense. Helric would absolutely love this conversation, of course. She wasn’t nearly as starstruck as he would be, but it was still insane to know that she was, at some point, in the company of at least  two  different chosen in direct connection with the gods. 

Despite his dark nature and all the crimes he must have committed, Tav had to be a decent person to gain so much loyalty from Gale, Astarion, and Halsin. They weren’t fools and seemed like genuinely good people, people who would not normally unite themselves with a notorious murderer. To deny one’s nature after swimming in the gore of countless victims for so long… she didn’t know if she could forgive such sins, but they clearly had. And their suspect had not.

Either way, finding Tav would solve a lot of problems. “As… interesting as that is,” Velora said, “I don’t think this woman, whoever she is, is related to the bhaalspawn issue. At least, not to Nox and his crew. He was using Astarion to find Tav and seemed just as surprised by the initial attack in the alley.”

“Agreed. I believe we’re dealing with two separate situations.” Gale took another sip of his tea and sighed tiredly.

Velora mimicked his movements. Then she raised her mug in a toast, and muttered, “Couldn’t be a more insane case if it tried.”

“So how did you become a fugitive? Did you really break a vampire out of prison?”

“...Yes,” Velora reluctantly agreed. When he phrased it like that, it did seem rather careless. “After the arrest, a few days went by with nothing but dead ends. Astarion was still unable to see or hear, so I decided to use my… ability to see if I could get any information out of him.” She swallowed a thick lump back down her throat and suppressed a shudder. The memory of Astarion being literally ripped to pieces was one that she’d never quite escape from. Watchmen saw a lot throughout their careers, but this took the whole book as far as she was concerned. “I saw… I saw what Nox did to him in his memories. It was… horrible. And when Nox showed up just moments later saying that he was going to take the poor kid back to Castle Ward with him...”

“You knew you’d never get him back,” Gale muttered. “That’s Robe headquarters.”

“And very far out of my reach. In retrospect, Nox likely figured out where my loyalties lay long before he arrived that night. I wasn't subtle about it. We traded blows in the cell, but he overpowered me pretty easily. So I dropped the keys and my sword to Astarion, and he freed himself. Then he cut the fool’s hand off.”

“Well, that explains that.”

“Every Robe is connected to each other,” Velora continued. “What one sees, they all see. As soon as I fought back, I knew it was over for me. So… I ran, and I haven’t been back since. Now all my men are displaced, my title has been stripped, and if I go home, I’ll be given a traitor’s execution.”

“Yes, well… you’ll fit right in with us.” Gale’s expression was gentle, even a little bit loving. She felt her cheeks burn. “You’ll always have a friend here,” he said. “We owe you for saving his life.” It was clear that he felt terrible for her predicament, and she was glad to have the sympathy. She still hadn’t quite absorbed that her life’s work was completely ruined due to Nox’s actions. She’d likely never get her career back, and she’d be a fugitive for the rest of her days if she stayed in Waterdeep. But she owed it to her men, to the entire city, to at least try and fight back against such blatant corruption.

“Listen… I’ll help you find Tav,” she said, “but I’m not following you if you leave Waterdeep. I need to stay here. I need to fix this.”

“You can’t ‘fix’ an entire city, Velora.”

“I can damned well try.”

“Gods.” Gale’s eyes were deep and unknowable, but warm in a way that few others ever were when they looked at her. As if she were… beautiful. It felt wrong. No one had ever made her feel that way before, and she didn’t know what to do with it. She blushed again when he added, “You really are naive. But please don't think me rude, it's quite endearing. Given your chosen profession, such a trait must be rather rare.”

“Excuse me? I've already told you. I’m just--”

“--doing the right thing,” he finished. "So I've heard. You remind me of someone I know, Miss Vexxus. Someone very special."

"Is that a compliment, or...?"

"A compliment. I think you're an amazing woman, and it's been a genuine pleasure to meet you."

Velora squinted at him for any sign of deception, but Gale revealed none. His smile was a secret, subtle and tender in all the ways that she didn't understand. He took another sip of his tea and said nothing else. 

In the dark, something stirred. It began with a soft, red glow, and the twitch of a broken finger. Bones cracked and split to better shapes. Vertebrae realigned themselves, and a skull, cracked and misshapen, slowly mended.

It was a thing of warped and twisted flesh. It used to be a man entitled to power beyond his station, and a lost little boy who’d run from his duties down in the dark. When he was ten, he was blamed for stealing from Lolth’s temple. Though he was innocent, the priestess had him whipped, tortured, and enslaved to them. He served as a toy to their whims for several humiliating decades before he finally schemed for his freedom. He betrayed his only friend in the process, another lost and bitter thing whose value ended with plump, ashen lips and long, slender hands. He accused his friend of crimes that he did not commit and had him tortured to death in the name of Lolth. When the poor boy finally died, he did not beg for mercy. No one mourned him, not even the ghosts.

It ended with a pale blue wraith formed from the father of murder's very own flesh. The Urge attacked the temple and slaughtered the inhabitants. Hundreds came and hundreds died, each settling into the gore beneath his fingernails. The crimson prayer the Urge sang that night cared not whose life it ripped from the world, taking children and elderly and any other who caught his wrath. He spared only Niloth, who stood by with wide, hungry eyes, his bare feet sticky with the blood of his tormentors. 

The boy that was Niloth knelt before the gutted priestess that had raped him nightly and sank his fingers into her entrails with a shiver of delight. He ate her liver raw, humming a discordant tune all the while. Like Tav, the boy was also graced by the Lord of Murder and was a sibling worth keeping. When the elder drow gently took his hand and led him into the sunlight, Niloth felt his soul stir with love. Their hands clung together as the gore of a hundred dead dried between them.

It ended before it began when that Banite fox stole Tav’s nightly attention. It ended with a wicked spell cast by burning eyes and the phrase ‘You just don't seem to be worth the effort ’ spilled from bitter lips. It ended thousands of years prior, on Boareskyr Bridge by blade and traitor. It began again with a prayer:  Nam verbera Bhaal. With pain, with rage, with a vicious murder, and the bitter taste of stale blood, bones and muscles slowly mending. 

Only one thought echoed in the dark, repeating on and on into the void. He would have him back. He would have him back. He would have him back…

Chapter Text

When he woke, it was with the tang of iron dancing through his fangs. His crimson irises pulsed bright with hunger, and he could see only red. A bag of blood in his mouth and gentle fingers in his hair. He gulped down the offering like the starving undead creature he desperately tried not to be, shuddering with delight. The monster in his belly whimpered low and deep in his throat. The blood of swine, fresh and warm, so close to human that it might as well be. Gods, he hadn’t had human blood since… since… he couldn’t remember. Had he ever? He knew the taste well enough. The solid stock of a good stew, hearty and filling. He  must  have partaken before. But it had been rats for so long, rats and bugs and other vermin found from the sewers or tossed to him like a treat for a job well done. This must have been one very good mark to earn such a delicious reward.

A large hand held the bag for him, and that hand in his hair slid down his back to hold him steady. He leaned into the one at his back, trembling as he drank and drank and drank. One bag was replaced with two, then three. Then finally, a bloody wrist was thrust into his mouth and it tasted like wood elf and pine. He reeled at that, his eyes wide with terror--Rule One--but he didn’t burst into flames nor incur the bite of a blade. The wrist began to move away, and someone was muttering something to him in a concerned voice. His bright red eyes followed the line of blood that had consumed his entire world at that moment. It threatened to drip down from the wrist onto the floor like  waste,  so much waste, and he hated it when Cazador wasted  a good  meal. That dwarf with the pretty blue hair had been smeared all over the guest room because the Master had suddenly decided that he hated  the taste of them . It had taken  weeks  to scrub the smell out. His belly was a bowl full of rats scratching at his insides, but not one drop of her was meant for him, never for him, never, never.

The wood elf’s blood beaded and dripped to a point on the wrist, then tumbled towards the floor like a precious ruby stone. He growled like a lion, snatched it with his claws, and brought it back to his mouth. The wrist did not pull away. And so he drank. Sweet molasses, sticky tree sap, the embers of a campfire. Something familiar. Something lost.

The world came back to him slowly, like a dream half-remembered. Eventually, the wrist was pulled away and he let it go with a grimace. Another was offered in its place, but he turned his lips away from it.

“Wow. I’ve never seen bloodlust like that before. Are you with us?”

He blinked like an owl, absorbing the room around him. It was small with stone walls, one exit to his left, a few chairs scattered about, a table littered with supplies (but no weapons), and the painting of a woman wreathed in magic. She lorded over the room like someone of great importance, and it took a moment for him to recognize the violet eyes as Mystra. 

Three people he didn’t know were staring at him expectantly. One of them was the wood elf who’d fed him. A woman, some sort of draconic tiefling, was binding the wood elf’s wrist in gauze. She whispered a healing spell into it, and the wood elf, bigger than any he’d ever seen before, smiled back at her in thanks. The man who’d spoken looked human. Pale, scruffy, with long, snarled hair and a beard that hadn’t been properly groomed in months.

He felt a sly smile curling his lips before he knew what he was going to say. It felt as natural as breathing, and he decided that he liked it being there. The blood they’d given him thrummed in his veins, and he felt…  alive  in a way he shouldn’t have. Happiness buzzed up into his brain, like the bubbles of a champagne. He licked his lips where some residual blood still lingered. “I believe so, darling.”

The human clutched his own chest in dramatic relief. “Oh, thank goodness,” he huffed. “You can hear. And you’re still you. And you can see, I think. You  can  see, right?”

“Of  course . You’re a delicious sight.”

“I’m not, actually, but thanks for lying. Although my blood probably tastes much better these days. Do you know who I am?” 

A strange, mild discomfort swelled up from deep in his core, overriding the happiness. He dug his own nails into his thighs. He didn’t know what would happen if he spoke incorrectly, but he knew that he’d faced many punishments in the past for similar mistakes. He still felt too weak to fight back, if he were even allowed to do so. It didn’t matter that he didn’t  know , Cazador rarely cared about fairness.

The human winced and shook his head, his palms held high in surrender. “No, no! It’s quite alright! You’re safe here. I’m Gale.”

“Gale,” he repeated carefully. It sounded odd in his own ears, like a stranger was speaking them from far, far away. “Like the storm?”

“Precisely.” Gale smiled at him, his lips plump with sharp, painful memories. “Like the storm.” He gestured towards the wood elf and the strange woman. “Do you remember them?”

He slowly shook his head again, and then frowned a little. If this weren’t some kind of test, then what was it? And where was Cazador? The smell was all wrong. Sea salt, sweat, and tea bags. The savory, intense flavor of raw weave swirled all around them like the tides of an invisible ocean, and none of the spellwork belonged to Cazador. He couldn’t feel the familiar pull of his blood, and he knew his master must be furious… somewhere far, far away from here. Maybe these people had rescued him. A mark come to save him, perhaps? He’d dreamt of it many, many times, maybe... well, maybe he was dreaming. Or maybe he was still in that tomb. 

The wood elf winced at his vacant expression, his fingers fiddling with a silver ring on one of his hands. “I’m Halsin,” he said softly. “And I’m… very glad to see you alive.”

“So am I… I think.” A vampire wasn’t alive, technically speaking, and he hadn’t been happy for a long, long time. But with that hot, honey-sweet campfire-scent swimming through his body, he thought he might have been. Just a little. He reached behind himself and touched the top curve of the poetry carved into his back. A bitter sense of relief settled into his bones when it was still there. This couldn’t be the tomb. He was certain that the poetry had come  after  the tomb … hadn’t it?  He hesitated  for a moment , realizing so much of his history seemed to be a blank slate. Maybe he  was  in the tomb, and he’d just gotten the timelines wrong. That happened sometimes.

“You were dying,” Gale said, drawing back his attention with worried, dark eyes. “A nasty curse, if I might say so. I think I’ve cleansed the worst of it.” His brows pinched together, and he stroked his scruffy beard with jittery movements. The man seemed neurotic, like a stack of boxes on the verge of tumbling over. He’d lain with many of the same type in the past--Cazador loved the broken ones. “It took a lot of your memory before we could stabilize you. I’m very sorry.”

He wasn’t certain what there was to be sorry about when he didn’t know what he was missing. He was in the company of people who didn’t seem inclined to hurt him, and in fact, cared about his welfare for whatever reason. Whoever he’d lain to get here must have been supremely powerful. He couldn’t sense Cazador’s presence at all, and he had the blood of a thinking creature singing in his veins. This was honestly the best day of his entire life.

He had to be dreaming. Better to milk it dry before he woke up buried in the stone again. “No need to apologize, my dear.” He dropped his voice to a practiced purr, a corner of his lip twitching with sultry intent. “If there is any way I can repay you for saving my life, please do let me know.”

The way he combed his eyes over Gale’s form left no room for misinterpretation. But Gale floundered backward as if attacked, and held up his hands in surrender again. “Not necessary,” he squeaked.

“We saved your life because we lo--we’re your friends.” The wood elf closed the distance between them, his big, thick hands gently wrapping themselves around the vampire’s shoulders. It was then that he  knew . The way his body relaxed around this man, the way it leaned into his touch with such easy familiarity. This had been the mark, the one strong enough to free him, and stupid enough to linger around afterward. 

He’d made this oaf fall in love with him somehow, and it had been a solid choice. A sensation of safety settled into his mind like a cozy blanket, happy to know he wasn’t alone here. This was someone who had been willing to pull him free of Cazador’s grip despite the obvious dangers, and they’d both somehow lived to tell the tale. Pity he couldn’t remember any of it.

“You have no need to… to  pay  us,” Halsin continued. He searched deep into scheming crimson eyes, looking for something that just wasn’t there. “This isn’t an exchange. You’re free.”

An idiot with a savior complex, then. He’d gotten very, very lucky finding this one. These types of men were made to be adored, used, and manipulated. It would be too easy to keep the oaf needy and compliant… but then his throat went dry, realizing what had been said. The word ‘free’ rang around in his skull like a bell hung over his own grave. 

Years of double entendres and cute mannerisms, years of pretending and floating away and leading each of them back home to the upper city. Years of slipping free onto the cold tiled floor, his nude form sliding into the  ready  position when that shadow fell over their writhing bodies. Years of kneeling before his master in exchange for dinner served. Years of legs folded beneath him, spread open, hands clasped behind his back, head down, eyes down,  silent .  A dead rat thrown to his feet and adoring claws sifting through his hair, ‘ good boy,’  and then the mark would be charmed and pulled and lured into chambers never to be seen again. So many rats that he could build a tower from their tiny desiccated corpses. So many people, he could fill a city with them.

He’d begged for freedom many times, but to believe that he’d actually escaped was another thing entirely. Cazador would come for him, as he always did. This big, sad fool was going to be a carpet stain that he’d scrub for days, breath locked in his throat because he couldn’t stand the smell of it anymore. Halsin smelled like safety, and that was the worst part. It was a pretty lie that he wanted to believe but didn’t dare to hope.

“Where…” His throat failed him because when he looked at Halsin’s neck, all he could see was a clean slice of red and Cazador’s face bathed in it. Cackling like a mad dog, because he loved to torture the stupid ones. 

‘That’s why you’re the favorite.’  

“Where am I?”

“Waterdeep,” the woman spoke up. She was leaning against the wall with her arms crossed, looking vaguely uncomfortable. “And I’m Velora, by the way. It’s good to see you awake, kiddo.”

“ Shit! ” Cazador was going to skin him from head to toe, and then he’d throw him back in the tomb for another decade. “I-I’m sorry, did you say  Waterdeep? ” He just barely resisted the urge to fly out of his chair and run out the doorway. Maybe if he brought these people back as a gift, the resulting torture wouldn’t be so bad. He didn’t realize his knee started to bounce nervously and blinked when Halsin tapped his shoulder. 

“Look at me, love. You’re safe now.”

But he didn’t feel very safe anymore. He started to stand up on wobbly knees and then realized how fruitless that was when he fell back into the chair he was sitting in. Halsin lurched forward to support him. 

He must have been starving for quite a while. Sometimes, Cazador did that just to prove some point or another. Which meant that he was  already  furious before whatever this was landed him into even deeper trouble. He wouldn’t survive another year in there. Cazador knew it, but wouldn’t care. He’d rather die, he’d rather--

He took a calm, careful breath. Centuries of practice let him swallow the panic back down, and he said with only the slightest tremble, “Well! It’s been a pleasant visit, and I thank you very much for your kindness, but I really must be going--”

“Calm down,” the human named after a storm said. “You’re not going anywhere. You can barely walk.”

“Am I a prisoner?” A pale brow lifted, and he looked the man up and down for any sign of sinister attraction. They’d all protested at the flirtatious remark earlier, and Halsin insisted this wasn’t like that, but he could work with whatever it was. His body was his best asset, and they’d bend one way or another. He quirked his chin just so, his voice taking a deeper, more sultry tone. “Or a slave?” They didn’t seem interested in his wares and Cazador would never sell him, but it wouldn’t be the first time slavers of any type picked him up only to be slaughtered after the fact. Maybe his mark was a slaver with some weird complexes?

“No!” The storm-man looked utterly horrified, as did they all. “It’s not like that. You’re a friend of ours. A very dear friend.”

There was something odd in the expression, and it gave the vampire pause. These weren’t just casual acquaintances. Halsin was looking at him with such a devastated stare, that he knew he’d need quite a bit of time to shatter a heart so utterly. “We’ve known each other for quite a while,” he said. It was not a question. He felt it in the gentle tug of Halsin’s warm presence. He didn’t know why, but he wanted to bury himself in that man. In that man, the tomb could never find him.

“Years,” Gale confirmed. He nodded towards Halsin and looked to say more. At Halsin’s glare, he changed his mind. “Him too. But Velora, you’ve only just met.”

They didn’t seem to be lying. He’d gotten rather good at reading people after two lifetimes of constant torture and forced prostitution. It was a rather important survival technique and one that he was proud to utilize. Which meant… “If that’s true, then I… I don’t understand. How did you get me away from Cazador? He’s going to find me eventually. You’re not safe.”

Gale and the wood elf, Halsin, exchanged a meaningful look. It was full of all sorts of things. Worry, mild panic. Dread. That last one hung in the air, and all of them grimaced again.

“Astarion…”

He looked around, wondering if the big, sad oaf was talking to someone behind him. Then he realized the name applied to  him , and he blinked again. When did he lose that? When did he lose his own name?

Gale understood the confusion first, and his grimace only deepened. He looked about ready to give birth to five snarling imps. “Shit. I should have realized. I’m so sorry.”

“He doesn’t know,” Velora muttered. 

He very much wanted to, however. “Know what?”

“What year is it, Astarion?”

The world tilted to its side, and he tried to stop breathing. He didn’t know why, but he could feel himself shutting down again. He fought against it with everything that he had, but it was a losing battle. “Know  w-what? ” 

‘Little Star.’ The name of a stupid, useless  boy , burying his terror into scratchy, ancient pillows so that no one would hear him scream. He didn’t need to breathe, but sometimes his body forgot. It would get stuck in his throat like a sob, and when he breathed it out, it would skid along the top and out of his mouth in panicky, hitching breaths. Sometimes, it’d be just loud enough for them to notice, and then he’d clamp his hands over his lips to try and silence the coastal storm roaring out of him. He’d try to stop breathing, stop moving, stop living. But then he’d hiccup and spasm in the sheets. Twitch like a dying fish, washed up onto the beach of his own mind. 

He couldn’t speak in those moments. His entire body would shut down. Over time, it became easier to embrace it and float away, to flop back into that vast ocean, far from the palace that haunted him. But sometimes, they brought him back again. Even butchered elven trances couldn’t stop Cazador when he wanted your attention bad enough.

Someone else had named him Astarion first. She had white hair like his own, pretty blue eyes, and a gentle smile. He could still feel her kiss on the top of his head if he closed his eyes and concentrated. But something about her… something about rabbits and a star and--

A warm body held him in a tight embrace. It smelled like oak. He nuzzled that neck and felt the strong pulse thrumming underneath it. It was soothing and steady, like the rumbling purr of a huge cat. Someone lifted him up out of the chair and into arms thick like tree trunks. He clung around the body of his mark, wishing that Cazador was dead. 

“...attack,” someone was saying. “He’s…” 

But then he pushed the body backward, shaking his head. His skin prickled and invisible, tiny spiders skittered up and down his spine. This wasn’t right. Cazador  was  dead. Somehow  his  body knew it even though he couldn’t recall it happening. It was in the silence of his cursed blood and the ache of a bond long severed. His hand went to the ancient bite mark on his neck, and he felt fury bubble up from his core.  Gone . 

The world tilted on its axis. He stumbled backward against a wall. Another set of arms went after him, but the bigger ones held them back and he saw Halsin shake his head. “Don’t touch him!”

Those arms went for him anyway, and he bared his fangs at them. He was so, so angry. He wasn’t even sure why. Perhaps because he’d missed it, perhaps because the asshole had died without him, perhaps because he was finally allowed to express whatever he wanted for the first time in centuries, and rage seemed like a perfectly justifiable--

“I said  don’t touch! ”

A bloody haze settled over his mind once again, that eternal, cursed hunger morphed into something feral. When the hands retreated, he slid along the wall until he found a corner, and sank to his knees. He pressed his face into them, growling softly. He didn’t breathe. He didn’t think. He didn’t move. He was tossed and scattered through a torrent of rage that burned a hole inside of him. He imagined slaughtering each and every one of them for no other reason than that he  could . The wizard first--he could smell the magic on the man and he’d have to slit his throat to stop him from casting. Maybe a bite, to drink him dry and pull that magic into his own veins. Then the mark. After such a meal, he’d be strong enough to snap even that thick, hearty neck. Then the woman. He’d savor her for last. 

They’d never see it coming. 

Voices murmured something about stars and panic, but he didn’t pay attention. His master was dead.  Gone . And he could be… anything that he wanted to be. His stomach fluttered with the knowledge of it, and then he blinked wide, eyes darting around the room. The rage sputtered  out  like a melted candle, and curiosity stole what was left. Odd. He hadn’t noticed the dog before. Halsin jerked his hand to pull the fluffy white creature back--” Scratch, don’t! ”--but the dog ignored him and pressed his nose into Astarion’s trembling arms. Dogs didn’t have hands. They wouldn’t touch him with the same violating intent that so many others had in the past. Dogs were soft and sweet and they tasted like loyalty. Astarion decided that he didn’t mind dogs. He would spare this creature if he decided to kill these fools.

Scratch nosed deeper into Astarion’s space until he found a face pressing against thin, knobby knees. The dog licked his cheek with a gentle pink tongue and then whined softly. Astarion let his trembling fingers coast into white fur, and the soft texture soothed the many, many emotions thrumming in his veins. The roaring in his ears finally dimmed, and his vision slid back into focus. 

“...triggered it,” the woman was saying. Velora, he recalled. “This happened before with the amulet.”

The man named after a storm turned away from Astarion to argue with the dragon lady, a stern hand on his hip. “What amulet?”

“Batty Ben found it. The… witness from the attack. He said it dropped from the woman who took Tav.”

“And you didn’t mention this before? Where is it?”

Velora mentioned something about pockets and stars and panic again, but Astarion’s world dimmed back down to nothing, and he couldn’t bring himself to care. The sea called to him, and he wanted to do nothing but swim in it. Halsin knelt in front of him, his pale green eyes glinting with an odd emotion. Worry, sure, but also… something deeper. Something knowing. He’d seen this before.

“Are you alright?”

Astarion shook his head. He giggled a little, because of  course  he wasn’t alright. Had he ever been? He didn’t even bother pretending otherwise. Cazador latched onto weakness like a leech to flesh, but Cazador was dead. Dead, dead, dead, and Astarion was suddenly too tired to care about that either. At least this Halsin fellow was the quiet type. A staunch romantic, likely even a service top, and an absolute beast in the sheets. His gaze held the allure of being doted upon, and that was a treat Astarion had rarely ever experienced. He gladly would let those mighty paws skate all over his body if it meant further safety… and there was surely merit in sinking his bones between those magnificent, muscled thighs and going to town… it wouldn’t even be a chore, really. He’d submitted to far worse.

His fingers in the dog’s fur clenched a little rougher, but Scratch didn’t seem to mind. The dog nuzzled Astarion’s neck and licked him again. Good dog.

“May I help you stand?”

Another shake of his head, answered before he even processed the question. Odd that he’d been asked. But help meant  touch , and there had been enough touching for far too long. He grit his teeth and stood slowly, the dog offering a steady, reassuring weight against his calf. The blood he’d consumed earlier had helped considerably. He wouldn’t be doing any cartwheels tonight, but he’d be right as rain by tomorrow.

Halsin hovered like an anxious mother bear with his hands held up just inches away from his body, clearly desperate to touch but knowing better. Astarion was shocked that he respected such boundaries, as too many marks in the past had not. The soft, eager way Halsin kept close reminded him of the gentle blush that had crested along Sebastian’s cheeks. That fool had asked permission too. And maybe that’s what had lured him to this oaf in the first place, maybe that’s what had freed him. Damn Sebastian. Damn Cazador.

They left the room behind just as Velora was pulling out a glint of silver on a long, broken chain. Astarion shuddered away from it--something about rabbits, stars, and terrible nightmares echoing inside his skull. Halsin guided him towards the guest room, but Astarion dipped left when he spotted various debris in front of a shrine. Curious, he held on to Scratch’s furry collar as he slipped inside, careful not to stumble over the haphazard boxes. He found himself standing in front of a large ornate statue, his head tilted in wonder. She wore a flowing dress that circled her form and accentuated lovely curves. Her lips were perfectly plump, her eyes domineering with an almost come-hither-like quality. Someone had carved this out of deep adoration. 

He wasn’t sure why, but he hated it.

He sat down in front of it, lips twisted into a curious frown. Halsin joined him a moment later. The big idiot looked uncomfortable, but he refused to leave Astarion alone. Were the vampire feeling less needy, he’d probably find it a bit grating. Clingy marks were hardly the most charming. But as it was, Halsin still smelled like safety, and he’d happily swallow a little pride for the illusion of such things. And at least he wasn’t  touching   or  prodding  or demanding constant attention like a petulant child. 

‘I hate your silence, boy!’

The dog breathed a heavy sigh and curled up next to the vampire’s lap, a warm, fuzzy weight meant to ground him. Astarion blinked the menace of the red-eyed man away and his hand found Scratch’s ears instead. He began to massage them absently. It was an entrancing thing, having an animal display so much trust in him. He thought he might have had a cat, once. He thought he might have eaten it, too. After the tomb. Just another of Cazador’s twisted little games…

Be it minutes or hours, his voice eventually returned to him. He felt the stranglehold of panic around his throat finally ease, and he whispered, “Is he really…” He swallowed, unable to finish. It was a low and quiet plea, missing the chipper facade that he’d lost somewhere along the way. Though he’d apparently just woken from a coma, he was too tired to keep up appearances. He’d felt this way after the tomb, too. Bedridden and draped across Cazador’s arms like a blanket. Years spent trapped in those chambers, trained to accept pleasure, pain, and madness because his master still pretended to love him even two hundred years after he’d been--

He needed to stop thinking about that monster. He didn’t deserve this kind of attention, even posthumously. He should be rot and ash, irrelevant, unremarkable,  gone . Astarion tried again. “I-Is he really… is he dead?”

“Yes.” Halsin smiled sweetly at him, exactly like Sebastian had so long ago. Like he might break. “You killed him five years ago.”

And he did, just a little. “...Oh.”

He could understand a few weeks, months, maybe even a year. He’d lost plenty of such sets in the past, but  five ? That was new. What next, a decade? Another century? He stared down at his hands and wondered what had happened to him this time. Something about a curse, like so many others, and the vampirism too. He wondered if he’d ever get that time back, or any of it at all for that matter. So much had been robbed from him, and it hardly seemed appropriate to mourn five measly years, but he did. To kill Cazador and not even remember? Even the tomb couldn’t invent such tripe. This had to be real, and gods damn it all, but he resented that. At least the tomb had invented prettier lies.

“If it’s any consolation, he suffered terribly,” Halsin said, somewhere to his right. “You stabbed him sixteen times.”

Good. Yes. If only it had been seventeen. If only he could remember the look on his raping, torturing, murderous fucking face. If only he’d--

If only he’d--

He absolutely did not feel tears burning, nor shuddering sobs building in his chest. The dog sighed again and nuzzled Astarion’s lap. Through watery vision, his eyes locked with the dog’s own, and they were big and sad and knowing. Well fuck them, and fuck Cazador too. He didn’t deserve tears. He deserved piss and fire and irrelevance. 

He held the tides of his rage back, but only just. These weren’t tears of sorrow, and these two sweet fools keeping him company were not Cazador Szarr. But for a moment, he wished they were. Just to kill him all over again.

“...Good,” he said. “Good.”

“I have your daggers… they’re in the guest room. Would you like them back?”

“I… I think so.” It would be better to feel armed. Armed meant safe. Safer. It meant the illusion of safety.

“I’ll be right back.” When Halsin stood to leave, Astarion grabbed his wrist before he knew what he was doing. They both blinked wide at each other, but it was Halsin who recovered first. He smiled gently and did not free his wrist. “I’ll be just on the other side of the wall,” he said, gesturing further down the hall. “Is that alright?”

“Y-Yes, of course.” Of course. No need to be pathetic about it. Astarion let him go with a faint blush. He grimaced at his own actions. “I’ll be here,” he said, stupidly.

Halsin just nodded, and quickly left the room. 

Astarion pet the dog carefully, with soft fingers combing through well-groomed white fur. He was clean and well-fed, and very obviously loved. His collar was old and worn, but the tag didn’t just indicate his name. There was an added elvish script, flowery and precise-- if lost, return to Tav, Halsin, or Astarion in Reithwin.

Interesting. “So we’re friends, then?” It was a stupid thing to ask because of course the dog seemed to recognize him and take comfort in his presence. But Astarion never thought that he’d earn the trust of a hound when he spent the larger portion of his life eating them. 

In the past, a mark with a dog often presented a serious problem… dogs were very loyal and not nearly as stupid as he often claimed them to be. They could smell the undeath in him or his siblings immediately and would lunge out and try to bite with no regard for decency. They would desperately try to alert their masters to the danger they were in. But most would simply scold their dogs for being too aggressive-- he’s not  normally  like this, bad dog!!-- and lock the animal outside without thought for their own safety. The lure of fantastic sex could do a lot to limit one’s perceptions, apparently.

To be fair, Astarion was rather proud of his skill in that area, and there were likely thousands that had succumbed to his wiles over the years. The hounds stood no chance. They would bark and bark and bark just outside the walls, following the vampire wherever he went within the building. Their masters stopped listening the moment they’d entered as Astarion worked centuries of skill into his hands and tongue, driving them into a frenzy the way only he or his siblings could manage. The barking would forever silence moments later, and hours after that, the dog’s master would follow. An additional snack for a job well done, and an insurance of safety into the future. He quite liked the taste of hound over rotten vermin, truth be told.

It was strange to feel guilty about such things as he combed his fingers through the soft white fur. Once upon a time, Scratch could have been one of them. But it was just a matter of survival, and surely animals understood that better than anyone else. 

“Here.”

Astarion blinked from his stupor to find himself staring at belts, leather bits, and the hilts of two different blades. It was held by Halsin, who was still looking at him like he’d shatter into a million pieces if the wrong phrase were spoken. Astarion took the pile, sorting out a belt, two scabbards, and the daggers that were kept in them. He recognized the sharp, ornate golden hilt of one of them, and pulled it free with a hiss of shock.

“This was Cazador’s,” he whispered.

“Rhapsody. I thought its presence might help to ground you.”

It was sacrilege to be holding it, and he relished that little rebellion. Cazador would use this blade to happily cut his hand off for the crime, intending to reattach it later at his own convenience. Can’t have a toy without hands, after all. And that was the thing about torture in the Szarr palace--there were rarely any markings left to tell the tale. Though he couldn’t recall every moment, Astarion knew this blade had been used to cut through his flesh countless times, including with the permanent scarring on his back. The cruel, jagged lines of the thing felt like a part of him the way nothing else ever would.

He smiled, and a little hint of fang poked free of his lip. Finally, he felt like himself. Finally, there was some control to be taken back. “This is real,” he said. “This is mine.”

“It is.”

He glanced back up at the goddess, at her knowing, demeaning glare, and asked, “Five years?”

“Yes.”

“And we’re… we’re close?” To be with a mark for five long years seemed insane. He ditched most of them as soon as they quit being useful, as any ties he held to the world meant leverage that could be used to hurt him later. Another lesson learned from Sebastian. 

But Halsin nodded, a dark, troubled shadow passing over his eyes. “We… used to be,” he said vaguely.

That was odd. He’d surely felt a connection, but perhaps he  did  break it off to prevent complications. It would explain the broken heart at least. Perhaps he should mend it back together again and keep this bear of a man close until the world made sense again. Halsin carefully extended a great big paw, and Astarion took it. The fingers were large and soft, with bitten nails and subtle scarring. Not quite the hands of a warrior, but the way Halsin carried himself indicated that he was capable in battle. He had to be, to radiate such confident energy. A caster, perhaps?

Halsin brought Astarion’s pale fingers to his lips and kissed them. A romantic, then. It was charming, really. “Did you notice this?” He gently poked the hint of silver in the webbing of the vampire’s left ring finger. Astarion pulled his hand back with a lifted brow. 

“No. What is it?” The ornate elvish script told him, ‘ If lost, return to Tav or Halsin.’  “Like the dog? Am I a pet?” He should be furious at the idea, but honestly, it was pretty tame compared to previous work. And like Scratch, he seemed to be well taken care of. Curse notwithstanding.

“No,” Halsin laughed softly. It was a hearty sound, full of love and life. Warm like a campfire, sweet like honey. “It’s a wedding ring. We were married.”

He held his own ringed hand for Astarion to take, and he examined a similar script on Halsin’s own finger. “‘If lost, return to Tav or Astarion,’” he read. “Do we get lost very often?”

“It’s been known to happen.” There was a little bit of mirth dancing in Halsin’s pretty eyes. “Do you remember Tav, my heart?”

Astarion slid Rhapsody back in its scabbard and carefully buckled the belt around his waist. It cinched a little too thin for his liking… whatever the curse had done to him, he’d come out much weaker for it. It would take a while to build back up the muscle he was known for, but he’d manage. It wouldn’t be the first time.

He rested his palm on Rhapsody’s hilt and pulled the second dagger free to study its strange design. The blade was made of odd red stone that was clearly enchanted with some nasty curse. The hilt was sharp and spiky, like Rhapsody, and there was a circle of spikes at the base hinting that something should be resting there. 

He tested the balance, pleased to note that despite its strange, menacing design, it moved from palm to palm with surprising ease.

“Astarion?”

He blinked back at Halsin. “Hm?” The dog nuzzled his side, and he put the second blade away to scritch him behind the ears again.

“Tav? Do you remember him?”

Astarion tilted his head at the man, a little confused. It certainly sounded familiar, but… he closed his eyes, searching for a face to match the name. It was an elusive, slippery thing darting back into the shadows whenever he cast light on it. He saw flashes--a dark and terrible man falling from the sky. The sun kissing his skin. A dagger against a scarred, tattooed throat. A mindflayer with menacing violet eyes.

‘The sky is falling  and  there’s a giant brain flying over Baldur’s Gate. Rumor has it that we’re all gonna die, so this could be our last chance. Wanna cuddle?’

“Astarion?” Halsin was worried again. He reached out, then thought better of it. He wasn’t sure if the no-touch rule was still in effect, and damn him, but Astarion fell just a little bit in love with him for it. No one had respected his boundaries quite so much before. “Are you alright?”

He had a killer headache, actually. Astarion pressed his palms to his eyes and shook his head in defeat. Even that little movement irritated him. “I’ll be fine,” he muttered. 

A man with a long black braid was floating with his back arched, mouth agape in a silent scream. The blood in Bhaal’s den smelled acrid, rotten. Astarion blinked him away with a shudder. Halsin took matters into his own hands, then, and carefully helped lift Astarion back to his feet.

“Come,” he said. “You need to rest.”

“I just slept for a  month .” But there was no heat in it. He was exhausted, his head hurt, and now he couldn’t stop thinking about the man from the sky. Tav, was it? Yeah. Tav. “I-I’ll be fine.” 

He didn’t know why, but he was worried. It was something about a rabbit, a rook, and a game of chess. Something terrible had happened, the same thing that had cursed him in the first place. He could see the silhouette of a woman in his mind’s eye if he concentrated hard enough. He knew her name… he was certain that he did. Eyes like a viper.

‘ I’ve changed my mind. I think you deserve to stay. ’

He stumbled over his own feet, nearly face-planting into the goddess’s unyielding statue. 

Halsin caught him before he could hurt himself and insisted, “You’ll be fine in bed. Let’s go.”

Astarion said nothing as he was taken to the guest room. The dog cuddled up against him in the small bed, and he let his fingers roam into that soft white fur, recalling strands of silver hair that he would braid for hours when he was very, very young. He recalled braiding Tav’s long, black locks by campfire light. A horned woman nudged him gently, her skin blazing like the Hells. A dirty song rolled off her tongue, and he joined her for the chorus, still braiding that wild black hair. Tav’s eyes fell to happy slits, utterly content with the world. 

A large gray wolf joined them in the bed. It nuzzled up against him beside Scratch, who licked the wolf back in response. Astarion was too far gone to question it, especially since the beast seemed quite friendly. A sniff told him that it smelled like Halsin--campfire smoke, sweets, and safety. A druid, then. That made sense.

Except it didn’t. None of this did. He chuckled softly, the pitch just a little too high and breathless. Both hounds climbed up the bed to lick his cheek in concern, but he kept right on laughing with no intent to stop. His palm wrapped around the twisted, sharp hilt of Rhapsody and the stern reminder that Cazador was truly, finally dead.

Chapter Text

Velora was a woman who’d embraced the city’s broken because she knew what it meant to be one of them. As Astarion’s face shattered into a thousand different facets, her fingers ached to console him the way she’d done for countless others throughout her career. Trauma danced along his body, and rage was the beat that he moved to. His breaths hitched in his throat and then rolled out of him in an awful, stuttering gasp. It was like he couldn’t breathe but she knew that he didn’t need to, that this and a million other tortures would not, could not kill him.

She tried to reach for him twice, and the second time, he snapped at her with his fangs bared. She knew that if she did so again he’d kill her. He was a cornered wolf, and she was the prey too foolish to leave him be.

As the dog crept into Astarion’s space and gave him the only comfort that he would accept, Gale sighed to her left. Quiet and unhappy. “I’ve seen him like this only once,” he whispered. “A long time ago. Usually, Tav handles these things.”

“I think I know what triggered it.” Velora’s confession was one marked by shame. She should have seen this coming--she’d been in his mind, after all. Back in the alley, Batty Ben had recognized Astarion as one of the heroes from Baldur’s Gate. The mad man latched onto Astarion and spat nonsense in his face, then passed over a silver amulet that made the vampire’s face drain of what little color he still carried. He was on the ground seconds later, and then bedridden up until five minutes ago. 

“This happened before with the amulet,” she said. They’d already determined that the amulet wasn’t enchanted or malicious in nature, so his reaction was likely due to some sort of trauma they’d yet to uncover the nature of. Normally, she’d let his demons lie, but this was very likely related to whoever took Taverine. The sooner they found him, the sooner she could put this case behind her and maybe even get her life back.

Gale’s hand found its place on his hip. His dark brows contorted into suspicion. “What amulet?”

“Batty Ben found it,” she said, wincing a little. “The… witness from the attack.” Not a reliable one whatsoever, and she knew that Gale would hate to leave such important information down to an insane hobo who lived in the alley next to a grocer. “He said it dropped from the woman who took Tav.”

“And you didn’t mention this before? Where is it?” 

While Gale’s frustration was understandable, she bristled a little at his tone. She’d indeed been holding on to valuable evidence, but there hadn’t been time to address most of it. Between Nox’s bounty, her own men hunting them down, and Astarion dying in Helric’s guest room for the last month, things had been… complicated. 

“I have it in my pocket, actually.” Velora patted her hip, where the familiar weight of it rested. “I was going to show it to Astarion after he woke to see if he recognized the symbol. But then he panicked, and I suppose that would have been a bad idea anyway--”

The man in question giggled a little too pitchy at something Halsin said, and then she and Gale both traded a look of concern. Halsin encouraged Astarion to rise a moment later, and the two walked towards the guest rooms, the dog held close to the vampire’s side like a fluffy white comfort blanket. 

Velora pulled the amulet from her pocket. A silver chain spilled from her palm, revealing the delicate symbol of a small rabbit leaping over a pointed star. It was circled by floral patterns and tiny runes that she hadn’t been able to translate. Gale gently took the amulet from her and held it close. 

“This is… very old. The runes are ancient,” he said, “It’ll take some time to translate. I think it might be a motto. Or a name? It looks like the seal of a noble house.” His brows furrowed again, and she could see his mind racing through several calculations at once. His eyes were suddenly alight with the joy of solving a complex riddle, and gods help her, but she felt the same way. Any lead in this case would be more than welcome. “Elven is my best guess. They like facets of nature in their work. If it was given to Astarion--”

“--and he reacted badly to it,” she continued, “then it might represent--”

“--His family, or what’s left of them. I know.” Gale glanced towards the doorway where Astarion had fled, and something dark settled into his pupils. “He’s never said their name before. Not to me, anyway. I know that he was a magistrate, but little else.”

“Yeah, well… he won’t remember much,” she said. “I think it’s a mental block.”

Gale nodded. “Very likely. There’s still a lot of spellwork bound up in his mind. I couldn’t break through most of it, not without corrupting the curse even further.” The wizard hesitated. He glanced towards the guest rooms once again and frowned bitterly. “With it cleansed, I could try to… address whatever Cazador did to him. If he’ll even let me… he trusted me before, but that didn’t come easily. And now… well, we’re starting all over, I suppose.” 

The wizard squinted at the tiny runes, tilting his head at various angles as if a new perspective might miraculously translate them. Surprisingly, he chirped with joy a moment later. “Ah! Look!” He shoved the amulet towards her, as if she could understand ancient runes and held even the slightest notion of what he was babbling about. “The ancient lettering here is a bit tricky, but it’s most certainly a lunar elven dialect. Note the curvature of the script and that tiny half-moon. Brilliant! I wonder if he knows he’s a descendant? It makes sense, given the hair, and the features…  fascinating . I think I have a book in the library…” Gale began muttering to himself and then promptly forgot all about her in his lust for knowledge. He stood with a creek of tired bones and strode out the door without so much as a glance to make sure that she was following him.

She chased him up the stairs, and insisted, “Hey, shouldn’t you be resting?”

Gale ignored her, waving a dismissive hand as if to say, ‘ Perish the thought.’  

“You were casting that cleansing ritual for the last twelve hours! Even with your… considerable talents, you must be exhausted. At least take a break.” The slow and steady pace of Gale’s footsteps told her that he was in no mood to stop moving long enough to give into his body’s needs. The poor man had hardly dozed since the fire, be it from guilt or the urgency to save Taverine. Perhaps both. For whatever reason, Gale seemed to think the weight of the entire world rested on his shoulders, and that his needs came well after everyone else’s.

It was both endearing and infuriating because she knew exactly where he was coming from and didn’t really have an argument to present to him that did not in turn make her feel like a hypocrite. She resorted to begging. “Gale,  please --”

They both stepped into an elaborate, well-loved library, and she immediately lost her train of thought. “Wow.”

His little grin was impossibly smug. “I knew you’d like it. Everyone does.”

From beautifully tiled floors to high vaulted ceilings, books were crammed into tight, neatly ordered stacks all around them. The entire place smelled of old paper and ink. It was a sight that would have most librarians quivering with the need to explore every tome hidden up here. She noticed an entire section westward that was chained off and warded by powerful magic and wondered what sort of forbidden knowledge was hidden within it. 

A large ornate fireplace roared to life with the flick of Gale’s wrist, and warmth began soaking into the cold stone around them. A magical ball of light was released from his palm, and gently bobbed to Gale’s right as he walked across the room. Other magical lights sparked to life from various corners of the library, and they came in every shade and color of the rainbow. Some bobbed above their heads to emulate pale, white stars. The ceiling was made of glass and opened up to a colorful starlit sky. She knew it had to be an illusion because it was still around midday. 

As she examined various trinkets littered among the piles of books, he went straight for the northern wall, and absently cast a spell on himself to grant flight. Her eyes flew out of her skull as he gracefully floated up to the top of the ceiling, his violet robes billowing with arcane power. He grabbed an old red tome layered in a fine coat of dust. With a happy little smile, he gently blew the dust away, and it coughed off of the cover in a little gray cloud. Gale beamed down at her and then glided back to the ground. He was still wearing that ridiculously smug expression. 

“You can  fly ?”

“Any decent wizard can, my dear. Now…” There was a lacquered wooden table near the fireplace likely meant for study, carved with thousands of intricate constellations. It held various other books she couldn’t quite read the titles of, and many little trinkets, crystals, and carvings he’d collected over the years. Most of the right side of the table was littered with boxes, bags, and bottles for what she could only assume were spell components. Gale sat at one of the seats, gesturing for her to take the other nearest him. He snapped his fingers, and an ornate incense in the middle of the table began wafting a pleasant, lemony scent. “I wonder what this says…”

As Velora parked herself in an uncomfortably beautiful wooden chair, she studied the amulet in his hand with a grim expression. Despite her surroundings, there was still only one thing on her mind. “If the amulet came from Astarion’s family, our suspect is likely related to him.”

“Obviously,” Gale said. He tossed his shoulder carelessly, as if bored with the idea. He didn’t look up from his book, flipping through various pages sketched in ancient elven runes. Of  course  he’d have come to that conclusion already. Damn wizards. “I highly doubt he’s realized yet. One crisis at a time, as they say.”

“But he doesn’t even know what the amulet  means . It isn’t… it isn’t fair to him. He should know that his family might be involved with whoever took his lover.”

Gale rolled his eyes at her, still uninterested in the topic. “Perhaps later, after he’s recovered? The poor man’s a mess at the moment, I highly doubt he’ll take the news well.”

“But the suspect could be his mother,” she muttered, not quite willing to drop it. “Or a cousin. Or his sister. Or--”

“Or she might simply be a fan of ancient jewelry, Miss Vexxus.” The book of runes was shoved aside with an irritated huff, and Gale fidgeted with the amulet as he considered the issue. He looked deep into her eyes with a terrible, serious weight in them. She realized then that he hadn’t been disinterested--he simply did not want to dwell on yet another thing that might hurt his friend. The weight of his next words held a surprising amount of gravity. “Fine. Let’s talk about it.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to--”

“You mentioned that the woman who took Tav seemed to have a vendetta against him,” Gale started, cutting her off. “They clearly know each other… or at least, she knows of  him . The kidnapping wasn’t random.  Tav probably doesn’t remember her, but if this woman  truly  is connected to Astarion somehow… that can’t be a coincidence  either .  Or rather, I suppose it  could  be, but it seems highly unlikely. Ergo… Tav, Astarion, and the suspect all knew each other at some point. Something occurred that only she remembers, and this is her elaborate revenge scheme against them both.”

“So you’re saying…” Velora sat back, an uncomfortable truth lingering in her bones. She knew what he was implying, but she didn’t like it. “What are you saying?”

“Tav lost his memory before we met him,” Gale explained, “and Cazador ripped his way through Astarion’s mind countless times over the years. It’s not outside the realm of possibility that all of them had met decades before the Crisis, before… they  believe  they met. It’s… unfortunately very likely that they have a shared history neither Tav nor Astarion can recall.”

Velora remembered their desperate kiss in that alley, the tender expression on Taverine’s face when he reluctantly let Astarion go. His eyes had been so full of love, it was difficult to rationalize that man with one who might have hurt him decades prior. One didn’t serve as the chosen of Bhaal by being compassionate. “So you think Taverine might have...”

“Astarion was a slave for over two centuries,” Gale said. He clearly didn’t want to entertain this train of thought, and she couldn’t blame him. “Cazador had his claws in many, many pies, and we know that Astarion was his favorite sacrifice. Moreover, the bhaalspawn once held significant power in Baldur’s Gate, power that Cazador would have surely invested in. It’s…” He hesitated, and then angrily tossed the amulet onto the table between them. “It’s not the first time I’ve thought about this, and I hate even considering the possibility. Forget I said anything.”

“I’m… I’m sorry Gale, but you’re right. Remember what I saw with Nox? In Astarion’s mind, that is. We  know  that Cazador dealt with them, we just don’t know why. Maybe it’s not important anymore, but at the time, it was important enough to nearly kill Astarion over it.”

“I hesitate to entertain this any further,” Gale sighed, “but I doubt Nox worked alone in that… err, exchange. He’s obviously just a henchman… that is to say, no one important. Catch my meaning?” Velora quirked a brow at that, but he continued, “He wasn’t someone that you would trust with complex rituals. He was too… wild. But Tav was once the most accomplished murderer for the better part of a century and an incredibly powerful caster to boot. Intelligent, capable, trustworthy. And a chosen. If this deal was important enough to Bhaal, he’d have been there.”

“So… so we’re saying that Astarion fell for… for his… that Taverine…”

“Oh no, no, no.  We’re  not jumping to any conclusions,” Gale spat,  holding up his palms in surrender .  “That is  not  a wasps nest that we should be poking. Leave it for the dead. I hope they never discover the truth, whatever it may be.”

“But… oh gods.” She jolted upright in her chair, recalling something else she’d seen in Astarion’s mind. “I saw him! In the painting!!  Shit .”

Gale blinked at her like she’d lost her mind, and maybe she did. Just a little. “What painting?”

“When he was comatose,” she said. “I’d go into his mind to see if he was still alive, remember? Because he looked…”

“Dead, yes.”

“Yes. And in one of the… err, sessions, I made contact with him. He took me to a long hallway filled with paintings. They portrayed… um. Horrible things. I gathered that they were events kept from his conscious mind.” She struggled for the words to explain it. She was no mind-healer, this stuff was well beyond her pay grade. Not that she had a source of income anymore… thanks to Nox. Hell, maybe therapy was a decent career choice now that the Watch had fired her. A little bit of training could be useful right now.

Gale nodded, a troubled crease settling between his brows. He scratched his scruffy chin idly. “Makes sense… and… you saw who in what painting?”

“Taverine,” Velora said, wincing a bit. “I saw him in a painting with Nox. He was in the shadows. And he looked… well. He looked odd.”

“Possessed?”

“...Yes. Possessed, I think. That’s a good word for it.”

Gale planted his face into his hands and didn’t move for a very long time. She gently prodded him with a soft, “Gale?” But he didn’t respond. “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I shouldn’t have…”

“We will  never  tell either of them,” he told his hands.

“Never,” she agreed.

“ Never. ”

“I’m sorry, Gale…”

“It’s not your fault, Miss Vexxus. I’ve already confessed I’ve thought about this before. I just… I’m not quite sure how to…”

“They’re your friends. Your… your  family.  I get it. You didn’t want to think about it, who would?” Gale grunted into his hands and said nothing. “I… I know,” Velora whispered, feeling terribly guilty now. “I’m sorry. I wouldn’t have pressed, but it might be related to the case. If Taverine, Astarion, and the suspect all knew each other, then it might be because of… of something that…”

“As I said, Tav doesn’t remember much of his previous life.” Gale finally looked at her, his eyes burning with soul-rending bitterness. “And after the Crisis, I took the time to research him on my own. Call it… friendly curiosity.” He licked his lips and then glared at a tiny little statue of Mystra. She was parked absently on a pile of spellbooks. “He’s killed enough people to populate Waterdeep twice over.”

“Shit.”

“Quite,” he said. “It would be well within Tav’s nature to do something horrid enough to piss off our suspect. More to the point, a suspect that is very likely related to Astarion. Meaning that Tav likely did something terrible to Astarion’s family, and…” He snatched the amulet and trailed off. Several different emotions raced across his face as he examined the metal’s edge. He glanced at her with a hard stare. “Did you know that this is a locket?”

“What?”

“There’s a tiny hinge. Look.” He pointed to a very tiny bit of metal within the floral decorations that did, indeed, seem to be a hinge. The metal looked seamless, but clearly, it was meant to open somehow. “Do you have a knife? We need a knife.”

“How did I miss that? I’ve been staring at it for weeks.”

“It’s very small,” Gale said. “And not your fault.” He snapped his fingers. “Knife. We need a knife.” He stood abruptly and began toppling over various knickknacks and stacks of books in his hunt for one. He snatched the little statue of Mystra and violently tossed her into the fireplace behind him, not even pausing as he did so. Velora was stunned at the sudden sacrilege and then jumped when he produced a small ritual knife from one of the boxes. “Let’s see…”

Gale tried to use the knife to find a seam in the metal, but there was none. After a minute of struggling, he slammed it back down on the table and wriggled his fingers at the amulet. “ Pulset. ” She guessed it was some sort of unlocking spell, but nothing happened. “Damn,” he muttered, setting it back down on the table. “The runes could be a protection spell. If this is an heirloom, it likely won’t respond to anyone but the bloodline.”

Meaning if they wanted to open it without destroying whatever was inside, they’d have to give it back to Astarion. When they locked eyes, Gale’s expression was grim. She felt much the same way. “Let’s… give him a few days before we pursue this,” he said gently. “Astarion needs to recover.”

Velora made no such promise. Time was a commodity they couldn't afford at the moment. She insisted, “We didn’t detect any magic in it. How does that work without the weave?”

“It’s there. It’s… very, very faint and impossibly old, but I can taste it. Anyone who wasn’t like me wouldn’t be able to tell.”

She settled back against her chair and frowned. Velora felt utterly drained, though all they’d done was talk about some truly horrendous topics. Gale looked much the same way, and she considered ordering him to take a nap again. Even so, she knew that he’d hate it if she didn’t mention her final piece of evidence. With some resignation, she pulled out a folded piece of torn cloth from her pockets and slid it across the table towards him.

Gale revealed a splotch of old blood on dirty white linen. At his confused brow, she said, “I believe that’s from the suspect. I found it in the alley. I meant to ask Astarion if he recognized the taste, being a vampire and all. But things kept happening, and I never got around to it. Can you… use it somehow?”

“Actually, yes.” He stood without further explanation, pocketing the cloth, the amulet, and bringing along the old red tome of elvish runes. She followed him back down the stairs into the tower proper.

He led them to the kitchen of all places, where a crystal ball waited quietly for the two of them. It was set on an embroidered cushion, accompanied by another book that he didn’t pay any heed to. As Gale set down his supplies, Velora demanded, “Why is this here and not in your library?”

“I was lazy, and then forgot about it.”

Gods. First the fire, then the door, now this. “You’re  really  playing up this absent-minded wizard thing, aren’t you?”

He shrugged, holding the bloody cloth out in front of him to examine it. He wore an enigmatic little frown that danced across his face, telling all sorts of mysterious tales she’d never learn the nature of. “I've had a lot on my mind recently,” he said.

“Like?” He looked beyond the cloth to her, and his eyes took on a surprisingly vulnerable hue. The pain that lanced through him for a moment made her wince, and she immediately retracted her statement. “I’m sorry, it’s none of my--”

“Mystra,” he breathed, and then set the cloth down with an unhappy sigh. “You already know, so there’s no point in denying it. To state that our relationship is complicated might be… putting it gently. Things were already rough between us during the Crisis, and when I went back to her… I tried to make it work, I really did. But I… I couldn’t do it anymore.”

“And so you broke up with her? With a  goddess? ” Velora couldn’t help herself. She was a devout woman sworn to Torm, and the idea of not only fornicating with a god but breaking up with one just seemed utterly absurd. She loved Torm very dearly, but she couldn’t imagine actually meeting him and forming a more personal relationship. There were just some boundaries one didn’t cross. And Gale took it a step even further than that. He was incredibly stupid, and… a little bit brave, frankly. She knew some of the legends surrounding Mystra and her lovers. The hells hath no fury like a goddess scorned.

“Insofar as you ever break it off with one,” he spat. He wasn’t in the room anymore. His dark eyes were lost to memory, and the tension in his shoulders was primed for an argument she had no interest in giving him. The air swirled with invisible weave, and she slowly backed into the dining room as she felt the hairs of her neck stand on end. His emotional outbursts were more dangerous than most. “I’m not sure if she’s accepted my resignation, or is simply waiting until I come back again. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve broken my resolve...”

“Gale--”

“But not this time.” His fists were balled at his sides. “I can’t do it anymore.” With the blink of an eye, all that tension crashed down into the floorboards, and Gale shuddered as a torrent of grief flooded out and through him. “ I won’t. ” She felt the heavy sensation of primal magic ease up a bit and breathed a quiet sigh of relief. 

“Perhaps that’s for the best,” she whispered, as if to a cornered dragon. “It sounds like she’s hurt you a great deal.”

He blinked at her as if he’d forgotten that she was there. Gale looked down at the supplies on the kitchen counter, the bloody cloth, and the crystal ball that waited for his magic. “My apologies. We have much more important things to worry about.”

He was likely expecting reproach, given the way that he curled into himself. He went from being the incredibly dangerous wizard she knew him to be, to a very small and anxious child that knew nothing at all. The man was drowning under a wash of intense feelings that he’d never learned to control properly, and had likely been punished for displaying in the past. She could have scolded him for his weaknesses, and if she were a lesser woman, she might have. 

But Velora was not a lesser woman. “Give me some credit,” she said, rolling her eyes. “I can worry about quite a lot of things at one time.” She tapped her head, her expression twinkling with careful mirth. “It’s a wonderful brain up here. All sorts of compartments I can shuffle my issues into.”

Gale gawped at her like a fish out of water. It was just a little bit adorable, and she wanted nothing more than to hug him.

When he could find nothing to say in response, she closed the distance between them again. “You’re pretty terrifying,” she confessed, clapping his shoulder with a friendly palm. His body was rock-hard with tension. “But hardly unique. Half the men in my unit were mourning an ex that had ruined their lives before I found them. Of course, yours is a goddess, but I can tell that you do nothing by half measure. I hear the Dekarios clan is like that. Everything’s big and bold with you people.”

A tiny little smile finally kissed his lips. It was beautiful and precious and meant to be protected at all costs. “Mother always said I was a hellion.”

She returned his little smile with one of her own. This was not one she shared with many people, but Gale was… like no man she’d ever met before. “As long as you keep the Hells where they lie, I certainly don’t mind.”

They stared for entirely too long. Long enough to notice how deep and soulful his soft brown eyes were. Impossibly, terribly deep, like the gravity well of a black star. She lost herself in it. Gale was the first to pull away, blinking rapidly. His flush did not ease. 

He cleared his throat and touched the bloody cloth again with an idle finger. Trails of glowing weave began to follow his other hand as he swirled it over the crystal ball. At first, the crystal reflected the homely kitchen around them both, but then the scene inside slowly shifted, blurring into darker shadows and unfamiliar shapes. Gale muttered some kind of spell, and it emanated into the air like a bell. 

The scene inside of the crystal came back into focus. Velora leaned in close to witness the twisted grin of an elven woman. She had long white hair, crimson eyes, and wore elaborate black armor laced with ancient runes. She seemed to be in a castle, or some other stone structure that bore traces of wealth and power. There was a detailed painting of Astarion behind her… but his eyes were a startling vivid blue rather than red, and there was not a trace of wickedness in his bearing. The usual tension that he wore in his shoulders was lost to a soft, easy posture as he lounged in a high-back chair. He was dressed with a ruffled collar and various golden bits adorning his clothes. He was the very image of bored nobility. A silver pin on his lapel caught her eye… a rabbit leaping over a star.

His lips were pressed into a thin line, youthful eyes staring off into his dark and distant future. Call it projection, but he seemed pensive. Scared, even. As if he knew what was coming for him.

The elven woman stepped in front of the painting and sneered at something down by her feet. She looked exactly like their resident vampire, save for the gender. 

“Well, that confirms one theory,” she muttered. “She’s obviously related. Probably a sister, though it’s hard to tell.”

Gale was too focused on the spell to respond. His brows were pinched with pain when the woman looked directly through the scry back at him, her eyes pulsing with a hot red glow. She snarled something that caused Gale to reel backward as an ugly wave of black magic exploded from the crystal and attacked him. He shouted in pain, and then lurched back to the crystal with shaking hands, muttering another spell to protect them both. It coated the crystal ball with a golden sheen, canceling whatever she’d cast.

The vision in the crystal spun wildly out of control. They both caught a glimpse of Taverine kneeling on the floor at her feet. He was shirtless and wearing a strange black collar around his neck. His back was bloody and marred by several intricate cuts.  

The scry was cut short with a sharp snap of the weave, and Gale stumbled backward against the opposite counter. He breathed heavily, his gaze distant and his nose bleeding a small river down his chin. He pressed a finger to his temple, and hissed, “Astarion is alive. He’s safe. Halsin’s with us. We’re going to find you, I promise it.”

A sending spell, she guessed. Velora snatched a rag from the sink and handed it to Gale, who blinked at her in confusion. She mimed touching her own nose, and when he discovered the blood there, he stared at it for a long moment. 

“I don’t think that’s going to work again,” Velora muttered, in reference to the scry. “But we did learn some things.” At his lifted brow, she continued, “Astarion was a high-ranking noble once, and his family has an estate somewhere. She’s either taken residence in that estate or had items from the estate moved to wherever she is now. Like that painting. It’s got to be valuable, and therefore, easy enough to trace. They don’t generally make paintings like that for boring people.”

Gale rolled his eyes and finally dabbed at some of the blood around his chin. He grimaced at the taste of it in his own mouth. “That’s certainly not true. Tav had a whole rack of boring paintings back in Baldur’s Gate. A big collection of all sorts of lords and ladies that history didn’t care to remember.”

“Well, they definitely don’t make paintings of poor people,” she insisted.

“Charity cases aside, I suppose that’s true.” Gale managed not to smear the blood too badly and pinched his nose to ensure the bleeding would stop. Though deathly pale, he didn’t seem much worse for wear. Assuming he actually went to bed, of course… the floor would be greeting him soon if he didn’t.

“Their estate is likely somewhere near Baldur’s Gate,” she said. “I bet if we find out his name, we’ll find her.”

“Why Baldur’s Gate?”

“Isn’t that where he’s from? Before being turned, I mean.”

Gale blinked at her again, and she could see his brain shutting down from sheer exhaustion. “I… I don’t remember,” he admitted. He seemed a bit upset at this, though he hid it well. “He’s probably said as much, but…”

Velora closed the distance between them and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. Gale’s skin was very warm, even through the thin fabric of his robes. And tense. Very, very tense. His muscles could be marble for all that he budged. He glanced down at the hand, then deep into her eyes. 

“Gale. You need to sleep.”

“I know.” But he didn’t move towards the stairs. He slumped against the kitchen cabinets instead and held the rag to his nose with little energy to do much of anything else.

“Sleep,” she insisted, pulling his arm. “Even I know wizards can’t function without it. How long has it been?”

He followed her lead like a tired puppy until he realized they’d climbed the stairs and his room was just around the corner. He paled at the sight of the mess before the shrine room, and shuddered, turning away from it. 

“Gale--”

“Not there,” he whispered. “I’ll… I’ll sleep on the sofa.” He turned around and tried going back down the stairs, to the living room.

With a disgusted noise, Velora dragged him to her own room instead. Surprisingly, he didn’t protest. As Gale crawled into the sheets with a long, weary groan, she crept away and went back down to the kitchens to retrieve the book, locket, and cloth, and then headed back up to the library to learn about ancient high elven runes. And… perhaps some other material. Call it a hunch for now.

Vampires, wizards, and bears. What was next, hellspawn? If you told her two months ago that she’d give up her career for a creature of the night, she’d have checked herself into a home. She missed the routine of easy paperwork, and the slurring, wobbling bodies sleeping off their woes in the drunk tank. She missed her boys training in the yard, she missed Helric and Samis arguing about her general welfare, and she missed being proud of what she stood for. Torm only knew what twisted corners this case would lead her to. And Gale, well… he was a disaster waiting to happen. Heart be damned, but her taste in lovers had always been nothing but trouble.

If Helric were here, he’d clap her on the shoulder and tell her to go for it. He’d tell her that she deserved to be happy. And if Samis were here, he’d slap her for being a moron. One did not fall for rebounds, let alone an unstable wizard bouncing back from the goddess of magic. Though his intentions with Velora were likely pure as freshly fallen snow, he was a reckless fool and a danger to everyone around him. And between the vampires, the bhaalspawn, ancient elven riddles, and the entire city hunting her down for treason, there was plenty to worry about and little time to spare for it.

But Samis was young, and Helric was old enough to know better. Couldn’t help what the heart wanted. It didn't care about timing, convenience, or even safety. The heart was stupid like that. And sometimes, stupid was… impossibly distracting.

Chapter Text

Astarion dreamt about a door with a silver crest. It was cracked open just a little, spilling soft golden light into the darkness where he waited. He could hear an older man with a terrible cough just beyond it, and smell the sweet, floral scent of rosa. A young elven woman with long silver hair peeked from the doorway and smiled at him. He stared at her slender hand where it held the door open. 

“He left behind a card of poetry and more gods-forsaken flowers. Rosa again! Shall I burn them before Mother sees?”

Halsin coaxed him back to reality, gently stroking his cheek along the back of soft knuckles. For once, this wasn’t a memory of blood or pain, just a strange glitch in his mind that meant nothing at all and had likely never happened. And yet he found himself lying in sweat, eyes burning on the verge of  tears . Self-hatred boiled in him, and it was an old, familiar friend.

He resented the way the big bear-shaped man frowned down at him, a sad and broken little expression that probably reflected Astarion’s own state of being. With some difficulty, the younger elf managed to compose himself enough to look properly annoyed, and hissed, “I know that I’m beautiful and well worth pampering, but if you continue to treat me like spun glass I’ll start breaking each of your fingers.”

Halsin just smiled sweetly at him and seemed a little bit relieved. “Hello, Star.”

“Yes, yes. ‘Hello,’” he mocked, and tossed his wrist carelessly between them. “Where are the baths? I want to drown myself.”

He did not, in fact, drown himself. He was told that this was Gale’s tower, and the wizard was a man of surprising taste considering the recent state of him. The bath was large enough for at least three people and made of exquisite pale stone that felt smooth to the touch. There was actual running water heated by runes etched on copper pipes. Various soaps, salts, loofas, shampoos, and conditioners lined the lacquered wooden shelves. As he began to draw a bath, he drizzled scented soap to make bubbles. The tiny, dead toddler buried deep inside of him squealed with joy as he watched them foam under the faucet. The whole room smelled like lemon.

Civilization was the absolute  best . 

He tried to lure Halsin into the bath with him once it was prepared, but the big sap blanched like a sweaty virgin and locked himself on the other side of the bathroom door. A guy could get a complex from being denied like this. He knew for a fact that he was beautiful, so surely the men in this place were utterly insane. Perhaps the dragon woman would be interested? 

Astarion’s patience for the druid’s antics lasted for all of a minute before he pointed out that they’d apparently been married once, and his perfect body wasn’t meant to be hidden behind a closed door. It was meant to be ravished, adored, and fawned upon. Truthfully, shamefully, he didn’t want to be alone with his thoughts, and perhaps Halsin even sensed it. They’d been through this before, whether or not he knew it. 

The druid reluctantly re-entered after a stern promise that Astarion was not indecent. “But I’m  never  decent ,  darling.”

You’d think they hadn’t shared coitus with the way Halsin went on about it, but Astarion understood his own body well enough to know better. He might not recall the details, but it  had  happened at some point. That, and so much more. He ruefully covered his dick with the bubbles and went about scrubbing himself without care for Halsin’s apparent discomfort. The warmth of the water and the soothing, lemony scent did quite a lot to relax the rest of the tension in his body. He hadn’t realized just how wired he’d been, but it must have been a rather long month because he recognized this kind of ache after centuries in the kennel. Even though he’d just slept, he felt like he could doze off in the bath if given the opportunity. Fortunately, he had a big, dumb oaf to distract him. A pretty one, too.

“So, tell me. When was the last time we had sex?”

The red flush of Halsin’s cheeks was a delicious sight, and it made Astarion smile. A hint of fang dropped down. 

“ What?”

“Don’t be coy, you sweet fool. I know all druids are fiends.”

Halsin did not deny it. If anything, his blushing eased a bit. He smiled back, and something dark and seductive settled into his gaze. “Perhaps,” he said mysteriously. 

“It’s been a while, I take it. The way you’re acting… you must be quite pent up, dear.”

“Three years.”

“Oh my! I’ve neglected you for three terribly…  long…  years.” His voice had dropped to a low purr, and he was pleased to note that Halsin wasn’t unaffected. His throat bobbed a little, and he crossed his legs with some discomfort. “You must have been terribly naughty to earn such abstinence.”

Halsin reached across from Astarion’s nude form, still mostly covered in fluffy white bubbles, and snatched a green glass shampoo bottle. The tiny script on the label claimed to fight split ends and had a pleasant, floral scent. “Three years, five months, and six days. Though I’m not counting.”

“You poor boy!” Though the tone was teasing, Astarion was a bit astonished. That was a long time to deny a lover, and he was nothing if not adept at pleasing them. The ritual of spinning marks into a frenzy, claiming them as  his  for just a moment, that was something he relished. One tiny bit of power in an ocean of hopelessness. The sex he could give or take of course, but the  power … He could make a huge beast like this one quiver and beg for mercy. It would have been hard to resist. “Whatever you did,” Astarion tossed a hand, “you’re certainly forgiven. You should join me, there’s plenty of room. We can release all that tension in those big, broad shoulders of yours…”

But Halsin was shaking his head again. He frowned and some ancient, bitter memory crossed his sad green gaze. “As much as I… hunger to entertain such desires, I will not touch you until your memory is restored, Astarion.”

Ugh. Stupid, stupid man. “What a steaming pile of rothé shit--”

“Your memory will come back,” Halsin insisted. “I know it will.”

“And if it doesn’t?” When the oaf didn’t answer again, Astarion snarled in frustration. “Don’t be so dramatic, it’s unbecoming. What  happened ?”

Halsin said nothing, and his guilty expression didn’t ease. He silently squirted some of the shampoo into his palms and began to rub it in his big soft hands. Astarion knew the idiot wanted to help him wash his hair--and it was certainly in a state, badly snarled and a bit matted from a month of neglect. But Astarion was feeling petty, and no one could do it like he could. He crossed his arms and sulked like a gods-forsaken child.

The druid waited patiently for Astarion to humor him, but the vampire was in no mood for it. “Is there a reason you won’t tell me? Did you…” He left several different verbs hanging in the air, each of them darker than the last.

“No! It wasn’t like that,” Halsin blurted, struggling to explain himself. He looked ridiculous holding his soapy hands over the tub. “It was a… shall we say, complicated affair. I would rather you remember what it was like for yourself. I don’t want to… to manipulate you into doing anything you wouldn’t have done with proper context.”

Damn it all. Such a stupid, soft, beautiful fool. Astarion sighed with something that might have been love but was surely disgust. He gave in and tipped his head back into the water, saying nothing. When he rose back up, he let Halsin’s large hands comb through his curls and sort out the mess he’d become.

“It’s gotten down to your shoulders,” Halsin muttered behind him.

“I’ve never worn my hair this long before… it must be some sort of new style I was testing out. Or perhaps I’d gotten lazy.” A strange concept. Astarion hadn’t tried anything new since being turned, and he was meticulous in his self-care, knowing well to protect his best assets. Besides, his master was nothing if not consistent in his tastes... nearly all of Astarion’s siblings were blonds, after all.

“Do you want to keep it?”

“I might try out the new length for a little while.” It was a strange sensation to feel his own hair tickling along the tops of his shoulders. He realized the difference was just enough to ground him to his current reality, and wondered if that had been the intention. Anything to not be in that tomb anymore. “If it can at all be saved, I would be grateful.”

Halsin worked diligently with skilled and careful fingers. It took the better part of an hour, and during the process, they caught up on various details about life five years into the future. He’d been traveling with Tav for the last three and then living in domestic bliss for the two before that. They had friends in Avernus, and yet more somewhere up in the Astral Sea. Gale had been missing until recently and was apparently a boy toy to the goddess of magic. Halsin’s reluctance for details on the matter told him that the relationship had soured recently. Astarion knew the many stories of young wizards taken to live in her domain and wondered just how much of the legends were true. Given his own history, he couldn’t help but donate a tiny little crumb of sympathy.

“And what about my… siblings?” Gods, he hated the word. But there was no other for it. “Were they all killed?”

“Oh…” He could hear Halsin’s distant stare as he formulated the right response. His fingers stilled in his hair for a moment. “I’m… not sure. They were alive after you killed Cazador, but then you each parted ways.” That sounded about right. They couldn’t stand each other. “You did receive letters from time to time… you sent a few out as well, but you never said what they contained. We didn’t ask.”

“Ah. I see.”

“If you would like to learn more, I can--”

“No.” Fuck them. Especially Petras, that prick. If there were any compassionate gods out there, the asshole was little else but ash scattered to the winds. 

Halsin sifted his fingers through wet and soapy curls, humming softly. Astarion couldn’t read the tone and wasn’t certain whether or not he approved. It struck him that he knew nothing about this man. He’d said a lot without saying much at all, and that was a skill Astarion could fully appreciate.

“Do you have any family, darling?”

The druid shrugged his massive shoulders a little bit. The curls were largely untangled now, but he seemed to be enjoying running his fingers through them. He massaged Astarion’s scalp as he went, as if in payment for continuing to touch him. It was wonderful, really. 

When silence continued to dominate the room, Astarion sighed. “That wasn’t an answer. You’re not very good at this, are you?” 

“I apologize, my heart.” Halsin’s chuckle was soft and content. “Like many of my kind, I belong to the forest. My family are the creatures who roam there.”

“You see?” Astarion rolled his eyes back at him, flicking his wrist in frustration. “ That’s  how you answer a question. Good boy.”

“Ha! You’re quite welcome.”

“It sounds…”  lonely.  “...lovely. To belong to the forest, that is. Beasts are generally straightforward creatures. You know where you stand with them.”

“Most of the time, yes.”

“Most of the time,” Astarion conceded. “But there are rules, simple and easy to follow. Mutual codes of conduct as it were. Bears don’t… they don’t lie, or scheme, or…” He trailed off. There wasn’t any bitterness in his tone, but he felt a little lost at the concept. They were complete opposites in every single way that mattered. Halsin had been free from the very start, so much so that the hustle and bustle of civilization was an unwelcome stranger to him. And Astarion couldn’t remember a time when he’d been allowed beyond the borders of the lower city in Baldur’s Gate. He knew he must have traveled with his master once or twice… but he couldn’t recall a time without Cazador nearby, and surely the master would have needed to travel on business occasionally. Over two hundred years of memory and not one of them strayed far from the palace. Odd, that…

“Star?”

“Hm?”

Halsin gently nudged Astarion to rinse, and he did so with a passive, blank expression. It took a moment to fully wash the soap and conditioner from his hair, but when Astarion came back up, Halsin looked very pleased with the results. He ran a careful hand through the strands to test them and smiled. “All done.”

Astarion came back to himself with a rush of relief. “Thank you, sweetheart.” His endearments were getting warmer without his notice. He’d have to be careful. It was one thing to feign love, it was another to actually feel it.

With a polite nod, Halsin settled back against the wall and fished a smokeleaf joint from his pocket. Astarion’s brow lifted at that, but the druid didn’t justify his actions. He lit the end with a gesture from his fingers, and then pulled it deep into his lungs, savoring it for a long moment. He tipped his head back against the wall and closed his eyes.

“I see we all have our vices.”

When the smoke was finally released, Halsin chuckled. “I have more than one of them, I promise you.” It sounded a bit hoarse, the smoke dragging along his lungs like a heavy blanket. He held out the joint for Astarion to take if he wished. 

The vampire rolled his eyes and took the thing after a moment’s hesitation, eyeing it like it might bite him. He’d had smokeleaf once or twice during his haunts throughout Baldur’s Gate, though he still wasn’t sure if it even affected his physiology. He rarely experienced the opportunity to imbibe safely or for very long. Hard liquor could get him drunk with enough input, so surely other substances could do the same. An instinctive reluctance crept through his body at the thought, and he knew that it was the result of years of slavery. He’d been trained well to stay alert at all times.

Scrunching his eyes in distaste, Astarion pulled the joint to his lips. He wasn’t sure if he was doing it because he wanted to, or because it defied the demons that lived in his head. As he felt the thick, warm air fill his lungs, Halsin asked, “Do you remember your family before becoming a vampire?”

He coughed violently, and Halsin lurched forward to clap him on the back. He thrust the joint at Halsin in frustration, and after recovering, hissed, “ No. ”

It had been an innocent enough question, and Astarion wasn’t sure why it upset him. He didn’t remember much about those early days... It was like a dream. The more he tried to latch onto the images, the more they grew blurry and indistinct. He’d try to snatch them with his fingers, and they’d dissipate into sand.

“Apologies,” Halsin said. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“No, no, you’re quite alright. I… I  should  remember, shouldn’t I? You look like you’ve got a few centuries beneath you, and surely you remember your own childhood.”

The druid’s expression was pinched with an odd kind of sorrow. “Yes. Elves have perfect memory, Star.”

“Then why don’t I?” Astarion huffed a little and then snatched the drain from the bath like it had offended him. Halsin handed him a towel, suddenly not at all concerned about his ex-husband’s nudity. “I remember dying, sure. I remember waking up in my own grave. But…” His life before was only met with the vaguest factual data. He had been a magistrate, despite his youth. He wasn’t sure why because that certainly wasn’t normal for elven nobility. He had been involved with some sort of ruling about the Gur, and they were quite pissed about it. Then he was beaten to death. Before that… surely he’d had a family.

He didn’t realize he’d frozen in place until Halsin’s gentle hand nudged him on the shoulder. “Shh. It’s alright.” He began to help Astarion dry off, much to the vampire’s chagrin.

“Is it? Because I… I think… Do you think he did something to me? To make me forget them?”

Halsin stilled in his work, looking deep into Astarion’s eyes. Whatever he was searching for, he didn’t seem to find it. “When you were still in your coma, Gale seemed confident that it was likely. He claimed that it was Sharran in nature.”

Astarion wasn’t sure how to process the information. It hurt to have his suspicions confirmed, but it hardly came as a surprise. His master wouldn’t stand to have Astarion recall a life that didn’t revolve around him. “I think I knew that,” he muttered. “There were… a lot of gaps, over the years. I stopped keeping track.” Something about a severing of limbs, a slow and painful recovery, and lying bereft in a bath of blood while Cazador sang to him about sunlight. He vaguely recalled screaming and tearing his hair out and clawing at his own skin and then--nothing.

A warm palm embraced his cheek. He blinked to witness Halsin’s tender smile. “Gale is certain that it wasn’t given to the mirror. Unlike Shadowheart, yours could still be recovered.”

Astarion had no idea what he meant by ‘mirror’ and ‘Shadowheart,’ but he caught the general gist. He shrugged Halsin’s touch away and finished drying himself off. The druid tossed him his undergarments, and he finally began to dress. “It’s likely. He would never give to Shar what he could keep for himself.” Neither needed the confirmation that ‘he’ meant the dead vampire lord who would forever haunt his thoughts. Bitterness settled against the back of Astarion’s tongue, and he viciously shoved his shirt over his head to cover up the scars of that possession.

“In this case, it works out in our favor,” Halsin pointed out. He held his hands up placatingly like he was trying to calm an agitated, dangerous beast. “We could get those memories back. It’s worth trying, my heart.”

Astarion grunted vaguely, neither confirming nor denying the possibility. He wasn’t so sure that he  wanted  them. Sometimes it was wiser to let the dead lay in peace. 

He’d slid himself into the kitchen a little while later, and puttered around a bit until he found some raw steak for Scratch. It was a red, juicy cut that set his fangs on edge, and the dog whined hungrily in agreement. Plucking a carving knife from the block, Astarion slapped the steak down on a pine cutting board and worked the meat into cubes. There was a serving window from the kitchen into the dining area, adjacent to the living room and entryway. His eye caught Halsin leaning back in his chair where he sat at the pretty lacquered dining table. There was a joint pinched between the druid’s teeth as he artfully worked his knife into a small block of wood that he’d produced out of nowhere earlier. Occasionally, he’d idly munch on bite-sized colorful fruit, humming happily as he whittled. 

As he watched Halsin’s entire world narrow to a growing pile of wood shavings and the gentle puffs of his joint, Astarion felt his belly twist into knots. The whisper of a forgotten dream settled against the back of his neck. He’d partaken in similar vices. More of them, harder varieties, anything with a bite. Just enough to get by. They would kill him if they knew.

Red, yellow, a wooden table scattered with rosa petals. The sick-sweet lemony scent of sundrop. Two golden dots.

Scratch nudged against his leg, and the vision shattered like glass. He blinked, a little dazed. The dog whined softly, and Astarion shook his head, trying to clear it. He handed the dog one of the meat cubes with an open palm, barely paying attention. He popped another into his mouth, and let it roll around on his tongue for a long moment. Most food became ash in a vampire’s mouth, but raw meat was the rare exception. Though he couldn’t ingest the flesh itself, the blood provided enough flavor to nibble on. Though old, it had been a quality steer once. His stomach appreciated the offering.

They idled in companionable silence for a little while. Astarion fed Scratch most of the steak, only taking one or two more cubes for himself. He didn’t need to feed after the banquet they’d given him the day before, and in fact, he felt stronger than he’d had in a long time. He’d fully recovered from his prior weakness and kept glancing out towards the door to the inner courtyard where deadly shards of winter sunlight pierced into the dining area and spilled over Halsin like a blanket of fire. Though Waterdeep’s dour skies had teased a snowstorm for days, today the clouds parted for bright, happy rays and slowly melting ice.

Bored, he wandered over to the crystal ball left abandoned on the counter and peered into it. The thing was dormant, and he caught nothing but the room reflected around him in odd, warped angles. It was a pretty thing, and Astarion suspected it had been used for scrying. Cazador would do the same on occasion and had wards set up all over the palace to prevent being spied upon. Though Astarion possessed some limited talent in spellwork, it was certainly not his area of expertise. The idea of being able to track anyone, anywhere, at any time was a fascinating concept, and he wondered what sort of secrets Gale had learned in his own attempts.

There was an untitled book left abandoned beside the crystal, and Astarion snatched it for want of something to do. When he flipped it open to find various sketches of Mystra in numerous poses (including a few nude ones), he grinned a sharp little thing and wandered over to the dining table opposite Halsin.

The shape in Halsin’s hand was still difficult to translate, but he thought the man might be carving a cat of some sort. He glanced at Astarion with a soft, contented smile that likely came from the smokeleaf’s heady influence, and said, “Careful of the sunbeams, my heart.”

Astarion rolled his eyes, avoiding the bright shards of light as he set the book down on the table and began to flip through it. It must surely be Gale’s… who else would obsess over the goddess of magic but a wizard of his caliber? He flipped through dozens of pages of stern eyes, wispy hair, and billowing robes, secretly impressed by the level of detail. Breasts and curves included, of course. 

“Cazador liked to think himself an artist,” Astarion told the pages.

Halsin paused in his whittling, and gently prodded, “Oh?”

“Even when he forced us to compliment his pathetic scrawling, he knew it was shit.” The various poses of Mystra finally died down to adorable sketches of a winged cat. Astarion traced his finger along the lines of her claws as she swiped up at a butterfly. “The moods he’d get into… even his poetry was lacking. ‘Ode To A Pale Rabbit.’ The fucking idiot. Three thousand lines, believe it or not, all of them terrible. Too many flowery words and empty phrases. He made me recite it so many times, I begged for the kennel.” He didn’t, but only because he’d been compelled to speak nothing else for days at a time. On and on and on until his throat gave out and he could do nothing but whisper. Until even Cazador grew bored with the game.

“It’s a wonder what Vellioth saw in him,” he continued. The sketches of cats halted for mindflayers. Tendrils snaked along the pages, and his eyes followed the long, twisting lines until he grew lost in them. “Obsessed with art to the point of madness, though each of his creations were soulless and ugly. He once confessed that I was his only true masterpiece.”

“You were a masterpiece long before he stole you,” Halsin chided. He didn’t look up from his carving this time, too focused on the delicate trim of a sloping tail. “He does not own any part of you, Star.”  Anymore.

Astarion snorted in response. So long as he bore the scars on his neck, evidence would continue to say otherwise. “Yes, well, the bastard would surely disagree. He believed that my success was an extension of his will. All that I am, all that I created, anything that I could claim was his to take. I was his dilthen múl.”

The foreign words triggered an angry glare from Halsin. Astarion didn’t understand what it meant--he’d surely spoken elvish at some point in his life, but he’d lost the language somewhere between all the torture. The meaning had been clear even so. A thing. A small, insignificant, stupid little thing with no merit to be had without his master to guide him.

“He demanded that I study various aspects of art over the years, and consistently stole the best pieces to display under his own name. Drawing happened to be one such vocation, and for a single, terrific decade, I had a sketchbook much like this one. He forced the lessons on me, but… there was a kind of freedom in the expression.” He tossed a careless hand, then drew it back to stare at his fingers. Cazador broke each of them whenever he didn’t meet expectations, be it warranted or otherwise. Astarion could still feel the grinding of hairline fractures every frost. “He made me burn it all later on. Page by page. Said it was pointless… and I suppose it was.” 

‘ Best not to confuse your pretty little head. It has much better uses, after all.’

This time, Halsin paused. He sat the carving down and frowned at him. “Astarion…”

‘Open your mouth.’

Cazador loved Astarion’s hands because they were his best feature. They could pick any lock, slip in and out of every pocket, perfectly throw sharp objects, and slit throats with breakneck speed. They could crawl their way down a body and make it sing in a thousand different ways before sunrise. For no rhyme or reason, Cazador loved to peel his hands, break them, shatter them, grind them, snap them…

His fingers curled into a fist.

‘ Such a good boy.’

A large, gentle hand, not at all like Cazador’s spindly claws, wandered into his vision where the sketchbook was still splayed out before him with depictions of illithid horror. It gently caressed his arm, and asked, “Would you like to know what I’m working on?”

Astarion blinked at the druid opposite him, and grunted in confusion. “Hm?”

Halsin held the carving out to him. It was indeed a cat. A small one, with gentle sloping ears and a heart-shaped face. “It’s a snow leopard. They remind me of you.”

“Because they’re incredibly beautiful?” The sharp lift of Astarion’s brow and the purr of his voice was an artform all its own. Some lessons never went unlearned. 

“For a start, yes.” The druid settled back into his chair again and continued to work on the carving. The joint of smokeleaf had disappeared at some point, and Astarion frowned at that, wondering when he’d lost track of the world around him. “Their coats are extremely valuable, so much so that they were hunted to near extinction a century or so back… I was part of the conservation efforts near the Rashemen forests. We were determined to save them, and it all came down to a single family. A badly wounded mother and her five cubs.” His brows pinched as he used the knife’s tip to carefully whittle details in the fur. “We secured them safely, but the male eluded us for a very long time. Years, in fact. He would come to check on his brood occasionally, but he proved too elusive to capture.”

Astarion tried to look bored at the story, but he was more engaged than he’d ever admit. “So it’s because I’m sneaky, then.” 

“That too,” Halsin confessed with a smile. “We caught word of a circus in the area. My comrades wanted to witness how the Rashemen performed their feats. You’ve met Minsc, you can imagine the appeal. They are amazing people.” The blank stare Astarion gave him caused the man to frown. “Ah, forgive me. I forgot you wouldn’t remember. It is no matter. The circus was as grand as one would expect, with ancient magical wonders and acrobatic feats even you might be amazed by. But then we found the zoo.” 

Halsin’s tone grew darker, and he paused in his whittling as his mind wandered to bitter memories. “Rare beasts of every kind held in tiny cages, abused and beaten, starved, broken.” The tension in his shoulders was clear enough to the anger he must have felt back then. “They each whimpered in the dark corners of their kennels. All but Stjerne, the snow leopard.

“He suffered a mangled paw, a bad case of mange, and bore horrid scratches all over his muzzle, but the wrath that beast held for his captors was extraordinary. He lunged at me from beyond the bars as I passed by, and demanded recompense for the abuse he had suffered. By my oath to the Oak Father, I could not deny him. I ripped the cage open, and he slaughtered three men that night.”

“Was he killed?”

Halsin shook his head and chuckled softly. The leopard in his hands was more clearly defined now, but he continued to detail it almost absently. “The gods themselves couldn’t break that beast.”

“Are you saying that I remind you of Stjerne? Because of what he suffered?” He wasn’t sure whether he should feel flattered, insulted, or both. To be defined by what he’d survived wasn’t the worst of fates. He could imagine far worse comparisons…

But Halsin finished the carving and handed it to Astarion from across the table, the sunbeam between them slashing his forearm in two. “There are some souls that shine so bright, even the darkest shadows cannot snuff them out,” he said. “Stjerne was one of them. You are another.”

Astarion carefully took the carving from the other side of the sunbeam, Gale’s sketchbook now long forgotten. He studied the various notches in the fur, and the serious, almost regal gaze of the leopard as it leered up at him. He understood what Halsin was saying, but he wasn’t certain that he agreed. Despite his own name, he didn’t feel like much of a star anymore. He was a cursed corpse still feeding on the blood of the living after two hundred years, and even his own mind no longer belonged to him. Beyond memory, beyond life, beyond will, beyond the soul, what was even left?

Stjerne fought for his freedom right up to the bitter end. Somewhere along the way, Astarion… hadn’t given up, exactly. But he’d gotten quite lost in the meaning of that word. Cazador was long dead, and he felt no freer now than he’d been in that palace.

“Keep it, my heart. Perhaps in time, you will see what I see.”

Astarion glanced from the snow leopard carving to Halsin, and then back down again. He felt Scratch nuzzle his knee. It was bouncing furiously with a mind of its own. Screaming anxieties to a world that would never listen. His left hand curled into a fist, and he felt the delicate bones ache in distant memory.

“Thanks.” He sighed, suddenly very tired. “Do you think Gale has a wine cellar? I’m going to drink it.”

Chapter Text

Something lay forgotten in the dark. 

It began again with the fluttering pulse of a beating heart and freshly born gasps of stale air. Regrown limbs slowly twisted into shapes that had once resembled a child of Lloth. She’d never loved this one the way its father had, and its father had never been loved by her. By anyone or anything at all save for the blades and bloody rituals that bound them. 

It twitched and thrashed like a lamb on the altar. Coagulated blood sputtered from torn lips, muttering indistinct whispers that only one being would hear:  ‘Bhaal resurget. ’

It crawled to its twisted knees. On the first attempt, it fell back onto the stone floor with the wet slap of flesh and bone. The second, third, and fourth were met with similar indifference. It was not deterred. A god endured.

On Boareskyr Bridge thousands of years ago, the god of murder was cut down by his own knife. Knowing that it would come, he bore millions of children into the world to spread his seed and influence far beyond the end of his own reign. Their blood bubbled and churned with the rage of their father, and they cut each other into ribbons to slake that lust. Ascendency was promised to the victor. Millions coalesced into thousands as they chased that promise, then hundreds, then all but two. Beyond the grave, Bhaal demanded they duel for him. The winner would become his very image, and the prophecy of his return would finally see its end. 

But the winner forsook him. The last of a wicked line with an entire era of murder at his feet, shredded to nothing. Knives pierced that ungrateful boy from the inside out, and his divine blood was taken back from whence it came. He could start over. Create another more worthy. Begin again. And again. And again.

Yet Jergal denied him.

And Bhaal shrieked in the dark, fleeing far from the Gate that had cursed him thrice. To be left with scraps after grooming his heirs for entire millennia… the little leech would fix this. That petty creature knew how to find him, to bring him back, to make him  whole  again. The god would break them, as he’d done thousands of times before. He would remake them both, and then they would finally see.

‘He will come back to me,’  the shadows hissed with a petulant whine.  ‘Is est mei…’

Halsin found a nice little liquor stash in the kitchen cabinets. His only thought was for Astarion’s sanity, and he leapt at the chance to soothe that aching mind. Each of the bottles was adorned with flowery labels, cursive writing, and artful swirls molded into the glass. He knew nothing about most alcohol save for mead, and doubted this one would be suited to his tastes. But it was just pompous enough for Astarion, and that meant it was perfect.

He set the bottle and two shot glasses on the dining table. Astarion didn’t seem to notice at first, hovering his fingers just beyond the sharp line of shadow where sunlight cut into the tower proper. Halsin was nervous to see him so close to imminent danger but Astarion had two centuries of practice in dealing with such things. The vampire traced his fingers to the very edge of the light, and his brows furrowed in deep thought. His scarlet red eyes had lost their luster, gazing towards ancient memories from a million worlds away.

Then he blinked, and that distracted, vacant gaze latched onto the bottle. He poured three shots without even checking the label or acknowledging Halsin whatsoever, and then downed each of them with barely a pause. When he finally looked up, it was with a sleepy, barely-there nod.

The snow leopard carving was still resting in his lap. He shoved it into a pocket and shook his head as if to clear the storm of his own mind. It didn’t seem to work. No matter how hard Astarion fought for clarity, he did not seem to be capable lately. A side effect of the curse and resulting amnesia, no doubt.

Halsin gently ran his knuckles along one of Astarion’s arms and then sat next to him in the shadows of the dining room. “What troubles you, my heart?”

That earned him a sardonic laugh. Instead of answering, Astarion poured another shot and quickly downed that one as well. 

“I suppose it’s a foolish question.” Halsin poured a shot for himself, drinking it far slower than Astarion had. The liquor was quite sharp and it burned its way down his gullet like a gout of flame. Despite the pretty floral designs, he suspected the stuff would make for a great degreaser. He just barely resisted the urge to cough and wondered if Astarion even liked the taste, or if it was merely the sort of thing one drank when they were desperate for the gentle sway of oblivion. Maybe the pretentious bottle it came with was simply a warning for the wary. 

Astarion poured his fifth shot without any of his usual grace and spilled a little bit of it onto the table as he did so. His hand was trembling when he lifted the glass to his lips. “Ancunín,” he whispered. “That’s my… my name, yes?”

“Mhmm. Your family name.” A small token of knowledge that was given to Halsin in the wake of their marriage. It wasn’t a name that he seemed fond of admitting, even back then. Both Tav and Halsin suspected the blame to be laid on the bones of Cazador Szarr, because where else would it be? Astarion lay with countless demons, and most of them wore only one face. “Did you experience a memory? Of your former life, perhaps?” It had been barely a day since he’d woken from the coma, but Halsin held hope nonetheless. 

“I-I don’t…” With a growl, Astarion swallowed his fifth shot and slammed the glass back down on the table. “I don’t know,” he hissed. He wobbled a little in his chair, grabbing the table to stop himself from tumbling over. “ I-I dunno. ” He raked his fingers through long white curls, still a little damp from the bath. He pulled at them and shuddered like a dying foal. Anger, despair, and a bit of madness. Halsin watched it all slough off his skin like a disease.

The sketchbook lay forgotten to Astarion’s right. Halsin flipped through another page, knowing what would be there--Gale wasn’t nearly so subtle as he believed himself to be. A portrait of Tav greeted him, eyes closed and legs folded beneath him, his face serene as he tread deep into meditation. He pushed the sketchbook back towards Astarion and gestured at it. “Shh, my dear. Let me show you something.”

Astarion only had eyes for the liquor bottle, but Halsin swiped it from him just in time. The vampire followed the amber liquid like a magpie to coin, clearly debating on wrestling him for the bottle. “Even your constitution needs a break.”

“‘M not drunk en’ough ye’,” he slurred back petulantly.

“I beg to differ.”

When Astarion moved to grab it once again, Halsin shoved the bottle to the other side of the sunbeam. The vampire whined at him in despair and tried to take it anyway. His long, delicate fingers immediately began to smoke, his skin flaking with little bits of ash. “Damn you-- ”

Halsin snatched the injured hand with a sigh. The delicate, nimble fingers were badly burned by even the merest sliver of sunlight. Like a child with sweets, he lured Astarion’s gaze to the sketchbook while whispering a healing spell into his palm. Astarion barely noticed the skin of his fingers knitting back together.

“Issat Tav?”

“Yes,” Halsin said fondly. He held the hand a bit longer than necessary, caressing the back of it with his thumbs. His grip was loose and the vampire had yet to pull himself free. “Do you remember him?”

“Yes…? Err. No.” Astarion shook his head, an uncertain twitch in his brow. He blinked down at his healed hand in drunken wonder, then back to the sketchbook. “He fell from th’sky. We both did. And then h-he… the sun didn’ burn me.” Like a cat with an unrelenting fixation, he reached for the sunbeam once more. Halsin managed to snatch those clever little fingers again before they could touch the light and burn himself a second time. “I held a blade to his throat,” he mumbled. “We twisted in the dirt. Sunsets. Sunrises. Rushin’ rivers. I ‘member.”

“Yes, but not anymore.”

“Not anymore,” Astarion repeated quietly. A moment crawled by. One of quiet mourning and the terrible introspection of lost things. Then he suddenly stared back up at Halsin, his drunken eyes bright with confusion. “Why d’you love me?” It wasn’t a bitter tone, but rather an incredulous one. Halsin had heard it many times before, in the long, lovely years after the brain died.

The druid’s heart climbed into his throat at those memories and what they eventually led to. Before he could respond, Astarion continued, “I’m nothin’ special. You’re a mountain of meat, you could have your pick of anyone--”

“Astarion--”

“No, but really. There’s a million other people out there right now, wanderin’ the world lookin’ for someone like you. Why now, hm? Why me? D’you know how many gods I prayed to? How many nights I begged for someone like you to come along? I can’t count that high, Halsin. An’ yet heeeeere we are,” he gestured wildly. “Too late. Too, too late. I’mma tore up ragged little slut that just can’t be fixed no matter how many fancy healing spells you wriggle out with your huge sausage fingers. And you know that. I can tell. No fixin’ me, not anymore. So I just don’ get it. Tav, he’s… an idiot, right? But you-- ”

Halsin grabbed Astarion’s shoulders into a firm grip against his better judgment and shook him gently. “Stop it. You’re not what he made you. You’re not broken.”

The vampire’s eyes were wild and feral, like a cornered snowcat in the Rashemen forests. Fangs bared, bristled fur, ears flattened back. Righteous fury spilling from deep in his belly. “The hells ‘m not,” Astarion slurred back. His laugh was the darkest, saddest thing Halsin had heard in a very long time. “‘M gaggin’ for you, big guy. I wanna ride your--”

“Stop. Please.” 

Astarion’s mouth clicked shut.

Halsin released those bony, squirming shoulders and sat back in his chair. He glanced down at the sketchbook and turned another page, desperate for a change in subject. He found various poses of Lae’zel in her armor and close-up studies of her stout little nose. Her eyes were mean, but regal. Fierce as the dragons she flew among the stars. “I understand more than you might believe. It’s alright.”

Astarion was distracted by the gith portraits and didn’t seem to absorb Halsin’s words. Which was well and good, because the days were dark enough without recounting those particular nightmares at present. Halsin had only served in the Underdark for three years, and yet it took the better part of a century for him to cleanse that experience from his soul. Astarion had suffered far worse, for far longer. He might never recover, and that was okay.

Some might love the vampire for his beauty, his wit, or his dangerous affinity for sharp objects, but Halsin loved Astarion for his strength of character. Telling him so had never gone over well in the past, earning Halsin sharp, mocking laughter and acerbic words meant to drive him away. Astarion believed that he  had  no character. He believed himself little else but what his master and Tav had made him. 

Astarion did not love easily, quickly, or more than once at a time. He was possessive and delicate, his heart a snowflake drifting in the forge of Avernus. He’d been trained well to refuse genuine affection. The only person who’d ever managed to penetrate that barrier had been taken from them both and Halsin was left floundering in his place. They’d never properly bonded without Tav. Astarion would never hear him the same way. Halsin would say the wrong thing, make the wrong gesture, and assume himself too close to the star he’d once been married to. Without Tav to sustain their orbit, they were destined to supernova and rip the world apart. And then it would be over, much like it had been three years ago.

But Astarion didn’t know Halsin’s fears. He didn’t have the patience or mind for them. His brows scrunched as he studied Gale’s sketchbook, completely absorbed in the artwork. “Who’s this?” Astarion pointed at Lae’zel, tilting his head a little. “I ‘member her face. She’d make this… this noise sometimes.” He twitched his head the way Lae’zel would do it, and hissed, “‘Chk.’”

“Lae’zel. She’s sailing the Astral Sea with Shadowheart. They’re fighting for the freedom of the githyanki against Vlaakith.”

“We dunno anyone boring, do we?”

“I’m pretty boring,” Halsin said, smiling a little. The tension in his shoulders finally eased again. “That’s my role.”

“And you play it soooo very well, darling.”

Halsin turned the page again and was greeted with portraits of Shadowheart instead. Gale captured her haunted, beautiful eyes, and the long, carefully groomed braid at her back. One page was a study of her body in battle stance, armed with a sword and shield. 

“Pretty,” Astarion muttered. “Shadowheart, is it? You said she went with… Lae’zel, wassit?”

“Yes. They were lovers.”

“I bet the color palette was beauuuutiful.”

“It was.” Halsin’s smile was wide, bright, and utterly content now. Astarion had that effect, sometimes. “They began as mortal enemies and likely would have killed each other had Tav not interfered. But in time, they came to respect their mutual plights… and they eventually found solace in each other’s arms.”

“Ooo, hate sex. Lucky.”

“Quite.”

Another page. Wyll, this time. There was a detailed study of his rapier along one side of the page, and two portrait studies of him with and without horns. His stone eye lingered on the bottom left, the tiny heart-shaped pupil Mizora had given him staring back at them both. “Wyll Ravengard. Son of--”

“Ulder. Ah.  Fascinating .”

“He’s married to Karlach now,” Halsin explained. 

“Ulder?”

A hearty chuckle. “No, Wyll is.”

He flipped the page again and found Karlach’s full body flickering with flames. There was a close-up study of her hair, and the one unbroken horn twisting through it. “She’s a tiefling who… served Zariel until we met.” To put it terribly vague.

But with two hundred years of ‘service’ behind him, Astarion caught on quickly. “Slave to the Archduchess of Avernus? Surprised this Karlach is still intact. Must be a real beast in battle.”

A detailed study of the molten furnace in Karlach’s chest resided on the bottom right. Her twisted, burned flesh looked very painful. Halsin gestured towards it, and explained, “Her heart was stolen and replaced with a device that runs on hellfire. She was… unable to survive in Faerûn. She and Wyll fled back to Avernus, and have been waging war against Zariel’s army for the last five years.”

“I… I think… she liked to dance, right? She would constantly hop around on her feet, couldn’t sit still.”

“Yes,” Halsin grinned, glad to know the memories weren’t gone but simply scattered. They would coalesce in time. “She called you Fangs. You were both fairly close.”

As Astarion traced his finger along the flames of Karlach’s body, a glimmer of something lost passed over his face. He said nothing. After a long moment, Halsin turned the page again. It was the one he’d been searching for. A large portrait of Astarion lost in thought greeted them on the left. There was a close-up detail of his grinning lips on the right, with a hint of fang peaking out. A tiny study of the bite marks on his neck sat right beside it. Gale even managed a sketch of the poetry on his back towards the bottom, though he’d likely only seen it once or twice in quick, uneasy flashes of skin. There was a detailed study of Rhapsody along the edge of the page. Astarion’s frightened eyes peered from the top left, haunted by ancient ghosts. 

“Who’s this?”

A pang of something bitter nestled itself onto the back of Halsin’s tongue. He knew Astarion would never recognize himself, but it hurt all the same to witness it. Vampirism was a curse he wished on no one, let alone someone that he loved. “This is you,” he said softly. 

Astarion pulled the sketchbook closer and stared for a long time, absorbing every little detail. His expression was difficult to read, completely walled off in the way he often did in those early days. He’d been denied a simple reflection for two centuries, and Halsin wondered which emotions the storm clouds in his eyes were currently brewing. Joy? Anger? Grief? Astarion had been told that he was beautiful countless times, but that beauty had been used against him in the cruelest way possible. After so long in such company, one stopped seeing one’s own body as anything more than a tool. 

After his own escape, Halsin had lost his sense of self for quite a while. He saw only flaws in his reflection and felt the constant weight of golden cuffs that were no longer bound to his wrists. It took nearly half a century before he could shed the feeling of oil-slicked skin sliding against his own at night, and the demands of a curt, dark-skinned mistress dressed in spider-themed attire. He wondered if Astarion felt the same in Gale’s careful sketch of him, looking for scars that never lingered and marked only in the pain of his expression. Astarion began to rock very gently in the moments that passed by, a subtle cue that spoke to the anxiety buried deep within him. His fingers traced their way to Cazador’s infernal poetry, his eyes blazing with wet, unshed fury. 

“‘This soul swears no oath by fire,’” he muttered, “‘Nor words does he speak in the realm of death.’”

In the early days of their marriage, Astarion studied infernal in the hopes of understanding the message on his back. He had no way of properly removing it and wanted to at least know the exact phrasing following him around. He’d never shared his conclusions with either Tav or Halsin, but it seemed the knowledge of how to speak the language had remained even now. 

“Is that… the translation?”

Astarion didn’t respond. His gaze had settled far, far away to centuries gone by and claws long rotted. His left hand rested on Rhapsody’s hilt, likely recalling when it bit him in the back, over and over again.

There were tiny scribbles next to the poetry written in Gale’s near incomprehensible scrawl. Astarion’s translation wasn’t written here, but the questions that were asked startled him. ‘Immune to Speak with Dead? Cannot make contracts with devils (read: Mephistopheles and the Rite of Ascension)? Did Raphael know?’  The word  ‘control’  was underlined several times. And then, an additional,  ‘Cazador = bastard.’

That little equation was likely the only thing to make Astarion smile. He breathed in deep as if reawakening from the world. He’d finally stopped rocking. “Gale is a moron,” he said, with surprising clarity. “I think I like him.”

“You two were at each other’s throats all the time, but somewhere along the way, it became… brotherly. You liked to camp near each other and were constantly trading books back and forth. He admires your wit, I think.”

“As he damned well should,” Astarion sniffed. He studied his own bitten nails, then glanced back at the sketchbook. “Is it a good likeness?”

“Yes. He took great care to capture you properly.” Likely to show Astarion his own image, should it ever come up. Halsin didn’t know if Gale had fulfilled the promise, or if he’d kept the sketches for himself. The latter didn’t seem likely. They’d been very close, and Gale would know what such a gesture meant. “Are you alright, dear one?”

In lieu of an answer, Astarion reached for the liquor bottle again, and this time, Halsin didn’t stop him--though he did heal the damage done as the sun slashed its way through Astarion’s forearm. The vampire poured another shot and drank it while staring deep into the druid’s eyes. Challenging him. 

Time paused.

A molten, hungry heat blazed through them both, and the bear lurched closer to the surface of Halsin’s mind, lulled by its warmth. The wild part of Halsin had sorely missed his old sparring partner from years gone by. In battle and bed, they danced around each other in a way that Tav simply couldn’t anymore. After being cleansed of the Urges, he lacked the feral grace his partners lived within. Both vampire and druid were tidally locked for a long moment, and neither of them breathed. One feral beast tested the other… a low growl here, the flash of sharp teeth there. Neither bent the knee.

And then the moment was gone. When Astarion slammed his shot glass back onto the table, he slurred, “Issat it? Any’ne else?”

“A few,” Halsin said vaguely. The bear rumbled from deep within him, bereft without a conclusion to their silent exchange. It was a struggle to keep his composure, and he was certain Astarion knew that. He used to provoke both he and Tav on purpose several times a day, ever the brat of their  ménage à trois . But they had enjoyed the dance, and it made Astarion feel safe to know that he wouldn’t drive them off so easily. Until the day that Halsin played into those fears, and had proven him correct after all.

Halsin cleared the grief from his throat before it could choke him, and suddenly felt a buzzing in his pocket. It was the sending stone he kept there, meant for the others on the off chance they wanted to catch up. Thankful for the distraction, he patted Astarion’s shoulder and gestured to the sketchbook. “I don’t think Gale would mind if you continued to explore,” he said. “Not that it would stop you, of course.”

“I bet he’s got a diary ‘round here somewhere. It’s probably full o’ terrible puns.” He flipped the page to be greeted with another portrait of Tav. “Go on.” He made a shooing flick of his fingers, lost in thought again. His finger absently traced the edge of Tav’s dark bangs, as if to comfort himself. He seemed to hold more memories of Tav than anyone else, and it made sense given how close they were. The heartache in his tired red eyes was hard to misinterpret.

Halsin stood and retrieved the sending stone from his pocket. He clenched it in a loose fist, and said, “I’m here.”

“Halsin,” the voice on the other side breathed a sigh of relief. It was Wyll’s soft tenor. They hadn’t spoken since he and Karlach’s fourth anniversary half a year ago, and Halsin blinked in shock. “Thank the gods. Are you in Waterdeep? Are they--”

“Astarion is alright,” he said, turning towards the kitchens. The vampire glanced up at his own name, but lost interest just as quickly. “He’s a little bit… scattered at the moment, but safe.”

“Scattered how? I heard that he was wrongfully arrested.” Wyll sounded very angry. It was odd to hear, as he was normally one of the most reserved in their little band. “They weren’t feeding him, either. They had him bound and muzzled like an animal. I tried to get proper leave when I found out, but things in the Gate have been complicated--”

“He’s alright, Wyll.” Halsin chose not to ask if the man had spies in Waterdeep. It seemed very likely if he’d have that kind of information. Even if it was delayed by a month. “Astarion has lost his memory, but he’s safe now.”

“What? Why?”

“There was a curse. It put him in a coma for some time and he nearly… died. But Gale stopped it. He’s safe now,” Halsin insisted again. “He’s with me.”

“What the hells happened? Where’s Tav?”

“We… well, we don’t know yet.” He swallowed the thick lump of worry back down his throat. “Gale and the local guard captain are on it.”

“Velora Vexxus?” Halsin stared down at the stone in disbelief. Whoever this spy was for Baldur’s Gate, they were very good at what they did. “I know of her,” Wyll continued. “The Masks tried to blame her when I confronted them over courier. They said she acted on her own and abused him without their knowledge. Father didn’t raise an idiot, of course. I tried contacting Tav, but he isn’t answering. And Gale--”

“He’s back. Without Mystra.”

“That’s good to hear. Tell me what you know about Tav.”

“Gale is more informed at this point,” Halsin sighed and leaned against the kitchen counter. His palm caressed the crystal ball that still lay on its cushion, politely waiting for another scry attempt. “He managed to scry Tav’s location and witnessed… awful things. I know that Tav is… is not doing well,” he muttered. “But you know how he is. He’ll survive. We’ll find him, Wyll.”

“Shit.” A pregnant pause. It was a lot of bad news to absorb at once. “How did this happen? How could  anyone  get the jump on them?”

“We don’t know. The attack was quick, striking from the shadows in an alley within South Ward…” Halsin continued to explain what he knew, including the state they’d found Astarion much later. Wyll’s anger returned as he heard the worst of it--the fact that Gale claimed he witnessed Tav die, and his strange return from the dead moments later. 

“I’ll be there as fast as I can. I’ll find a waystone to take me, I swear it. And I’ll bring a damned army with me. Those  bastards . To arrest a dear friend of mine, leaving him to suffer without thought for his safety or state of health--”

“No,” Halsin insisted. “You’re needed in Baldur’s Gate.”

“I’m needed there. They can’t just get away with--”

“Wyll, calm down--”

“My girls are safe, and the Gate will be fine without me. I’m coming. I’m going to find this bitch and kill her myself.” It seemed Karlach and the Hells had left an impression on Wyll’s manners. He could hear her words mingling with his own and knew that Karlach would surely agree with her husband on the matter. “Better yet, I’ll make the Lords shit themselves for screwing this so badly. Tell me where you are. I assume it’s Gale’s tower?”

“Gods damn it,  no .” Halsin rarely ever lost his patience, but it had been strained quite a bit recently. He was tired and worried, the same as anyone else. “Your family needs you, Wyll. The Gate needs you. We’ll be fine here.”

“It doesn’t sound fine!”

“We have it under control.” That was a lie if there ever was one, but the last thing everyone needed was the new Archduke of Baldur’s Gate marching into a foreign city with an army and a death wish. Not that Wyll would  intend  to start a war, but enough years fighting demons in Avernus would shorten any fuse. 

“I’m telling Lae’zel,” Wyll insisted. “And my wife. You know they’ll say the same thing.”

“Reconsider. Lae’zel’s work is too important, and Karlach…”

“She’ll be fine.”

“For how long?” They both knew she’d kill herself trying to stay in a world that disagreed with her. On their third anniversary, she barely made it back to Avernus in time, screaming all the while. Dammon spent months in the House of Hope trying to recalibrate her heart back to something even remotely stable. No one wanted to relive that again.

“...Fine,” Wyll sighed. The heartbreak in his voice was one that Halsin could relate to all too well. “For Karlach’s sake.” After another moment of awkward silence, he demanded, “But if anything changes--”

“I’ll contact you.”

“Anything,” the Duke of Baldur’s Gate insisted, and then the spell faded. Halsin slipped the stone back into his pocket and frowned. Despite the promise, he knew that Wyll likely wouldn’t listen. He’d changed over the years. They all had.

Twitching for a distraction again, Halsin busied himself in the kitchens to make a meal for the non-vampiric variety currently residing in Gale’s tower. Behind him, Astarion swam in his internal sea, his mind carefully blank. Their trip through Gale’s sketchbook seemed to rattle some memories loose, and it was difficult to know what they did to his state of mind. He absently toyed with the sunlight that crept closer and closer to his seat, occasionally darting his pale fingers through it just to feel them burn. Halsin caught him doing it once or twice, but though his whole body itched to stop him, he knew better. There were just some things that Astarion needed to process in his own way.

Even when it came to extreme measures. As Velora came from down the stairs, she noticed the vampire holding his hand in the sunlight far longer than he had previously. His flesh caught on fire, and she raced to his side with a shout. Scratch, having been sleeping at Astarion’s feet, noticed the problem and barked only once, loud and sharp. They’d trained him to do this many years ago, and even three years in his absence, it seemed Scratch hadn’t forgotten.

Astarion shuddered back into himself and smothered the flames with his sleeve. He cuddled the burned hand to his chest with a wince of pain, glaring out at the sunny snow-capped gardens beyond Gale’s patio door as if Lathander had meant it personally. Velora knelt beside him and tried to take his wrist, likely intending to heal it with her cleric abilities. Astarion squirmed away from her, lurching towards the sunlight. He nearly stepped into it entirely but managed to swerve back into shadow at the last moment, likely by pure reflex. His mind was clearly not in the room with his body anymore.

“You’re hurt,” she said.

Astarion snarled at her with his fangs bared. “Don’t touch me.”

She glanced helplessly at Halsin, who sighed from across the kitchen counter. He left a pot boiling on the stove and then returned to Astarion’s side somewhat reluctantly. He approached the man like one would a wild beast, his palms raised in clear submission. Astarion didn’t shirk away from him the same way he’d done to Velora, but he didn’t seem eager to be touched by either of them now. “May I see it, Star?”

The vampire shook his head, and his foot began to tap a little where he stood by the shadowed doorway. A frenetic, dangerous energy thrummed through his whole body. “No.”

Velora did not understand. “Astarion--”

“Let me have this!”

Her expression became a bit more disturbed when she realized that he’d done it on purpose. She and Halsin locked eyes for a moment, but thankfully, she said nothing. She nodded to Astarion with respect and sat nearby at the dining table. 

Halsin knew this mood for what it was. They’d seen this too, in the years after the brain died. Recovery was a long, complicated affair, and any progress Astarion had made on the matter was quite shattered now. To turn to old habits seemed inevitable.

“I won’t die from a little burn,” he hissed angrily, snipping at them like the frightened, cornered snow cat Halsin knew him to be. He heard what Astarion couldn’t say, because he’d whispered it before in soft confessions to the shell of Tav’s ear: ‘The pain helps. It keeps me here.’

“Of course not,” Halsin said and smiled gently at him. “Are you hungry?” 

Astarion studied him with a suspicious little squint, like the offer was some kind of trap. Halsin knew the vampire was likely calculating various ways he’d have to repay Halsin back for services already rendered; another relic from the early days. He’d probably built quite the growing tally and was upset that Halsin wouldn’t allow him to pay it back sexually. It had taken both he and Tav years to break him of that habit, and it was likely worse now that Halsin had refused to bed him several times. Astarion knew no other way to prove his worth, even when he didn’t need to.

“No,” he spat, after a long moment. “I can feed myself just fine.”

Halsin wasn’t certain he liked the idea of Astarion prowling Waterdeep alone when it had already proven to be very dangerous, but babying the man had never resulted in positive outcomes. When he was like this, it was best to simply give him the space that he demanded. 

Like Velora, Halsin nodded in respect to Astarion’s wishes and then returned to the kitchen to finish cooking a stew for the rest of them. Velora slowly slid closer to Astarion, smiling as gently as she could. The vampire was still standing by the doorway mere inches from blazing sunlight, twitching and flighty. As if ready to soar out into Lathander’s grace at a moment’s notice, regardless if it would kill him.

“I… need your help,” Velora confessed, digging her hand into one of her pockets. “This may not be… pleasant, but it could help us find Taverine.”

Astarion’s sigh sang a thousand different laments. He hunched just a little, leaning further into the shadows. “Just get on with it.” He held his injured hand to his chest and walked back to the dining table like a man to the gallows. When he poured a final shot of liquor with his good hand, a small pinch of pain settled between his brows.

“You probably don’t remember this,” Velora continued, “but you met a homeless man here in the city. He was a witness to your attack. He gave you an amulet that he claimed came from the same woman who hurt you. You seemed to recognize the symbol, but then you fell into that coma. I’ve been meaning to ask you about it.”

Astarion knocked back his shot, wincing again as the sharp liquor slid down his throat. That restless, coiled tension eased, just a little. “My mind’s a colander, girl. Doubt I’ll be useful.”

“Maybe not, but your blood certainly will be. We… we think it’s an heirloom. One of yours, in fact.” 

This caught Halsin’s attention, though Astarion couldn’t care less. Velora’s brows climbed up into her hairline at his lack of reaction. He plopped back down into his chair with a tired sigh and examined his long, unkempt nails. Either avoiding her gaze or ignoring her entirely. To anyone else, he’d look utterly bored with the subject… and perhaps he was. Perhaps he was simply…  done . As he’d said in the past, he’d reached his fuck’s-given quota and could no longer provide further feedback for the rest of the day. Halsin had seen him cross such a threshold many times before and knew he’d feel it much, much later, in the quiet solace of night, at an hour when no one would hear him writhe.

Astarion tipped his eyes up to the ceiling, balancing on two chair legs as he did so. “This is a lot of buildup over a necklace,” he hissed. He examined the vaulted stone arches that met to a point high above them. Like Cazador’s palace, Gale’s architecture was immaculate, screaming of old money and finer delights. Each purlin was etched in fine floral detail because the Dekarios clan wouldn’t know subtlety if it killed them. 

“Open it,” Velora continued. “Please. It’s a locket and we don’t know what’s inside. It could lead us to Taverine. I’d have left it until you’ve had more time to recover, but your husband seems to be running out of it.”

She pulled the amulet from her pocket. There was a tiny silver symbol dangling from a long, delicate chain. Halsin thought he might have caught the flash of a rabbit as it spun in her hand.  Astarion still didn’t look down. He continued to glare up at the ceiling and crossed his arms. "You’re wasting your time,” he said. 

“For Torm’s sake--it’s  yours. Just take it.”

When Astarion finally deigned to acknowledge the thing, any remaining color drained from his face. He cursed softly--something about rooks--and then stood so abruptly that his chair was knocked backward again. Velora thrust the amulet toward him, and it danced wildly on the chain from her wrist. The rabbit bounced on its leash, beckoning Astarion like a tiny flickering star. 

His whole body curved from its touch like a leper. “Where did you find this?”

“Are you… are you well?” Velora set the amulet on the table and frowned at him. “I’ve already told you--”

“This is worthless. They’re gone,” Astarion snarled, cutting her off. “All of them.” He began to pace like a caged animal. Halsin crept back out of the kitchen with a worried frown, placing a lid on the pot of stew as he did so. “He took everything.”

“Who?”

“Cazador.” 

“No, I meant…” Velora’s frustration was palpable as she stopped for a slow and steady breath, but years of training kept her tone gentle. Her draconic eyes followed Astarion’s twitchy movements back and forth along the dining room. “What does this symbol mean to you? Why does it keep hurting you?”

Astarion didn’t answer. Instead, he took the liquor bottle and considered the remaining liquid like it held the secrets of his broken mind. Halsin was certain he’d down the last of it, but they all jumped out of their skins when he violently threw it at one of the stone walls. Amber liquid splashed everywhere, and the sharp cry of shattering glass screeched throughout the tower. Wherever Gale was, he was certainly awake now.

“I-I apologize," Velora started, unnerved by Astarion's sudden violence. He carried himself so subdued these days that it was easy to forget how deadly the slight elf could be. Halsin was wise enough to know better, though he did little to appease the situation. Velora glanced helplessly at the druid, then back to Astarion with a pinched brow. The swirling firestorm in her eyes flickered nervously. "We could try and find the memory if you’re willing…”

“Lay a finger on me and I'll snap it like a twig.”

Velora flinched.

Halsin reached for his ex-husband, sensing the vampire's growing desire to maim someone. He knew his hand would likely be bitten for it, but he did it anyway. Better he than the poor guard captain. “My heart, please calm down.”

Astarion’s eyes were feral, and he swerved from his lover's touch, still glaring daggers at Velora. He gestured towards the amulet abandoned on the table. The rabbit waited mid-leap for its owner to claim it. “That's a relic for the dead, girl. There's no one left but me, and I'm... just leave it.”

“But--”

“I said leave it,”  Astarion’s  voice cracked, fury shrinking to sudden grief.  “Don't you get it? I don't want it anymore! He can have it. It's over, he can keep it all, I don't care, I don't, I don't, I don't--” He clutched his temples and rubbed them harshly. Long, slender fingers slid into his white curls and pulled them.

Whatever mad string of words Astarion was destined to spill next was caught off by a sharp gasp. 

“Oh.”

Wide red eyes stared at the stairwell with yawning horror, and Halsin leapt in front of him when he caught sight of the thing. Still lingering by Astarion’s leg, Scratch’s ears flattened back and he growled with malice. 

A twisted, bloodied corpse stumbled down the last of the stairs. It wobbled on wrecked knees and flailed its limbs to keep balance. The dagger in its right hand seemed made of red crystal, and flung drops of blood that sprayed about the room. Halsin recognized the robe of a Mask, but his face was uncovered. This was obviously Gale’s kill from a few days prior. Somehow, he’d regrown a few limbs and now carried an apparent hunger for living flesh. He was a drow once, eyes gray and rotten with hatred. He leered at the vampire and pointed with a crooked finger. His hair was patchy and matted with gore. 

“Come.”

The tenor of his voice was ruined by death. Decay had set in, leaving it hoarse and throaty, as if a wad of maggots had settled into his voicebox. It echoed with that of another, a deeper, meaner growl that bellowed up from beneath the earth. The intent behind it did not belong to the drow or any other mortal man. It was cruel divinity, a countenance that tingled at the very edge of Halsin’s memory--a ruined city caked with dried blood, the screams of tortured souls humming through the air with twisted melody. A rattle of chains, the scrape of metal against stone. Tav’s broken body was pierced with a dozen blades from the inside out. 

Bhaal.

The drow quaked with feral hunger, his newly grown teeth glistening in the cold sunlight still splashing into the room from the open patio door. Bhaal was witness within him, and their shared finger curled towards Astarion once again. The god saw only him, and would not be denied his prize. Astarion stumbled forward drunkenly, passing by Velora before he could stop himself. With painful effort, he grunted, “N-Niloth? Really? Now??” His eyes glistened with an old, familiar ache. Then he laughed. “Of c-course. Why not? Bring the whole party. D-Don’t tell me, is Cazador behind you?”

“You will take me to him, leech. ”

“Oh, for the love of--” Astarion clutched blindly at the table to stop himself from moving. “I'm tired of this. Just tell me what you r-really want and we can skip the foreplay this time."

"A lich." Velora cursed softly. "Gods damn it. Of course there would be a lich in the damned basement. Why not?"

Halsin didn't breathe. The ground rumbled beneath Niloth and tried to swallow him open, but the lich ignored his efforts and glided effortlessly above the floor.

"Come."

The druid attempted to ensnare him with vines that erupted from Gale's lovely wooden floors, but the creature batted them away without a care in the world. 

"You didn't say p-please." Astarion giggled nervously as he fought against the compulsion. He was losing the battle despite his best efforts. "Can’t even c-come up with your own tricks, Niloth.” When the undead creature scowled, those dead gray eyes blazing with magical intent, Astarion’s legs began to move once again. Both the vampire and the dog snarled in impotent rage, unable to stop it. Halsin could smell their terror. “Pathetic as ever. Gods, I h-hate you--”

The undead creature flicked his wrist, and Scratch was violently hurled across the room. His furry little form crumpled against the northern wall with the sick crunch of bone, and a puddle of blood began to spill beneath him. He whined in pain. The shock of white on red became Halsin’s whole world for a moment, and he roared, the bear lurching to the surface like an unyielding tidal wave. He transformed and launched himself at the undead creature with a swipe of his claws. It dissipated into red smoke and reappeared between Velora and Astarion. 

The woman shrieked, but instead of backing away, she yanked Astarion’s arm and tried to pull him from Niloth’s grasp. She seemed quick enough to realize that he wasn’t in full control anymore. “Nox!! What did you do to Gale? Where is he?”

The suggestion caused Halsin’s heart to skip a beat, and he realized that Niloth’s dagger had been bloody as he’d staggered down the stairs. Gale hadn’t woken from the commotion either, which was unlike him. He’d never been the lightest of sleepers, but even he was inclined to wake when his home was being attacked. Surely all of his magical alarms were warbling at the moment.

Niloth didn’t spare her a glance as he flung her like one might a towel, the accusation answered with a knowing twitch of his lips. Her skull slammed against the nearby wall, and she slid to the floor leaving a streak of bright red blood. Halsin charged him again with a swipe of his claws, but then he was suddenly floating in the air, helplessly kicking and thrashing with impotent rage. He switched forms and cast a wall of vines that surged up from below the floor between Niloth and Astarion. They clung to Niloth’s legs with thorns that ripped through his calves. Halsin attempted a counter-curse in the effort to find ground again, but Niloth slammed a dome of silence over him.

Astarion glanced at the sharp line of sunlight happily beaming between where he was trapped behind the vines and his own imminent freedom. He cursed softly and dashed across with shocking speed, his skin smoking in protest. As he glanced towards the stairs, then to Halsin, they locked eyes. 

For a long moment, the tower, Niloth, and Velora’s bloody body all faded to black. They were back in their modest little home in Reithwin, and Astarion was a healthier, brighter star with the whole world still ahead of him. He’d cornered Halsin in their herb garden and poked an angry finger into the druid’s bare chest.

Did I do something wrong?

No, Star! Please don’t think that.

Gods, you’re both entirely too attractive to be this dull. He keeps telling me to pack, and he  won’t  tell me why.  We’re  leaving in the morning, apparently.

I… I understand.

Did you know  that  your lip puffs out like a  damned  balloon when  you’re  pouting?   It’s  not very fetching.

My heart--

Please tell me  what’s  going on.

It’s…  it’s complicated.

And what in the nine hells do I know about ‘complicated’?

I’m sorry.

You better be. Once you see this pretty backside, it won’t be turning around again.

Astarion, I--

Ugh, you’re sorry. I know, I know. I really thought it would be different this time. More the fool am I, apparently...

Niloth vanished and reappeared in front of the vampire with a cloud of crimson smoke. Astarion pulled his daggers free and sliced at him with otherworldly reflexes, but he might as well have been cutting at the air for all that the creature reacted. He snatched Astarion’s wrist, and with his other hand, struck him with some kind of white-hot spell that sent the vampire tumbling to his knees.

He dropped both daggers and clutched at his temples, screaming in pain. Halsin reached for him, finally breaking free of the floating curse a moment too late.

They were gone.

Chapter Text

The catacombs beneath Waterdeep were a sprawling, city-wide maze that had claimed far too many eager adventurers looking to tame them. Many of the walls were cheerfully decorated with thousands of skulls grinning at passersby, some gleaming with magic intent, others forever silent and nameless. Each new section was held up by pillars of ancient remains, bleached, bitten and long forgotten to the passages of time. There were entire halls filled from floor to ceiling with scattered bones, tossed there eons ago when dangerous plagues ravaged the city and there was little time for ceremony. Many larger rooms held intricate sculptures and statuary lit by ancient spellwork, framed in offerings to lost, dead gods. Countless bone atronachs wandered the endless maze in defense of them, still following the orders of liches long slain. 

When Astarion came to, it was with a sharp jolt of pain and the fear of impending darkness. He thrashed about on the sticky dirt floor of a large room decorated with numerous dead and inhaled musty air that hadn’t seen the sun in a thousand years. He bit back a groan and thought of Cazador. The pain was superb. It felt like something had impaled itself into his brain matter, and movement did him no favors. 

The memory of what had happened at the tower came flooding back to him, as well as many others he’d rather leave behind. Niloth’s face peered up from the very bowels of his past, whispering horrors he’d forgotten in the wake of so many others before and after. It was hard to recall exactly what Cazador had done to him that night… what he’d allowed to be done in exchange for Bhaal’s favor. Something about forbidden rituals, four hours, Niloth’s chittering malice, and Astarion’s limbs being plucked apart like a doll in the hands of a careless child. Niloth’s mad giggle rattled in his skull. The slow repair of Astarion’s body came only after the two drows finally left. Two. Two drows--

He remembered bathing in a pool of fresh blood, Cazador humming a song into his hair about sunlight. Someone was crying. Or had been, decades prior.

Astarion took a deep breath to steady his nerves and ground himself to the current reality. Now was not the time. His hands were bound behind him with what felt like rope, though his legs were free. He seemed to be alone, and through squinted eyes, he realized he’d been left at the foot of a defaced statue of Jergal. The skeleton was reading a tremendous tome, but his left hand had been broken off, and his ruined, chipped face was splashed with fresh blood. 

It smelled human. He followed the sweet iron tang with his nose, grimacing when he noticed it had spilled beneath him at the base of the statue. He’d been left to lie in a puddle of human viscera, his cheek painted crimson and filthy with dirt. Though not quite hungry, his fangs dropped as he stared up at Jergal’s painted face, reimagining the arc of the blade that had swung to create such violence. The heady flavor was overwhelming now that he was paying attention to it… he didn’t know how he’d recognized human blood over any other, but his body recalled what he could not. As far as he knew, he’d never tasted anyone beyond Halsin before and had no true frame of reference. The injured human had been young, likely… female? He licked her dirty blood from his lips and sighed in disgust as the grains clung to the tip of his tongue.

The dark red streaks and splashes led to a candlelit side room that he couldn’t quite peer into. Its flickering light revealed deep grooves in the dirt, like fingernails had been raked through it. He could almost envision her struggle in the scattered claw marks and bloody fingerprints she left behind. She hadn’t died from being disemboweled… at least, not soon enough for it to matter. He wondered if he’d die the same way, if he even could. Niloth taught him long ago that a vampire could survive a lot of abuse, provided appropriate measures were taken…

He swallowed the rising panic back down into his belly. Years of experience told Astarion not to reveal that he’d woken, and he stifled another groan as he tried to sit up properly. There was no hope for him to walk, as the migraine piercing through his head had ruined his balance. He tried anyway, falling back down onto filthy knees with a silent curse.

Scooting out of the puddle of gore, Astarion grimaced at the mess he’d woken up to. It would take ages to clean his clothes again. He’d always held a measure of pride in being a clean killer, and this just seemed insulting. He checked for any blades or rocks to cut him free of his restraints and figured the sharp corner of Jergal’s pedestal might do the trick. With a careful, quiet sigh, he slid along the floor towards the edge of the base, and with his back to the dead god, began to rub the rope around his wrists. It was a slow and steady affair, and he’d just managed to cut through the worst of the knot when footsteps clued him to his captor’s return. He did his best to hide the progress with his back pressed tightly to the stone, and lowered his eyes in false submission. It wasn’t hard. Centuries of practice told him what to look for.

A long shadow stretched out to him, wide and dark in the candlelight. It settled over Astarion’s hunched form, connecting to a tall and burly woman with crossed arms. She wore heavy black robes and a featureless mask, her yellow eyes raking over his body like so many had in his service to Cazador. He recognized that hunger. It ached to peel the skin from his bones.

“Father has requested your presence, spawn. You should be honored.” A jealous tone if there ever was one, and he had to wonder what that meant. It was uttered with the same mad sneer that Petras wore the entire time they’d known each other: ‘Why does the Master continue to favor you? Peel that pretty face off and he’ll see the little coward beneath it.’

The woman closed the distance between them and gestured for him to stand with a sharp jut of her chin. “Up.” When Astarion made no move to cooperate--not that he could even if he wanted to--she grabbed his hair, fully intending to yank him to his feet by force. He managed to slip the ropes free from his wrists and caught her by surprise with a solid punch to her jaw. The sudden movement made his entire world swim, and bright, angry pain pounded against the inside of his skull. He fought through it and drunkenly clawed at her throat, sinking his fangs into her jugular. He dragged three solid gulps of half-orc blood into his body before she managed to peel him free with a loud curse. 

She kicked him against the base of Jergal’s statue, and he gasped not in pain, but relief as her blood coursed through him, knitting wounds that he hadn’t realized he’d gained. Though Astarion would never again be comfortable in his own body, a vampire’s physiology was a wonder to behold at times. Within seconds, her blood soothed the blinding ache in his head and he felt much stronger than he had previously. Before she could kick him a second time, he bounced to his feet and swerved left with a contagious little giggle. He felt… happy. A nearby bone pillar caught his eye, and he grabbed a large femur from it, intending to use it as a club. 

“If it’s all the same to you,” he huffed, breathing heavily, “I think I’ll be leaving now.”

“Father needs you. You will come quietly or in pieces!”

He faltered for a moment, suddenly wrapped up in the sensation of severed limbs and Cazador’s cold tears against his neck. A promise, a plea, a desperate terror. Astarion blinked, and the memory was shuffled back into its box. He shuddered. “Is that so?" He pretended to consider her request with his usual dramatic flair, tapping his chin with a cruel finger. “A wonderful thought, dear, but I believe I'm owed some dinner first.”

She unsheathed a mighty greatsword from her back and launched herself at him with impotent fury. Astarion dodged with another mad giggle and then clubbed the back of her head as hard as he could. She crumpled to the dirt floor and lay still. A small pool of blood began to form beneath her head, but she was still breathing.

He considered taking the greatsword, but the blade was far too big and lumbering for his tastes. Fortunately, a quick scan of her body revealed a small filet knife in her back pocket. He refused to consider what it might have been used for and tossed it into the air, testing its balance.

“I smell the killing moon in you.” The voice was layered by that of another, a being that spoke in growls and gnashing teeth. He spun on his heel to face the undead Niloth. Holding his new filet knife in a tight fist, Astarion’s lips curled into a grimace as he felt a wave of terror slide through his body. It was clearly magical in nature and he resisted its compulsion with another quiet shudder. Niloth tilted his head like the spawn was a particularly fascinating breed of insect. He crossed his arms, his eyes glowing red with malice. “Your body does not carry my seed, but your soul remembers it well. Trapped as you are in that cursed undead flesh, I wonder. Have you seen it in the reveries? The blood that you spilled for me?”

“What in the nine bloody hells are you babbling about?”

“My elven children are always the most loyal,” the creature intoned. “With each death, your kin struggle to be free of me, and with each breath, they come crawling back to the dark. Chasing their better nature. This was inevitable, you see. It has been many cycles, but I can sense it like a second skin wrapped around that dead thing you call a heart. Perhaps you might have recalled your better nature if the leech hadn’t claimed you so early… but it is likely why he found you so appealing. Corellon could never quite cleanse it, and a killer knows a killer. Had you not been turned, you’d be mine. Just as he is.”

Astarion frowned, not at all understanding the context but hating the tone of it. It was clear that Niloth was not the only being harboring his own body, and the creature that stood before him was not… the drow he remembered. Not entirely, at least. Not that the two of them spoke of much beyond horrendous torture, but it was still worth some merit to consider. 

He fought the urge to tell this creature that no one would ever own him ever again, and instead demanded, “What do you want?”

“The Slayer.”

“Not a slayer of hearts, I take it? Perhaps a slayer of bad manners?” He flounced like an irritated bird, hopping from foot to foot and flailing his wrists. “If it’s a nice night you want, I know a man who’s particularly good at sl--”

A half-rotted claw squeezed around his throat, and Astarion nearly dropped his knife in shock. He hadn’t seen the creature move. With a blink, his position was compromised. Terror leached into him once again, and he fought it back with a snarl of indignant rage. He plunged his tiny blade into Niloth’s left eye socket, but he might as well have slapped a god for all the good that it did. Holding Astarion by the throat with a rotted claw made of steel, Niloth plucked the filet knife from his ruined eye and considered the tiny thing as ooze and pus dribbled down his left cheek. From this close, Astarion could see bone peaking out from the gore in his skull. He fought back nausea as the sick-sweet scent of rot spilled into the air between them.

“Do you recall our dance, little star? For a vermin, your master leech was quite the host,” the undead creature said. “And yet, I thought it strange that he would not partake in our ritual. We paid him well for the service. I wonder... would you believe me if I told you that he seemed to regret it? Perhaps he knew the truth of it, the nature of your wicked little soul. You were home again, for four brief hours. Mine in all the ways that mattered. He simply did not belong.”

It was a struggle to speak with such a tight squeeze around his windpipe, but Astarion managed to spit into the thing’s ruined eye socket. “Stop it.” He gripped the mottled, bony fingers clenched around his neck with a growing sense of urgency.

Apparently, Niloth was content to continue speaking to the walls around him and cared not for the spawn’s pathetic attempts to free himself. He ignored the insult and sighed hungrily as he looked over Astarion’s form. “To snuff the light from your little eyes again… we have maimed millions and will maim millions more, but you always did play the lamb better than most. Perhaps you learned such an act from your victims? They must have been quite the talent. I have never forgotten the taste of your screams, child. Nor the taste of those you have given me.” 

He shook Astarion’s throat a bit for emphasis, likely reimagining every cut and cry for mercy. Astarion was not following the conversation anymore and didn’t care to. He squirmed in the creature’s tight grip, his eyes blazing with both fear and hatred. Another dangerous monster, another kind of pain to endure. History loved its rhymes.

Niloth finally let him go with a careless toss, and he tumbled to his knees like a sack of old bones beside the half-orc's limp, barely-breathing body. He choked on air that he didn’t need and clawed at his own throat to feel it blooming with ugly purple bruises. The singular red eye that glowered down at him from on high did not wear an expression of malice. There was terrible hunger, certainly, but apathy held back its reins. Niloth’s undead gaze confessed an odd, terrible truth--to spare even a moment’s attention to this little spawn’s continued existence was a trial of infinite patience. Though he didn’t know it, Astarion lived only by the whims of a mad god desperate to find his son.

Astarion twitched like a bug beneath a seeing glass. Malice, he understood, he had two centuries of experience dealing with such things. But this? Astarion ducked his gaze by instinct alone, unable to pull his balls back down from where they’d crawled deep inside him. This was not Niloth. This was something else. Someone that he didn’t know, didn’t understand, couldn’t fight back against, and wanted something from him that he could not provide. 

If he died quickly, it would be a mercy.

He considered begging, but he’d run out of energy for that a long time ago. Instead, he insisted, “I don’t understand what you want from me.” He didn’t look up. Eyes down, neck bent like an offering. Like a dog baring his stomach to the sky. “I don’t even know who you are.”

And again, he found himself gripping an impossibly strong arm that would not relent its hold around his neck. “This ruined little mind has been invaded by many. The agony will be exquisite.”

“Ugh. Did you take notes from Cazador? If you don’t kill me, the melodrama actually mi--”

Pain. A promise fulfilled, and not at all exquisite as far as Astarion was concerned. He’d experienced far too many varieties of the term over his extended lifetime and knew well that pain could make him sing a chorus with the angels or commit slaughter with the devils if held under the right knife. Cazador was strangely competent with such sensations in a way that betrayed he’d experienced every cruel aspect of suffering a thousandfold. The best torturers, he once said, were those who understood what it felt like to endure. 

Astarion could feel Niloth’s claws sink into his skull, probing brain matter that had already been raked through by so many before him. Hundreds of years of torture, the mindflayers, a league of sharrans, the gods only knew who they were and what they’d taken from him. The woman who’d cursed him also held some measure of claim now, and he could feel this being, this undead god, nestle comfortably into the hollow she’d left behind. His essence seeped into Astarion like a gaseous black void, and pain fled for another sensation: absence. 

He fell limp into the arms of the dead thing wearing the face of an ancient bhaalspawn torturer. Memories flit across his eyes unbidden as the creature combed through the vampire’s thoughts in search of his missing son. They found a pretty brunette, one of very few he’d come to love by mistake. She was bound to a bedpost screaming bloody murder, with little slashes of red cut into ribbons all across her torso. He clamped his hand around her throat and squeezed until the noise stopped coming. He didn’t want the memory of her cries to haunt him any more than Sabastian’s had. Cazador watched with lustful eyes, and sighed, “Better. But put more spirit into it next time. This is an art, boy, not a surgery.”

And then, months spent wrestling with Tomas in the very early days of his turning. Cazador did not want unskilled louts, but educated killers who could sing, dance, play an instrument, kill elegantly, and handle themselves in combat. As a young magistrate, Astarion learned how to handle his tongue both in and out of a courtroom, but combat did not come naturally to soft hands. Tomas was a convenient punching bag.

They would fight in the gardens each nightfall with the curl of Cazador’s sneer judging every little misstep. Tomas was a big, brawny oaf that used to be a dockhand down by the harbor, and he hadn’t lost his boyish charms even in death. He was the sweetheart of their little coven and claimed to be Cazador’s very first. This naturally meant that Astarion was his second, though he never knew for certain. True to his words, Tomas was allowed freedoms that Astarion could only hope for even two hundred years into his slavery. The boy could leave at will, roam wherever he wished, and be trusted to carry out Cazador’s will without need for compulsion. 

In those early days, Astarion seethed with jealousy at the sight of such favoritism. It was difficult to recall if he’d truly ached for that attention, or if he’d simply begun playing his part in the twisted play that his master wrote for him. He befriended Tomas as a younger brother might, and kept him close to take advantage of his disgusting naivete. The laws might be different in a vampire’s household, but Astarion was still young enough to remember how to twist them.

He seized his opportunity the night Cazador noticed a sizable portion of gold missing from his stores. It had been Astarion’s doing, naturally, in the effort of building up enough coin to bribe for someone’s aid. When Cazador immediately suspected him, Astarion framed Tomas by hiding the entire haul beneath the poor idiot's luxurious bed. 

Astarion was forced to torture him slowly, skinned and limbless, plucking eyes and ears and fingernails--

“Irrelevant.”

--until Tomas turned to dust in his hands. In a fit of madness, Astarion confessed to what he’d done, tears of guilt hiccuping up from his dead lungs in sharp, agonizing fits. But Cazador smiled at him and stroked his wet cheek lovingly. “Of course you did, my dear boy. Why do you think I fought so hard to keep you? We rarely succeed with perfection on the first try.”

The memory was ripped away with a snarl from his captor, and Cazador’s face morphed into a fair young woman. Silver hair like his own, with blue eyes and angular features. A name came to him with a hushed, frightened whisper: Rook . Or Ravia, as he knew her then.

They were seated together by a large, ornate bed. A sickly elven man was swimming beneath heavy blankets, his skin flush with fever. Ravia pressed the back of her hand to his sweaty forehead and clicked her tongue sadly. “If you’ve anything nice to say, brother, now is the time.”

But Astarion held his tongue because he was young and stupid and he hated the world for what it dealt them. He’d long learned that money was a sickness no family could cure, be they nobility or paupers begging for scraps. The Ancuníns had held power for centuries among the elites of Baldur’s Gate, claiming a substantial manor in the upper city that had others salivating with jealousy. And yet one stupid bet by his fool of a father had sent it all tumbling down. They’d already lost every other bit of property in the city--the cold stone walls of their once-warm home were the last they could cling to.

Desperate for any measure of comfort, Astarion’s aging parents tossed him into the arms of a lunatic like he were a package of meat to be bought and sold, all for the promise of a slate wiped clean and their noble status secured. A lunatic that had taken their money in the first place, in some strange, unhinged bet his father had somehow fallen for despite the absurdity. A much, much older man who had been stalking a young boy for years , no matter how many times Astarion drove him off. Marriage would prove to be an easy fix. All would be forgiven if Astarion simply accepted the inevitable. 

According to his mother, it didn’t hurt that Szarr had been courting Astarion for ages. He was such a nice man , she said. And sure, Szarr was easy on the eyes in a come-hither, dangerous sort of way, but the boy simply did not like him. He had worked hard to earn his family fortune back by legitimate means, sacrificing quality years of his childhood following in his father’s footsteps. Astarion had clawed his way through law school on his hands and knees, putting up with countless humiliations for his age, delicate appearance, the Ancunín’s tarnished reputation, and his otherwise brash, petulant nature. His parents were so very proud when he’d graduated top of his class, earning him the best cases with the most lucrative payoffs. But even a magistrate’s considerable pay wasn’t enough to clear the debt his father had landed them all in. Owing Szarr had proven to be a costly, inescapable trap for all of them. 

His father dying right before they lost it all was the greatest insult the gods could offer, and the man would never know how much his son loathed him for it. Astarion certainly didn’t have the heart to tell him, though he would sulk plenty. He was owed that much.

Ravia’s hands fidgeted in her lap. She was older by nearly a century but often acted as the child between them. He resented that, too. “Astarion, please--”

“No.”

“I was going to say--”

“No! ”

“You’ve a right to be angry, but--”

“Oh, I’m so very thankful to be given the right, ” he hissed. He crossed his arms and absolutely did not pout. The fact that his bottom lip puffed out a little bit as he frowned was not in any way related to the word.

“Don’t be a brat.” Ravia gently took a napkin to their father’s chin and wiped away lingering drool. He was in terrible pain and had been for months after that last midnight meeting between him and Szarr. It had been a desperate bid to save his family from hardship, but Szarr was a relentless kind of monster. Astarion’s hand in marriage, or the ruination of the entire Ancunín estate.

‘Of course I killed him,’ Cazador would later confess, laughing all the while. ‘Poison is not my usual method, but he was a fool well deserving of it. You know I don’t appreciate those who deny me, boy.’

It wouldn’t be long now. “He’s dying,” Ravia said. “Mother is distraught. The least you can do is--”

“Don’t tell me what I can and cannot do. I’ll carry this grudge to the grave if I wish it.”

“Gods, you’re stubborn. At least make amends with Mother. She’s quite upset, she thinks you hate her.”

Astarion leapt out of his chair and began pacing the room like a wild animal. He just barely resisted the petulant cry of ‘ I do, of course I do!’ She’d gone mad in the wake of Father’s illness and seemed determined to sell her youngest to a monster. Astarion’s heart raced with anxiety, and he felt fear shiver down his spine. His hormones were in overdrive, spilling a chemical soup of endorphins into his brain. Death and madness, that’s all his life had been for quite a while now. “I have nothing nice to say to her,” he muttered.

“Then lie!” Ravia was quickly losing her patience as well, which was no small feat considering her calm, quiet nature. He’d witnessed the woman carefully assemble mandala art by tiny grains of sand over months, only to rake it all away and start over again. It was born of some strange elven custom he never cared to learn about. If it didn’t involve work, avoiding Szarr’s advances, or clearing their impending familial debt, it didn’t exist in Astarion’s mind.

“Pretend that you love her, at least,” Ravia spat. “Tell her what she wants to hear. You’re great at lying, it’s what you were schooled for.”

“Ouch.” He planted his hand on his chest and rolled his eyes. “Perhaps I would be interested in conversing with her if she stopped encouraging Szarr to lay flowers on my doorstep each morning. Does anyone around here care that I’m not to be bought and paid for?”

“It’s…” Ravia deflated like a flan in a cupboard. A slow, sinking of bones. “It’s not like that, Star. Even I have an arranged marriage to--”

“It’s worse,” he cut her off, spinning on his heel and slashing at the air with an angry fist. “He holds this entire family by the chokehold over some crazed debt that none of us have been privy to! Am I supposed to believe that he didn’t orchestrate this whole thing to force me into his arms?”

Ravia paled but did not look surprised. If anything, she seemed relieved that one of them had finally voiced their suspicions. “The thought did cross my mind, of course, but--”

“He’s been at this for years,” Astarion continued. Now that he was talking about it, he didn’t want to stop. Couldn’t, even if they gagged him. “He found me at Sorcerous Sundries as a wide-eyed babe and hasn’t left my shadow since then. He was… nice at first, I’ll admit it. But he’s changed since then. Even if I forgive the abuse of my family, which I won’t, he pretends the word ‘no’ isn’t in his vocabulary. Why would I marry a man like that?”

“Do you feel threatened by him? Is he dangerous?”

“He’s got our cock chained to his whims, of course he’s dangerous. But physically?” Astarion snorted, finding the mental image of that tall, gangly fool getting the better of him a stupid notion. He’d handled many of the sort in his journey through law school, most of them bigger and meaner. “Don’t be ridiculous. He’s just… annoying.”

“Tell mother you're afraid of him. Your opinion still matters, you know.”

“I’m not afraid, I hate him. But do you know what she says every time I tell her so?” His voice raised a falsetto mockery, and he waggled a finger at his sister. “‘Don’t be silly, hinya. He’s a wonderfully sweet man who only has your best interests at heart.’” 

‘I thralled your mother too,’ Cazador later bragged, while ripping off each of Astarion’s fingernails. His favorite hobby, truth be told. He didn’t even have a reason for it this time. ‘I’m sure even you might have noticed. ’ He slapped one of the bleeding hands, compelling his cherished toy to sit still. ‘ Quit whimpering. There will be time for that later.’ A sad little sigh. Cazador loved those. He was always very dramatic, in everything that he did. ‘The lengths that I went to own you, boy… more than any other before or since. You should be honored that I cared to dance for you at all. Each time you refused me, I added another tally to your punishments, of course… and in time, I thought perhaps I might have to force you after all. But then you fell right into my lap like a broken little bird. Driven to me by monster hunters, of all creatures. The gods do have a sense of humor.’

“I… I see. She means well--”

“She wants his gold. That’s all it’s ever about in this family. Shiny rocks and reputation, consequences be damned.”

“Star, listen to me. If you don’t like him--”

He shook his head and plopped down on their father’s bed. “No, she’s right. We need to stop this, and I’m the only one who can make it go away. Our whole estate is up for grabs in the next tenday, and I’d never forgive myself if those leshere piss on our legacy.” 

Their father fell into a vicious coughing fit, and Ravia hummed sadly, turning him onto his side. She rubbed the old man’s back, casting pleading eyes at her younger brother. Astarion’s parents bore him very late in life, and he was a miracle baby as far as they were concerned. He never really felt like one. He sighed and leaned forward to rub his father’s shoulder alongside his sister. It wasn’t a verbal apology, but it would have to be enough. Love was a bitter thing sometimes. “I’ve still got one last chance,” he whispered. 

“What’s that?”

Astarion winced. He didn’t want to tell her, but better she knew what he was up to. Secrets were what landed them in this mess. “There’s a big settlement tomorrow… I can make this work. Some Gur killed a human child, or so it goes. Awful affair.”

“I… I heard about that.” Ravia perked up a little and eyed him suspiciously. “They’re saying he didn’t do it. He wasn’t even in the city. I heard Captain Raven--”

“They’re saying nothing because it was the Gur,” he cut in. “I have it on good authority, in fact. Plenty of nice, shiny bits of evidence came into my lap just yesterday and plenty more to come if I can get him on the chopping block.”

“Astarion! This is a life we’re talking about! Surely you wouldn’t…”

“Wouldn’t what?” He shrugged as if discussing insects in the lower city. He might as well have been, honestly. “They’re just Gur . We’ll be cleaning up the vermin, darling. No one will care. People might even thank me for the service.”

“Gods, that’s…. that’s horrible.” Ravia looked nauseous. “I know you don’t mean that.”

“Don’t I? Listen… It’ll be enough gold to stall Szarr’s advances, maybe even enough to drive him back for a while. Then I’ll be able to think of a more permanent solution. For both of us, actually. I assume you don’t want to be married off to some oily noble either?”

That finally got her attention. Each of her honorable protests died in her throat, and she cast shamed glances down to the floor. “Just… be careful,” she muttered. Be careful. 

Be careful.

Two words that never quite settled in his stomach. Had she known? Two hundred and five years into the future, Astarion trembled as an undead god shook his fragile little body and roared with frustration. Something about sons, about bhaalspawn, about killers and bloodlines and lost things.

He’d forgotten that his father was dead. He’d forgotten what his sister’s face looked like. He’d forgotten that Cazador had tried luring him through family ties and lawful means long before they’d ever met in that dead-end alley. Why? Why bother when the master could and often did take whatever he pleased? Cazador rarely held patience for much of anything, preferring to make his spawn do it for him. He was a glut by any measure. He ate messily and hunted like a clumsy, careless fool who’d only lasted as long as he did because he had the fortune to pay off every guard in the city. A fortune he’d stolen from Astarion’s own family... He’d never lured anyone like he had Astarion. Not even his siblings had garnered that kind of attention. Not even Tomas had been much more than an afterthought.

You should be honored that I cared to dance for you at all.

And then--

Tears against his neck. A broken doll in pieces. Never once an apology, but sometimes Cazador would rub his shoulder with shocking tenderness or let him sleep with a lit candle because the darkness was so suffocating. Astarion kept forgetting that he didn’t need to breathe, and he’d die if Cazador ever put him back in there. Except that he wouldn’t because he was cursed to keep on living forever and ever and ever, and the undead god who tormented him slashed through Astarion’s mind once again, displeased that his victim still wasn’t paying attention. 

Bhaalspawn, bloodlines, lost sons. Madness.

The shriek of rage fell on deaf ears. It was a whimper from a thousand worlds away. Cazador shredded the skin from Astarion’s hands over and over and over, plucking fingernails, crushing delicate bone and sinew just because he could, because he knew that it would never heal quite right and that the pain would still linger centuries later in the dead of winter when the frost was at its peak. Because it would remind Astarion of whom he belonged to even after death because Cazador was reminded all the same for the same reasons by the same kind of monster no matter how many spawn he collected and how many years he thrived in his little seat of power. Sometimes, Cazador would be taken by fits of madness too, because he knew that he was no better than Vellioth, and a broken little part of him sorely wished that he could be. Astarion thought it was pathetic, of course, though he’d never said as much. He’d never dare.

Before his turning, Cazador had wanted to be a poet. He would recite ballads in the market square, begging for the affirmation his father never granted him. Centuries later, he wanted so much more. He wanted to bathe in the sun’s rays again, witness his own reflection, eat supper, cross streams, and enter homes without an express invitation. He wanted to live , love with a beating heart. He’d sacrifice thousands of lives and make disgusting deals with archdevils, dead gods, with Bhaal and his killer children. He’d be worse than Vellioth could ever hope to be if it meant even one day, one hour, one minute as anything other than a monster . 

But that was the crux of it. That’s what it meant to be a vampire. Every dream was twisted and every desire amplified until the undead thing that walked in their skin was nothing like the one that had died so long ago. Maybe that’s why they couldn’t see their own reflections. Maybe they just couldn’t bear the truth of it. Cazador certainly couldn’t.

His master scowled up at Astarion from the floor of his own dungeon, bloodied and beaten but never broken: "You are a small, pathetic little boy who has never amounted to anything,” he said. 

And it was true.

Gore in Astarion’s fingernails, in his hair, it streaked down his cheeks where the tears ran in little rivers and dripped off his chin. Stabbing and stabbing and stabbing and then howling like an animal, rocking on his knees in agony, his arm sore and gods but he was so hungry. Not one drop was tasted. After eons of fantasizing about the freedom Cazador’s blood could offer him, Astarion didn’t sink his fangs in. He knelt with his hunger and his agony and he screamed and ached and cried until he had nothing left to give. He wiped the blood from his lips before his tongue could dart out to lick it, because he was done with it, with all of it, he just wanted this whole damned cycle to stop.

“Irrelevant, all of it!! Where is he?!”

A slash of agony. Claws ripped through his mind, harshly flipping through the pages of his life.

Tav’s kiss was warm and gentle against his forehead. He must have tasted the sour note of Cazador’s blood, but his expression betrayed nothing but love. Adoration shivered between their tadpoles, and Astarion ducked his head with a tiny little frown. He’d said nothing since they’d left the palace. This was a new kind of terror, one that he hadn’t built up the callouses to conceal. The ‘ what now?’ clattering around in his skull demanded answers that he couldn’t provide. His dead heart fluttered with an old, desperate ache, and he bit his lip to stop himself from calling this whole thing off before it could hurt him any further. Sebastian’s ghostly shadow loomed over them both, though Tav would never see it. 

Astarion shuddered and closed his eyes. He was cold, tired, and still bloody with the gore of his sire. He felt himself sinking into an impossibly loving embrace. Cazador’s blood stuck between them like a promise. It wasn’t one he wanted to wash away just yet.

The kindness in it would kill him every night.

“Shh… you don’t have to say anything.”

He convulsed into a sudden seizure, his limbs flailing wildly. Panic crawled up Astarion’s throat, and he tried desperately to keep it down, to be silent, to be invisible. ‘Shh…’ A choked scream burst from him anyway, until he gagged on his own dead blood. It welled into his mouth from a tongue bitten during his uncontrollable thrashing. He could smell sea salt, hear the crashing waves of a distant shore. ‘Shhh…’

“My son,” the thing hissed with rotten breath, shaking him violently. “Give me my son!! ”

Astarion reached for the sea and it answered him as a lover would, ever eager to engulf him in its endless abyss. He felt himself sinking into Tav’s arms, into the sea, into nothing at all until his mind was static and the pain was lost to a forgotten dream. No amount of torture could rouse him back again.

Chapter Text

When Gale was very young, Mystra created a small castle for him in the outer planes. It was child-sized and glistening with magic, meant to make him laugh that pitched squeal all boys do when they’re overwhelmed with joy. His little eyes glistened as he bounced around on the balls of his feet, taking in the splendor she designed for him. The first thing he did was summon Tara to be his queen. She accepted the role with grace.

The boy was born with an ambitious hunger that even the goddess of magic struggled to satiate. He demanded that his castle float high into the starlight, as well as herds of unicorns to prance about the courtyard. He wanted a custom throne built for Tara that she could sit upon and judge the daily affairs of her kingdom, and he was very particular about its design. It was enormous, hooded with a cave, violet, and quite fluffy, with a convenient scratching post built into the backing. Gale also said that she needed subjects to lord over, and so he was given animated wooden dolls, and each of them held jobs within the castle. One of them tended to the graveyard, where Tara sent dolls that displeased her… of which happened to be many, as she found great joy in terrorizing each of them. Gale buried her victims in the stardust and made little tombstones for each. 

Mystra caught him making one for himself in the twilight. It read, ‘Gale Dekarios. Tara’s Bestest Friend.’ 

She knelt beside him and watched as he continued to till the stardust until it resembled a little mound of dirt where a body might rest. “Why did you make a grave for yourself? You’ve only just turned six, my dear.”

He shrugged a disinterested little twitch of his shoulder, and mumbled, “I dunno.”

“Is Queen Tara displeased with you?”

“Nah. She says that for my birthday, she’ll forgive all my trans… transgreshums.” He scrunched his eyes in frustration, clearly unhappy that he’d gotten the pronunciation wrong. The grave proved to be more interesting, however, as he summoned little violet flowers to settle around it.

“Then why have your own tombstone?”

With a roll of his eyes, he said, “You’re silly, Mystra. Obviously, I’m gonna die someday. I just wanna make sure it looks nice. Like Papa’s! He’s got a whole mozol… moso…”

“Mausoleum,” she said kindly, sinking to her knees to be more level with him. Her starlit robes pooled all around her as she settled. She gently ruffled his hair and smiled sweetly. It was a rare expression gifted to anyone, even him, but Gale was always honored to receive it.

“Yeah,” he chirped. “Mozolum! I can’t decide if I want all that, or just a grave like this. With purple flowers, like your eyes. An’ a tombstone! With my name on it, an’ somethin’ nice about me. It would be easier for Tara to visit me here. Maybe next to a tree, she likes to climb things.” With an easy swish of his hand, he summoned a little violet tree to shade his starlit grave. Though very young, magic came more easily to him than most other children she’d taken an interest in. She hadn’t witnessed such talent since Elminster. 

“She doesn’t like the cold stone,” Gale explained. “A nice patch of grass would be better.” When he wasn’t consumed with study or worship, his thoughts were entirely given to Tara. The goddess would be slighted if she didn’t agree. Tressyms were a demanding sort. “An’ I think Papa might like it better if he could see the stars. I know that’s what I’d want. I wanna see the stars when I die.”

“Well, you’re not going to die anytime soon, young man. I won’t allow it.”

When he looked up at her massive starlit form with his wide, dark eyes, he blinked as if he’d forgotten who he was talking to. A tiny spark of fear passed through his gaze, and then he ducked his head shyly. His little cheeks flushed crimson. “Of course, Mystra,” he mumbled. 

She frowned, not knowing where she’d gone wrong. And perhaps, she’d wonder later, if that was where the trouble started.

It wasn’t often spoken, but she’d been mortal once. Mortal and entwined to another man, one of great beauty and terrible power. To ease the world back from the brink of madness, she’d changed her face, her name, her memories, and ascended into the starlight to become one with the weave. That beautiful man she’d loved became something else entirely. He settled far beyond her reach, bound by duty and the chaotic clamor of a million souls demanding rest. They never spoke ever again.

She found herself wandering the academies in search of another like him, never knowing that she wouldn’t do such a thing before her ascension. It was simply the nature of magic, and as the goddess of it all, she was lured to his raw potential. In a thousand different children of excellent breeding and nobility, Gale Dekarios was the anomaly. For all of his groveling and the gaseous ego of a giant star, there was an echo of something divine in him. The potential to become her equal, like that other man from so long ago.

And now he was dead.

That other beautiful man brought Gale’s soul to her personally, because the boy was hers to claim even now. They did not look at each other or speak a single word. The memories of a mortal life were still too painful for either of them to bear. She knelt before Gale’s slumbering soul as Kelemvor fled and did not look back. 

Gale lay curled among the stardust at her lap. She threaded her perfect fingers through his long, matted hair. He hadn’t been taking care of himself since he’d left her a month ago, just as he hadn’t when she’d left him before the Crisis. He simply did not know how to function without her presence, and that was entirely by design. She’d crafted the boy to need her like a fish to water. Because without Gale’s striking mortality, Mystra felt equally bereft, and she hated him for it. She loved him for it, too.

His long, greasy locks ached for a bath, and that scruffy, unkempt beard spoke to the madness he’d fallen into since he’d been violently thrust from the weave. There were bruises beneath his eyes from lack of sleep, and his lips, dry and cracked, seemed locked into a perpetual frown. She gently kissed his brow in silent apology for all the things she’d never say and breathed life back into him. He woke up with a start, his eyes wide in terror. When he realized her presence, he shrank backward with a tiny little twitch of his head. A hesitant, terrified denial.

“I-I’m dreaming,” he said. “You don’t… you can’t…” But Mystra did not choose fools. Gale calculated what had happened in an instant, his expression shifting from terror to exhausted grief in the blink of a mortal eye. “You just couldn’t leave it be, could you?”

She lifted her perfect brow at him and then crossed her arms. Not a hint of thanks? 

He scuttled back on all fours, shaking his head again. He was such a colorful little thing, a shattered prism of a man spilling his raw and potent emotions wherever he tread. She envied him for his ability to express it. A goddess did not mourn. 

“I won’t thank you,” he hissed. Defiance blossomed through the prism in a sharp red hue.

“I know, Gale.”

“I won’t.” He climbed to his feet, fists balled at his sides. He’d had such terrible tantrums as a child. “I’m done kneeling for you, Mystra.”

“Of course you are.”

Gale bit his lip, and she heard the uncertain, petulant, ‘ okay then ’ flutter through his mind. Confusion stained him with a pretty, pale blue. “Why bring me back?”

“You’re still my chosen,” she said. “And I refuse to let you die before I’m done with you.”

“Oh? Does Ao know of your meddling?”

He was trying to provoke her, and it worked. Her eyes narrowed, and a storm of weave began to gather around him both. She was surprised to discover him unimpressed by the display.

“You can keep me forever if you like, I will not fight the whims of a mad goddess. But know that I will never again pray to you, Mystra, and when I look upon your perfect face, I see only my tormenter.”

Her irritation swelled into genuine hurt, and the storm began to leak gentle drops of magical rain. This feeling was still a muted thing compared to the hearts of mortals, but the pain of it was unfamiliar to her. As a goddess, she did not mourn. She did not fall into pettiness. She didn’t.

“You would rather be dead?”

He tilted his head at her, contemplating something that eluded her infinite gaze. The idea that he might know something she could not was infuriating, and the storm surged with renewed vigor. Wind began to swirl violently when he said, “I would rather be free.”

“Denied,” she hissed, utterly irrational now. Later, she’d regret her words. Later, she’d crumble alone in the weave, tears of starlight trailing in rivulets down her pristine cheeks. This was a loss she couldn’t bear, and she didn’t even know why. “I won’t lose you!”

“You already have.”

“You’re mine. You were made for me!”

He lifted a brow at her. Whatever he’d done in the month he’d been away, it had given him an odd kind of strength. He crossed his arms, expression grim. “I want to be something else.”

“No.”

“Then perhaps you should take better care of your toys.” He thrust an angry fist towards the swirling heavens, towards events that cursed them both five years prior. No. Six years. Longer. Damn him for his grand gestures. Damn her for sparking the need. “Perhaps you should have reconsidered your proposal during the Crisis. Or perhaps you should have never left me alone to fester with the curse--”

“For such a sacrifice, you would have known only love and adoration--”

“You left me to die, Mystra. Worse, you left me to suffer. You let me risk thousands of lives every single day, hells, every single breath that I held for years--”

“It was the least you deserved!” Even in her own ears, it was a shrill cry that meant nothing. They knew she’d wronged him both then and now, and she wasn’t even certain why she did it, why she kept doing it, over and over again. Maybe he was right, maybe she wasn’t even capable of love. Maybe this was the future that she was destined for, to be alone with the weave and the stardust, ever drifting through the strands of magic that bound the universe together in search of another soul to settle the aching void in her heart. It was something that lingered like a taste at the back of her pretty tongue, forgotten from that mortal life she’d come from. It was in the tired bitterness of Gale’s sore eyes, and the foul taint of that curse he’d consumed for her. The unending hunger that could never be sated… ambition . Something about ambition and loss.

Maybe that’s where the trouble started. She didn’t know where she’d gone wrong, and even if she did, she would never be able to please him. It had happened by design--it was how she’d raised him. Gale Dekarios could never be satisfied, because an ambitious man was a powerful one. He’d outgrown her some time ago. As had the other.

“I…” His sigh was a heavy, heaving thing. A piece of him seemed to expel out of his lungs, to be left here to die with her. “I don’t want to be here anymore. Either kill me or send me back.”

When she didn’t move, he added, “Please.”

She thought to argue with him but knew that he wouldn’t hear it. The storms abated again. A chill wind took its place. With a quick snap of her perfect fingers, he was gone.

Halsin was a man of a thousand different secrets, but there was one in particular he’d never shared with anyone. Long before his disastrous marriage, before the Illithid Crisis, before goblins and Khaga and shadow druids, there was one regret he’d let fester and boil within his soul for a hundred very long, tedious, painful years. But then they’d cleansed the land and rescued his childhood friend and a good woman was brought back into the arms of her fierce lover, as if none of it had ever happened. All seemed well, and after the brain finally died, it was well. For the first time in… a very, very long time. 

That secret was buried deep, kept below in the depths of him where no one had to speak of it ever again. He didn’t think about it at all, really, until the day that Gale died and Astarion was ripped from his grasp. The memory of his screams choked tight ribbons around his neck. Halsin didn’t dare breathe, knowing this was the world that he’d woken up to. He knew that he’d earned it. Like the wrath of nature, Silvanus could be fickle in his lessons.

He healed Velora first with a mad dash of violent, life-spilling energy, and then they both took care of Scratch. They followed the pitter-patter of blood to Gale’s room--Velora’s room, as he hadn’t dared sleep in his own bed while haunted by the shrine of a scorned lover. Scratch knew that something was off. His ears bent back, and he whined low in his throat. Tail between his legs. Terrified. And… 

Secrets. He’d let that secret fester for entirely too long, and a million souls were given to Shar in the wake of it. He fought a war to make up for it, mastered cleansing rites and rituals, obsessed over portraits of lunar goddesses and the desperate, aching prayer that somehow, some way, they could fix it. And they did. But what would Jaheria say if she knew? What would Isobel say? Dame Aylin?

They’d cut him down without a single thought for mercy.

The secret that Astarion needed to know was far less forbidden. Tav certainly knew why Halsin had divorced them, but he’d chosen to spare Astarion knowing that it would hurt him. But even in the silence, Halsin had slaughtered an entire village for a hundred years--even in the silence, he’d hurt his Little Star. Had he spoken his reasoning, had they discussed any of it at all, perhaps… perhaps he’d have been here. Perhaps Halsin could have stopped it. Perhaps Tav and Gale would still be alive, and Astarion would not be taken, to be tormented by a ghoul possessed by the god of murder.

‘You’re not very good at this, are you?’

Halsin never claimed to be a good man, but he presented that way to the people around him because he ached to be worthy of it. As he watched Velora sob over Gale’s perforated corpse, clutching his chest and screaming for justice, he thought of the aasimar. He thought of Ketheric, of Shar, of a thousand different lies that he’d told himself just to survive the guilt. Gale was a good man. Gale was a stupid man who’d drive himself to death for the safety of others. He was an infuriating know-it-all, a stubborn fool, a reckless disaster, and--

and--

“I’ll kill him! I’ll kill him again and again and again!! This isn’t happening. This isn’t happening!! ”

--and one of the most worthy souls he’d ever met. The world was muted without him. He’d taken all the color, and the only thing Halsin felt was an inescapable, hungry maw. A black, swirling void where his soul had been.

Velora’s pitched keening spoke to something Halsin didn’t know was there. He’d been too focused on Astarion to realize it. She’d loved and lost in a matter of days. Or perhaps, she’d lost the potential for it, and that was almost worse. Her sobs were locked deep in her throat, and her breaths skidded along the ache with an awful wheezing sound. Her face was buried in his bloody chest, but he knew that this was the soul-rending ugly cry of loss.

He wished he could join her, and envied her that release. He… felt nothing at all. And slowly, like a bear waking to the thaw, Halsin slipped his fingers over Gale’s lifeless eyes to close them. He’d have to tell Gale’s mother. It was the least he could do. A lifetime prior, he fled the town with the shadows cackling at his heels. Ketheric found her sleeping peacefully in her bed. She never woke up.

He’d have to tell Gale’s mother. And… And Tara. And Wyll, and Karlach, and Lae’zel, and Shadowhart. And Astarion, if they ever found him.

“Wake up,” Velora hissed, with a fury known only to the lost. She shook Gale’s unresponsive shoulders, teeth bared into a snarl. “You’re too stupid to die quietly in bed. I know you’re still in there, Dekarios. Wake up!! ”

Halsin’s voice was a quiet, guilty little plea. “Velora…”

She ignored him and punched Gale’s shoulder with so much force, it was a wonder the bones didn’t crack. His bloody chest gave a sickening squelch when she continued to slap him. “I said wake up!!”

And then he did.

With a choking breath of blood in his lungs, fingers digging into the sheets beneath him. Twitching and squirming and whining like a dog. Velora sobbed for an entirely new reason, and for a long, terrible moment, Halsin could only stare. She glared back at him with a face painted in Gale’s gore, smelling of salt and iron, and she shrieked, “Fix him!!”

Silvanus was an easy prayer on his lips. One of thanks to the Father for his forgiveness, as well as to the lesson learned here. Too late, perhaps, but learned all the same. With terrible ease, Halsin pulled the blood from Gale’s cut lungs, mending his wounds from the inside out. The heart hadn’t been beating, and the soul had fled to Kelemvor’s embrace for several minutes. But here he was, the stubborn fool, now clutching to a body that no longer wanted him. 

As Halsin mended lungs, heart, and liver, Gale screamed. Pain was nature’s cost for living, and the wizard paid a heavy price for it. Velora flooded the man’s systems with healing spells of her own and little by little, the wizard found himself bloodied but whole. 

The pain eased for confusion. He carefully sat up in Velora’s bloodstained bed and fingered the tattered remains of his robes. The ghoul had stabbed Gale at least ten times in his sleep. He likely hadn’t even woken before he died.

“I…” Gale swallowed, fingers trembling. Eyes wide with horror. “I-I don’t…”

Now that he was alive, Velora grabbed his shoulders and shook him violently, trading agony for fury. “You scared me, you prick!” Tears like jewels in her bright, fiery eyes. Her long auburn hair spilled through her broken horns like a red river as she knelt forward, head down, lips twisted with heartache. “Are you okay?” 

“Um… I-I…”

“Nevermind. In fact, shut up,” she mumbled, pressing a finger to Gale’s cracked, dry lips. “Just… just lay down. And breathe. Please keep breathing.” Her hand found his and she squeezed it tightly. Halsin locked eyes with Gale, nodded to him in painful relief, and then fled the room. Fled the entire tower minutes later, Scratch hot on his heels with a scent to follow.

‘Either kill me or send me back.’

For a moment, Gale thought she’d finally done it. In the shredded valleys of his heart, he felt Mystra’s final promise and heard the stern, decisive click of her long, slender fingers. Suffocating panic, the flailing of leaden limbs. He’d struggled to breathe through torn lungs, felt his blood pool and spurt from shredded vessels, felt his skin slide sickeningly as his guts parted and swam within him, and he knew . He knew that she’d killed him. Angrily, violently, because it was the least he’d deserved. She’d even said so.

Despite the pain, it was a kind of relief. Something that Gale had secretly wanted for a very, very long time, but Halsin refused to grant it to him. If he could protest, he would have. But the familiar campfire scent of Halsin’s magic was hard to repel, and his floral brews and honey-flavored treats poured into him with such ravishing violence that Gale felt awed in the wake of it. Halsin did not say a word at all, haunted by something else in the corner of his eyes. Gale caught the shadows as he left and wondered what demons lingered there to make the man seem so… off.

According to Velora in the panicked, tear-streaked moments after his body learned how to live again, it had been Nox. Nox and not Mystra, reborn and undead, possessed with the echo of another. “He came up from the basement, I think. He was very, very strong, much more than before. He hurt Scratch and I, and… an-and I don’t know how to say this, but… um… actually, on-on second thought, maybe it isn’t a good time right now…” 

Gale was still too shell-shocked to move when Velora crumbled again. She bit her lip and glared with wet, angry tears towards the open doorway that Halsin had fled through. He stared at her bright, fiery eyes, and peered through them to a starlit grove in a plane meant only for him and his goddess. A goddess that had brought him back from the dead and claimed ownership of his soul like her stamp had been licked to his forehead. For all he knew, maybe it had.

And for a moment, for one of many, many moments, he’d thought he’d dreamt it. A mad vision as his body struggled to live again, that last battered hope of a romantic idiot still unwilling to let the train of her immaculate gown go. But Velora told him that he was dead, dead and gone, for minutes, for hours, forever. They didn’t know. His body had been cold. He was… he was cold. That was the first sensation he could acknowledge. Cold and wet and tired.

Gale shuddered, huddling his arms up to rub them, and rocked slightly like he’d seen Astarion do in moments of great distress. He shook his head, trying to focus. He was covered in blood and bits of gore. The bed was an absolute mess. He was cold and wet and sticky, and he’d been dead for a long time before they found him. Had Nox played with him before he did it? Had he felt anything at all?

It was a sickening blur. He felt robbed to have it happen so quietly.

“Okay. Let’s get you into a bath. You’ll feel a lot better.” Would he? He felt fine. He felt… not fine at all. Hard to say. “Up, Dekarios. Lean on me, that’s it...”

As he climbed into her arms like a cat seeking warmth, his wrist twitched without thought, and suddenly the blood was gone. He didn’t know where. It didn’t matter. He’d just desperately needed it to go away, and it did. Velora hissed into his ear, breathing hot and angry. She muttered, “Damned wizards.”

“S’rry.” His voice was a slur, low and gravelly, and he barely recognized it.

“No, no. It’s okay. Shh.” She pressed his head to the curve of her neck, and he groaned at the warmth of her skin, the fine texture of her scales. She likely burned hotter than the average human, and he wondered if she could breathe fire like her ancestors. “Don’t apologize. It’s convenient, and I like it, I’m just… it-it doesn’t matter right now. C’mon, Gale. You’d like a nice, warm bath, hm? Easy does it… one foot after another…”

They were tangled a second later. He’d never been the most graceful of men. Mystra hadn’t cared to hone that particular skillset, too busy enjoying the sight of him on his knees. He tumbled towards the floor with all the grace of a drunk fawn, but Velora caught him in a swift, easy embrace. She lifted him up into a bridal carry, and he stared up at her with slack-jawed awe.

She rolled those beautifully fiery irises at him, like twin storms of red and yellow swirling about in her skull. Those eyes could read half a dozen different languages and solve riddles from cold cases long lost to time. Her laughter was pitched like a song, and he could listen to it all day. “These muscles aren’t just for show, sweety.” She bounced him a bit in her arms, adjusting her hold for a moment. Then she huffed another brief, careless chuckle and marched forth. “There we go. Now. To the bath.”

A long, slow blink, and then he was being stripped very gently as warm water ran beside him. He was on the floor, leaning against a cold hard tub. He didn’t know when he’d gotten there, but he missed the comfort of her chest. As she leaned forward, trying to maneuver his robes off, he pressed against her with a groan. 

“I know you’re cold. We’ll get you into the bath soon, just hold on.”

She managed to pry him off with easy grace, and he blushed with embarrassment. Drunk he may be with pain and blood loss, but it was no excuse for bad manners. “Sorry,” he slurred again. “‘M s’rry.”

She tutted at him with a pinched brow, not unlike the expression his mother often wore when he was a child. ‘ Oh, Gale, ’ she’d mutter sadly. Like he was a lost little boy in need of mothering even well past the age. Like there was something truly awful about him that warranted constant worry. Even Tav had looked at him like that more than once, and Gale kind of resented it. He was one of the most notable wizards in the entire world , he didn’t need people feeling bloody sorry for him. He’d outgrown that heaving sigh in exchange for the favor of a goddess. A chosen one did not need something as tripe as pity.

He loved his mother dearly, but she’d be furious to know that he’d been back for an entire month, had nearly died-- had died--and he hadn’t even sent her so much as a letter. Literally an afternoon’s walk away, and yet he’d said nothing. She didn’t even know that he and Mystra were off again. On and off and on and off… like a broken switch. Soon, he’d flip it back and grant her every last apology she’d ever need. Anything to make it stop.

What would Tara say? After all these years, he still wasn’t certain whether or not she approved of Mystra’s behavior.

Velora finished undressing him and then set him into the bath while he continued to silently eviscerate himself. The scent of lemons slowly drew him back to reality. The water was warm, and she held a green loofa in her hands, the twin storms of her eyes swirling with unknown secrets.

“I don’t know what’s going on in that head of yours, but I think you need to shut your trap.”

Gale blinked at her dumbly, wide-eyed and lost. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” she sighed. She reached for his back and carefully scrubbed between his shoulder blades. “I’m a devout woman, Gale. I’ve been blessed by Torm for a very long time, and I consider each of the gods worthy of respect. But what was done to you… perhaps Astarion was right.”

That took him entirely too long to process, and he leaned back to meet her eyes again. “Star?”

“Yes,” she said, cupping her hands into the water to rinse his back. They only locked gazes for a moment, but Gale still felt the electricity in it. “He… did not speak favorably of Mystra. And I know the legends. It is… easy to draw certain conclusions...”

Gale’s dry swallow was far too loud in the small room. Velora handed him the loofa when he looked a little lost, and she began to massage his shoulders. It felt nice. No one had touched him like this in a very, very long time. Guilt swelled up in his belly, demanding to know what he’d done to deserve it.

“We don’t have to talk about this now. I’m just glad you’re alive.”

But suddenly, Gale wanted nothing more than to spill his soul out before her, to show her the mark that other woman left in him. “Before I,” he tried, grasping at language with a frail, broken mind. “Before I…” Came back from the dead. “Mystra, sh-she said that she still held claim over my soul, and refused to let me die. I told her that I wanted to be free.”

Her hands stilled, and she bent down to lock eyes with him. He ducked from that gaze, staring into the murky red water of the bath instead. He fiddled with his fingers, and confessed, “Because I don’t want to be her chosen.” It felt odd to admit it so plainly. He winced in pain, swallowing the panic that surged up his throat in response. “That is to say, I used to. I mean, I think I did. It’s hard to know what I wanted and what was simply for the sake of her. But I just… I can’t do that anymore. I can’t.”

He refused to look up and face the judgment that must be written all over her face. To deny the status of a chosen one seemed unheard of, in particular to a god that wasn’t insane. It had happened before, but most would balk at the idea. To give up such power and prestige over something as silly as pride… but Velora’s tone was sweet, with the scent of lemons and the gentle hands of a devoted friend. “What did she say?”

“No.”

‘Denied. I won’t lose you!’

“I’m sorry,” Velora said, and he blinked up at her. Starlit hands spilled away for flesh, scales, red hair, and fire. 

His smile was limp and it twitched like a dying animal. “Don’t be. It’s not like I’ve ever had a choice.” He shrugged. Velora’s hands wandered into his hair, gently brushing the bangs from his face. “She’s right, you know. I was crafted in her image. For as long as I can remember, I have belonged to her, signed and bound.”

“Any contract can be broken.”

“Not this one,” he said, shaking his head. Velora’s fingers fell away to grip the bath tightly. “Don’t you see?” They locked eyes again. Sparks. “In the end, she’s all I will ever be. I am nothing without her, and she knows it. And… and that’s fine, I suppose. I can accept that part, but I don’t have to like it. She can’t make me like it. Not anymore.”

“Gale…”

A hot burning blossomed behind his vision, and the world swam. Velora’s face seemed far away, above the water. He didn’t blink. He stared at the stubs of her sawed-off horns, his mind suddenly empty of all thoughts but one. “I’m sorry,” he repeated. “I’m sorry for making you worry. You’re a good friend, and I--”

“Shh. It’s okay, you’re alive. We fixed it, it’s--”

“No, it’s not. Listen, I…” He grunted in frustration, pulling at his hair. Velora’s hands traveled to his wrist and gently eased them free of their grip. “I didn’t want to... to… I-I didn’t want to come back.” To live. To breathe and suffer, to be all that he was, would ever be. Hers. On and on and on and on it went, without pause or care for his own needs. All he’d ever done in his short and pointless life was disappoint everyone around him, and--“She made me do it. If she hadn’t, I would have… I-I would have…” stayed. 

“But you’re back. You’re alive. ”

“But I didn’t--”

“You’re here, Gale. With us, with… with me. And that’s all that matters for now, okay?”

“I…” Suddenly, it was difficult to breathe. The burning became an inferno, the meniscus of his tears stretching over his eyes in a haze of salt. “I’m sorry,” he said again. He didn’t even know what he was apologizing for anymore. He just didn’t feel worthy of her, of anyone, and it would have been better if he’d remained dead. He did nothing but hurt the people he loved the most. “I apologize. I don’t know why I... I’m…”

On and on and on and on and on. It didn’t matter. He would never be enough.

Velora cursed softly. The low gravel of her voice was an exotic sensation, like satin over gravel. Shaved with imperfections and bumps and bruises. A lifetime of scrapes, savagery, and endurance. He felt arms, strong and corded like the rest of her, pull him into her chest despite the bath and the water and filth that emanated from his soul. Sopping wet and chilled to the bone, he buried his face there and knew well he didn’t deserve her warmth. 

“It’s going to be okay,” she whispered. “Just breathe. Please keep breathing. That’s all I ask.”

The tears finally burst like a gushing wound. It seared down his cheeks as a mark of shame, and his lungs stifled with the pain of it. He shuddered and twitched like he was dying. Ached, like he was living. And then he lost it entirely. The world droned on with a static hiss, the roar of loss ringing in his ears. He didn’t know why he was crying. He only knew that he couldn’t stop.

Chapter Text

“The wards are intact, right?”

“Hm…?”

“Gale. Are you with me? Are the tower wards intact?”

It was not the first time Velora had witnessed such a vacant stare, but it was strange to see him wear it. Though he’d been tired and worn in the days they’d known each other, Gale seemed like a lively and vibrant man otherwise. All the color he surrounded himself with was muted now, and though he breathed, it was clear there was little going on upstairs.

She waved a hand in front of his face, and he slowly blinked at her. It took entirely too long for him to register that she was there, and what she’d asked. “Oh. Yes.”

“I checked the basement and the rooms that I could access. No hostiles.”

“I know,” he said vaguely. A million planes away. She’d parked him on the sofa, as he was still unwilling to cross the hallway into his own chambers, and her bed was… well, aside from the mess, putting him to rest where he’d just died didn’t sit right with either of them. She didn’t know why he refused to sleep in his room at first, but then she spotted the statue of Mystra waiting just beyond that cluttered doorway and hissed an uneasy sigh through her clenched teeth. 

The knowledge of just how deeply the goddess had wounded this man was quite troubling to witness. She’d known the gods could be fickle, but the tales she knew were generally reserved for the more tricksome sort. Mystra was someone to be admired, someone to aspire to be . When Velora was a child, she’d wanted to be just like the woman, as beautiful and powerful as Mystra was portrayed in the many paintings and statuary that littered Waterdeep’s academies. Torm held most of her blessing, of course, but any citizen in the City of Splendors held basic knowledge of Mystra’s many merits. Velora had been trained well to respect her from a very early age. 

But perhaps that’s how Gale had fallen into the trap, and it had led him here. Broken, battered, and dead all but a few hours ago, his soul sworn to a goddess that didn’t know how to care for him properly. He swam in the blankets she’d covered over his bony shoulders, looking very much like the frightened, lost child he must have been when Mystra came for him. Velora knelt down in front of Gale and gently placed her hands on his knobby knees. Had Mystra done the same once? Had she looked deep into his big brown eyes and demanded obedience instead of care?

Velora clicked her tongue softly. His ribs were showing, and he needed to eat more. He still needed a shave, too. He’d been running himself ragged long before Nox stabbed him, and she’d been too blinded by the case to really protest the matter. Clearly, someone had to or Gale would kill himself trying to perform for others. It’s likely how he’d been raised. She knew well that the demands of a god could be unrelenting, but at least Torm had waited until adulthood to claim her.

“Gale? I need you to add the front door again. Remember? I don’t know how Halsin left, but you still don’t have one.”

“Oh… I forgot. Apologies.”

“I know,” she whispered, caressing his left cheek. She palmed it soothingly, her thumb running along the scruff of his beard. He barely reacted. “It’s okay. Can you fix it?”

He blinked at her again, long and slow, barely a thought passing through that normally sharp gaze. Though she didn’t see a lick of magic wink out of him, he whispered, “It’s there.”

“Okay. Thank you.” She gently pushed him to lie down on the sofa, and Gale followed the suggestion with blind obedience. He pressed his face into the pillow with a tired sigh and drifted. Combing gentle fingers through hair still wet from the bath, she said, “I need to leave for a few hours. I just want you to breathe until I get back. Sleep, if you can.”

He didn’t seem to hear her, but he nodded in agreement and closed his eyes. When his breaths calmed for a slow, steady pace, she stood to leave but there was suddenly a hand in hers, pulling her back to him. His eyes were wide open, a deep, yawning fear shivering through him. 

“I’ll be back soon,” she said, low and quiet like she was speaking to a frightened animal. “But I need to leave.” She didn’t dare tell him that Astarion was missing again, nor that Halsin had run after him without thought for backup. Gale would be climbing out of the bed in seconds, and falling to the floor immediately after. He could be furious with her later, but for now, all she wanted from him was to stay alive. The memory of her fists pounding into his ruined chest was far too fresh for either of them.

He ducked his head in shame, and his cheeks flushed a deep hot crimson. “I apologize. I-I don’t know what came over me.” He let go of her hand, but violet swirls trailed his fingertips as he did so. A golden light settled over her, and she felt a pleasant warmth sink into her bones.

At her lifted brow, he muttered, “A protection spell.”

“Oh. Thank you.”

Amid the exhaustion weighing him down, there was a horrible sense of confusion. The fear still lingered in his eyes, but it had evolved somehow. He stared at his hands, curling them into fists. “Please stay safe. I don’t know what I’d do if… if… gods, I-I’m so sorry.” He swallowed, his gaze glistening with little diamonds of grief. “But I need to say it. I really like you. A lot. I know it’s fast and I know it’s selfish, but I just died and I can’t keep pretending that I--”

“Shh.” When he moved to protest, she placed a finger on his lips and then nudged him back onto the pillows. “This doesn’t have to be complicated, silly. I like you and you like me. Let’s leave it at that for now, okay?” Before her brain could catch up with her heart, she leaned in to kiss his forehead. A brief brush of lips against the skin, the electricity she left behind singing through them both.

They flushed red hot with embarrassment, but neither protested the act or the intent behind it. She gently brushed the hair out of his eyes, savoring the sensation of a living, breathing Gale Dekarios beneath her fingertips.

A tiny voice whispered into the sofa’s pillows: “You’re not mad?”

“No! Of course not.”

“...It’s really okay, then?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, Gale. Now sleep,” she ordered, still combing her fingers through his hair. She kissed him again, this time on his cheek. “I’ll be back in a few hours.”

“Do you promise?”

“I promise.”

The White Gull was packed like a barrel of fish, and squeezing even one more bass in it would make the whole thing explode. Every able-bodied soul within several city blocks seemed determined to live it up at the dock-side bar while this unusually warm weather lasted. It had been the tamest winter the city had seen for several seasons, but clouds on the horizon spoke of a truly devastating storm coming soon. Every local knew to cherish what little sun they still had before a long overdue frost finally settled in for the long haul. 

Despite the rush, Velora managed to talk Nora, the Gull’s owner, into letting her use the back storage area again. The colorful half-orc owed her plenty and seemed grateful to pay the debt by whatever means necessary. Velora had saved her mate’s life at least twice while working with the Watch, and the bar’s fortune doubly so on three separate occasions. She hadn’t been planning on collecting on a good deed of course, but finding herself to be a traitor of Waterdeep had led to rather serious complications. It was honestly a wonder she and Helric hadn’t been caught yet.

She parked herself on a wine barrel with a tired sigh and rubbed her bruised, reddened eyes. They were still irritated from the embarrassing amount of crying she’d done over Gale’s corpse. Samis trailed at her heel and settled into a dark alcove nearby. His forked tail flicked around nervously, his eyes scanning the area for weaknesses. Helric, looking much better since his run-in with the bhaalspawn, paced about the narrow floor like a restless lion.

“So I traced that painting you mentioned,” Samis spoke up, after spelling the area against any spies. “The one of your little vampire? Blue eyes, white hair, the finery? It’s called The Magistrate . A pretty valuable piece, actually. It took some doing, but my contact in Baldur’s Gate says it’s from the Ancunín family. Real sad story.”

Not unlike the rest of his life, from what she’d seen on the matter. “Tell me.”

“Astarion was the youngest in a family of four,” the tiefling continued. He tapped his knee in a mindless rhythm as he spoke, still full of frenetic energy. “They were descendants of teu-tel-quessir-- ” At Helric’s blank stare, Samis added, “Moon elves. The Ancuníns were a very rich and powerful family that extended to the earliest days of Baldur’s Gate. It’s likely either his parents or their ancestors knew Baldur personally and helped to fund the city’s growth.”

Velora recalled Astarion’s pensive stare in the artwork, his ocean-blue eyes looking into the shadows of his own future as if knowing what awaited him. The sight of Tav kneeling at his feet, and the woman’s resulting attack on Gale’s scry had been rather disturbing at the time. “Hence the painting,” she said. Despite Gale’s doubts, she was certain only elite nobles or truly interesting people warranted such a beautiful piece of art.

“Hence the painting,” Samis agreed. “It resided in the upper city museum for a while but was stolen about a year ago in the dead of night. Huge scandal.”

Velora shrugged, eager to move on. “The suspect took it. Gale and I saw it in the scry.”

“So you’ve said. Anyway, I’m not really one for art, but apparently, it was a favorite in the circuit and pulled in a lot of traffic. Probably because of the legends it brought about. I’m told it was sold by Astarion himself just a few weeks before his death, in the effort of pulling his family out of debt. Artists love that kind of thing.”

“Interesting…” But not at all what she was looking for.

Noting Velora’s impatient fidgeting, Samis continued, “Anyway, his parents were old even by elven standards when they bore him and died not long after he did. His sister was about a century older, though quite reluctant to leave the nest. You know, the spoiled upper-class sort. We’ve met plenty of the type before. She went by Ravia. After they lost the estate, she left Baldur’s Gate to live with their aunt and uncle in Elturel.”

Velora perked up at that, latching on to the name of a potential suspect. “Where is she now?”

The tiefling shrugged. “Dead, probably.” Velora’s brows pinched unhappily. Samis gave her a helpless look, and said, “I don’t bloody know, okay? It happened over a century ago, and I was looking into the vampire like you asked. If this Ravia chick survived, it was by the grace of some truly benevolent gods. She and the folks caring for her were the last of the Ancunín line, and there were several bodies found bloody and skinned at their dinner table. I did the math. Ergo, dead.”

“Samis…”

“I would have put Cazador to it,” he continued without pause, “but a big crime wave hit the city around that time. Of the non-vampiric variety. Thousands of violent murders ripped through Elturel in just over a tenday, so not a lot of historical details there other than blind panic. Add in a century of bullshit and their recent dilemma with Avernus, well… who knows. Elturel’s still a mess, and I certainly can’t look around for you. I mean, I could, but they’d happily turn me into a candlewick.”

“It’s fine. I’m sorry, Samis. I’m just… having a day. I get it. It’s lost to time.” But not quite lost to her . Given what Gale had said of Tav being the chosen of Bhaal, he could have very well been behind the murders. Which would explain why Ravia held a vendetta against him. But why target her own brother with such a violent curse? There had to be more to this. “Tell me why the Ancuníns ended up in debt.”

Samis shrugged again and leaned back on his palms. Despite his lazy attitude, his tail flicked with irritation. “What else? It was Cazador Szarr, naturally.” The odd familiarity of the statement had Velora raising her brow at him. Samis ignored the curious glance and continued, “The sick freak methodically ruined the entire family to get to Astarion. I don’t know how they met, but my contact is certain he thralled the father to hand over the family fortune piece by piece. And it was not a small fortune, apparently. Astarion was pressured into an early career as a magistrate to keep balance in the black, but he failed in the end. They lost everything after he died.”

She thought of Cazador, and Astarion’s reaction to the amulet when she’d pressed him earlier. His violent response made a little more sense now. If the vampire lord stole his entire family and their fortune from him, the symbol of the Ancunín lineage likely carried a tremendous amount of trauma. In addition, with his mind so scattered, he might even have trouble discerning just how long ago it had happened. He seemed in the moment, back at the tower. Trapped in that other time and place, with no druids or heroic bhaalspawn to save him.

‘Don't you get it? I don't want it anymore! He can have it. It's over, he can keep it all, I don't care, I don't, I don't, I don't--’

Despite Samis’s reservations, Ravia Ancunín still lived… or at least, she still walked among them. Their mother would be too old, but three centuries was well within an elven lifespan for Ravia. She must have left the amulet behind on purpose, knowing the Watch would find it. Knowing Astarion might find it, and react accordingly.

But why? To simply taunt him? To drive him mad? It seemed incredibly petty.

“Viola?”

“Hm?”

“You’ve been… staring into space.”

She blinked, flushing a little bit. “Sorry. Just thinking. What can you tell me about Szarr?” Whatever was going on, Cazador was surely tied to it. His name seemed to linger in every little detail.

“Killed during the Illithid Crisis,” Samis continued. “Astarion’s doing, according to my contact. He, um…” Samis’s expression twisted uncomfortably, and it took him a full moment of glaring at his feet before admitting, “I found out that he killed my parents. Remember the leave you gave me a few years back? I traced my roots to Baldur’s Gate, so I went there looking for answers. Found out they were two of the seven thousand discovered in the cages down there.”

“Oh. Oh wow. I’m--”

Samis brushed her off with a careless wave of his hand. “I’m not too broken up about it, Viola. I still don’t know how I ended up in Waterdeep, and they probably abandoned me here for all I know. They died long after I was left behind.”

“Still,” Helric spoke up. He’d finally paused in his silent pacing to study the young man. “You have our condolences, son.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Samis flushed a bit and ducked his head to hide the grateful gleam in his eye. “Anyway, it wasn’t all bad. I also ran into my cousin. Another orphan, a kid named Mattis. He was a good sort and seemed very happy. Came from Elturel apparently. Glad he got out before the burning started…”

Velora turned away from the two as they continued to banter, and opened the back door leading into the bowels of Waterdeep. Leaning against the frame, she folded her arms and stared at the muddy cobblestone alley. Stared beyond it, to a case that continued to spiral out of control. They had a name, at least: Ravia Ancunín. Samis might not know better, but Velora had witnessed red eyes and an impassioned glare. Powerful magic, familiar scarring… a bloodlust so potent, it could only mean one thing. She had her theories, and Cazador was an obvious part of it. The only thing she didn’t know was why?  

Why confront Taverine for revenge in a Waterdeep alley of all places, and why leave Astarion to suffer the curse instead of bringing him with her? Why did she hate them both? Had Astarion done something to her? Or was there any reasoning at all? Maybe she’d just fallen into the same madness the rest of her kind did. But… there was a plan in her actions. She was performing a ritual, something terrible. That scarring on Taverine’s back… gods, she’d have to tell Gale about that too. He’d likely missed it while battling for the scry. 

Velora felt like she had all the threads to answer everything, but she couldn’t quite form a coherent weave of them no matter how long she stared at the mess. It was beyond frustrating. Behind her, she felt Helric’s heavy hand settle on her shoulder. 

“You can stop brooding, lass.”

“This is the most chaotic case I’ve ever assigned myself. I think it might be destroying my life. It took your home, Helric.”

She could feel him shrug behind her, unmoved. “We’ve recovered,” he said. “The wife and children are safe, and I’ve never felt better. So long as the wizard pays up on our house, we’ll be bloody golden.”

For an old codger, Helric was the most glass-half-full man she’d ever met. It was refreshing to witness, after all the duress of late. “Gale is good for it. But it might be a while, he’s been… well, it’s been…” The wall that she’d erected to hold back the waves of grief she’d experienced since leaving him behind an hour ago started to shudder in protest. “Things went bad, Helric.” She turned around to look deep into eyes that had saved her life and backed her stupid plans so many times that she’d come to take it for granted. Tears burned in her own for just a moment, leaking through that mental wall she’d built. She swallowed dryly, a sick, sandpaper sensation in her throat. “H-He was dead. Bloody and broken, cut to ribbons in his own bed. But then he came back, don’t ask me how. I left him back at the tower, told him… told him to just stay put. And before that, Astarion was taken by Nox. Nox turned into a lich or something. He was dead, dead like Gale was dead, deader than fucking dead, Helric. And yet he came crawling up out of the basement as a moldering corpse. He nearly killed us all. Took Astarion to some bhaalspawn torture chamber probably, and it’s been a while now so he could be dead too. Well, more dead, because I’m pretty sure vampires count as undead, right? Gods. Halsin’s off tearing the city apart looking for him, and I don’t know if he found anything. I want to help, obviously, but I-I don’t know where to--”

Her world shattered like glass. Emotions everywhere, spilling all over the floor like refuse. She didn’t realize she was hyperventilating until Helric’s meaty palms swallowed her shoulders. He searched for her panicked gaze, and said, “Breathe, girl.”

“It’s fucked. It’s so fucking fucked,” she hissed, fighting back tears again. Her whole body shivered, her shoulders aching from holding up the sky, desperate to keep it from tumbling down around them. She fought the urge to rip free of Helric’s grasp and pace a hole in Nora’s floor.

Helric smiled at her, a soft and gentle thing mostly hidden by the mighty bush of his beard. “Remember Mariner’s Rest? The outbreak?”

Early into her career, a novice necromancer managed to stir up nearly every single spirit in the City of the Dead. Ghosts, walking dead, and other monstrosities poured from Mariner’s Rest into the upper streets of South Ward for several days, ripping apart anyone who crossed their path. Aided by a vicious hurricane that wrecked the coast for several tendays, she’d lost nearly half her men to both the battle and the storm. If it weren’t for Helric’s rocksteady presence, she’d have turned in her shield in the aftermath and never looked back.

“Remember what I told you? ‘We need a little darkness to see the stars,’ Viola. Don’t forget it. You’ll find your princess again. He’s a tough little thing. Besides, I know that look in your eye. You’re narrowing in on the suspect, and it’s only a matter of time until you close this thing. It’ll drive you mad to walk away now.”

"I… I wasn’t planning on walking away,” she sighed. Her breath caught in her throat for a second, a momentary half-sob that spoke of the stress bearing down on her body. “But I might be going mad. At least, a little bit.”

“That’s alright, love.” Helric palmed her cheek with a rough, calloused hand, still smiling. A shadow raced across his eyes, as he said, “You’d have to be bloody bats to get us this far.”

“Charmer.”

“I only tell it like I see it, Viola. Speaking of which. Have you told him?”

“Told who, what?”

“The wizard," he said. "Have you told him that you love him?”

Her heart crept up into her throat, and she swallowed it back down with a horrified gasp. Her eyes flew wide open. “ Helric! It’s not like that, it’s just… it’s just business.”

"...I believe you,” he said, in a tone that suggested the complete opposite.

"Gods, you’re a relentless old horndog today. It's just work, that's all. We haven't done anything. I mean, he just… h-he died earlier. There's a lot of things on his mind right now."

"I know, lass.” That warm, thick hand found her shoulder again and squeezed it. She felt comfort seep into her bones. “Just trying to distract you from the gaping void you’ve been swimming around in. Feel better?"

"Yeah,” she smiled. “Thanks. And he’s a client, that’s all." Every time she repeated the phrase, it sounded weaker. She never was a good liar. Though Mystra's name had slid out of Gale's lips a few times, he'd respected her enough to leave the goddess out of... whatever was blossoming between them. The way he kept looking at Velora for extended periods was not in the 'just business' kind of way, especially after his earlier scare. And that kiss… he hadn't wanted her to leave. He seemed to find some sort of comfort in her that she desperately ached to give him but simply did not have the time. 

“If he breaks your heart, I’ll thrash him.”

“Look, let’s just focus on the case right now. We need to find Astarion before he gets hurt." She winced at that, and amended, “More hurt.”

"I’ll have some of the boys still loyal scour the city for him,” Helric muttered, another shadow passing across his eyes. His moods seemed to ebb and flow like a sea-bound to the moons today. “You mentioned bhaalspawn, so that’s a decent lead. There are only so many places one can hide a murder pit of their calibur, even in Waterdeep.”

“No. Tell them to stay away.”

“Viola--”

“I said no. Enough people have been hurt.”

He studied her for a long, quiet moment. He stroked his beard, head tilted slightly with a troubled little frown. “You can’t do this alone.”

“I have an archdruid and an extremely powerful wizard, Helric. I’ll be fine.”

“Wasn’t he dead this morning? If he can’t even defend himself, how do you expect him to--”

“Stop it! You’re not getting involved! Anyone who touches this damned case gets hurt, it’s not happening! Stay away from it!”

The two stood eye to eye with fists balled and tension soaring like a hot flame around them both. For a moment, Velora thought that Helric might pull seniority on it, but he relented with a sharp, heaving sigh. “If you won’t accept help, then I wish you’d walk away. But I know you won’t do that either,” he said.

“I can’t.”

“You can,” he corrected, “but you won’t.”

“Helric--”

He clamped a thick, calloused hand on her shoulder again, and squeezed it gently. There were odd tears in his eyes. Stress, maybe? He didn’t shed them, but the emotion was shocking enough to witness. “So find a way through this. A way that doesn’t get you killed.”

“I’ll… I’ll be okay, old man.”

“Will you?”

“Of course. I’m like a cat, remember? I’ve still got plenty of lives left.”

He didn’t smile. Silence lingered for a long, painful moment. “...My bet is the sewers," he said, moving on. The tired dwarf released her shoulder and turned around to glare back into the tavern. Someone cackled nearby, and they all heard glass shatter. Nora’s loud cursing followed it.

“Why the sewers?”

“I’m told that’s where they stationed in Baldur’s Gate.” Helric refused to turn around and look at her. He never dealt with rejection well. “Ours connect to the catacombs beneath the City of the Dead, so just have your bloody bear smell them out among the rotting carcasses.”

“Or the park,” Samis spoke up behind them. His gaze was trapped in a faraway disaster, a sending stone lying silent in his left hand. “Got a weird call. Your archdruid is about to kill a Robe two blocks off. The Watch is in a panic. Let’s go.”

The sky was black with birds. 

Every species and color swirled together in a torrent over the city. They flapped and screeched with a terrible cacophony, the mad flock visible long before Velora and her friends reached the park. They circled like vultures, creating the illusion of a twisting black tornado. Rodents scurried up from the sewers in packs, racing towards the eye of it with a rabid gleam in their beady little eyes. Hounds still leashed to the trees and trapped by fence posts gnashed at their bonds, desperate to join them. Others raced down the walkway with their leashes still attached, a primal hunger spilling from snarling lips. Across the street, an older woman chased after a large, fluffy black dog that had darted free of her grip. A winged cat swooped down above the woman’s head and mewed at her with clear intent.

“A druid? What does he want with Vecna?” The woman stopped abruptly in her chase, hands on her knees as she doubled over, trying to catch her breath. “Well, tell him to come back!”

The flying cat hissed with sharp, pointed teeth, her ears flattening back. 

“Apologies for the order, Tara dear. I’m just terribly worried! Are you susceptible to the spell?” At the cat’s response, the woman continued, “I would very much appreciate it if you could follow him, then. Please be careful! I’ll return home and see about contacting my son.” Another mew. “Yes, I know he never responds. One can always hope, however…”

Slipping free of a nearby alley, Velora followed her friends toward the local gardens in a daze, staring upward at the feathered torrent swirling high above them. Packed market stalls and cluttered storefronts lined the streets, with furniture and produce tossed haphazardly along the sidewalk in the rush to flee the area. Colorful banners hung from end to end of the walkway, and glowing multi-colored lights lit the path toward the gardens to celebrate the coming Simril. This case had been such a mess that she’d forgotten the holiday was only days away, and thousands would be arriving in the city to seek out its yearly festivities.

Helric tugged her along with mild impatience, muttering something about time under his breath. 

Most of the area had been abandoned, but some civilians stood still, staring up at the heavens in wonder. Others shrieked as every nearby animal lost its mind, from rats pouring up from the sewers to cats snarling their way out of shadowed crawlspaces. Most darted into nearby buildings as the chaos escalated, peeking out from curtained windows with wide, terrified eyes. Velora met a few as they passed by, a pang of guilt beating in her chest.

The southern gardens of Waterdeep lay close to the central market and were a jewel of the area. Donated and maintained by students at Blackstaff, the magical flora there glowed softly in the twilight, smelling of sweet nectar and perfume. There was an ornate well at the center of a small hedge maze that was said to grant wishes, and it lured in tourists from all across the realm to toss their coin in hope for one. Velora had tossed her own once or twice to humor such things. 

At the garden’s entrance, a magnificent stone fountain shaped into Mystra’s likeness had been enchanted to make the water it spilled look like a seascape of stars. She greeted each visitor with a serene stone smile as she poured her celestial bath from a golden pot that likely symbolized her management of the weave. 

As they approached the front gate, Velora saw twisting black vines wrapping around Mystra’s stone bosom, seeking her neck. They clenched tightly around her body as if choking her. The way into the gardens was cut off by violent flora, the path beyond it dark and foreboding.

“The sky’s gone black,” Velora said softly, gesturing up at the swirling storm of birds. “Have we ever seen anything like this before?”

All around them, they heard hounds barking and cats shrieking their rage to any who would listen. A few quick furry shadows darted into the gardens at their left and right, and the vines parted easily for them as if to a familiar friend. She wasn't certain that odd, stoic welcome would be offered to three ex-guardsmen. The flora snarled in warning as they slowly crept closer.

“No.” Helric’s response was surprisingly curt. He seemed to be on edge after her rejection, growing more and more apprehensive the closer they came to the park and its troubles. She cast him a worried glance but knew better than to ask what was wrong amidst all the other chaos at present.

“Beats me,” Samis spoke up behind her. He whistled softly as he took in the state of Mystra and the twisting vines blocking their path forward. “Listen to those hounds, they've gone completely barmy. I'm not good with dogs, ma'am, I've no idea how to handle this."

"It's Halsin," she said.

"Obviously. Never seen an archdruid in action before, but this about sums it up I think. He seems pretty pissed, Vi. Think you can talk him down?”

"We’ve barely spoken, but… I don’t know.” She shrugged helplessly, then crept closer to the vines. They twisted and rattled like snakes as the three approached. “Assuming we can get in… maybe.”

“Was hoping for more than a bloody maybe,” the tiefling sighed but followed her nonetheless.

“Okay, well… maybe he found Astarion at least?”

“It’s broad daylight.”

Velora shot Samis a look, then silently pointed at the swirling, feathered hurricane above them.

“Fair point,” he said, slightly abashed.

Another dog raced by, a streak of brown and black. There was a snarl of teeth, and then he dove into the black, viny torrent without a care in the world.

Velora gently poked one of the rattling flora, and it hissed angrily at her again. She wasn’t bitten by thorns for her troubles, but it was clear she was not welcome into the park. “Halsin isn’t the type to get this violent without proper reason,” she said. “Even with his paramour in danger, this seems a bit excessive.” She’d never guessed that the calm, quiet man she’d watched trail after Astarion’s coattails like a lost puppy could cast such violent magic. “I don’t like it.”

“Your little princess keeps getting us into bigger and bigger shit,” Helric muttered. He seemed reluctant to follow them into the gardens and glared at the chaos with a tired expression. “The Watch will be in there too. Somewhere. You must be careful, they won’t be kind if they catch you.”

“We. You’re wanted too.”

Instead of justifying her with a response, the dwarf pulled his sword free of its worn leather scabbard and marched into the overgrowth. One of the dark green vines tried to snatch his leg, but he sliced it clean with barely a glance. 

She followed him with her own sword raised, shield held tight in front of her as she eyed each vine for cruel intent. Another tried to grab her when she came close enough, but Helric cut that one as well. His eyes were their own little storm clouds now.

“Careful,” he hissed with irritation.

“It’s alright. If this is Halsin’s doing, he likely doesn't intend to hurt anyone. This... noise is probably meant to scare people away.”

“I don’t trust it, ma’am.” Samis was a coiled spring to her right, eying the bestial, snake-like flora that had quickly formed a cage around them, blocking off the way they’d come. He held a blade in each hand, teeth grit in silent fear. He lit one dagger with a soft spell, and a cool blue glow settled over the three of them as he held it like a torch. “They’ve caged us in.”

She breathed a slow, calming breath, then closed her eyes. After a moment, she called out, “Halsin? It’s Velora. I just want to talk.”

Nothing.

The vines quietly twisted around them. The earth groaned in protest beneath their feet, and Samis latched onto Velora’s left arm, a wide-eyed terror blazing in his eyes. Snake-like tendrils slithered in and out of the shadows of their little cage, their thorns ripping through the soil as some dug beneath the cobblestone path they tread upon. The glowing flora that had been donated by Blackstaff couldn’t be seen anywhere. For all they knew, these vines had sprouted from them.

Helric cut down the row of vines blocking the way forward, marching deeper into the gardens. Velora and Samis moved forward another step, the vines behind them locking their only escape route. Their tiny glowing bubble was a claustrophobic affair, the air sick with chlorophyll and raked earth. Despite Helric’s bravado, Velora knew they each lived only by the mercy of the unknowable flora that had encased them completely in its branches.

Samis was one of the bravest kids she’d ever met throughout her career, and yet she couldn’t quite blame him for shrinking in fear as they stepped deeper into darkness. His glowing blue dagger shivered in terror, and she could practically hear his knees knocking. “Y-You know, maybe we should, um… Maybe if we ask nicely--”

“Look around. He’s not in a charitable mood,” Helric said. He slashed another row of vines, apparently unconcerned that they were in terrible danger. “There’s only one way through it now, and that’s forward.”

To Halsin. Velora sighed, trying again. “Halsin, listen to me! Whatever is going on, we can fix it! Just calm down, okay? I promise we’ll find Ast--”

She felt something gently snake its thorny tendril around her ankle. Staring at Samis with wide fiery eyes, time seemed to pause for a brief moment. Then she shrieked as it violently pulled her to the ground. She dropped her shield in panic. Samis caught her hand and tried to cut her free, but she was painfully yanked deeper into the dark. Helric roared with fury, and she heard him hacking and slashing at the flora blocking his way. 

Thrust into that churning, twisted darkness, the vines swallowed her whole like a tremendous hungry whale lurching up from the depths of the earth. Soil choked down her throat, sticky sap smearing across her face, hands, and legs. Her whole body ached and she was smeared in blood and dirt as the vines twisted her into rough angles without care for her welfare. On and on it went, dragging, pulling, thrashing, swallowing, until the vines finally spat her out at the center of the maze.

She landed on her knees, lungs burning as she tried desperately to cough them up and out of her. She was covered in soil, scratches, and sticky fluids from the vine’s rough care. She’d lost her sword at some point, and the sharp claws of helplessness clutched itself around her heart.

Halsin didn’t even have the decency to look at her. A man was strung upside down in vines before him, the left side of his face bathed in blood. He wore the garb of a Black Robe. His featureless mask had been tossed aside, revealing the face of someone that Velora had never thought to see again.

Had never wanted to, in fact. Not ever again.

The druid’s voice was a low, menacing whisper. Soft in all the ways the vines had not been. “This talking corpse tells me that he’s your--”

“Sister!” Despite his predicament, the upside-down bloodied man cackled with apparent glee at the sight of her. The mad glint in his eye hadn’t eased with time, and he tilted his head in wonder at their chance meeting. It had been… fifteen years? At least fifteen. Likely more. They’d both swore they’d never speak to each other again after the last parting. “So the druid wasn’t lying. How very quaint! I always knew you were a traitor, but this …”

Though she had finally caught her breath again, she remained doubled over with exhaustion. Tears still blurred her vision, but her red-headed brother was indeed at Halsin’s mercy. Here in all his glory, freckles, dimples, crazed smile and all. “Phineas…?” Another hoarse cough as her lungs tried to punch up through her throat. Everything burned. She rubbed her eyes free of tears with the palms of her hands and cursed softly.

“Oh, come now. Don’t look so shocked! We all knew that I was destined for the role.”

The role of a Black Robe. Lord Vexxus had groomed him from an early age, but few knew the rituals that it took to become one, and fewer still succeeded in any of them. Even with his latent cruelty, it was hard to reconcile such a leap in Velora’s mind. Phineas had been a plucky little boy, once. A scampering, snotty shadow that followed her wherever she went in the family manor, asking annoying questions, stealing her toys, breaking her cat’s neck--okay. Okay, perhaps that was the first sign. Perhaps… perhaps they should have known better.

Looking at him now, she recalled what her mother had said so long ago regarding her parentage. ‘Don’t be stupid, child. The man is sterile. Neither one of you came from him.’

“You’re… you’re one of the bhaalspawn,” she whispered, still struggling to compose herself.

“Isn’t it obvious?”

In retrospect? Yes. But the truth still burned a sour note in her gut. “I… I can’t believe…” Velora coughed again, glancing nervously at Halsin who seemed quite content to watch them argue for the moment. Perhaps he was happy to learn more about his victim. “You let me blame myself,” she said. “After the accident. Father said you went mad, that you killed Kit because of what I did. And then we found that stash of mice…”

Rat kings all tied together in a neat little bow, each pinned to a board and vivisected. Their little entrails had been shaped into symbols. She’d found it beneath his bed when hunting down the stench. Father beat her within an inch of her life, choosing to believe she’d led him to do it. 

Halsin dropped Phineas with a grunt of annoyance, and the man fell badly onto his back. He groaned in pain, his hands still pinned behind him with what seemed to be razor-sharp vines that cut into his wrists, making them bleed. He scrambled to his knees, but despite the pain and desperation he must be feeling, he laughed at his sister with no clear care at all.

“An accident? Is that what we’re calling it now, sister?”

“I didn’t know what I was doing--you were hurting me, I was just trying to make it stop!”

Halsin sighed heavily. The earth came up around Phineas and swallowed him up to his neck. Her brother's face blanched, finally glancing back at the druid still desperate to kill him. 

“Whatever this is… it's irrelevant.” Halsin raised a fist and squeezed it tight. Phineas began to choke as the earth around his body clamped around him in a vice-like grip. “Where is he?”

When Halsin released his hold, Phineas spat blood in his face. The druid punched him, and Velora was certain she heard a bone crack in the blow. He did not hold back.

“Halsin, please! For Torm’s sake, it’s my brother! Don’t kill him!!” She didn’t know why she cared, but she did. She had never quite managed to ease the guilt, even now that she knew the truth of it.

But she was ignored. 

“Where is Astarion!? ”

Her brother cackled again, bleeding profusely from his lips now. His speech was slurred. It was likely he’d bitten his tongue. “You’ll get nothing from me, you mewling beast! Kill me and I return to my father’s dark embrace.”

“Halsin, please! Don’t!!”

She didn’t have a way of stopping him. Even if she did threaten him with her sword, he could bat her away easily. He’d shut down the entire garden in his fury, she was nothing to him. Appealing to his better nature seemed the only way forward, but Halsin was deaf to it now. His eyes burned with an anger only one could possibly quell, and he’d been taken from them. He might even be dead now.

“He is a bhaalspawn." Halsin didn’t look at her, glaring at something beyond her brother. “He was never yours.”

“We share a mother,” she insisted. A poor mother who never looked at him beyond the birthing rooms, but a mother all the same.

She remembered a red-headed, clumsy little boy who skinned his knees on the northern steps and screamed bloody murder about it. He demanded that she kiss it better because only Velora ever bothered to do so. Only she could see something in him beyond a legacy, only she recognized the snot-nosed brat that he truly was. A child who had been given impossible goals to accomplish, immense pressure following him with every step he took. He crept through the lonely halls of Vexxus manor knowing that if he failed, he would become her. 

Lord Vexxus only ever beat him once, and that was all it took. 

Halsin hit him again. This time, she saw a tooth fly out of his mouth. Despite the violence, his tone was deceptively calm this time. “Where is Astarion?”

Her brother cackled again, a hoarse, wet thing that sounded like a death rattle. Halsin still wasn’t looking at him. He was looking beyond them both to the park bench near the enchanted wishing well at the center of the garden maze. Both it and the well were simple marble designs, the expense and effort lain more so in the hedges, flora, and front entrance than in the statuary here. Velora finally followed his gaze, jerking forward a step when she finally noticed it.

In the middle of the stone bench was a long, pale finger. It wore an elegant silver ring. She already knew what the tiny elven script would read. 

If lost, return to Tav or Halsin.

Chapter Text

Tick tock.

The metronome would have driven him mad if he hadn’t been sent there already. It was just two weeks after the tomb, and Astarion didn’t have very many thoughts at all, truth be told. He still felt catatonic for days at a time, and Cazador delighted in dragging him around as a pet to coo and comfort like a sick, broken bird. He hadn’t let Astarion be left alone at all since retrieving him from the dark, demanding that Godey drag him around when the boy’s legs gave out from lack of practice and malnutrition. He’d fed him slowly, painfully, rat by rat. Relishing the lack of true progress.

“My little beauty,” he’d said, gently stroking his hair. Fingers always, always brushing through his hair.

Today, a day like any other, Cazador scribbled notes into his ancient journal, that stray hand wandering down to pet fluffy white curls. The only thing worse than unrelenting torture was the boredom of it all. Astarion sat beside his master’s chair as a silent, limp doll, awaiting orders with sleepy, unfocused eyes and a lax posture that betrayed his lack of muscle control. It was all a ruse to make them both seem more domesticated than they actually were. Cazador was all about the illusion. If he couldn’t have the love of his spawn, he could certainly force them to pretend.

As the hours crawled by, Cazador forgot he existed entirely, so wrapped up in his work that Astarion might as well have been one of the many statues adorning the palace. He should know, he’d been ordered to pose as one for weeks early on in his slavery. It was strange, to know the things that a vampire could endure. Stranger still, to know what his master’s compulsion could force upon him, endurance or not.

“Five, seven, five,” the master muttered, pinching his brows as he struggled to form a single coherent haiku. It had been some time since he’d started this latest round, and apparently, none were satisfactory. His sharp claws idly scratched a pleasant spot behind Astarion’s left ear, and he’d die before he admitted leaning into the touch without being prompted. 

Tick tock, said the metronome. 

He was… so utterly exhausted. They’d both been playing this disgustingly affectionate facade since leaving the tomb and Astarion ached for the kennels just for a change in scenery. At least in the kennels, he didn’t have to constantly remind himself that he hated the fucker.

“Daylight slips away,” Cazador recited, “Longing for the sun's embrace. Darkness fills the void.” 

Astarion was very, very careful not to roll his eyes when his Master glanced down at him for approval. He smiled limply, and said with a bit too much sarcasm, “It’s very nice, master.” I hate it. Can I go now?

Cazador’s claws suddenly gripped tight, his smile a thin white line. “I don’t believe I asked for your input, boy. As it is, your mind is far too simple for poetry. You can barely read.”

He thought to object because of course he was well-read. He could read and write and even compose actual coherent poetry if he wanted to. He could write circles around Cazador, once, and likely had when he was still of sound mind. Hadn’t he? He’d been a magistrate, had studied entire libraries of law and art, and was damned good at what he did. Top of his class. The youngest to ever serve. 

…Wasn’t he?

A cloud of doubt settled over him. The details were a bit fuzzier these days. Sometimes, he couldn’t recall if it was his father who died or his mother. Sometimes, Ravia’s eyes changed to a wicked red hue, and sometimes she grew fangs like his own. Sometimes, she came to him in his worst nightmares and peeled back the skin from his fingers just to hear him whimper. Sometimes--

A million different voices, each from a shattered memory that he couldn’t quite recall, chittered various insults at him. Every last thing Cazador ever said about him was true in that moment, and he was only good for one thing. A year trapped in stone, in the dark, in the cold, without breath or relief, it had been meant to teach him this one lesson. They rose to a chaotic cacophony. Astarion stared up at Cazador like the living dead he often tried not to be. He didn’t even breathe. He nodded stiffly, unable to speak. The master hadn’t requested his input.

The claws calmed in his hair and smoothed back into a loving caress. Astarion shivered and leaned into it. He was trembling like a high-tension wire. He’d been kneeling for hours and his knees were screaming for a change in position, but he didn’t dare move.

“Don’t you fret, my dear. Now, then. Let’s put that pretty mouth to better use…”

When he’d finally been left alone in Cazador’s bed, chained to one of the posts just for the ‘pleasing visual it presented,’ he carefully stitched the beginning of his own poem into the lining of his shirt. He’d stolen the needle from Cazador’s little box of tortures, and the thread from a fraying hem in one of the sheets. 

He’d been rattling it around in his troubled mind for hours while Cazador failed to complete a single verse, and it was the only way to remind himself that he lived in a web of lies. Trapped, spun, and cocooned. 

“Lamentable is the autumn picker content with plums,” it read. The fabric was stained with tears, because he could not hold back the gnawing tide behind his eyes. With a silent, stifled sob, he pierced his thumb with the needle to calm himself, leaving a tiny splotch of blood on the final ‘s’ as he did so. 

It never did clean out. 

And then there was a woman with silver hair and a wicked smile. No, no, the smile was soft and tender. A little twitch of her lips, uncertain. Worried. As if she’d break him with a thought. But she wouldn’t do that then, not then. Later. “What are you writing?”

They were in a room that smelled like home, the sunny rays of Baldur’s Gate spilling in from the family gardens. A bird was chirping happily not far from the window, but Astarion’s eyes held only the notebook in front of him. “Secrets,” he muttered, scribbling cryptic scrawl onto the pages.

“Szarr left you another poem.” Ravia hugged herself, chilled by his cold shoulder. “I… I burned it before Mother saw.”

He blinked up at her, unable to process what she’d said. His mind sloshed about like a port wine. It took him a long moment of staring blankly at her frightened, pale face before he demanded, “Did you read it?”

“Heavens, no.” The pretty crease in her brow crinkled with disgust. “He’s no bard, and the penmanship is barely legible.”

“I know,” Astarion sighed. He went back to his notebook, spilling more secrets onto the page. He felt her lean in close to catch a peak, and he covered it with his hands in response. He leered up at her with bared teeth. “Secrets,” he hissed.

“I’m sorry, I-I’m… I’m just worried about you, brother.”

“Oh?” He dramatically flounced his wrist and then gestured at his slim, pale body with no small amount of derision. His eyes were bruised from lack of rest, and his hair was wild and mussed from too many hours spent picking at the strands. With false cheer, he chirped, “I don’t see why you would be. I’m getting married soon!”

“You’ve… you’ve accepted his hand, then?”

“Since when did anyone care about my acceptance? Mother’s determined. She’ll get her way soon enough, I’m sure of it.”

“Astarion--”

He didn’t look up at her, returning to his notebook. To his secrets. He couldn’t remember them anymore, of course, lost as everything else had been. They’d been rather important at the time, though. “Leave. I don’t want to talk right now.”

But she didn’t. Ravia rarely listened to him, always concerned for his welfare when no one else cared to do so. From behind him, he could sense her pacing back and forth. She stopped at his side a moment later, and finally admitted, “I… I saw the sundrops, Star. In your room. I know you’re taking them. I just want to--”

He exploded from his chair, knocking it backward with a loud clang. He pushed her violently towards the door and shouted, “Leave!! ”

And then there were tears in her cool blue eyes. “You don’t have to do this alone! I want to help you!!”

“I don’t need your help,” he sneered. “I never did!”

“That’s not true.”

“Get out!!”

He pushed her back violently and she suddenly spilled into the dream sea, bursting into ribbons. He swam within her threads as they twisted all around him, tangling up his legs, his arms, his mouth, binding him within a strong cocoon made entirely of her essence. A mad little whisper tickled the shell of his ear: ‘I’ve changed my mind. I think you deserve to stay. ’

She had cut into him over and over on Cazador’s order, taking pieces that he’d never get back again. He couldn’t quite recall who she was at first, but then the clarity dawned when she'd named him brother. He must have had a sister, once. He must have had a mother and father too. He didn’t know where they’d gone and what Cazador had done to him to make him forget, but surely he hadn’t spawned into that alley like an imp plucked straight from the hells. He was a person once, a person with hopes and dreams and a beating heart. 

He’d tried to escape. Many, many, many times, though this one had been the last. She’d come striding towards him with a confident sway of her hips, snatching his jaw with the entitled, claw-like grip Cazador favored.

“Silly boy,” she cooed. “You’ve nowhere to go. They’re all dead. Elgg-hor killed the last.” 

The name shifted and warped as she spoke it, echoing with that of another he couldn’t quite decipher. Elgg-hor. It meant something… something important. Drums beat the syllables into him, each layered in her soft voice. Duk-tak. Nagon. Urgir. He didn’t know what they meant. The names held a vague sense of familiarity, and he felt another creature from two centuries later violently shake him by the death grip in his hair. It must have meant something, surely… Okukuutira. Sollecitare. Undov.

There was a low, throaty chuckle. A death rattle of bones and gas. “Its mind dribbles like rotten offal,” the creature said. “Many have tread in the folds of you.”

Pain. In his head, in his spine, in his eyes. They’d done something to him while he’d drifted. Bleeding, the sick slide of cut flesh beneath his eyelids. A blade to his face? To his back? The agony radiated in so many different places that it was hard to tell. He felt the pull of a thousand deaths rumble through his mind, little tortures from over the eons and another life that he couldn’t quite recall anymore. They were all howling, demanding that he tend to them, remember them, honor them. And then that hand was in his hair again, always, always in his fucking hair. They were all the same. Maim with one hand, cherish with the other.

“I-If you’d only…” He swallowed the bile back down in his throat. It burned like a gout of flame. “--a-ask nicely, I-I’d--”

The hand shook him, and diced brain matter battered against the inside of his skull. He groaned, unable to help himself. 

“My son is in this broken little leech, and I will peel him from its skinned, mewling corpse. When it dies, when it returns, I will find it again, again, again.”

Astarion’s entire body felt flaccid, like a fish out of water. His legs and arms were numb, a puppet with cut strings. He gasped for the sea and groaned again, louder this time. Gods, if only he could reach it. He didn’t want to be here anymore. He stared dumbly out at the dark and wondered how long he’d been here. Time had lost all meaning somewhere along the way, and there was nothing to judge the passage anymore. Nothing, no one, but the hand and the void licking at his crumbling sanity. He was alone again, in the dark, in the dark with his demons, in the cold, sharp, unrelenting void that never, ever--no. 

He took a deep breath, held it, released it. It shuddered from within him with a crazed chuckle, but at least he didn’t whimper again. He couldn’t see. That was all. They’d done something to his eyes and his spine and his mind and his body, limbs cut and mended, eyes plucked and given back, skin peeled and regrown, fingernails pulled--but it would heal. It always did. A little bit of blood, a little bit of time. He was immortal, he would survive this too.

He felt something trickle down his cheeks, and wondered if they were tears. His eyes hurt, everything burned. They’d done something to his--to his--to his--his hands hurt too. Something felt off with his left ring finger. It was screaming for attention. He tried to move it but felt nothing at all. Odd.

“Pay attention or I will sever that clever tongue as well. Will it grow back, I wonder? The rest of you certainly seemed to do so.”

The sharp edge of a knife slid into his mouth. It didn’t taste like metal. It was cold and hard and slick with rotten gore. It gently pierced his tongue, and Astarion gagged as he tasted the revolting dead flair of his own blood well up from the injury. The blade left him a moment later, and he swallowed the liquid back down into his throat. He would need it all if he was going to get out of here, dead or not.

A disgusted, tired sigh. And then magic slammed into him once again. 

Void. The blink of an eye, the guttering of a candle. Stone scraping against stone, Cazador’s cruel chuckle rattling against his eardrums. Black and black and black and silence. Cold stone bound tight around him, like a coffin for the dead thing that had forgotten its purpose. This was a place meant for eternal slumber, and though Astarion’s heart didn’t beat and his lungs didn’t breathe, it had never occurred to him how exhausted he was. Cazador had killed him in that cramped, blood-soaked alley, and it wasn’t until he was forced to embrace the void that he realized he’d never, in fact, woken up again. He’d been dead for so long that he’d forgotten.

But he did not rest in peace. He lay in the void and screamed until the air ran out, and then he lay there and convulsed, choking and sputtering and aching for something as simple as a fresh breeze. Then drifting as the rats in his belly clawed at his insides, drifting in the void until he became a shapeless blob of nothing, drifting, drifting, drifting into the timeless sea of another plane entirely. Elves didn’t need to sleep, but Astarion had learned the merits of it during that year of eternal rest. The dreams of mortals were useful to escape from the Reverie, far from the living nightmares and every last one of his sins. Dreams of foreign lands, dreams of heroes coming to save him, dreams of the ocean, of his mother and sister, of his father’s final breath. A kiss to his brow and the promise of everything being forgiven. Apologies to the void. Unheard, unwanted, and unspoken once the air ran out. 

He went mad down there. He knew he did. He came back wrong, and Cazador knew it too. Had relished in it, because a dominant young man too stubborn to listen was thrust into that tomb, and what came out was a submissive little boy keen to please his master. 

Cat blood in his mouth. A beautiful young man with eyes the color of grain crying in betrayal. A slash of red across his neck, splashing all over the floor. 

Clean that up, boy.

“It believes its master can save it from my quarry.”

The laughter that bubbled up from Astarion’s throat was pitchy and breathless. The very notion of Cazador saving him from anything was insane on multiple levels. He must surely be going mad if this undead god-creature who continued to torture him truly believed that Astarion had conjured these memories out of choice. He hadn’t, had he?

Surely not. Who would he even be protecting?

“It-It would h-help,” Astarion huffed, shuddering from the pain, “if you w-would remind me who the S-Slayer is. I-I’ll give him to you.” Please, make it stop. 

He was thrown to the floor, and he felt slick, wet gore beneath his palms. He slipped when he attempted to rise up again and landed painfully on his jaw. He felt something crack in his mouth, and blood pooled there again. More pain, more internal screaming. It was all very droll now. He still didn’t have proper motor control. Whatever had been done to him, it had occurred while he’d blacked out. The unrelenting darkness caused him to shudder again, and his eyes were wide as he desperately tried to peer around him to witness nothing but choking darkness. A panicky little voice whispered that maybe it was permanent this time. He’d been there so often, in the dark, in the cold, that he couldn’t deal with it, he wouldn’t. Not again. If Halsin couldn’t fix it, he’d--

Halsin. Halsin would be looking for him. He could hold on for Halsin, couldn’t he? Everything would be fine. He could survive this. He’d kill them all and walk out of here with his eyes intact, functioning limbs, and each of his--

Carefully, he brushed the searing pain of his left ring finger and felt a twisted, bloody stump instead. He swallowed the whimper that followed, refusing to give it to them. They’d cut off his ring finger. He needed that finger back. It was one of his favorites.

“Father, he trembles and squeaks like a little mouse. Shall I eviscerate him? Please, please, please? I do very much wish to make his insides sing--”

“Take it to the abattoir, and fetch it a snack. It will need to feed before I am done with it.”

“Y-Yes,” the first voice, crazed and sing-song said. A woman, likely. She sounded disappointed, and Astarion scrambled to recall that he’d been taken by cultists. Murderers. Bhaalspawn. Bhaalspawn who’d cut off his fucking finger. “By your leave.”

He would kill them all. He wasn’t sure how, but they were all going to die.

A slender hand wrapped itself around his left arm, and he was more or less dragged away. He knew the word abattoir--old slang, Luskan in nature. Slaughter room. He tried to fight her even though he’d heard ‘Father’ demand that he be fed instead of killed. The room meant nothing good for him, blood or not.

Even though he couldn’t quite control his limbs just yet, he managed to squirm in her grip well enough to warrant a sharp slap to his cheek. She held him with one hand, grabbing his hair with the other. Again. Over and over and over again.

“Stop your twitching, little mouse! The cat will not feast just yet.”

When he continued to resist, she kicked him in the ribs. He felt a bone crack somewhere in his chest, and he hissed with agony. His eyes, his ribs, his finger, they’d take his hands next. He wouldn’t stand for it. 

“Surely w-we can come to some s-sort of arrangement,” Astarion tried, as charming as he could be while suffering the aftereffects of torture. He’d had much practice, and his voice came out surprisingly even this time. “If you just give me a moment to collect myself--”

“A shame he didn’t cut your mouth-flap. But I admit, it is a lovely little thing. I hope he will let me keep it when he is done with you. I wish to let it lick your innards.”

Okay then. Astarion swallowed, wincing as the puncture in his tongue announced its presence again. He clamped his mouth shut, and let her drag him through the dark, towards some terrible, unknowable fate. There had been someone else, someone that smelled like campfire treats and honey. Someone who had given him the carving of a snowcat. Someone who wouldn’t leave him here.

‘The gods themselves couldn’t break that beast.’

No, he thought, as he was thrust into what sounded and felt like a cage. He wasn’t going to wait for something as insipid as a rescue. The woman kicked him harshly again, likely to thrust him further inside. The rusted click of an old lock clanged between them, and then she trotted away with a giggle. Surely they didn’t think an old, rotted thing like that could keep him in here? He didn’t need to see to know the lock was an old model, the sort rushed through cheap factories and choked streets coated with oil and ash. One harsh tug and he’d be free. Frankly, it was insulting. Once he had the use of his hands again, his fingers, once he could walk, once he could see, once he could function at all, he was going to break that thing apart, find a weapon, and then drink them all dry. He’d heal from their screams of agony. He’d--

A rustle in the dark. To his left. Small and delicate, like a cat. A rat? His head swerved to look at it, though he saw nothing. Nothing, nothing, nothing but the fucking void. It better not be permanent.

He sniffed, narrowing those dead, marred eyes like a crazed predator. Though he didn’t know it, with his face bathed in blood and his rage plain to see, he looked like the monster Cazador had made him. And then he blinked, realizing that he smelt… halfling? It was hard to tell, what with the iron tang of dead blood coating every surface, but surely that was a halfling.

He sniffed again and tilted his head. Grassy knolls, peppermint tea. Something sweet. She’d eaten before ending up here. Perhaps they’d taken her in the middle of dinner? He could hear her heart pitter-patter like a trapped little butterfly. Young. Feminine. He didn’t know how he knew. He just did.

“Are you to be my snack, then?” Astarion chuckled, a dark and sinister little thing. He was so very, very angry. “Don’t you worry, little morsel. I only eat monsters. They go down much easier than mewling children.”

A frightened whimper answered him, and he heard her crawl into the farthest corner. With effort, Astarion dragged himself into the opposite corner, trying his best to look pathetic. It was difficult when he was so angry. They’d taken his finger.

“Truly,” he tried again, frowning as he smelled her terror build like a fine wine. Cazador always loved the young ones.

(Young like he had been once, a playful, wide-eyed babe who'd wandered off to steal a trinket from the Sorcerer's Sundries gift shop. Cazador caught his tiny wrist reaching for the dormant rock of a fallen star. Astarion showed no fear, kicking the man in the shin and screaming for his sister to help him. Cazador was charmed. He bought the meteorite for him, remarking, 'What a bold little thing you are.'

He'd never know that Vellioth's shredded body lay waiting on the floor of the manor's front lobby while his successor prowled the streets that night. Cazador intended to glut himself on the city's lower stock for the first time in his undeath, but that beautiful, mischievous boy turned his gaze. The fresh vampire lord crawled back to his master's rotting corpse with an empty pocket, a growling stomach, and plans for a new spawn to groom.)

And maybe that’s how Astarion knew. He’d smelt this many, many times before. “You’ve nothing to fear from me," he said, a little distracted. "I can barely move, after all. And I… I think they did something to me. When I was…” He shook his head, drifting off suddenly. A mistake, because his mind answered back with a roar of pain and the beating of a thousand hammers. He clutched his temples and hissed, trying to soothe the ache. 

“I won’t hurt you,” he repeated quietly. To himself, to the dark, to her if she’d even listen. A resolution thrummed through him like one of Wyll’s annoying oaths. Though her sick-sweet blood would surely cure a good portion of his ailments, he was done hurting people for the whims of others. Especially children. 

“If they come for you, I’ll kill them.”

The little halfling girl that he could taste in the air said nothing to him. He heard her sniffle. There was salt. Wet, hot tears, and the fluttering of an anxious heart. He closed his eyes and let it lull him into a gentle doze. That heart would keep on beating, or so help him he’d slaughter them all. Not because he cared for some random midget, of course, but because he should. Because a strange drow with dark gray eyes had told him once that he was worth caring for, and because he would not do this again. He would not be what they made him, what he’d been for the last two centuries. 

He lurched forward, palm clutching his brow with a hiss of pain. The flash of a smile, lips against his brow, blind panic as a spell washed over him. Tav was gone. He didn’t remember much, but he knew that he was gone and he might never come back. He might even be dead, for all they knew. Even Taverine of the Undercity ran out of miracles eventually.

“No,” Astarion muttered to the dark. “No, no, no…” He gently rocked back and forth, still clutching his head. Everything hurt, but that was the worst of it. Whatever this undead creature had done to him, his mind was having trouble coping with it. Something had happened to him… a curse from a woman in an alley. She wore his own face, according to… to… and darkness. A rabbit leaping over a silver star. 

Sharp, slippery fear.

Tav was a clearer memory at least, and Halsin too. But he knew that there were others more recently. A wizard named after the weather… Wind? Thunder? Something… something equally ridiculous like that. And a draconic woman who swore by the oath of a brilliant god. She’d been named for a flower. Daisy, perhaps. Violet? They’d seemed… reliable. Determined to help him for some inane reason, likely out of a ridiculous sense of honor. He didn’t trust they’d come for him, but he knew that Halsin would. Halsin would die barreling down here in that ridiculous cave bear getup. Even an archdruid would struggle alone against an unknown quantity of bhaalspawn cultists in their own bloody haven.

Like Tav had been. They were both dead, both gone, both--and gods, he’d been married a month ago. For five whole years. Married and happy and dozing every night with the sharp reminder of Cazador’s ugly, painful death. And now he was here. Two dead lovers at his feet, trapped in another cage with another frightened child, and… and…

Tav was dead. Had to be. Dead like Halsin once he came here. Dead like all the other rotted souls Astarion could smell in the walls around him, in the floor, in the crust of his fingernails. What was the saying? Blood, blood everywhere, but not a drop to drink?

He shook himself like a dog from the stream, and anger returned to him. “No! Stop that.” He slapped his own face and sneered into the dark. The pain fueled the fire in his belly. “We’ll get out of here, and then we’ll find him,” he told the little girl. “It’s like that cat in the box. It’s not dead until I open it, right? So that’s what I’ll do. Don’t believe me? I’m an actual bloody hero. I know it sounds ridiculous, but if I can stab a giant brain while dodging dragons and air strikes from a damned nautiloid, I can kill a few cultists. I can. I can save you, I can save him, I can save myself. And then I’ll get my finger back. We’ll be fine. We’ll be fine. ”

If she believed him, she didn’t show it. She continued to cry in that dark little corner, and he stared on and on into the void, desperate to believe his own lies.

Chapter Text

Tara suspected something awful would happen for quite a while now. There had been a flavor in the wind lately, the strange taste of rage, meat, and sharpened steel. Something… familiar, though she couldn’t quite place the source. It was maddening, knowing that there was a snarling horror somewhere in the city just beyond her senses, and she had half a mind to hunt down her old partner and insist that he look into the matter. It was all she could do to protect Mrs. Dekarios in his absence. She told the woman time and again to avoid walking Vecna too soon to sunset and insisted that she steer clear of any sewer grates, dark alleys, and the shifty-eyed men down by the docks. 

“Now, now, Tara,” Mrs. Dekarios said with a waggle of her finger. “I can mind myself just fine. No need to fret, my dear.”

But fret Tara did. That bloody haze lingered like a whisper, a cold, cruel promise to those who knew how to listen. The primal part of her was hungry to find it and learn what it wanted from her. The civilized part knew to steer clear of it entirely. 

She’d been managing well enough until the sky went dark and the birds went mad. Vecna ran off howling his fury at the gardens, his leash still attached and waving behind him like a leather ribbon. Mrs. Dekarios fled home to contact her son, but they knew the fool wouldn’t answer. He hadn’t for the better part of a year now, and Tara was quite cross with him. With both of them, though she’d never dare say such things directly to the lady Mystra’s face. There had been nothing but trouble between the two since they’d reunited, and the last she’d heard, her friend had stopped speaking entirely. To her, to his family, to anyone at all. Tara tried to make him see sense for once, but Gale Dekarios was thoroughly lost in his melancholy. He was prone to such fits in the past, but this was different. Nothing would pull him free until he was ready to be seen again.

It was worse than those awful years of isolation after the curse. For the first time in her life, Mr. Dekarios shut Tara out and wouldn’t see her for all the shiny baubles in Waterdeep. She’d tried many, many times, each offering a bit grander than the last. He wouldn’t see her even when she curled up against him, twining between his legs, rubbing her soft fur against his fingertips. His touch was still, an absence of feeling. A spiraling abyss stared back at her from his cold, dark eyes.

Tara sorely mourned her friend, but she was the practical sort and knew better than to linger on such things. Despite her irritation with the whole affair, she trusted Mr. Dekarios’s strength to overcome the spell he’d fallen into. He’d done it before, after all. And then… well, she knew how to reach him, once he allowed her to do so. A nice book, a little bit of purring, and some shiny trinkets would do the man wonders. Perhaps she should check in on him again. Perhaps she’d been too hasty to leave… she was one of the few who could still reach him in the Astral Plane, and Tara doubted Mystra had been any kinder since she’d left them for Mrs. Dekarios’s homely estate. It was quite likely that he would not heal without help.

As she approached the gardens with a graceful glide of her delicate wings, she firmly decided that now wasn’t the time to question her own judgment. She didn’t need Mr. Dekarios to fix this, and he wasn’t the only capable wizard in Waterdeep. 

The birds swirled overhead in every shape, size, and color. Some had finally begun to peter off back into the trees, but others continued to take their place. It was hard to understand what they were saying, but one phrase was sung well over the rest: find him, find him, find him.

She spotted a white dog trapped outside the garden’s eastern entrance, as it was overrun by vicious black vines. Other creatures seemed to dart in and out of them rather freely, but each time the canine tried, the vines gently pushed him back again. 

Curious, she swooped in for a closer look. She could feel the strong pull of the spell and held sympathy for the creatures who’d fallen into it. Vecna was likely still out here somewhere, searching for someone that she couldn’t quite envision. Her tie to Mr. Dekarios was far too potent, and she’d warded herself well against such charms in the past. This wasn’t meant for her.

When her paws touched the ground next to the white dog, she gasped, her tail gently twitching. “Scratch? Dear lord, what are you doing here?”

The dog barked at her in relief, his kind eyes glistening with untold sadness. “He won’t let me in!”

“Who?”

“Halsin! My friend! The one that smells like earth. He won’t let me in!!”

“Halsin of the Grove?” At his confirmed bark, she tilted her head slightly and sniffed the air. Indeed, his familiar elven flavor could be tasted in the breeze. That undercurrent of sour meat had become stronger as well. How odd. This chaos had to be the cause of a powerful druid, but she’d never considered it would be one of hers. “Why is he doing this?”

“I don’t know, but he won’t let me in! I need to help him!”

Tara sighed, though she held sympathy for her partner's old campmate. He seemed to be in great distress, whining softly, his tail tucked low behind him. “Easy, my friend. What has happened?”

“Your master was badly hurt. Like mine was, a long time ago…” At those words, Tara’s heart skipped several beats. Scratch continued on with a plaintive howl. “And then the pale one was taken by a monster! I tried to stop it, but I couldn’t. I was hurt, and when I came to, they were both gone. Halsin and I left to find him again, but we found something in the gardens instead. It smelled like the pale one. I don’t know what it was. Halsin became very angry at another man, a man who smelled bad, bad like death. He cast me out to protect me, raised the vines, and called the fowl to the skies. And now he won’t let me in!!”

That… was a lot to absorb. Tara sat back on her haunches, whiskers twitching as they tasted the air again. That foul thing that had been haunting the city was quite potent here. She set aside the disturbing news about Mr. Dekarios for later, despite her own heartbreak. “This smell, you can taste it? Rotten meat, steel, anger?”

“Yes!” Scratch barked once, a sharp and affirmative sound. He wagged his tail, happy that someone was finally listening to him. “It smells like the creature who took the pale one. I warned Halsin, and he said he smelt it too. Said it was like the undercity, from years ago. You remember? The city where Halsin was taken?” Tara struggled to translate this in her mind. Halsin, being taken to an undercity… surely he didn’t mean bhaalspawn? She hadn’t been there when he was kidnapped by Orin, but Mr. Dekarios had explained the whole tale to her after the brain died. It sounded quite harrowing. “The murder men,” Scratch continued. “They smell of hate and death. That’s what you’re sensing. That’s what the man in the gardens smelled like.”

It made sense, unfortunately. Tara’s fur bristled a bit, and her back arched slightly. Bhaalspawn in Waterdeep could hardly be a good thing, and now that she knew what it was, she realized they’d been settling within the dark crevices of the city for quite a while. She was very thankful that Mrs. Dekarios had fled home, with the wards and traps to keep her safe. 

“Halsin didn’t seem surprised. I think he cast me out to protect me because the murder men aren’t very kind.”

“Quite likely,” Tara agreed. “But this has gotten out of hand. Halsin is scaring the entire district. My friend has gone mad, I must find him. His name is Vecna. A black hound, similar to your build. Have you seen him?”

“I don’t know. I want to get into the gardens! I need to make sure he’s safe!”

“The vines will hardly allow us passage…” Tara looked up, sniffing the air again. The birds were still mad, screaming about finding someone important--likely Astarion--but there was enough room for a flight toward the center. “We can come in from above.”

“I cannot fly,” Scratch whined. “I have no wings!”

“Relax, my friend. I’m a wizard, remember?”

Halsin’s father had been a very angry man. Never cruel in his intentions, and he was well-loved despite his temper. But tiny honey badgers ran up and down his blood, making his limbs tremble and his eyes twitch at the slightest whim. He had hated everything about the world, from the way the sun rose each morning to its gradual fall as it settled into dusk. He would tell anyone brave enough to listen just how he felt about every topic. The spell plague, the folly of the gods, the push and pull of nature in her eternal war with man… He hated when Dahlia didn’t produce milk like she used to, he hated when Halsin was just a bit too slow in his chores, and he hated the weeds that constantly crept into their small garden no matter how viciously the family tore at their roots. He hated it when Halsin’s mother would quietly nod her head and say nothing at all. Or rather, she would say plenty, provided it was never about herself, her needs, or her desires. His father also hated being considered a failure, and it was true that he’d likely failed each of them in a particularly quiet way. But the only one he’d failed spectacularly was himself.

As a boy, Halsin would escape into the forests to breathe free of him, and it was there that he met Thaniel. Thaniel didn’t like anger either, preferring to express his emotions through action and wonder. Oliver would pop out whenever there was a particularly vexing issue, and the two would argue until they both agreed to let the matter rest, the entire event forgotten by the morn. When Halsin was still very little, he would allow himself a tantrum or two, but he often took after Thaniel’s example and expressed his urges through the whims of nature. A bear cub thrashing through the grasses seemed a lot more freeing than a young man yelling his frustrations to the heavens. The heavens never answered the likes of him, but Silvanus would always provide.

When he was still meandering through his first century, Halsin left Thaniel for the Underdark chasing rumors of glowing trees and mushrooms that burst into flames. He’d promised his friend to return in a few days, and came back three years later, nude, trembling, covered in drow blood, a chain still bound to his left wrist.

His father was quite angry about this as well, but Halsin buried his rage along with the rest of his qualms in the boudoir House Oblodra chained him to. Thaniel was sad, and his mother was devastated, but his father was angry, angry, angry--angry enough for both of them, angry enough that Halsin didn’t feel the need for it. He locked down his anger into a tight box, knowing that his size would instill fear and hurt those around him far more than he’d ever intended. He didn’t want people to experience what he felt in those silky spider-themed halls. 

And now… well. He never did learn how to control it, and perhaps he’d followed in the fiery footsteps of his father after all. Live long enough and the repetitions of history grew clearer with every rotation. The last time Halsin had gotten this angry, Reithwin suffered a hundred years of torment for his sins. Shar had buzzed and batted at his ear like a hoard of tiny black mosquitoes, and he’d lost his mind that night after an enduring trial he couldn’t quite recall anymore. He’d eventually broken into a fit of rage, forced to relive memories that he’d forgotten and visit places that he’d sworn to never return to. She whispered sweetly like his long-dead mother within his thoughts, caressing his hair with soft hands and promising safety for all eternity. He would never be bound again, taken and twisted and touched. She would take it all away, keep it safe from his waking mind forever and always if only he’d--

And he did. Silvanus forgive him, but he did.

He couldn’t remember doing it. He’d woken in the dead of night with crimson hands and a stifled sob locked into his throat. Standing over her lukewarm body like Tav to Alfira, the steps of Ketheric gently treading up the corridor and the mad chitters of a goddess suddenly, deafeningly, terrifyingly silent. 

He ran and ran and ran, fled like a coward from Ketheric’s rage as it consumed everything and everyone that he’d ever loved. He was too young then to realize what he’d done, and later too old to admit to such sins. Anger had done him no favors, not for Halsin, not for Ketheric, not for his father. If Thaniel knew the truth, he never mentioned it. Halsin thought to ask once or twice, but. Anger. It angered him to recall how he’d been used, again, how he’d been lured by pretty voices and the promise of something more.

Halsin was terrified of his own anger. 

Velora’s brother twitched and moaned as the vines continued to strangle him. It wasn’t until Velora physically pulled at Halsin’s shoulder that he relented. 

“Stop it!! ” She shivered in fear at the sight of him, worried that he’d hurt her.

Halsin swallowed the terror that built inside of him, the terror of his own wickedness and what he’d done. All for Astarion. All for a finger, all for a lost love. He didn’t care if the world had to burn for it, he just needed the man to be safe.

He tried to translate this with his eyes, but Velora didn’t know him well enough to understand it. He couldn’t speak anymore. He was so consumed by his own emotions that the very ground roiled with it. The tendrils of black magic rattled and hissed like snakes all around them. He heard the chittering of rats whispering reports to him. Dogs shouted constant updates, cats muttering from the alleys with opinions of their own. 

He had only one order for them, and the birds screamed it for the entire city to hear. 

Find him. Find him. Find him.

“Let him go.” She wasn’t armed, she was missing her shield, was scratched and bruised, her magic had been drained healing Gale earlier that day, and none of it mattered. Where he went cold and mad in his fury, Velora Vexxus was hot and righteous.

When he didn’t move, she shoved at him again. “I said let him go!!”

He did so. Phineas Vexxus fell like a stone and choked his way through desperate, wheezing gasps. He’d likely broken a rib. Good.

“Gods damn it all, druid! Look at me!”

Like a fly trapped in amber, he was slow to do so. To tear his gaze from that finger meant losing Astarion entirely. 

But he did.

Velora’s expression suddenly turned gentle, and she held up her hands in surrender. She moved in front of the finger, to block his sight of it. He growled softly, but she shook her head. “I get it, okay? This is the worst day either of us have had in a very long time, and I can’t imagine what you’re feeling right now. But terrorizing the city isn’t going to fix this. You need to stop.”

And may all the gods damn him, but he didn’t want to. He curled his hands back into fists, and glared at her, green magic flaring in his eyes. Velora stepped back, mouth agape with terror. The civilized, gentle part of him hated the sight of it. The bestial part of him was hungry to make the world cower just as she did in that moment.

“Mr. Silverbough! That is quite enough!!”

He blinked, and the rage was gone. Like an early swim in a winter stream, he was startled to sharp awareness. Blood on his hands. She was still warm.

Of all the things that Halsin expected to happen, it was not the sight of Tara and Scratch gently gliding down from the heavens to verbally assault him. The birds had formed a cyclone over the gardens, and it appeared the two had flown into the eye of it to penetrate Halsin’s barrier. He’d locked Scratch from entering for his own safety--Halsin didn’t trust himself not to hurt the people he loved most. Not when he was so angry.

Tara, well. Perhaps he should have expected Tara. Gale could only hide from her for so long, and she’d never ignore something like this in her own city.

“What the--” Velora cut herself off, and barked a short, crazed laugh at the sight of Scratch awkwardly swimming to the ground as magical particles floated up from his fur. The tressym landed much more gracefully, parking her gentle paws on the bench right beside Astarion’s severed finger.

Tara didn’t seem to notice it, her back arched and fur bristling with irritation. “What is the meaning of this?”

Halsin was at a loss for words. He’d only spoken to the tressym three times, once at Wither’s party, and then at both weddings. Their conversations, if they could be called such, were rather curt, her attention focused entirely on her partner as was a familiar’s way of things. 

“Tara, I--”

“Explain yourself, good sir!”

And suddenly, he wasn’t a large and imposing figure threatening an entire city block with his anger. He wasn’t his father, or Ketheric, or the sins of his past. He was just a broken man with a broken heart dripping with the fear of loss. His eyes stung with shame, and he felt himself curl slightly inward. He crossed his arms defensively. 

“I need to find him,” he whispered. “If he’s dead, I--”

“We will,” Scratch barked. A single, sharp retort for the way he’d been treated. “You mustn’t do that again. I only want to help!”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

The world was spilling into hot, wet colors. After a moment of hesitation, the shadow vines finally crawled back into the soil like burrowing eels, and the birds began to part overhead, revealing an overcast late afternoon sky. The sun was beginning to settle beyond the sea, and solar splashes danced beneath the clouds in hues of red, gold, and violet. Sorry, sorry, sorry , the birds chittered. And then, Find him, find him, find him.

The gardens began to retreat back to its normal beauty. The angry vines and spikes shrank back to softly glowing flora and well-trimmed hedges. Most creatures caught in the maze came to with confused whines and headed back towards homes, sewers, and shelters. He could hear them promising to find Astarion, even now. 

Don’t worry, they said. We will keep searching.

A fluffy black dog of similar build to Scratch darted free of the gardens a moment later and headed home to reassure Mrs. Dekarios that all was well.

A burning trail sizzled down Halsin’s cheek, and he tasted salt. He couldn’t breathe. Didn’t dare release the sob locked in his throat.

“Oh dear! I see now.” Tara had finally noticed Astarion’s ring finger next to her, and she gently sniffed it. “How terrible! Are you alright, my friend?”

How was he supposed to answer that? Nothing was ‘alright.’ Nothing would be 'alright' ever again.

Scratch rubbed his muzzle against Halsin’s hand, but Halsin twitched free with a hiss. He wouldn’t hurt Scratch, not like he had the others. The dog whimpered in confusion, and Tara sighed heavily. 

“Come sit down, Mr. Silverbough.”

He couldn’t move. He stood like one of the statuary, eyes burning, the world a blur of pain. He shook his head very gently. Her tail twitched. 

“Sit,” she ordered.

Halsin couldn’t do this as a man. His thoughts were too loud, the shame too potent. Tara’s back arched when he hesitated again, ready to give him a vicious verbal thrashing. With a gentle sigh, his body was suddenly consumed by soft green light. Where a large elf once stood, a small black cat was looking up at her.

He gracefully hopped up to the bench beside her and ignored that cold, pale finger as best he could. Tara rubbed against him and purred softly. 

“You’ve been holding this anger for far too long,” she admonished, licking his soft black ear. It twitched, but she took this as a sign to do so again. “I’ve seen it before. Such an awful fuss! A clear mind conquers all, you know.”

Halsin closed his eyes and rested his chin on his dark paws. He grumbled softly.

“Oh, hush now! Do you think you’re the only man to ever lose his temper? I’ll have you know Mr. Dekarios burned down an entire building when he was fifteen.” She stretched her wings, flicking them to reveal beautiful primary feathers stretched to the heavens. The sky was peaceful now. Far too lazy for such an horrid day. 

“I’m sure you can guess who inspired it,” she continued, alluding to Mystra. “They had such terrible rows, even back then… The fire he started threatened an entire block, but fortunately, I and other mages were able to quell the flames before they could truly spread. The poor dear was devastated, but this is what happens when powerful casters bottle their emotions so tightly. I tried to tell him so, but unfortunately, Mystra seemed to enjoy keeping him that way. Bottled like a wine teetering on the edge of a high shelf, destined to shatter at any moment. It was a wonder he held it back for so long…” 

Halsin tuned her out, recalling red hands, pale skin, and the mad cackle of a cruel, dark goddess. He thought of Astarion dying in the bed at that dwarf’s burned-down home, and the odd glaze of those sharp red eyes when they looked at the man they’d once been married to and saw a total stranger. Halsin shivered, fur bristling at his back. Tara licked him again, beginning to groom him in earnest. She purred softly, trying to lull him back to peace. This was the purest form of love any feline could offer. 

“Someone so wise should know better, of course… but emotion seldom cares what wisdom has to say of it. This isn’t just about your paramour, is it?”

Finally, he broke the silence to leer at her. His whiskers twitched slightly, and he dug sharp claws into the cold stone beneath them. “I need to find him,” he hissed. “He’s hurt. H-He could be dead--”

“Nonsense! Have more respect for Mr. Ancunín’s abilities! There is not a more capable survivor in all of Faerûn. He felled a god, saved the world, and has escaped two centuries of horrendous torment. He will not fall to some bloody bhaalspawn pests, I assure you. That would just be insulting.”

He did not share her confidence. She rubbed her whole body against his side and mewed softly. He could feel her little engine purring away to comfort him. “There is more to this, isn’t there? Troubles that extend far beyond the current strife threatening my fair city,” she continued. “Like many of your compatriots, you are haunted by dark tales, my dear.” When he bristled at the very notion of discussing such things, things that didn’t matter anymore, she purred a little louder and rubbed her whiskers against his neck. “Shh. It is merely an observation.”

He bared fangs at her. “There’s nothing to observe.”

But she wasn’t deterred. “There it is again… that anger of yours. Curious that no one has noticed before. How long has it sat up on that shelf? It has yet to truly shatter, I think.”

“I’m--”

“A feline never apologizes, druid. We know better.”

“I wasn’t going to apologize, Tara.”

“Mr. Ancunín is a much better liar, it seems, but he is rather cat-like. Bears are rather terrible at it, I see.”

“I--”

“And now that you’ve calmed down,” Tara interrupted, booping him gently with her nose, “perhaps you could follow me back to the tower, hm? I know that Mr. Dekarios is back in town. I can sense it quite clearly now that you’re here. He has been avoiding my presence. Is it Mystra again?” Halsin thought to tell her what happened that morning, but he couldn’t bear to break her confidence. Gale would have to do so himself.

When he didn’t respond, she stood and stretched wide, claws digging into the stone beneath her, jaw yawning to reveal sharp, pointed teeth. Her wings stretched high again, and he sat back to admire them. Tressyms were a special breed. He’d never know what it felt to become one. 

“Up, up! Let’s go, then! We should address the matter with my partner, put this poor appendage in stasis for later, and then search for your paramour properly. There is little time to lose, my dear!” She gently took Astarion’s finger into her mouth and flew off towards the tower without looking to see if he would follow. She knew well that he would do so if he knew what was good for him.

Scratch barked after her. Apparently torn, he twisted around on antsy, tapping paws, glancing back at the druid with wide, somber eyes and a downward tail. Halsin jutted his chin in the gesture to go, his heart clenched into guilty knots. Scratch hesitated a moment more, reluctant to leave his best friend behind. The old dog looked to say something--something wise and loyal, likely, as was his way of things. But then he raced off with his eyes to the sky and didn’t look back. He already understood what Halsin needed at that moment… they’d spent too long in constant companionship. The bond they shared was not a casual one.

The uncomfortable tension in Halsin’s chest remained, but he felt it ease just slightly when the beloved canine left him. It was one less friend he wouldn’t harm with his actions today. Scratch would be safe at the tower. Safer, at least.

To Halsin’s left, Velora held her brother’s mask in a tight grip. She was thrashing it about over her head as she and her brother yelled back and forth. It was some sort of heated argument about… well, he wasn’t sure. From what Halsin had gathered earlier, the bhaalspawn runt had been hurt by Velora’s ability to commune with minds several years ago. Or so he’d led her to believe. Halsin didn’t care much to understand it at the moment.

“...what I had to do,” Velora was saying, tears dancing in her eyes. She knelt beside her younger brother, examining his injuries with a diagnostic spell in her free hand. 

“You mindfucked me. That’s hardly sporting!”

“I… I didn’t… it was an accident. Father thought I turned you mad. I thought I turned you mad. But you always were, weren’t you? From the moment you were born.”

Despite the apparent hatred between them, they both tolerated each other’s presence well enough to assess their mutual health. Or at least, Velora was concerned enough to bother with her brother’s. Halsin doubted the bhaalspawn cared for much beyond his own dark desires. Most of Tav’s siblings seemed to be irrecoverably twisted, and they couldn’t control their affinity for murder even if they wanted to. The fact that Tav had conquered his own impossible urges as the chosen of Bhaal was entirely unique. Phineas was not worth saving.

“What do you want me to say, sister? That I’m sorry for existing? It’s not my bloody fault that our father,” the title was spoken with pure hatred, “blamed you for what I did.”

“You let him believe it,” Velora hissed. “You egged him on!”

“And I thought I was the mad one! Gods, Vel, I told him you had nothing to do with it. Didn’t want you taking credit for my kills. I was proud of my shrine, thought it was beautiful. I thought he might understand, but… he didn’t. That’s when I knew, I guess. I mean, I always did, but… that confirmed it.”

“Confirmed what?”

Despite their history, love remained. Somewhere beneath whatever Lord Vexxus had done to them, beneath the cruelty that ran in Phineas’s veins, it had survived. He wasn’t apologetic and never would be, but the mad glint in the man’s eye when speaking to Halsin had dimmed now. He looked upon his sister with equal parts pity and disdain. Like one might have for a particularly stupid, but beloved pet.

As Halsin watched the caring dance of Velora’s fingers, ancient guilt only crippled him further. He knew he would kill the man when given the chance. She’d never forgive him for it, but better a dead bhaalspawn than a knife to the back. He’d learned Orin’s lessons well back in Baldur’s Gate. The dead were more honest and hurt no one at all.

He refused to consider the humanity that stared at Velora with those soulless black eyes, and Halsin’s mind wandered to different eyes entirely. White and milky and mad from the moment of her cursed birthright. He had held some vague sympathy for Orin even then, knowing that buried beneath all of Tav’s bloodthirst, there had been a soft, considerate, beautiful man. Knowing that Orin might have been the same given the opportunity. If her brother could break free of it, surely she also deserved the chance to do so.

He thought of the strange red armor that had curled around Orin’s bodice, thought of the way that her skin danced and rippled, ever eager to shift into the many shapes of his loved ones. He had lied to Tav, as she had done. He hadn’t spent the entirety of it asleep. Sometimes, she would wake Halsin just to vent her frustrations. She’d slice at him with threats, claws, and bloody handprints. He would duck his head and listen eagerly, letting himself fall back into the role that had been built for him centuries prior. Oh, how she relished it. Sunlight could never reach the Underdark, and it hadn’t kissed the gored ruins of the undercity either. The pale gray skin, the cruel smile, the lilting laughter. It was all the same, really.

And more than his own anger, Halsin was afraid of the dark. She knew that well, before the end.

‘I didn’t think you’d come.’

‘Don’t be foolish,’ Tav had said, still covered in his own blood and kneeling before the altar of the furious demigod who had killed him just minutes prior. ‘Of course I did.’

Halsin recalled the knowing gleam in Withers’s gaze and ducked from it. The peace was broken by Astarion’s left hook, punching Tav squarely in the jaw and screaming at him for being so thoroughly, disgustingly stupid. He pushed the man until they fell back into the large pool of blood, and Tav didn’t fight back. The spawn beat him again and again, the two rolling and jostling in the filth as Astarion thrashed like a wild animal, until he shuddered, cursed violently, gasped in despair, and then buried his face into Tav’s neck.

Even if the Absolute had come barreling into that chamber to kill them all, the spawn wouldn’t move from it. His fingernails dug into Tav’s jacket, long legs curled around Tav’s own to keep him close.

Halsin looked away from the memory, just as he’d done back then. His black tail lashed with irritation.

He could hear Phineas rolling his eyes. His tone held the same exaggerated disgust Astarion often did, especially in the early days. “He’s not my bloody father,” Phineas confessed to his sister. “I’m a child of Bhaal! My new father, my real father, has been very good to me, Vel. Better than that abusive fuckhead ever was. I’d do anything for him.”

“So you’ve… you’ve given into it, then. The urges. You’ve become a murderer--”

“This again? I uphold justice as a Robe in the city of Waterdeep. Killing criminals is hardly--”

“Stop it! Stop lying to me!”

“Lying? You’re a bloody traitor, Vel! Don’t forget, executing you would be my fastest route to promotion.”

There was a violent scuffle between the two, and then Velora was standing a few steps away from him, another spell flickering in her left hand like a dying candle. Her eyes narrowed. “You would still kill me? After all this?”

“Gods, I would relish the feeling of your innards swimming through my fingers. Don’t tempt me, darling.” Phineas’s exaggerated eye roll was painful to witness. Though he had red hair and a plump face, he could have been Astarion in another life. A mad version of him, taken by darkness, never to crawl free of it ever again. The man clicked his tongue and painfully struggled to his knees, his breaths wheezing from the damage to his ribs and throat. “You should hardly be surprised. I am what I am.”

“You’re only half of Bhaal,” she said. Velora’s eyes were wide, glistening with pain. “We share a mother. I helped raise you, you bloody ass! I helped tend to your nappies, for god’s sake. I was always there for you, I--”

Phineas chuckled at her distress, rubbing the blood from his mouth with the back of his wrist. He was still on his knees and wobbled a little as his balance failed him. From the hedges, Velora’s dwarf friend--Helric--and a young tiefling man appeared. When Phineas caught sight of Helric, his eyes widened. A cruel smile crawled across his face. 

“Oh! It’s you! How delightful!!” He pointed at his sister with a leer. “Arrest her at once!”

Helric faltered. He looked at Velora, then at Phineas, then at the tiefling boy beside him. Before either could say anything, Halsin transformed back into himself and suddenly rose another vine wall between them, this one thicker than the rest. He trapped Helric and the other man from reaching Velora and held out his free hand to keep her back when she tried to fight him in her confusion.

“This again? What are you doing now?!”

“Your dwarf friend is going to betray you,” Halsin said, eyes cast back to the vine wall. The dwarf was on the other side, ripping into it with his mighty sword. “To the Watch, to the Lords, to the Bhaalspawn, I’m not sure. You’ve gained many enemies, my friend.” He knew the dwarf's expression very well. Bone-deep weariness and impossible guilt. Whatever Helric had been planning, it was meant to hurt her. “You need to leave.”

“Helric would never--”

Phineas chuckled again. It inspired a groan of pain from his ribs, and he spat another well of blood into the soil beneath him. He sat back on his heels and lifted a brow towards Halsin with respect. “Smart kitty. I’ll fetch you a big can of tu--”

With a twist of his wrist, Halsin swallowed him in the earth again. Phineas was crushed in the soil until only his neck was exposed, gasping out in agony. Velora cast her fist at the heavens and then tried to slam Halsin with a divine strike. But without her weapon, it was easy enough to dodge the blow.

Helric’s loud curses were interrupted by the clang of sharp steel against thick flora. There was a clatter of footsteps behind the two, and more voices joined them. Men, women, at least a dozen in number. The Watch had finally arrived… perfect. 

The druid clenched his fists and the vines blocking Helric grew thicker and meaner. Spikes formed, some of them dripping violet poison from their cut wounds. “Velora, listen to me! There is only one way out of this,” Halsin said. “You need to come with me.”

But she wouldn’t listen. She pushed Halsin back, glaring at him, and kicked at the vine wall screaming her friend’s name. Halsin didn’t want to hurt her, and reluctantly parted the wall to avoid her getting poisoned by the spikes that had formed. She fell through at the abrupt release, landing beside Helric with an exhausted groan. 

The tiefling boy knelt beside her and rested a hand on her back. He cast a nervous glance towards Helric, biting his lower lip. “Good, you’re still breathing. Listen Vi, this is bad, really, really bad. The Watch is--”

Over a dozen men and women, fully armored and bearing the seal of Waterdeep on their shields, cursed softly at the sight of her. They adjusted their stance to ramrod discipline, saying nothing. Each of them looked to Helric for leadership. 

Velora gawked at all of them. From what Halsin knew, it was likely she’d recruited and trained at least a dozen of them, and they had worshiped the ground she’d walked on until recently. And now they had come to arrest her for treason.

“Helric…?”

It seemed the tiefling boy was not in the know, and he thrust Helric backward in disgust. “What's going on?! What did you do?”

The dwarf winced at the sudden shove but recovered quickly. He then extended a hand to help Velora upright, but she didn’t take it, staring dully at the calloused fingers she’d known for years and blinking at them in horror. The tiefling boy pulled her to her feet and tried to yank her backward, away from the dwarf that had betrayed her.

Beyond them, The Watch bristled at the idea of escape, but there wasn’t one. Not for her. Not now.

Velora and Helric locked eyes. Impossible pain flicked between them, years of respect and patience, of love and a thousand memories marred by one act. Time seemed to stand still for a moment, neither moving nor speaking. The tiefling beside them continued cursing, demanding answers, but they ignored him.

After a very long pause, Velora breathed in deep. She wiped the grime from her brow with a dirty sleeve, and said, “Hush, Samis. Don’t make this any worse than it has to be.”

Samis grabbed her arm again and tried to yank her backward towards Halsin, likely hoping that the druid could somehow stop this farce. She resisted with a grim expression. Halsin could indeed stop this, but not without further bloodshed. Phineas, who continued to cackle like a mad jackal where he still lay trapped in the soil, did not yet realize his own fate. There was only one soul that the druid was interested in reaping today, and he would not be breathing for much longer.

“I’m sorry,” Helric muttered, a single, fat tear spilling from his right eye. It vanished into his beard, along with all of his decency. “They have my family. My boys--”

“I understand, old friend.”

“Bullshit!! You damned traitor, we could have helped y--”

“Samis, hush.” Velora’s tone was firm, but loving. She gently thrust the tiefling free of her, back towards the druid who quietly watched her entire world fall apart. “Go with Halsin.”

“Vi--”

“Go." She thrust him back a bit more violently. The moment Samis had stopped touching her, Helric shook her hand. Velora took it with a knowing grimace. Halsin spotted the glint of something metal in his palm. Suddenly, the two were warped and twisted in a shattering of bright, white light. 

Samis screamed in horror and grabbed for Velora again, but his fingers touched only air. The soldiers, Helric, and Velora had vanished. 

“They’ll take her to Castle Ward,” Phineas said, still breathless from his own mirth. The love for his sister that Halsin had witnessed earlier was gone like a feather to the sea winds. “She’ll get a traitor’s death, and it’ll be glorious. Both fathers will be pleased, I’m sure.”

Samis wailed, diving at the buried Phineas with a wicked knife that came from seemingly nowhere. Soil plumed around him in little clouds when he landed in the dirt. Overhead, the sun had finally fallen below the horizon. The sky was gloomy and dark, every color drained of meaning.

Halsin crossed his arms. He made no move to stop the boy when he angrily slit that cackling, sneering throat. Phineas died gurgling on his own blood, his eyes locked to the dark, overcast skies as his grotesque laughter chilled the air around them.

The druid freed Phineas from the soil as he convulsed into his final death throes, and Halsin felt a distant rumble beneath his feet. A sharp crack of thunder rolled in from the east, and a cold breeze picked up a moment later, swirling around the three with sharp, chilly fingernails.

“Time to go,” he said quietly. 

Samis stared down at his knife. Tiny white snowflakes danced on the red blade, their delicate crystal structures melting into the cooled blood where they landed. Red drops fell from the tip, feeding the earth it's due.

“A storm is coming.”

Chapter Text

Her name, Astarion decided, was Pint. He tried his best not to think of the diluted wheat juice served at most downtown watering holes, but that's where it came from. He salivated at the thought of her young, hot blood sloshing around in one of those ugly steel tankards unwashed patrons used to spill all over him in their haste to touch and taste and writhe by the time the morning star sang its death knell.

Gods. Hunger always made Cazador more pretentious than usual, and Astarion resented that he might have picked up the same habit. Or maybe he'd always been this way and had simply forgotten. Hadn't he been nobility? Once, yes. Long ago.

Pints. Even before Astarion died, he'd never be caught dead with such things. It was simply far too garish for a full-blooded Ancunín, and at the time, everyone in the city knew it too. Besides, vampires needed far more than a bloody pint to sustain themselves. Even the tiniest gnomes carried more than a pint in them; for all the wine glasses in Cazador's cabinets, a pint was little more than an appetizer. A snack .

But Astarion figured he'd get about that much from her, give or take a few drops. It was hard to say, really. He'd never nibbled children before and wasn't confident exactly how much they could go for. He wasn't even certain what they actually tasted like. Would it be any different than Halsin? The older the vintage, the finer the wine? Cazador hadn't thought so. Had thought quite the opposite, in fact.

'Pint' blinked out at him with her stark white sclera. The twinkling of a dawning star, whispering that the sun was soon to come for him.

He blinked back and wondered how many gulps it would take to stop her heart.

She was a wiry little thing, all skittish and sad and filthy, with huge blown-out eyes that stared at him like a rabbit trapped and frozen with only a snarling snow leopard for company. He could swim in the lake of her pupils at times, but more often, he found himself drowning. The vague sensation of choking haunted his dreams. Lost in them, something fluid had filled his lungs and settled there.

Stale air. Stone walls. The sick-sweet scent of rot.

He mostly kept his head ducked down. Her gaze burned the back of his neck where he'd curled up into his knees and tried his best to ignore the delicious taste of her lingering in the musty air between them. It kissed the back of his tongue like a promise. He would twitch now and then, muttering, "No," and, "Not without permission, darling." Never, never. Not ever. Not even a taste because he knew better . He'd lasted much, much longer without it and in far more scrumptious company.

But sucking on half-dead rats for the last few centuries had taught Astarion not to be picky.

" No ," he hissed to the whispering dark, to the coagulated blood and viscera of the murder victims that coated every wall around them. To the soft little pitter-patter of her heart where she quietly swayed in her corner, back and forth, back and forth, like a child's rocking horse.

As time stretched on and on and on, the bhaalspawn grew restless at Astarion's little display of mercy. He wasn't sure how much of it had passed--years, probably, given how hungry he'd become. Hard to say. He kept forgetting where they were and why they were here, and sometimes he thought he couldn't breathe, not that he needed to. He choked, panicked, and thrashed about with claws and teeth in his madness. His tongue grazed the tip of his own fang. Ancient, dead blood welled into his mouth.

'Revolting. It's a wonder I keep you at all.'

Worse, they were becoming increasingly confused. The bhaalspawn, of course. They'd never met a vampire who wouldn't imbibe from a free meal before, let alone one who was afraid of the dark.

"I think its fangs are dulled," one of them spat, prying Astarion's mouth open with a cruel pinch to his jaw. An orc or some such. Hard to tell. Astarion was a listless, dead thing at that moment, floating through the overly watered, color-painted images of Tav's black eyes. A whisper kissed his ear: ' Stay.'

The sharp, ice-pick pain of a migraine punched through his senses when they rattled him harshly. He didn't react. "Do you think it's broken?"

In the dream sea, Tav rubbed soothing circles along the base of his spine, a low rumble of comfort vibrating from his chest. 'Stay,' he said again. Stern but soft. Astarion smelt stale blood on him. Tav's fingernails were never clean, the sick fool. Astarion was a meticulous monster, and the idea of unnecessary gore disgusted him. A hard habit to break after centuries of scraping filth from beneath his fingernails because you can't catch quality with dirty nails, boy.

He was too hungry for this. Here he was with dirty nails in a filthy cage with dark stone walls and a tiny, feral mongrel for company. Cazador was dead, and so was Tav. He'd forgotten that, too. Somehow.

"....met mosquitos with more bite," one of the bhaalspawn was saying. "What Father sees in him, it's not for me to know."

Astarion blinked at that, recalling sloshing pints and the paws of a patron destined to lay trapped in Cazador's chambers for another century. How many of them had been his? At least half, surely. And those were the ones he'd kept… well, it wasn't his fault. Tav had said so, and Tav was the patron saint of morality, pretty bards notwithstanding. Everyone makes mistakes. Even the good ones. Even Tav.

'I think you deserve to stay.'

The ice-pick pain dug a little deeper into his gray matter. The world went white.

"But this one's unchained," the orc said. Astarion had no idea what they were on about and frankly didn't care. He wished they'd let go of his jaw and leave him alone. He whined his distaste at them, but it went unheard. "Dala says it's rare, unchained spawn. Said they go insane without a master, an' that most end up killin' themselves. How long's it been, anyway?"

"Since what?" The second one smelled human. Human, and… something else. Couldn't be certain. Smells were tricky at the moment. They kept bleeding into deeper and darker visions.

"Since its sire died, you dolt."

"How in the bloody hells should I know?"

The orc hesitated, still pinching Astarion's jaw open like a ranger inspecting cubs for crooked teeth. "Look, if it is broken, we should fix it. Father won't be pleased if it dies in His absence."

"Can they even die of starvation? I thought--"

No.

Even if you survive the pangs, you'll start to rot eventually. It takes a very long time, but it does happen. You'll remember you're dead then, that you died in that alley, that you're his , his pretty little thing, and gods help you if he ever grows bored of you. There are no dreams for dead things, no dreams for him either. But the blood brings it back. Makes you think you're alive when you're not. It erases every scar but the one on Astarion's back, the poetry that marks his sad, pathetic little soul for an archdevil in Cania. The bastard must have embedded it with garlic or something because it never goes away. It just burns and burns and burns with a droning buzz that he can't live without anymore, a pain that sizzles on and on, and even if he let it rot away, even if it was skinned from him, it will always come back perfectly intact. It is a mark that has been cut through the whole of him. He'll never be free of it, not ever, not even after the rite was broken and his ties severed, not even--

"Do I look like an expert on leeches? If you've got any bright ideas--"

"Calm down, princess. Force feedin' didn't work, 'member? Besides, it's been fun watching the girl squirm around in there. He's probably just toying with her. I'm all for the entertainment factor."

"Mm… fair. But I've got an idea."

Astarion wriggled a little bit, but that grip on him was too firm to escape. A pregnant pause swelled through the rotten air, and then he felt the sharp yank of his hair dragging him upward. He could see colors bleeding into themselves. The vague outline of a tall, slender woman sneered down at him. Lips formed the word 'stay.'

"These things grow back, right?" A plump finger gently rubbed against his left fang, and Astarion shuddered with disgust. He could taste the sweat of an unwashed orc. "If we pluck 'em out, maybe the new ones will work better."

"Good call. I'll go fetch the--"

He didn't know where it went. He recalled thrashing, biting, and a sharp splash of bright red hunger. Something stopped him from drinking it down. Some memory, some torture long forgotten. An order, perhaps. He was so very good at following them...

But no one took his fangs. They sprained his arm instead, and he was grateful.

They left him alone after that. Time passed like roiling clouds in a thunderstorm, and then it was night. Too dark even for his eyes, save for a few distant lanterns and the quiet chatter of sleepy murderers. If his heart could beat, it would punch through his ribcage. He'd known a spell to help with this once. Taught to him by a very tired wizard with a bomb in his chest.

'Your somatic movements are as graceful as ever, but you've got to speak the phrase with purpose. Make it an order. Don't let the dark bully you, Astarion.'

'Oh, please do fuck right off.'

'Wonderful! That's the tone we're looking for. Try again.'

"Lux."

A faint little whisper, so quiet and barely there that Astarion was sure he'd imagined it. But in the corner of their cage, a soft glow blossomed within Pint's bony palm. A small pebble had been masterfully enchanted with light, and Astarion knew the smug wizard from his memories would have loved to see it.

So, she was a spellcaster. Likely an untrained one, but still. Fascinating. Was this how she'd managed to survive thus far? Had she somehow… conjured water, perhaps? Food? Was that even possible for one so young?

In the light, he noted that her sunken eyes and curled-up body weren't shrieking with terror anymore. Not of him, at any rate. Rather, they were brimming with a strange kind of pity. Glassy with sympathetic tears, actually, and wasn't that a laugh. Astarion itched for something to rage at, but he couldn't be angry. When they locked eyes, he still leered at her with a bit of fang, but it was a half-hearted attempt at best.

Her head tilted curiously. The soft glow of the pebble in her hand cut sharp lines along her filthy little arm. He stared at the light like a moth to the moon, unable to hide his need. He felt himself leaning towards it with grit teeth, limbs trembling with a quiet, desperate yearning…

She scooted a little closer and tossed him the glowing pebble as if it weren't the most precious thing in the world. Almost feral, he snatched it out of the air with a growl and clutched it close to his chest. He scuttled away, afraid she'd steal it back.

Pint lifted a brow at him and then spelled another pebble. One after another after another, until their little cage was dotted with soft glowing stars.

"Thank you," Astarion said. "I've… I've been rather pathetic, haven't I?"

He felt oddly alive in a way he hadn't been since waking in Halsin's arms a lifetime ago. Holding the glowing pebble in a tight fist, he reached into his coat pockets and frantically searched for the sensation of wood. Halsin's gift still resided there. He sank back onto his knees with a sigh of relief.

The world made sense again, but only for a moment.

"I used to be better at this, Pint."

Her head tilt did not ease at the nickname, though she seemed a little amused by it. For the first time since their meeting, the subtle ghost of a smile teased at the corner of her lips.

"It's true." Astarion gestured at the cage around them, the viscera, the dark. When she lifted a doubtful brow at him, he rolled his eyes. "I'm a monster, aren't I? This is where we live." He hadn't meant it as a question, but in his madness, it suddenly came to him as one. His vision faded for sea salt and wine glasses. He blinked and swayed a bit as he fought against the current. The clarity of the moment was already fading.

"But that… that creature did something to me," he slurred, continuing. His eyes drifted shut. "I keep seeing… I…”

He shook himself like a wet dog and snarled. At the dark, at himself, at the murderers who slept peacefully on the other side of the shabby lock that kept him in here. He could leave whenever he wanted. If he could just get a hold of himself.

Pint shuffled a little closer. He let her, his snarl easing into a frown. Trying to make conversation, he asked, "So. Where are your parents?"

She pointed to a decaying pile of corpses not far from their little cage and sniffled. Astarion squinted at the rotten mound and recognized the familiar bone structure of her gently sloping chin. Brown hair, a little button nose, fly-riddled flesh, and bloody guts spilled all over the place. Gods, bhaalspawn were such filthy creatures.

"Oh," he said, as eloquent as ever. "I see."

And he did. It was hard to tell how much time had passed, but it was long enough for his eyes to heal fully. Perhaps they had been for quite a while now, and he'd only just noticed. Whatever spell 'Father' had cast on him seemed to be a permanent edition. The creature didn't even need to be present to comb through Astarion's thoughts--when he calmed enough to notice, Astarion felt cold, slimy fingers roving through his mind even now. Through shattered memories, he knew that 'Father' fled the camp some time ago, following a promising lead from what had been stolen. Looking for Tav.

Everyone, everywhere, looking for Tav.

"I think he's in Baldur's Gate," Astarion suddenly said to Pint, who seemed intrigued by his babbling but had no idea what in Mystra's baby blue bloomers he was talking about. And that was fine. Nothing quite like going mad in good company. He clutched the glowing pebble a little tighter, his vision swimming again. At least she wasn't as annoying as his siblings. Nice, quiet little Pint.

"When we get out of here--after you eat, you're thin as a bloody rake, girl--we're going south. Have you ever been?"

She shook her head, those glistening ochre eyes bright with confusion. Briefly, he wondered if she knew he resisted his cursed hunger on her behalf. Perhaps the pity had been genuine, or… or maybe she'd grown so accustomed to ongoing dread that worrying about it was suddenly a boring concept. Either way, he could relate. Misery did love company, after all.

"I was born there," he admitted. "In Baldur's Gate. At least, I-I think I was. Sometimes, I remember it differently… but I never thought I'd go back. Not for anyone other than Lily. That city is a burning pile, and she deserves far better."

Pint crept even closer, each of her muscles twitching in protest. She bit her lip but stilled out of arm's reach and tilted her head at him. Frozen.

He read her question as easily as if she'd spoken it. Understandable. Few could soften him the way that little bundle of tiefling chaos could. Lily took after her mother in almost every way possible. "Lily? The archduke's daughter. Wyll Ravengard is an old friend of mine. She's a bit younger than you, but I think you'll like her. Either way, I know she'll like you. She likes everyone."

Her little brows pinched with disbelief. Since assuming the seat a few years ago, Wyll had been making very loud, aggressive changes to Baldur's Gate law, and it seemed even halfling children knew the devil duke with a bleeding heart. Astarion huffed like an irritated feral cat and crossed his arms. "I've already told you, Pint. I saved the world. Final blow to the brain and everything."

And now you're here, her eyes said.

"Yes, well. Nobody's perfect."

Despite his harsh words, Pint seemed to giggle at him. There was no sound, but her smile was wide, and for the first time since they'd met, her shoulders shook with mirth instead of terror. Astarion felt for the wooden gift in his pocket again. With one hand clutching the pebble and the other stuffed deep into his pocket, he crept closer until they were almost touching. She didn't even think to move away anymore. The glowing pebble was a soft little reminder between them, a single note of clarity against the rushing tides. He felt 'Father' reach for a file near his brain stem. Some feral memory from his early days with Cazador… a library, a knife, and laughter.

Astarion shuddered, brows pinched with phantom pain. He stared at the glow, breathing in deep.

"Okay," he whispered. "How many are out there, you think? Ten? Twenty? I've faced worse odds." But he hadn't been protecting a child then, and bhaalspawn were hardly the sort to avoid going for the girl. This would have to be done quietly--

"You've been mumbling about that awful tome in your sleep. Is it still whispering to you?"

In his meditations, in the waking hours, during combat, during feeding, when bending for Tav or Halsin. It never, ever stopped. "I've no idea what you're babbling about, Gale."

"Trust me on this. A wizard knows a curse when he sees one." He'd caught Astarion muttering to himself, the book clutched tightly against his chest. Astarion told him that he was just thinking over a spell. No need to worry. Of course, Gale didn't believe him, the smug moron. "You need to lock that thing away before you kill us all in your sleep."

It begged him to do it every night. And every night, Astarion grew a little hungrier. A little angrier. "I don't sleep," he muttered.

"Yes, well, being the closest one to your tent on a nightly basis, I can confirm that you do, at the very least, snore. Which is admittedly a bit eccentric considering you don't actually need to breathe--"

"What?! Take that back!!"

"And you have nightmares about that bloody book. I mean, about more than just the book, obviously, but it's clearly inspiring quite a few of them. Let me help you."

"Gods! Can't you just mind your own business?" The gall of this man. Gale infuriated Astarion more than anyone because he never knew when to pin down that wriggling, flapping tongue. "I'm moving my tent next to Karlach." At least Karlach was warm. Warm and sweet and dumb enough to believe him when he said that nothing was wrong.

"Just let me look at it! That tome isn't some silly romance novella. It's the bloody Necromancy of Thay." Gale snorted like a bull preparing to charge when the vampire rolled his eyes. "The cover is made of human skin; for gods' sake, at least consider my help. I'm sure a few protective spells might be just what the wizard ordered--"

The book was clutched tight against Astarion's chest again. He felt the screaming amethyst orb digging into his ribcage, and the spirits once again demanded that he kill the wizard. "Oh no, you're not going to eat this one! Go find some boots to swallow. I'm sure Tav's got plenty lying around."

Basket peaked out at the wizard from behind Astarion's legs and stuck her tiny forked tongue out at him. "Yeah!! Go eat some stinky shoes, ya shoe gobbler!" Considering that Gale could banish devils back to the hells with a snap of his fingers, her fear of him was understandable.

"And that's another thing," Gale sighed. Of course he wasn't done lecturing. The man could do it in his sleep and often had. "You really ought to teach that quasit some manners. Letting a creature of the hells wander around doing whatever she damned well wants simply isn't sanitary. I caught her salivating at a pregnant woman yesterday."

"'Ey! I wasn't doin' nothin'!"

"You were waxing poetic about what her fetus tastes like. Within audible distance, I might add."

Astarion didn't dare mention that he'd also wondered. Two souls in one vintage… it had to be interesting. But that's why he and Basket got along so well. They held similar curiosities.

The quasit's claws dug into her master's thigh, her fear battling against growing irritation for the wizard. "Basket can't even drool without a fuss, but we let Mystra's stress toy eat all the shoeses, don't we? How's that fair?"

Astarion's giggle was entirely teeth. He loved her dearly, the cheeky little thing.

Gale advanced on Basket with a glowing hand, decency be damned. "Now listen here, you little--"

Although Astarion could summon her back just as well, he simply wouldn't stand for it. It was rude to banish one's friends. Stepping between them again, he flapped his arms in outrage. "Now who's lost control? Go take a long walk, Gale."

"Yeah, calm down, weave boy! I'm just teasin'!"

Astarion's next eye roll was meant purely for his little munchkin. "Basket, my dear. Could you fetch me a bottle of wine from Tav's stores? He won't miss it." To distract her, if nothing else. They both loved stealing things.

"Okay, but tell the mediocre magician to go away! I don't like the smell of him, beefy."

"Well. You heard her."

"Astarion--"

"Go. Away."

"This… this isn't over!"

The sharp snap of Pint's fingers in front of his eyes brought him back again. He sucked in a breath and cradled the glowing pebble in his fist. Pint suddenly scooted backward in alarm, and he thought perhaps he'd done something to upset her during his latest excursion when a tiny, gravelly voice chirped up behind him.

"Finally! Do you know how boring the hells are these days? Contract this, torture that. Ugh. Where have you been, beefy?!"

An old warmth settled into Astarion's bones, and he twisted around, wearing a sharp little smile meant only for his munchkin. She hadn't changed at all since their days prowling Gale's tent for baubles to steal. Looking into her beady black eyes was like glancing into a past that he still struggled to grasp a hold of.

"Basket," he sighed. Relief flooded into him. She was proof that he hadn't been lying about the brain. About the adventures, the faces, the names he'd known once. Somehow, he hadn't forgotten hers. It flowed within the stolen blood in his veins and the ancient pact he'd formed when memorizing the spell to summon her. He must have done it silently and instinctively because he couldn't remember the words exactly.

"Don't 'Basket,' me," she started. Then paused, squinting those little black pools at him. The quasit looked him up and down and pointed to the child cowering behind him. "What's this, then? You said we weren't chewing any niblets. You made me promise! You wouldn't do it without me, would you? It was your big, stupid rule, practically your only one. You said no more babies, not even the really juicy ones. The big bloody nerve of it, too! I've been starvin', beefy! I gots to eat nuffin' but mice and rabbits since you left. Fur stuck in my teeth an' everythin'--"

Children. He'd told her they wouldn't eat children. Others… perhaps. But never children. "She's not food," he muttered, holding his head in his hands. Gods, it hurt. Remembering hurt. "Her name is Pint."

"Why're you in a cage? The lock looks half rusted, but I could give it a go if your fingers are--oh, you're missin' one. That's neat. You into that now?"

"No."

"Not judgin', of course. You can be into whatever you like, beefy. 'Specially nice juicy delectable babies. Soft and chewy and… you sure you haven't changed your mind about the--"

"Basket, enough."

"Alright, alright," she said, tossing her tiny claws. "Say, you look… different. What's goin' on?"

"Bhaalspawn."

"Oooo, a party!" She jumped up and down like a child being promised candy. "They throw the best kinds! You really shouldn't have, master."

"I aim to please…"

"You do? Since when?"

"Since… since… ugh. We need to get out of here. I… I promised Pint. Yes." He took a deep breath, trying to center himself. It was time. "Time to leave. Any ideas?"

Basket glanced out the dark corridor towards the dimly lit lanterns and sleepy bhaalspawn, who had no idea what was happening. “What, you forget danse macabre? Or how to be sneaky? You don't even need your fingers, most times! Or knives, even! What's up with you, beefy? Gods, I still remember that time you killed a dragonborn with a bloody spoon . You remember, don't you? The slaver in Rivington? Carved his eyes out, you did! All that screamin'... mm-mmm! Delicious! His guts tasted divine--"

A sharp slap to his face, left cheek cut from one of Cazador's rings. "Pay attention, boy. This is the best part."

A play. Cazador had taken him on a rare date to see it, promising a night of gentleness and grace. Right. Feeling guilty for some strange damned reason because that was a thing his master did sometimes. Astarion would wish he were dead if he ever voiced it, though.

Unable to sit still for long hours at a time, he'd been bored to tears for most of the night, occasionally kicking the banister where they sat high up in their private booth and wiggling around like the whiny, petulant brat Cazador had trained him to be. Though he was barely paying attention to much beyond his master's shifting moods, he'd caught the general gist of the play. Two young lovers committed suicide when their warring families tried to split them apart. A benevolent necromancer resurrected them in time to dance at their own wake, each dressed like skeletons with roses for eyes.

Cazador loved the symbolism, but he always was about as subtle as a brick. Astarion palmed his sore cheek and listened to the actress warble on about her foolish puppy-eyed partner and the long endurance of death that now stood before them both. Something, something, love was eternal, blah blah blah. Soulmates, hand-holding, families begging for them to stay because the necromancer announced that the spell would only last one night. Cazador's eyes seemed strangely glassy as the actor cupped his lover's face one last time and kissed her tenderly. As the curtains fell, a gentle whisper passed between the couple that none could hear. A declaration of love, probably.

Idiot, always craving what he couldn't have and throwing tantrums about it later like a monstrous child with toys that he was hellbent on breaking. It was all so dull after so many years that Astarion couldn't help but roll his eyes again, even as it earned him another slap.

His master had forgotten what it meant to be a vampire. Love was for the living.

"'Oi!" One claw waved before his eyes, the other resting gently on his shoulder. Basket was two inches in front of Astarion's face, peering into him like she might read the back of his skull from the inside. "Where'd you go? Come back here!"

Astarion wriggled his shoulder free of her touch, grimacing as he felt those phantom fingers combing through his thoughts again. "'M fine," he slurred. Looking between Basket's horns, he spotted Pint cowering in her corner. Most of the glowing pebbles in their cell had dimmed, including the one in his hand. He frowned, tossing it away. She didn't like the little gremlin who kept asking permission to eat her. Go figure.

His tongue was a thick, swollen slug in his mouth. "Danse… macabre ?"

"Wow. You did forget." An accusatory claw jabbed at him, and he met squinted inky pools. "After readin' that big fat book so many times, I didn't much think it was possible. In the later days, you were castin' it in your sleep. All the new friends I made! Ahh, better times…"

"I don't sleep."

"Can't lie to me, master. 'M too smart," Basket said proudly. She buffed her right claw against her chest and smiled. "'Sides, you snore. Loudly."

"I do not!"

"Oi, Mystra's cumsock said it too, an' he's stupid. Ugh. Don't tell me, is he still alive? Please tell me he's dead. Lie if you have to, beefy."

"Mystra's…" Astarion huffed a crazed little laugh, and every single thought in his head crumbled into dust. "...who? What?"

"Gale," Basket hissed with equal parts disgust and fear as if his very name might summon the wizard. And considering Gale's general treatment of everyone's favorite quasit, that was probably valid. "So, is he dead? I hope he's dead. Tell me he's dead."

"I… I don't… Gods. Hold on. Cumso--" He cut himself off, huffing out another crazed laugh. "Really?? "

"Ugh! Probably not, then!" Basket didn't seem to notice or care that her joke had broken what was left of Astarion's brain. "You'd know if he was! Damn it all!! Never get what I want, not me, not ever, never Basket. I don't ask for much, y'know. Just some plump babies in their soft little blankies and a dead wizard or two. It's not much! Ain't fair."

She crossed her arms and glared at him, probably blaming him for… whatever she was upset about. Astarion closed his eyes and tried to gather the soup of his mind back into a proper container. He'd been thinking about it. It was time. Time to leave--

Writhing in ripped sheets, a phantom pain slithering down his spine. Mad laughter in the shell of his ear. Something about knives. If he had a heart, it would be punching out of his chest.

"Ey, there you go again. He do this a lot, then? That's new." A snap of little claws in front of his eyes. "Come back! I ain't done with you, beefy."

A soft, gentle touch to his cheek. "Easy, Star. Shh. I'm here." Dark gray eyes and a kind smile greeted him. "There you are," they said. Astarion leaned into that warm, calloused hand and twisted in the sheets to bury his face into his pillow. A palm found his side, rubbing soothing little circles.

"Um. So… you were broadcasting on the tadpole again."

"Shit," he told the pillows.

"You also summoned friends. Again. They're not killing anyone and seem generally confused about being here. Scared the shit out of Wyll and Karlach. They were, uh. Y'know. And the ghouls kinda barged into their tent while they were… and… yeah. But I thought you'd want to know. Because honestly, it was hilarious."

"Sorry."

"Hey, stop that." The hand gently swatted his behind. "No one's mad, love." A hesitant pause. A cool kiss to the back of his neck. Astarion shivered. "I've done far worse in my sleep, remember? It's like you said. We're all weirdos here."

Bards and ropes and hateful, snarling tongues.

Astarion's hands were burning sun-bright gold, and it lit the dank little cell around them with a powerful glow. A spell was held in his tight fists, and he knew what this was for. Old friends. He'd forgotten that he could summon them whenever he wanted to.

Somewhere in his bone marrow, the danse macabre had waited for him. He didn't even need to speak the words to call them forth. They'd been scratched into the backs of his eyelids by the spirits of that wicked tome, and now that he could see them again, it was all he could think about. Gale had warned him many times… The Necromancy of Thay read you back, and it had read Astarion more than most.

The spirits swam up from the dark, swelling sea of his memories, whispering into his ear: kill, kill, kill. They had followed him when he'd finally left that wicked tome behind in Gale's library. Astarion and his eccentricities were far more entertaining than the pages they'd been guarding for centuries. That was the going theory, at any rate.

He felt the vague sensation of fingerprints against his frontal lobe.

They'd seen a medium about it after the Crisis because Tav and Halsin were worried enough to drag him to one, and he'd bitched the entire way to Luskan. The medium had adored his husbands, angels that they were, but seemed to think Astarion was little more than a petulant child. Half the woman's face had been twisted with ugly scars, and they crinkled in sharp disgust when she shamed him for the deals he'd struck to get here.

'Your fear will be the end of you, pale elf.'

With enough of Tav's gold, the medium had agreed to cast the spirits away and remove every binding Thay's curse had tied to him. It had taken quite a while, and Astarion ensured that week was not a particularly fond one for anyone involved.

He'd give anything to go back now. To be embraced by his idiots, to be held, teased, and tormented by their adoration. That was before the divorce he'd never asked for, before the kidnapping that stole Tav from him, before the bhaalspawn, before Waterdeep and its horrible curses and undead murder gods. They all refused to respect his well-earned autonomy, so fuck this city, and fuck these people. Except for Pint. He liked Pint.

The whispering of the spirits became the chanting of a menacing cult and a strange, deathly chill settled around him. Basket squealed with apparent glee, and Pint whimpered behind her. She peered up at him from her knobby knees, eyes glassy with abject terror. He frowned a little at that, and his anger dimmed a little.

"Don't worry, niblet. They're not meant for you."

He released the spell with a tired sigh. The spirits roared in approval, dancing towards the disgusting flesh pile of Pint's relatives and sliding into their rotting corpses like a hand to a tailored glove. The familiar sloping jawline of Pint's mother rose up, her hair matted and scalped in places. She drooled and scrambled to her bony feet, a broken arm swaying limply on her left side. Her husband joined her, his lower jaw ripped free of its socket and swinging loosely as he wobbled forth. The poor man's tongue lolled in a haunting sway. The dead couple locked eyes and then scampered off.

More crawled from the pile with the sick, slapping sounds of rotten meat. One, then two, then three, then seven, then more, more, more. Their groans and snarls echoed in the small hallway, and their sloughing flesh wrinkled Astarion's nose. He stopped counting. Unable to control them, they skipped off towards the living still slumbering in their ratty, bloody beds, utterly unaware of the fate they'd earned.

Pint's parents had vanished first, and Astarion's ears picked up the distinct crunch of bone and a gargled, throat-bitten scream. He wanted to believe they were still in there somewhere, able to enjoy the brief and unfair revenge he'd granted them.

"Yes," Basket cried, bouncing on her toes like a child at Solstice. "That's more like it! Dunno why you haven't done it 'til now, but it's good you're back."

Astarion fished the wooden carving from his pocket, sliding by Basket to kneel in front of Pint. In the distance, they could both hear the rumbling snarls of the undead and the screams of bhaalspawn, left surprised by the attack.

The little girl's eyes were squeezed shut against it, her hands clamped over her ears in a desperate attempt to avoid the carnage. As Astarion crept closer, Pint pulled up her knees and hid behind them, a matted curtain of hair falling over her face.

He floundered for a moment, uncertain how to calm her down. The only child he'd ever interacted with by choice was Lily. Pint, traumatized and on the verge of a breakdown, was an entirely different story. He licked dry, cracked lips and offered her the snowcat carving. His hand trembled with his own pent-up anxiety.

"This is Sterne," he said quietly. He thought of everything Halsin might say to terrified children and added, "He'll keep you safe." A pretty lie he might have wanted to hear once.

Pint peeked up at him with a wet gaze, and the subtle shift of her head indicated that she knew better.

Astarion rolled his eyes, and a sigh exploded out of his chest. With one hand on his hip, he angrily waved the other into the air. The screaming was still swelling out in the hall, and he wondered not for the first time how he'd gotten here. "Ugh. I've never done this before. Can't you just work with me?"

Another blink. Though it seemed like not a single thought had passed between her ears, he knew better. She was a sharp little thing.

He imagined Tav's heroic lines during their many adventures, each more disgustingly sweet than the last. Every maiden turned the idiot's ear, demanding that he fetch supplies, kill rats, and save squalling children. Tav spent a lot of time freeing slaves one summer, and Astarion complained the whole time about what a waste of energy it all was. But of course, he loved him dearly for it. Gods knew the day Tav stopped trying to save the world was the day that it all ended.

Conjuring the image of soft gray irises, Astarion mocked, "Never fear, juice box! I will keep you safe because I'm a big bloody hero." He planted his hands on his hips and scowled at his own actions. It was good that he loved Tav because he'd hate the idiot otherwise. Pretending to care even for a lark made his skin crawl. "To the surface!"

He had no idea how long she'd been trapped down here, but even he yearned for fresh air again. Despite the sarcasm, his dead heart fluttered a little at the hesitant trust that seeped into her eyes. She didn't quite believe him, but she knew better than to deny an opportunity for freedom.

He gestured with the carving again, holding a flat open palm to her and refusing to listen to the biting whispers of stone, stale air, and time. "Go on, take it," he muttered. "Keep him safe."

A small and bony hand came out to snatch the snowcat, and it disappeared within seconds. Astarion smiled when the girl seemed to settle down. Her shoulders dropped slightly, and she finally peaked out from beyond her knees. Tentative, but no longer terrified.

"Listen. I've already told you, Pint. You're not food, and you never will be. I can't say the same for our captors, but I'll do my best to be clean about it. If you don't want to watch, just close your eyes and pretend I'm kissing them."

She was so hard to read. That blank stare could mean a thousand different thoughts and likely did. It was the same expression he wore the first time he tasted freedom... that sweet, sharp lie had brought him to his knees, and it took him two hundred long, painful winters to stand back up again.

A faint, feminine whisper bubbled up from his cerebellum: "I think you deserve to stay."

Not this time.

He gently tapped her on the nose and clicked his tongue. "Not all of us are blessed with a beating heart, young lady. Don't discriminate."

The brief hint of a smile touched the corner of her lips, like the subtle peak of sunlight glimmering on the horizon.

"Well then," he sighed, examining his nails. Pretending to be disgusted but very obviously warmed by Pint's trust. He knew what it cost her. "I think we've dallied long enough at Chez Bhaalspawn , don't you? Let's go, sippy cup."

Her tiny, doll-like hand slid into his own. It was cold and wet and more precious than any stone.