Chapter Text
He’s not the first. There’s a tiefling woman before him, with a soft voice and wide eyes. In time, he learns her name is Aurelia, and that she has only just started to give up hope.
She will lose it all, eventually.
He’s expressly forbidden to see his family, to even approach them. Cazador let him beg for a good, long, while before telling him that. He’ll wonder, years later, if by that point, they were already dead.
Cazador walks away, leaving Astarion and Aurelia alone. Two strangers, for the moment.
He chokes down sobs, pride finally breaking, and his new fangs scrape against his tongue harshly. But there’s no blood. “There’s no blood.” He doesn’t mean to say it out loud, but he does, anyway.
Aurelia nods. “Because you haven’t fed, yet.” She pauses, and something sad and pained fills her face. “You’ll have to work for it, first.”
And Astarion will work for it. For over three hundred years.
He thinks he’s getting somewhere when the human pushes him up against the wall of the tavern, and he instinctively slides on a grin, bats his lashes, and tilts his head ever-so-slightly to the side. That move usually ends with a kiss, usually messy, and bites on his bottom lip that will quietly sting the morning after. That move usually means he’s on the right track.
Instead, the human punches him in the face.
Then in the gut, and he slides down the wall in a daze as her hands roam over him. For a moment he’s wondering if they’re still on the same page, and she’s just the type who likes a power play — if so, once she’s done what she’s intending to do, then maybe, just maybe, he can convince her to come back to the Palace for more. Maybe he can get a rat tonight, and muffle the hunger.
But no— she’s just searching for his coin purse, and finds it, huffing angrily when there’s only one remaining silver piece. She pockets it, drops the pouch, rises, and there’s a sudden pain in his leg. His mouth lets out an undignified little screech as she slips away, leaving him collapsed on the cobblestone.
A real pity.
He hopes to the gods that Leon is getting a similar treatment inside the tavern. Would serve him right for trying to snatch up Astarion’s marks. Honestly, he doesn’t know why that man still tries so damn hard now that the child is gone. Being favoured isn’t going to bring her back.
…
Gods, this hurts.
He can’t exactly check his reflection, but he’s almost certain that this little incident has left him with a bruised cheek, if there’s enough blood in him to bruise. Hideous. A scar would have been better.
It’s only when the sting of pain in his cheek and gut begin to slowly dull into a throb that he truly realises the predicament he’s gotten himself into.
His leg is broken. Or something close to it.
Despite his best efforts, fear runs through him. He cannot let Dufay, or Godey, or even the other spawn see, and certainly not his master. He can’t recover unless he’s fed, and he won’t be fed until he brings someone home, and he can’t bring someone home until—
Well. There’s no use thinking about it now. He is simply, royally, fucked.
It’s a weakness to target for his siblings, and a failure to punish for his master. How dare you be so stupid as to make yourself even more useless, boy. His mind instinctively ponders the creative tortures the master must have planned. Or perhaps he’ll be what he considers kind and throw him in the palace’s pleasure chambers. He doesn’t need a healed leg to be entertaining.
Go to Dal, some part of him urges. There are benefits to having a sister who was once a doctor, and they trade favours; this time, she owes him for helping her unpick the threads from her skin when the master sewed her mouth shut.
But Dalyria is no miracle worker, no cleric with the power to snap her fingers and mend—
Oh. Perhaps this isn’t such a disaster after all.
Perhaps he can use this.
There’s a temple nearby, where there used to be a small park. They built it sometime in the last hundred years, after that whole Elder Brain incident. He remembers the construction because it threw a dent in his internal map — as did all the rebuilding efforts. And he remembers that time well because people were so gods-damned grateful to be alive that they threw themselves at any willing lover they could find. He entertained many in the palace bedrooms that month, although it’s not as if he was better fed for his troubles. Rather, the master used the whole thing as an excuse to rave against “those damnable Bhaalists and cursed Banites” who had ruined some recent elaborate scheme of his, and to let out a little anger on the whole lot of his spawn.
And now the temple sits there, all white columns and stone engravings. He knows little about it besides the fact that it’s dedicated to some new, young god. Mildly intriguing, until you remember they’re all the same. That the temple’s just another pretty waste of space, a monument to some far-away being who probably only looks toward it to indulge in their own ego, much less to answer anyone’s prayers. When Astarion passes it, he almost misses that quaint little park.
But where there’s a temple, there are clerics, clerics who do love a pathetic little patient to fawn over, to make better with the power of their deity. And there’s always more of them, surely no one would mind if one went missing. Certainly not whatever god they serve. The poor fools have yet to realise the harsh truth that the gods simply do not care about them.
Idiots, the lot of them, to willingly enslave themselves to another.
In any case, it’s free healing, and a target. It’s perfect. The night is salvageable.
He moves to his feet.
Putting weight on his leg is excruciating, and for a moment, he contemplates lying back down in the street and waiting till the sun hits his skin and burns him alive. At least he wouldn’t have to walk on the blasted thing anymore. But then again, the master might be offended that his troublesome son isn’t home before curfew, and compel him back home at dawn even as his skin begins to smoulder.
So he walks on, a hand hovering against the walls of the buildings he passes. It’s very pathetic. And that’s good. He needs to look it, for this to work. It will, of course. It will.
It only takes a few minutes to locate the temple, but every step makes it feel like hours. And yet it stands, powerful and dominating before him, and he almost scoffs at the absolute ridiculousness of it. At least it looks pretty.
He walks through the entrance, and finds the interior quiet.
The floor is smooth, polished stone. The walls are lined with scrolls and texts on shelves. The ceiling is vaulted, high. And in the centre of it all, trinkets and gold pieces and books at its feet, stands a statue of a god.
It’s rather nice to look at, at least, with its long-flowy hair and blank statue eyes. He absentmindedly fishes around for a name, and comes up with something overheard when passing by this place something like a decade ago, a skittish half-orc on his arm.
Gale, the memory supplies. God of something-or-rather. Ambition? That sounds right. And sounds ridiculous. Whatever is a god of ambition going to do? Not much, if he knows the gods, and he does, at this point.
His eyes skim around the temple, but it’s cold, empty. It’s not that late, is it? Candles burn, half melted, on the floor. A ritual bowl is haphazardly placed to the side of the statue.
There are signs of life all around him, but no one to be seen.
Just his luck, really.
And as he steps forward to examine the trinkets left behind as offerings, his leg finally, truly, gives out.
He collapses in a heap on the stone floor, barely reacting as his head begins to throb.
Pulsing. Pain. Hunger. It mingles together in a cloud of agony. It obscures everything, and he fumbles, settling on words as his support.
“Not even a night watchman? How very reckless of you, Gale,” he chastises, voice muffled by the ground. “I mean, a nefarious sort could come in and take all those precious little offerings you don’t care about.” He barely registers what he’s saying, but it feels good to talk, at least. Something steady through the haze.
Not a fan of gods, are you? Can’t be blamed for that, I suppose. A voice replies in the back of his head, not his own, not even his master’s, but he attributes that to his muddled state, the exhaustion and the agony.
“Damn them all,” he mutters. “Not that they’re even listening. Or maybe they do listen, and just get a little rush out of hearing a cursed vampire spawn beg at their feet.” He shifts uncomfortably, and the movement pulls another wave of pain through his body. It surges up to his head, and he hisses. “Hells. A cleric, really ? You’d think I’d have learned by now that the only one who cares to look out for oneself is oneself.”
Is that true? The not-him-not-Cazador voice questions.
“Well, obviously. It’s simply the way of the world. At least Dal and Aurie are willing to trade favours. Oh.” In his aching mind, something clicks. “I’ve got to get home.”
Home.
He suddenly lets out a giggle, soft and delirious.
“Home . How ridiculous. Won’t ever be my home until that bastard is dead.”
And you intend to do the deed?
“Gods, if only I could.”
His suddenly loosened tongue doesn’t quite register as out of the ordinary, as he’s thought these things thousands, millions of times. There’s something strangely freeing about being here, something that seems to lift a weight from his whole being, pushing through the pain-cloud, and he finds himself suddenly able to articulate everything he’s always thought, but never been permitted to say. Things that he’s often let fade away from his mind in favour of taking it all in dull, blank stride, moving without feeling, talking without speaking. Until something cracks again, and the surge of rage and pain pulls him out of the disassociation, and he finds himself painfully, unbearably, back in himself.
“If only, if only,” he laments, hazy. “If I could…”
Yes?
“Hm. Well, if we’re pretending dreams really do come true, then let’s say I’ll kill him. I’ll do it. Someday I’ll get free and slice that bastard’s head clean off his shoulders. I’ll pull his teeth out and—“ he shifts uncomfortably against the stone floor, “—fucking…feast on his heart…gods.” He makes an effort to push himself up. “I don’t know. All I want is to kill him. And I will. ”
He laughs, the sound both deranged and exhausted, ringing out in the empty room. And slowly, certainly, the words don’t feel so much like hopes as much as they do promises. “I don’t care that it’s impossible. I’ll find some blasted way. I will make him pay. And then I’m going to kill him. I’m going to kill him.”
The ridiculous, absurd statement becomes a strangely comforting mantra on his lips. An inane thought that he’d probably felt thousands of times three hundred years ago. One that he now knows damned well could never come true. A dream that the years had not just crushed, but obliterated.
And yet.
The pain and hunger really must be getting to him this time. Strange, as he’d been through worse. But for some reason, lying on the ground of the temple, collapsed at the feet of a statue of a fucking god, of all things, the sentiment re-emerges from deep within him and plasters itself on his lips. His mouth is so strangely free, here in this blasted temple that takes up a park that maybe he quite liked, really.
Do you truly intend to do so?
“Gods, yes,” he mumbles, face pressed against the floor. “I’ll take everything from him. I will annihilate that bastard and take all he holds dear. Which I suppose is probably money and power. And I will finally be so very, very happy. I’ll crush him, and every blasted fool who thinks they can do whatever the hell they want and get away with it. They’ll see.”
An admirable ambition. But do you swear that it will be so? That you will take vengeance? Right wrongs?
He’s not sure why, but for a moment, he addresses the voice as if it’s some other entity, rather than just some part of his mind talking back to him.
“Haven’t you been listening? Of course I swear. It’s a promise.”
“BY GALE’S GRACE!”
Despite all his exhaustion, Astarion starts at the screech from the doorway, pushing himself at least partly up to see who has interrupted his ramblings.
A cleric, eyes wide in shock, is hurrying over to him, hands outstretched and glowing with magic. “What happened to you? Oh, come here.”
This is the part where he puts on his most pathetic face, and clings onto them, begging for them to make the pain go away, and they think he’s so sad, so weak, that he’s not a threat, that he’s too grateful to have anything but good intentions.
Instead, his body leans backwards, lurching away from their touch.
The cleric frowns, and he frowns. That’s not what’s supposed to happen. Where did that come from?
Shit. He smiles sadly, meeting their eyes. “Sorry,” he says, “just a bit skittish. I’m not used to a gentle touch, not after everything tonight.” He sighs pathetically, rubbing the back of his head.
“Ah, I see. But may I?”
“I would be ever so grateful,” he begs, not entirely lying.
The cleric’s magic only takes a few moments to snap his bones back into place, and he lets out a sigh of relief. His mind feels so much clearer, now. “Thank you,” he murmurs. “That’s much better.”
“What in the hells happened to you?”
“Some rather unsavoury characters were after my coin purse.” He sighs, again, dramatically. “Gods, it was so terrifying. I thought I might die.”
The cleric pats his arm in something that seems to be an attempt at comforting. “Well. I’m just glad I was here. I only headed back from my break because I felt something stirring. Gale must be looking out for you.” They nod towards the statue of the god.
Whatever you’d like to believe, thinks Astarion, with a rising level of irritation. “So you’re having a little break? And you still took time for me?” How ever will I thank you? Bat your lashes and lean in, press your hand to theirs, pull just a little. Perhaps we could go somewhere more…private? I don’t think it would be very proper for your god to witness this.
The routine is engraved into every fibre of his being.
But the words don’t come.
He… hesitates. Why? Something twinges in his chest, aching, at the thought of those words. It doesn’t matter what he wants, it never does, but gods, he does not want to say them. And the push to do so has loosened, so suddenly, a suggestion more than a command.
Say it. Say it and finally get a rat, it’s been ages. Why aren’t you saying it? What in the hells is wrong with you?
There is something wrong with him. Something, some strange feeling, pushing at his chest.
A feeling, a thought, an urge. They don’t deserve it.
But no one does. No one ever does. And yet they still die. There’s nothing to be done about it, and if they find out he stopped it, he’ll be punished.
But…who’s to say they will?
It’s not like before. It’s not like the tomb.
No. No, it always is. Just fucking say it. What is wrong with you? Why this, now?
He’s spared from the conflict inside him when the cleric yawns loudly, stretching their arms. “Yes. And I’m heading off to bed soon. Bloody exhausted, today. You can’t imagine the amount of visitors we got.” They swing their arms. “Ah! Reminds me…” They wander over to one of the shelves along the walls, and pulls something small out. They toss it to him — a single silver piece, glimmering in the candlelight. “Should help you get back home.”
Such generosity, his mind automatically, sarcastically responds. Still, at least it replaces the stolen one. “Are you sure? I’d hate to take from a temple—”
“It’s alright, we’ve gotten plenty of donations. And he won’t mind,” they grin, gesturing once again to the statue. “Let’s just say that you better get the ambition to put it to good use, eh?”
“Quite,” he responds, forcing a small laugh.
“In any case, another cleric will be here soon to take over. So you’re welcome to stay and pray, if you wish.”
He finally stands, relishing the use of his leg. “Oh, I think I’ve gotten all my prayers answered already,” he says with a grin.
The cleric does not pick up on what he’s trying to say. “Very well. Then, good night, ah…”
“Astarion.”
“Good night, Astarion.”
It’s not a good night. It’s an unsuccessful night, which means there’s certainly no dead rat waiting for him on a bloodstained plate in Cazador’s ballroom. But oddly enough, despite the gnawing hunger, he feels a strange sense of energy as he leaves the temple, and begins to make the walk to Cazador’s palace. A tingling feeling, a rising sentiment in his chest.
Something dangerously close to hope.
He better shake it off before he gets back home.