Another Path

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/50325808.

Rating: Mature
Archive Warning: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Category: M/M
Fandom: Baldur's Gate (Video Games)
Relationship: Astarion/Wyll (Baldur's Gate)
Characters: Astarion (Baldur's Gate), Wyll (Baldur's Gate), Aradin (Baldur's Gate),
Jaheira (Baldur's Gate), Karlach (Baldur's Gate), Ulder Ravengard,
Cazador Szarr
Additional Tags: Heroism, Rescue, Past Torture, Past Abuse, Starvation, Blood Drinking,
Alternate Universe, Hurt/Comfort, Torture, Captivity, Attempted
Seduction, Blankets, Feeding, Past Rape/Non-con, Monster/Monster-
Hunter, Bad Plans, Party Infiltration
Language: English
Stats: Published: 2023-09-25 Updated: 2023-12-21 Words: 32,916 Chapters:
16/?
 Another Path
by Asidian

Summary

Astarion has spent two hundred years waiting for a hero to come.

It isn't the foolish sort of idle dreaming that one reads about in adventure tales, no – he
doesn't moon about in picturesque arched windows, pressing his hand to his chest and
sighing. But he does hope sometimes, furtive and distantly yearning, in the same way he still
prays to gods who never listen, every now and again.

Notes

Poking around in a no tadpole AU here, but this idea took up shop and wouldn't leave me
alone.

Where is this going? How long will it be? Who even knows.
 Chapter 1

Astarion has spent two hundred years waiting for a hero to come.

It isn't the foolish sort of idle dreaming that one reads about in adventure tales, no – he
doesn't moon about in picturesque arched windows, pressing his hand to his chest and
sighing. But he does hope sometimes, furtive and distantly yearning, in the same way he still
prays to gods who never listen, every now and again.

Fairy stories hardly tell of the world the way it really is; Astarion knows that better than
anyone. In real life, no one arrives with a gleaming blade to slay the monster.

In real life, Astarion is the monster.

Perhaps it's true to those old tales then, after all, that the day a hero finally appears, the man
slides a jagged stick of wood neatly through Astarion's chest.

And Astarion, who is dazed and barely conscious – Astarion, who is lying battered and
broken in a sarcophagus, where his master has shut him away for what feels like an eternity –
Astarion, who for an instant can't decide whether he's pleased the stake has missed his heart
or not – stares up, half-blinded by the moonlight, and he hisses, "You wretch," in a voice
that's a pathetic sort of a whisper.

He reaches to take hold of the stake, and his hands don't want to comply.

He's slow and clumsy, desperately weak with lack of blood. When he grabs hold, every place
he's broken screams out in protest. His fingers, crooked and scraped clean of nails from
scrabbling desperately at unyielding marble, struggle to close. Astarion forces them to
anyway. He takes hold as best he's able, and makes to pull the stake out again.

But the hero, curse the man, seems to have realized he missed.

Perhaps it's too dark for proper aim, but the man has another stake in his hand now, as though
he means to try again. Astarion flinches back – realizes he has nowhere to go – closes his
eyes, and gets his hands up as though to ward off the blow. "Wait," he rasps, in a voice hoarse
from screaming.

And for a wonder, the stake doesn't drive home.

For a wonder, it hesitates, and there is a single, dizzying moment when Astarion thinks that
the man has listened to him. Then he hears a voice calling from somewhere across the
grounds: "Hold up! We need one of them alive!"

Another voice replies, just as far away: "They're vampires. They ain't alive in the first place!"

And the man standing above him says, "I thought we were finishing them off?"
He still hasn't brought the stake down. Astarion closes his eyes, dizzy with pain and
exhaustion and the scent of blood. It has been so very long since he's been this close to
anything with a pulse.

He can't seem to concentrate over the throb of the man's heart – the promise of blood in his
veins. The smell of him, rich and tempting.

"The lord's gone!" yells that first voice. "Cleared out and left them. We're going to need
information!"

Astarion thinks he might be weeping – his cheeks are wet and somewhat sticky. He tries to
pull the stake from him again, and he finds he can't quite manage. His hands won't close
down properly.

"Well," says the man, "I guess it's your lucky night, vampire." He reaches out to bat
Astarion's hands aside – takes hold of the stake and pulls, and out it slides again, the hard
wood scraping along the wound as it goes.

Astarion keens and tries to curl in on himself – doesn't get that far. The man's hands are on
him, then, steady and sure. They drag him up to sitting, and Astarion goes right back over,
unable to support his own weight.

"Come on, now," says the man. "Don't make this harder than it has to be."

And Astarion hisses like a cat, and he snaps, "You shoved a gods-be-damned stake through
me!"

Then he says nothing at all, because the man is shoving something into his mouth. It's a poor
decision, truly. If he weren't still bound by his master's command, he could have bitten down
and drawn blood – managed to steal a precious taste, before the gag is fixed into place.

But the command still holds, and however much he wants to, his jaw refuses to close – and
then the opportunity is gone, and the man is winding strips of fabric around him, to keep the
gag in place.

Astarion shrieks and thrashes – or tries to, anyway. He hasn't much got the strength for either,
and so he ends up doing not much more than shoving at the man's hands.

"Shit," says the second voice, from somewhere closer now. "Mine's dead."

"Mine, as well," says the first voice. And then: "Wyll?"

And the man standing above him – Wyll, by all accounts – says, "Secured."

He reaches into his belt pouch, then, and for an instant Astarion is certain he'll produce
another stake. Instead he comes out with a round bottle about the size of his palm, the liquid
inside black in the dim lighting from the moon. He uncorks it, and suddenly the air is thick
with the smell of herbs Astarion doesn't recognize, sharp and astringent.
It's not an unpleasant smell, but Astarion cringes back, all the same—twists and bucks in
Wyll's hold, fearing poison. Instead, the man pours the liquid onto the newly-made hole in
Astarion's chest.

He expects it to sting. Expects it to burn, the way it always does when Cazador sprinkles sea
salt into his shredded flesh, to watch him beg with the pain of it.

But whatever this liquid is, it doesn't hurt at all. The pain eases, and the ragged edges of the
wound begin to seal, and Astarion is so busy staring down at it, struck insensate with
surprise, that it takes him an endless moment to realize the man has wasted a healing potion
on him.

It makes sense, of course – they want him alive, now, or as close to alive as he's been for two
hundred years – but it's such a curious feeling, having pain inflicted and then eased again.
Astarion isn't quite sure what to do with it.

Wyll is binding his hands now, solid knots, competent and sturdy. Astarion suspects he can
slip free of them in all of two minutes, if he has a moment to himself.

Certainly he doesn't want to stay around to see what they'll do when they discover that he has
no information for them. All he's known is darkness for a very, very long time now; all the
information he can give is about the way the sarcophagus had pressed down around him, and
the creeping horror of being trapped there with the slow torture of starvation, and the way
he'd prayed rasping, breathless prayers for someone to come, anyone to come and lift him
free again.

This is not, Astarion reflects, precisely what he'd had in mind.

All the same, he can't help but feel the vaguest sliver of relief, as Wyll reaches down to lift
him free of the sarcophagus.

Perhaps there is no gleaming blade to slay the monster. Perhaps Astarion is being slung over
the man's shoulder like a sack of potatoes instead of lifted in his arms like a princess in a
child's tale. Perhaps he's being saved from one sort of hell so that self-righteous pretenders
can torture him for information he doesn't have.

But Astarion watches the sarcophagus draw slowly away with each step of the man's feet, and
he finds that he is grateful all the same.
 Chapter 2
Chapter Notes

The response to the first chapter of this absolutely blew me away. Thank you so much to
everyone who took the time to read and comment!

I hope you continue to enjoy as I meander my way through, trying to figure out where
this is going. ^^

In adventure tales, rescues are all the same.

A swift white horse carries the hapless damsel to safety. She sits side-saddle in front of her
dashing hero, whose arms hold her, strong and sure, as they ride across the drawbridge and
into the light of the rising sun.

This not-precisely-a-rescue, Astarion discovers, is nothing like that at all.

Instead he finds himself dumped over the back of a mule and lashed to the saddle in the dead
of night, the only light the grudging sliver cast by the crescent moon.

Most probably, he suspects, the gods are having a laugh somewhere at his expense.

He makes a sound of protest at the indignity of it – muffled behind the cloth still stuffed into
his mouth – and Wyll's hands don't so much as falter in securing him. "Quiet," he says. "It
won't be long."

The clever thing would be to play along.

The clever thing would be to lie meek and compliant – not as though he has much strength
left to struggle – and pretend to go along with no fight at all.

But the ropes tug at his wrists and his ankles, and Astarion rather suspects that the bones
there are broken, a casualty of long months spent battering himself against unyielding stone.
They grind in the worst kind of way, and then there's a tug, and all at once the pain is worse.
Rather than meek and compliant, he surges upward, a scream muffled behind the gag – has to
be pressed down again with firm hands and held in place for the remainder.

By the time the man is finished, Astarion has gone limp again, pain making shadows dance at
the corners of his eyes.

"Ready to move?" says another voice, closer now. There's the flash of lantern light,
somewhere distant.
"He isn't going anywhere," says Wyll.

And he's right, Astarion realizes, twisting his wrists first one way and then the next, to try and
find some slack. There is none, and his plan to slip away into the night, however tentative it
might be, is going to have to wait until he's off the back of the blasted mule.

The ride isn't long, but it's a little slice of every one of the hells.

The bindings tug at broken bone in time with the creature's gait, and the hateful thing seems
intent on finding every pothole in the road. Worse than that, though, is the smell.

Not the smell of the mule, no – it has the unmistakable stink of the stable, strong but not
unforgivable. It's the scent of the creature's blood that feels like the worst sort of torture,
bound as he is face-down against it.

The blood-scent cuts through him like Cazador's flaying knives, narrow and wicked and
impossibly sharp. It peels parts of him away – sets an ache in him that's deeper than any
broken bone. Astarion makes a low, keening sort of sound, lost under the clop of the mule's
hooves. He works his jaw, trying to dislodge the gag – bites down on roughspun cotton
instead of warm, living flesh.

It's worse somehow than when Wyll was near enough to bite. There's no compulsion keeping
from him from this, only a few scraps of fabric.

If he could manage even a mouthful, he's certain it would be enough. Certain it would seem a
feast, after so very long without.

But he can manage nothing at all, and the mule clops on over cobblestones and into the night.

Lost as he is in the all-encompassing want, Astarion has little sense of time, and he can see
nothing of the world, face-down as he's bound. The monster hunters speak, from time to time,
but it is so dreadfully hard to concentrate on anything with the need that wells up in his chest,
threatening to choke him.

And so it comes as a surprise when there are hands on him again – steady and sure, undoing
the bindings with the same brisk efficiency as they were applied.

There's a dizzying moment of disorientation and then he's being lifted again – settled back on
a shoulder, the scent of blood richer now, more intoxicating. Astarion tugs at his bindings as
best he's able – makes a noise of protest half lost behind the fabric of the gag.

"It'll go worse for you if you struggle," Wyll tells him, and Astarion, who knows that better
than anyone, makes himself go still again.

He's quiet as those measured steps carry him inside; there's a subtle change in lighting, and a
new warmth in the air, and what little Astarion can make out from his field of vision shifts
from cobblestones to polished wood.

"Here," says another voice. "Put him in the cellar."

They're such innocuous words, really.

Astarion has heard so many worse ones from his master's lips over the centuries.

But they wedge like a dagger in his brain, sinking deep and prying him open. His heart hasn't
beat in hundreds of years, but it seems to clench in his chest, now, slowly upending itself as
some icy thread of terror takes hold.

Under Cazador's loving hands, he's spent nights as a pretty bauble to lure in unsuspecting
souls – spent nights chained and collared like a dog – spent nights lying still and silent on a
bed of broken glass. On one memorable occasion, when his master was particularly
displeased with his performance, Astarion has spent the night hanging from the ceiling by
hooks pressed neatly through his palms, the holes slowly tearing larger as the hours slipped
by.

None of those things quite inspire the same creeping dread as this does – as the thought that,
so newly freed from being trapped alone beneath the earth, he might now be returned to it.

Astarion screams into the gag, then. It's not a particularly loud scream; his voice is ravaged,
still, and mostly gone. But it's shrill and piercing, and all at once he begins to struggle in
earnest.

He squirms and thrashes – aims a kick vaguely toward Wyll's calf, and finds that the angle is
wrong for him to reach it.

"Would you look at that," says the other voice. "Didn't know any better, I'd think we got us a
vampire what's scared of the dark."

The other monster hunter laughs, then, the sound low and booming – reaches out, casually, to
slap Astarion's back, as though they're in a tavern, gathered around with tankards in their
hands.

There's the sound of a door opening, and Wyll says: "We're to the stairs, now. Be still, unless
you particularly want to be dropped."

Then they're descending, and each step it grows darker, and Astarion can't be still. He doesn't
have much strength in him, but he bucks and shrieks and struggles all the same.

It's something of a novelty, to be able to fight back for once. Usually, his master prefers him
only to beg.

But Wyll's hold on him is firm and careful, and Astarion doesn't so much as slip. He isn't
dropped, and nor does he squirm away; he's set on the ground, at the bottom of what looks
like a set of stairs.

Astarion doesn't need to breathe – hasn't needed to breathe for centuries – but his chest is
heaving all the same, as though he can't get enough air. In the dim lighting of the cellar, he
can only make out Wyll in silhouette, and even through the panic he has the time to think,
somewhat bitterly, that the man looks like a storybook prince, all strong jaw and sensitive
eyes and sculpted nose.

Then Wyll draws away again and leaves him on the floor, and Astarion finds he can't quite
help himself. He reaches out with his bound hands to clutch at the hem of the man's trousers.

It's pathetic, really.

The very lowest kind of groveling, the sort that Cazador so enjoys, but bound and gagged,
there's nothing else that Astarion can manage.

In the end, it serves him not at all.

In the end, Wyll jerks his leg away, and he turns to climb back up the stairs. A moment longer
and the door swings closed again, leaving Astarion alone beneath the earth.
 Chapter 3
Chapter Notes

The response to this fic continues to be absolutely incredible. Thank you guys for
coming along on this ride for me!

My greatest regret for this chapter is that elves have darkvision even in no light
conditions, so Astarion couldn't have zero visibility for max panic. Alas. Curse you,
D&D mechanics. -_-;

Astarion cannot, he discovers, work his way free of the rope in two minutes.

His hands won't cooperate.

When he stays very still, they throb with the sick, deep ache of broken bone; when he tries to
move them, that pain becomes sharp and sudden, nigh unbearable.

It doesn't stop him from trying, but he doesn't try too terribly long , subsiding at last to lie on
his side on the cellar floor, chest heaving to suck in gasps of air he doesn't need.

It unsettles him a little to discover that he even has the option to just lie here. By all accounts,
he's gods only know how far from his master without permission, and the compulsion to
rejoin him ought to be kicking in like a fish hook in the throat, reeling him in until he has no
choice but to comply.

Astarion doesn't feel it at all – not so much as a tickle of an impulse.

It's a novel sensation.

He rather suspects he's only been granted the leeway because Cazador doesn't wish to be
found just now, but it feels like the barest taste of freedom all the same.

But all of that – none of that – changes the slow gnaw of panic in his chest, at being so shut
away. It dips wide and deep and cold, and Astarion has never been more grateful for his keen
elven eyes. The room is swathed in darkness, but it still appears in twilit shades, faint gray
shapes provided by his darkvision: an arched ceiling, and a mound of crates stacked in one
corner, and a perfectly ordinary set of stairs.

It is a room, Astarion tells himself. There's space here.

If he had the strength, he could sit or even stand. If his arms weren't bound, he could spread
them out and not be stopped by the cold, slick pressure of unyielding marble.
Why, it's practically a lakeside holiday.

But curse his useless lungs, they haven't gotten the message yet, and his chest heaves until
he's dizzy with it. He ought to be planning his escape – ought to be rummaging through those
crates for something sharp enough to cut through the rope.

But his legs are as useless as his arms are; he's weak as a newborn kitten and twice as
wobbly, and when he tries to right himself, all Astarion manages to do is kick his way across
the floor a handspan or two.

He hasn't gotten very far before the door opens again.

This time, the light that spills in isn't only backlit from the doorway. This time, the man who
carried him into this place has a lantern with him, and it spills its light, mellow and golden,
into the dark places of the cellar.

It's lovely, really. Captivating.

It's been a very, very long time since Astarion has seen the flicker of a flame.

A brief moment's delay, as Wyll locks the door behind him and descends the stairs, and that
flickering spot of gold is coming nearer, casting light onto a face that's scarred and handsome
and somber.

The smell of him is bewitching, more unendurable the closer he comes. When he settles
himself on the floor beside Astarion, the scent of blood begins to cut away at him like a saw,
jagged at the edges.

"Mind my words, vampire," says Wyll, and Astarion finds that he has to concentrate quite
hard to mind the words. It's so very difficult to think of anything but the mesmerizing pulse
of the man's heart.

"You still live for one reason only," says Wyll, "and that reason is that you might lead us to
your master. Nod if you understand."

Astarion can scarcely think past the want. All the same, a part of him shies from the threat of
another stake plunged through him, and he nods, the gesture not entirely steady.

"I'm going to undo your gag," says Wyll. "We're going to have a little chat, you and I."

His hands are on Astarion then, undoing the knots in the cloth. Some of the tension eases, and
then the fabric pulls away, and those steady fingers tug the gag out of Astarion's mouth.

He flexes his jaw – licks at his lips – finds that his mouth floods with saliva, the instant it's
gone.

He's miserably hungry – can scarcely think – but he knows very well that this conversation
could determine the outcome for the rest of his potentially very short life.
Astarion licks at his lips again, careful. "Thank you, darling," he manages, voice rasping and
weak. "That was rather beginning to chafe."

And for a wonder, the man leans in to examine the place where the cloth was bound – frowns
at what he sees. "Apologies," he says, and for a moment Astarion can say nothing at all.

It's been decades at least since anyone has offered him an apology, and certainly not for
anything so trivial as a fleeting discomfort.

"I don't suppose you could see about the ropes?" Astarion says, painstakingly casual. He lifts
his arms, slightly. "There's something to be said for being tied up by a handsome man, but
they're a touch tight for my taste."

"Do you take me for a fool?" says Wyll, scowl deepening – and Astarion, who does very
much take him for a fool, opens his mouth to assure that he would never dream of such a
thing.

He never gets that far, because Wyll is looking at his hands, now, still presented as though in
half-prayer – looking at the shape of them, highlighted in the golden glow of the lantern.

They look dreadful, all told. Every nail has been scraped clean, and the fingers are crooked
and battered. The backs of his hands are ragged and uneven with the shattered bone beneath
the skin. There's not a hint of a bruise, of course – not so much as a whisper of swelling. He
hasn't enough blood for that.

And Wyll is staring with what looks very much like dawning horror, as though he hasn't
noticed until just now. Perhaps he hasn't, Astarion reflects. Humans have such terribly useless
eyes.

"What in the name of the gods happened to your hands?" says Wyll, and there's something in
his voice just then, more genuine alarm and less carefully banked threat.

Astarion offers him a smile, crooked and charming. "It comes of clawing at solid marble, I'd
imagine," he says. "Lovely stone, really. Makes the most lavish floor tiles. Not at all
something I recommend beating your fists against."

He can see the moment that comprehension dawns – the way Wyll looks him over, this time.
Really looks , holding the lantern aloft so that he can take in the sorry state of him. There's a
lot, Astarion reflects bitterly, to take in.

He's a terrible mess, clothes torn and stained with his own dried blood – from back when he
still had blood in him to bleed. His feet are bare, likely as misshapen as his hands are from
endless hours, and days, and months spent battering them against the inside of the
sarcophagus.

"You weren't sleeping," says Wyll, the words slow and careful, as though he's feeling them
out.

"Elves don't sleep, darling," Astarion sniffs. "We meditate."

"You weren't meditating, then!" says Wyll, and the tone is so sharp – so angry – that Astarion
flinches back, without meaning to.

"Gods above," says Wyll, but he says it to himself, soft and a little lost. He's rummaging
through the pouch at his belt again, and he comes out with another of those round bottles as
wide around as his palm, and Astarion stares at it for a moment, entirely caught off guard.

"Drink this," says Wyll, and uncorks it roughly, and presses it to his lips.

It has the same scent as before – herbs, sharp and medicinal – and this time Astarion knows
very well that it isn't poison. He's not entirely sure why the man is wasting another healing
potion on him, but he fully intends for it to be empty before Wyll can change his mind.

He tips his head back and swallows – drinks down the potion and lets his eyes shudder closed
as it spreads slow fingers of relief through him. It's not enough; there's too much damage for
it to ease everything away. But there is an easing, for the first time in a long time. That slow,
deep ache subsides a little, and Astarion shudders as the pain relents.

The potion pulls away, and Wyll says, "Another," and then there's a new bottle at his lips.

Astarion can't fathom why, but he drinks this one down, as well, and the pain recedes a little
further – a third, and he's all but floating in the relief of it.

He can't remember the last time he was whole and uninjured, free from the hurt of his
master's endless parade of torments.

"There," says Wyll, and his voice is oddly soft, in a way that Astarion isn't entirely sure how
to parse. "That seems to be the worst of it. Are you still in pain?"

Astarion opens his eyes again to find Wyll peering down at him. His expression matches his
tone – oddly soft. Oddly concerned .

The man really is a fool.

"I haven't so much as a scratch," Astarion tells him, and he lets his smile return. He means for
it to be practiced and charming – finds to his displeasure that it's wobbly around the edges,
far more genuine than he intends. "Do be careful, though, my dear. If you spoil me too much,
I'm afraid I'll be quite taken in." Astarion rallies – slips into a different smile, the kind that
comes with half-lidded eyes. "Handsome and generous. Whatever will I do?"

He isn't entirely sure what response he expects.

Certainly it's not for Wyll to surge to his feet, graceless and abrupt, all at once.

"What you'll do," Wyll tells him, "is wait here. Give me a moment."

He doesn't wait for an answer. He's turned already and is making for the stairs.

It isn't until he locks the door after him that Astarion realizes he's left the lantern, and that its
golden light spills into the dim corners of the room, keeping the darkness at bay.
 Chapter 4
Chapter Notes

Thank you again to everyone who is reading. Your responses have been giving me life.
:>

The light from the lantern is mesmerizing.

Truth be told, Astarion wants nothing more than to lie beside it and watch the flickering
flame – the soft hues of gold it radiates into the world, the first color he has seen in far too
long – and lose himself in the floaty, pleasant daze that's descended over him. The hunger is
still agony, but it's agony he's lived with for what feels like eternity. Here and now, with no
blood to torment him with things he can't have and no pain riddling his extremities, it's more
tempting than it ought to be to close his eyes and allow himself to drift, just for a moment or
two.

It would be foolish to give in.

He needs to be free of the ropes – to be free of this place altogether. The longer he takes to
return to Cazador, the more he'll regret having dawdled. Even if he can't feel the pull of the
compulsion to return, he knows this as surely as he knows anything; it's woven into the fabric
of the realms, a hard and inevitable truth.

Even so, he lets his eyes flicker closed, just for an instant – savors the way the flame makes
the inside of his eyelids glow a faint but vibrant red.

As he lies there, basking in that precious, flickering glow, another thought occurs to him. It
seems almost impossible – the very wildest sort of wish-fulfillment fantasy.

But if the compulsion is gone, what's to stop him from leaving the city?

If Cazador has slackened the leash for fear that Astarion will lead killers to his doorstep, why
shouldn't he take advantage? Ships come and go from Baldur's Gate to places all up and
down the Sword Coast. He could be away before anyone was the wiser – never set foot here
again.

Never have Cazador's hands on him again.

It's a dizzying thought.

His master will think he's still in the thrall of these monster hunters, somewhere, and Astarion
– Astarion will be free and clear, somewhere far from here, away from an endless parade of
nights filled with charming words and greedy hands and the scent of forbidden blood.
It's a lovely dream. He hasn't allowed himself to think of anything so fanciful in a century
and a half.

But it's a thought for later – a fantastical what-if for if he can manage not to be staked before
he gets that far.

For now, he opens his eyes and gets to work.

This time, the ropes are nothing to him, the broken bones all mended – a deft twist and a few
well-placed plucks from clever fingers and he's sloughing them off. All told, it takes him
rather less than two minutes.

Astarion allows himself a brief, satisfied sort of a smile – ignores the way his hands shake,
and goes to push himself up to sitting.

He can't manage it.

It's not just his hands that are unsteady; his arms are, too, and they wobble and give way to
leave him lying on the floor again.

Astarion curses under his breath and draws himself up, as best he's able, for another try. He
makes it mostly upright this time before tipping over again – falls all the harder, for his effort.

This won't be some glorious escape, then. That's fine. Astarion has managed a great many
things in inglorious ways, these past centuries. He'll take what he can get, so long as he can
get it.

This time, he doesn't attempt to rise at all. This time he drags himself along the floor on his
belly like a snake, trembling with the effort. Every inch feels like a hard-won victory, and he
tries very hard not to think about the fact that he has no solid plan.

He can take cover in the shadows in the corner – rummage through the crates to find
something that he might use as a weapon.

He won't be terribly effective, perhaps, but he doesn't have to best one of the monster hunters
in a fight; he just needs to stay hidden long enough to plant a blade in the throat when they
come too close.

It's not precisely a plan, but it's the best he has.

He clings to it all the way to the crates along the walls – clings to it as he scrabbles with the
first of them, trying to pry the top free with nothing but his fingers.

It puts him in mind of the marble again – of slipping his nails into the nearly-invisible seam,
and prying, and prying, and prying until the flesh gives. All at once, Astarion finds that he
can't continue. All at once, he feels that same sick, icy sort of dread that he'd been filled with
when the door had closed, and he'd been alone down here without the lantern.

He's so busy riding it out that he hardly notices the sound of the door opening again.
There are footsteps on the stairs, and Wyll is cursing as he finds the ropes, and Astarion really
does need to find a weapon, two minutes ago if possible, but if it isn't now is a reasonable
substitute. But his head is reeling and his hands are trembling, and he ought to be prying the
crate open but he finds that he can't.

"I might have known you wouldn't stay put," says Wyll.

And Astarion turns toward him and flashes the best smile he can manage, and he says, "I told
you, darling. The ropes were a touch tight for my taste."

Wyll reaches out to scruff him like he's an unruly kitten, and Astarion bristles at the casual
gesture – tips back over again, as soon as Wyll sits him up.

This time, Wyll doesn't admonish him for being difficult. This time, Wyll draws back,
frowning – sits him again up so that he leans against the crates behind him, the propped-up
pose allowing him to remain upright.

"What's the matter with you?" says Wyll, and Astarion can't help it.

He laughs, low and rasping at first, and then gradually higher pitched, perhaps with a hint of
hysteria to it. If he was putting on a show, it would be rather a nice touch.

He isn't putting on a show.

It's genuine, and it's entirely out of his control, and he hates it.

When at last Astarion can speak again – lolls against the crates, still unable to support his
own weight – he fixes Wyll with a smile that he suspects is every bit as unhinged as that
laughter had been.

"My dear," he says, "If I were to begin a list, we'd be here a tenday."

Wyll's frown puts a crease in his forehead, and he amends his question: "Why can't you sit
up?"

"Oh, that," says Astarion, aiming for airy and unconcerned. "It comes of being starved, I
suspect."

"Starved," says Wyll, levelly.

"Yes," says Astarion. "I rather find that sarcophagi leave something to be desired, as far as
amenities are concerned. Not so much as pillow, to say nothing of how much there isn't to
hunt."

Wyll is watching him with that look again, all slow-dawning horror. Astarion sees it creep
over him by degrees, as he takes in the implications.

Wyll's mouth works, but no sound comes out. He clears his throat – tries again.

"How long were you there?" he manages, at last.

Astarion considers something flippant in reply – discards it, just as easily. This man might be
his enemy, but he's the sort that fancies himself a hero. If Astarion plays him the right way –
pretends that he means to help, or offers the right kind of incentives – he may yet concede to
bringing a wayward rat.

It's pathetic, how even the thought makes his mouth flood with saliva. He has to take a
moment, to swallow – licks at his lips without meaning to.

"What day is it?" says Astarion.

"The seventh of Deepwinter," Wyll tells him, and that – surely that's not right. He's been
trapped far longer than a tenday; he knows that for certain.

A thought occurs to Astarion, then.

It is not a terribly pleasant thought.

All at once, he goes very, very still.

"And the year?" he manages, voice quiet. He can't bring himself to look at Wyll's face.

"1492," says Wyll, and ah, yes. There it is.

Astarion closes his eyes for a moment. He clamps down hard on the impulse to give in to that
laughter again. He presses a hand to his mouth, just for an instant, and then he takes it away
again, and he says: "A year and a tenday."

"A year and a tenday," Wyll repeats, voice blank of inflection.

Astarion thinks he might weep. He thinks he might scream.

He can't help but wonder how much longer Cazador had meant to leave him.

His chest makes the most awful hitching motion, though he doesn't need the air. "My master
was quite displeased, you see," he manages, and the words feel distant and swimmy. His head
is reeling, as though he might black out.

He feels Wyll's hands on him, then, pressing down on his shoulders, and Astarion wants to
tell him to let go, but the words won't come. He's shaking quite badly, just now, and his throat
is too tight.

"Lie down," says Wyll, and his voice is very soft, and there's something in his tone that
Astarion isn't certain how to parse.

Astarion is shaking, and shaking, and then he's lying on the floor, and he doesn't quite
remember how he got there.

"Breathe," says Wyll. "Just breathe for a minute," and Astarion wants to snap that he doesn't
need to breathe, but just now he's gasping like a fish on the docks, trying to take in air that
does him no good at all.
His eyes flicker closed. When he opens them again, Wyll is busy opening the crate Astarion
had failed so badly to unlatch before. He's reaching inside, and Astarion just has time to
think, with a bitter twist of irony, that this is how he'll get the weapon he'd wanted so badly,
right between his ribs. Then he realizes that what Wyll is pulling free isn't a blade at all.

It's fabric, soft and shapeless, and Astarion's mind can't seem to keep up – can't scramble fast
enough to provide a reason why – right up until Wyll spreads it out on top of him, hands
gentle and steady and sure, and he realizes that it's a blanket of all things.

A blanket, of all things, and then Wyll is reaching back into the crate again and there's
another settled atop the first, and the weight of them – and the warmth of them – is so
unexpected that that he feels something inside him break entirely to pieces.

They're soft, pressed in against him, and all at once Astarion is certain he will weep. It's been
a very, very long time since he's had anything that's soft.

He hasn't much strength left in him, but even that little bit is enough to pull the blankets up to
cover his face – to curl in on his side and lie there, shaking, for long moments.

And if his cheeks are wet before too terribly long, well – Wyll can't see his face anyway, so
this little lapse in self-control is scarcely as humiliating as it might be otherwise.

Astarion tells himself this, at least.

It feels as though he's here for ages. At length, he realizes how close Wyll is sitting beside
him – that the man is cross-legged on the floor, the warmth of his leg a solid pressure against
Astarion's back. That feels nice, too.

Eventually, by slow degrees, he stops shaking quite so badly. Eventually his cheeks shift from
sticky and wet to sticky and dry.

Eventually Wyll speaks again, voice as soft as the blankets. "I'm not going to tie you up
again," he says.

Astarion doesn't reply to that. He doesn't shift the blankets down to look at him, either.

"I need to go back upstairs," says Wyll. "For a while, at least. Just rest here, while I'm gone."
There's a hesitation, then. "Perhaps we can help each other, you and I."

It's a laughable thought.

The man is a monster hunter. He'd as soon put a stake through Astarion's chest as help him.
He's already put a stake through Astarion's chest.

But then – he's already helped, too. More than that. He's shown more kindness than Astarion
has seen in centuries.

"Perhaps," Astarion allows, and his voice is a ragged croak from the tears.
There ought to be more. He ought to be charming the man senseless, trying to secure this
alliance.

The words, he finds, won't come. They're stuck in his throat, somewhere behind the awful,
tight aching feeling buried there.

A hand settles on Astarion's shoulder, through the blanket – squeezes, the contact brief and
warm. Then it withdraws again, and the sound of footsteps fade away toward the stairs.

When Astarion peers out from beyond the blanket at last, he sees that Wyll has paused to
move the lantern closer to him.
 Chapter 5
Chapter Notes

Chapter 5, in which the sailing is not so smooth.

Astarion allows himself to drift.

He's exhausted in every way there is to be exhausted – starving and pushed to the very edge
of his limits. He's struggled for all he's worth when he has no reserves left to struggle with ,
and he feels it weigh upon him now.

Probably he ought to keep trying.

Probably he ought to rouse himself and attempt to open the crate again.

But he feels weak and hollow from the weeping, and a traitorous part of his mind won't stop
asking what if .

What if Wyll is right: what if they can help each other? What if, instead of torture for
information he doesn't have, he's allowed simply to be ? What if he can rest here, in the
flickering light of the lantern, and rub his fingers carefully over the fabric of the blanket, back
and forth, forth and back, relishing in the feel of it, plush beneath his fingertips.

It's the most foolish type of wishful thinking.

At best, it will get him killed.

But Astarion can't seem to muster the willpower to rise again – can't seem to drag himself
from the close, soft weight of the blankets. They hold him in place so much better than the
ropes ever did.

Wyll is gone longer, this time. At some point, Astarion hears what he thinks might be voices
raised in an argument, somewhere upstairs. He can't pick out any words, though – can't seem
to concentrate on much of anything.

He feels strange and floaty and unmoored, in a way that is not entirely unpleasant.

At some point, he must drift into a trance; the world recedes to something half-there, and for
a while he's unaware of much at all. It's the sound of the door opening again that drags him
back into focus. He blinks, in the warm glow of the lantern, and gazes idly up toward where
Wyll stands outlined against the door frame.

And a voice says, "Gotten awfully cozy, haven't you?" and the voice isn't Wyll's voice at all.
It's a hard voice – a mocking sort of voice. It's the kind of voice that makes Astarion try to sit
bolt upright, only he still can't support his own weight, and he wobbles and goes down again,
a soft curse on his lips.

He stays where he lands for a long moment, head reeling, forehead pressed to the stone of the
floor. By the time he can look up again, the man is at the bottom of the stairs and fast
approaching.

When he reaches Astarion, he crouches beside the lantern and leans in – and here is a
monster hunter, if Astarion has ever seen one. None of Wyll's soft, clean-shaven good looks,
no; this man has a hard jaw speckled with stubble and hard eyes, and his lips are drawn back
in a sneer.

"Listen here, spawn," he says. "You might think you're pulling a fast one, but let me tell you –
you ain't fooling all of us."

Astarion lets a smile come to his lips, charming and empty. "Why, darling," he says.
"Whatever do you mean?"

For his trouble, the man reaches down and seizes Astarion by the front of his shirt. He hauls
him up so that he dangles, limply, in that iron grip – shakes him, hard.

"Watch your mouth," says the man. "Might be you've got the Blade of Frontiers wrapped
around your pretty little finger, but I've got more sense in my head."

"And such a convincing way to show it," Astarion purrs. "Tell me, does aggravating the
people you hope to beg for assistance work often for you?"

The man backhands him across the face, hard enough to set Astarion's ears to ringing.

He suspects that he has a split lip – suspects that he would be bleeding, if he had enough
blood in him for it.

"You think you're funny," growls the man.

"I have it on good authority that I'm marvelously entertaining," Astarion tells him, and he
gets backhanded again for his trouble.

"If it was up to me," the man says, "you'd have coughed up everything you know by now.
We'd be halfway to your master already."

Astarion licks carefully at his split lip. "Ah," he says. "But it sounds as though it isn't up to
you."

"Keep testing me," says the man. "Ain't nobody going to look twice if some pasty little
smartass gets roughed up."

Astarion laughs, soft and rasping. He knows this man's type; he's taken dozens of him back to
Cazador's palace over the centuries. Hundreds. Imbeciles with their heads stuffed full of their
own importance –more strength than sense, and hard hands used to taking what they want.
For once, Astarion finds, he doesn't have to smile and flirt and play along.

For once, this isn't a stage show where he has to feign anything but derision.

He lets it show – lets his lip pull back in a sneer. "Go on, then," says Astarion. "Do as you
like. When your compatriots wonder why an ever-so-cooperative informant has gone silent
on them, I'll leave it to you to explain."

The man is scowling like an ogre; it does him no favors, twisting his features into a mask of
rage. For a moment, Astarion fears he's pressed too far – that the man will haul back and hit
him in earnest, this time.

It doesn't come.

Instead he reaches for the dagger sheathed at his waist, the motion calm and controlled.

Ah, Astarion thinks distantly, and waits for him to begin cutting.

But that doesn't come, either. Instead, the man presses the blade to the heel of his own palm –
nicks it, just a little. For an instant, Astarion has no idea what he means to do. Then the
blood-scent hits him, so heady and intense that it feels as though the man has slammed a
morningstar into his abdomen.

"Wyll said you were hungry, spawn," says the man. He holds his hand out, and Astarion can't
take his eyes from that thin trickle of blood. "Poor little vampire, locked away where its fangs
couldn't tear out any throats."

The hunger has claws . It's raking away at him inside.

Astarion wants with an intensity that's impossible to bear – needs, in a deep and visceral way.

"Go on," says the man. "Take a bite. Leave your toothmarks in me and not a single person
will look twice if I plant a stake in you."

The man's hand is closer now, as though in offer. That single rivulet of blood seems the most
important thing in all the world.

The pain is incredible – unspeakable.

"Aren't you hungry, little spawn?" says the man. He reaches out, almost gently, to smear a
drop of blood on Astarion's lower lip. "All I need is an excuse."

It's the very best thing Astarion has ever smelled.

He can't recall ever wanting something this badly before, and he's spent two hundred years
wanting so very many things.

He groans as though the man has shoved the dagger in him, after all – tries to pull away, and
doesn't have the strength for it. If it wasn't for the compulsion, his teeth would already be
lodged in the man's wrist.
"I thought you were starving," says the man, and he smears another line of blood onto
Astarion's cheek.

Astarion's chest has begun to hitch, deep and ragged, pulling in air he doesn't need. He
squeezes his eyes shut, and he tries to look away.

"I thought it had been so long," says the man.

He presses his bleeding hand to Astarion's lips, and all Astarion wants to do is bite down – to
take what little he can before the stake drives home and puts an end to him.

But the compulsion from his master is strong – is everything – is his world. His lips stay
pressed into a thin, tight line; his jaw clenches and refuses to open.

"Stubborn thing," says the man, "aren't you?"

This time when he hits Astarion, it's with his open palm. The blood splatters, leaving a trail of
droplets over skin and floor and lantern.

There's so much of it. The wretched scrabble of need twists tighter still, pathetically yearning.
It feels like watching a feast scattered to the floor, ruined before a single mouthful can be
eaten.

Astarion bites down on his own tongue, unable to bite down on anything else. There is no
blood to well to the surface.

The man has just drawn back to hit him again when the door creaks open and light spills into
the room. Astarion half-turns – half hopes, even dazed and wanting as he is, that the figure
highlighted in the door frame will be Wyll's, this time.

He doesn't get a chance to see.

The man drops him as though burned; Astarion lands hard on the stone of the floor, a soft
keening sound caught somewhere in his throat.

"What in all the hells do you think you're doing?" says a voice – and somewhere, distantly,
through the all-encompassing need, Astarion is aware that it's Wyll. Somewhere, even more
distantly, he's aware that he's grateful , and there's something dangerous about that, but he
can't concentrate enough just now to think about why.

"Step away from him," Wyll says, and the man is standing, and he's holding his hands out,
palms forward, an easy smile on his face.

"Just having a little fun," he says. "Seeing if your pet spawn is any trustworthy."

"What did you do?" says Wyll, voice tight with barely leashed fury.

Astarion realizes, vaguely, that he's still making that wounded keening sort of sound. He
ought to stop, but he can't seem to. He can't seem to think, past the scent of the blood that's
still on him.
He reaches shaking fingers to wipe it away – wishes, with every fiber of his being, that he
could lick his hands clean. That he could get down on his hands and knees on the floor and
lap at those spilled droplets.

The man is talking, still, casual and disarming. Wyll's replies are shorter, sharper, tenser.

Astarion finds he can't focus enough to pick out what they're saying. He's shaking all over,
now; he can't tear his gaze away from the blood on his own hands.

Now the voices are much louder, a distant hum of background noise. He really ought to be
paying attention. He'll need this, later, as leverage.

He can't.

His chest is still hitching, helpless and ragged, and he can't . He wants so badly for something
to ease the endless, hollow ache inside him. A mouthful would be enough.

A drop would be enough.

Distantly, he's aware of a door slamming. Distantly, he's aware of Wyll settling beside him.

Then Wyll is speaking, but the words don't cut through the white noise. Astarion can't open
his mouth, lest the blood seep in. He can't tear his gaze from the crimson smears streaked
across his hands.

For an eternity, that's all there is.

Then gentle hands sit him up – lean him back against the crates behind him, so that he doesn't
have to support his own weight. A damp rag reaches out to wipe at his hands, cleaning the
blood away.

A moment later and it's wiping at his face, as well – both cheeks, so very gentle, and then the
line of his lips. The blood-scent, sharper than any blade, recedes somewhat – unbearable,
still, but no longer eating him alive.

That cloth keeps going – wipes away the blood from the floor, and the lantern.

Wyll says something, the words a background hum – rises, and moves toward the stairs.

For a moment, there's a rush of mindless, wordless alarm, like the water in a river under a
bridge. Astarion half turns toward him, scrambling to come up with the right words to keep
him from going.

But Wyll doesn't go. He passes the bucket through the door – takes another one in return. He
stands there for long moments, speaking with someone, words too low for Astarion to hear.

Then he returns again, down the stairs, to sit beside him.

The smell of him is rich and captivating, an impossible tease – but after the raw scent of fresh
blood, so close and so tempting, this new version of unbearable seems almost bearable by
comparison.

It isn't much, but he'll take whatever little he can get.

 Chapter 6
Chapter Notes

The response to this fic continues to be absolutely incredible. Thank you all so much!
<333

See the end of the chapter for more notes

The silence is long.

It stretches out, vast and endless; the world is somewhere distant and muzzy, far away from
him.

At last Wyll speaks, quiet. This time the words filter in, as though from a great distance. "We
owe you an apology," says Wyll. "He had no call."

Astarion turns to look at him, and even that faint motion seems to take great effort. He's
shaking quite badly, still – leaning his entire weight up against the wooden crate behind him,
in order to remain sitting upright. "Well, darling," Astarion manages. "I suppose you'll have
to make it up to me."

Wyll gives a considering sort of a hum. He reaches, careful, to retrieve the blankets from the
floor. "You showed remarkable restraint," Wyll says, and he draws the blankets up around
Astarion's shoulders, hands very gentle indeed.

Astarion feels his lips twist in an expression that's the bitterest sort of smile. Isn't this
precisely the opening he needs?

He ought to play at being noble at heart – a hapless damsel, doing his very best to fight off
those nasty vampiric urges. Wyll fancies himself a hero, after all; that's what he'll want to
hear.

But Astarion's head is still spinning; his thoughts come slow and sluggish, as though packed
in cotton, and all the rest of him is adrift somewhere far from here, quite unmoored. Before
he can decide just how to phrase it in order to paint himself in the best light, he finds that he's
saying: "I'm afraid restraint is for less desperate men."

"Oh?" says Wyll.

"I'm bound by my master's rules." Astarion touches a trembling hand to his own chest and
puts on as pretentious a voice as he can manage. "Though shalt not drink the blood of
thinking beings."
"Ah," says Wyll, and he says it quietly. He leans in, examining Astarion's expression. "Then,
if you'd had the choice –?"

If he'd had the choice, Astarion would have made that sorry wretch of a man regret ever
laying a hand on him.

He would have gulped down as much as he could avail himself of – would have reveled in it,
right up until they tore him away – and when they drove the stake in him, he'd have died
happy, at least.

But Astarion has some sense about him, still. He says, "It's been a dreadfully long time. I'm
afraid hunger might have made me do something I'd regret."

When he glances over, he sees that Wyll is watching him. Astarion reaches down, automatic,
to draw the blankets in closer. The gesture is only partially for show.

"I don't suppose," says Astarion, carefully. He pauses and licks at his lips. "I don't suppose
you have something you might spare."

"Blood, you mean," says Wyll, tone flat and unreadable.

"Not you, personally," Astarion is quick to add, the words smooth and reassuring as he can
make them. The delivery falls somewhat short of his intentions; his voice wobbles on the last
word. "It isn't as though I'd be able to –" He cuts himself off – swallows. "A pest, perhaps. A
rat. That's all. It doesn't have to be much."

Wyll is looking at him still, and it's a strange sort of a look. It's not a pleased look by any
means, and Astarion curses himself for a fool.

Of course a monster hunter doesn't mean to feed his quarry. Of course the man wishes to keep
him weak – easy to control.

But Astarion is so very hungry. If there's any chance at all, he means to take it.

He leans in, the pose practiced and casual, a scene played out in a hundred inns and
flophouses the city wide, spanning a stage of centuries. He's near enough almost to touch
Wyll, if he leaned in just a little further.

"I may be a monster," Astarion tells him, voice affectedly breathy, "but I do know my
manners. And I can think of more than a few ways to thank such a dashing benefactor."

He peers up through his lashes – coaxes his smile wider, coy and inviting. He can smell
Wyll's blood thrumming through his veins, desperately tempting, a luxury he can't even
dream of tasting.

Astarion will take whatever he can get in its place. Scraps. Anything at all.

But Wyll looks more disturbed than charmed, and Astarion feels a part of him twist, off
balance, as though he's missed a step in the dark.
"There's no call for that," says Wyll, and his voice has a hard edge to it again.

"No call, perhaps," Astarion purrs, and leans in nearer, letting his fingertip trail along the
length of Wyll's arm. It takes all his strength to do it. "But we needn't hold off for propriety's
sake, darling. Let me show you just how accommodating I can be."

Wyll reaches out to take hold of his hand, then, and for an instant, Astarion thinks that he's
won this little game of lanceboard. He splays his fingers and leans into the touch as though
there's nothing he wants more.

And then Wyll takes Astarion's hand between both of his own, very warm and very steady,
far too firm for anything flirtatious. "I would not ask for your thanks," says Wyll, and his
voice has that edge to it again. "Most certainly not like this."

A part of Astarion flinches at the rebuke – runs through an assessment, and finds himself
wanting. He's filthy, still, and covered in dried blood. His hair is almost certainly matted, and
this man has seen him cowering on the floor for the past however-long-it-might-have-been.
That's never much dissuaded Cazador, but he's lured back enough unsuspecting humans to
know that pathetic isn't precisely a look that appeals to everyone.

"I'll admit," says Astarion. "I'm not at my best. But I can be a new man with a bucket and a
rag." He doesn't want to beg. He feels he's bare inches away from begging anyway. "And
perhaps a little taste of something, first. Just so that I have the strength to give you the proper
attention."

Wyll's expression grows darker with every word. By the time Astarion is finished speaking,
he has the intensity of a summer storm, all roiling clouds and banked lightning. He looks as
though he'd quite like to break something, and all at once Astarion finds himself hoping the
something doesn't end up being his face.

Perhaps he ought to have begged, after all.

But Wyll doesn't strike him, however ominous the expression that clouds his handsome
features. When he speaks, his voice is mostly steady, even.

And what he says is: "What's your name?"

The words are so unexpected that Astarion falters, the come-hither smile wiped entirely from
his face.

"Pardon?"

"Your name," says Wyll. "What's your name?"

Astarion's mouth works. He glances aside, and then back again.

"Astarion," he says at last, quietly.

Wyll reaches out and takes his other hand, as well – holds onto the both of them. His palms
are really quite warm.
"Astarion," says Wyll, low and solemn like a vow. "One of my compatriots is out hunting.
When she returns, there will be something for you to eat. You needn't thank me for it, or any
of us for it. In words or in deeds."

It's curious, Astarion thinks.

He feels a little as though he's reeling, even though he's still sitting upright. Dizzy from the
hunger, he supposes.

"Hunting," Astarion manages, with effort.

He falters to a stop. Swallows. Can't help the way his eyes flicker toward the stairs. "Truly?"

"Truly," says Wyll, and his tone is so very gentle.

"I don't suppose," Astarion begins, and then trails off again. Rallies. "I don't suppose she
mentioned how long she'd be."

He says it casually – as though he's inquiring about the weather.

"Soon enough," says Wyll, and Astarion can't stand the look in his eyes, every bit as gentle as
his voice. "Though, I have something that may help with the wait."

He reaches into the pouch at his waist – produces a small glass bottle, like something a noble-
born lady might use to keep her perfumes. It's glowing, faintly.

"This will help you rest, if you'd like it," says Wyll. "It offers true sleep, for a time, for
humans and elves alike. I can wake you when she returns."

Astarion's eyes dart to the bottle – back to the stairs.

It's a terrible offer, all told.

He isn't safe here – can barely sit up, let alone defend himself. The very last thing he needs is
to render himself dead to the world for the gods know how long – to subject himself to the
sort of sleep humans find every night, entirely unconscious.

Instead Astarion finds himself saying: "And what of you?"

"What of me?" says Wyll.

Astarion keeps his voice painstakingly level. "Do you mean to stay?"

He sees the instant when understanding flickers into place.

"I'll stay," says Wyll. "For as long as you sleep, I'll stay. None will lay a hand on you. You
have my word."

It really is a dreadful offer. Astarion would be a fool to take it.

This hunter is no more trustworthy than any of the others, after all.
 But all the same, he finds himself reaching out, very careful indeed, to accept the little bottle
from Wyll's hand.

Chapter End Notes

The potion is of course the Potion of Angelic Slumber. (✿◡‿◡)

 Chapter 7
Chapter Notes

In which Astarion finally catches a break.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

True sleep swallows him completely, and for a time, there is nothing at all.

There are no dreams – no phantom sensations of hands on him, or blades peeling at his skin,
or the endless, unendurable pain of hunger. For once, Astarion does not hear his master's
voice.

He sleeps, not in the half-aware state more common to elves, but true sleep – deep sleep –
something vast and bottomless and dreamless.

It seems to last no time at all.

Then a voice is saying, "Astarion," and it cuts through the close, swaddled darkness of his
own unconscious mind.

"Mmh," says Astarion, and turns over to curl in on himself a little further.

There's something soft pressed to his face, and he gathers it in nearer – tucks his arms around
it, the better to keep it.

"Astarion," says the voice again.

Astarion wants to tell the voice to stop bothering him, but he suspects that if he speaks, it will
wake him the rest of the way up, and waking the rest of the way up seems, just now, as
though it's the very worst kind of tragedy.

He makes a quiet, petulant sort of noise instead – burrows down into the soft thing.

There's a pause, and then a hand sets itself on his shoulder.

It isn't a conscious decision. The reaction is built into him, brick by brick, from the ground
up. It's a reaction that comes of instinct alone, because there's only one person Astarion
knows who sets hands on him when he isn't fully awake, and that person's hands never mean
anything other than pain.

He flinches, so sharp and so sudden that it jolts him the rest of the way awake, eyes wild as
he scans for his master.

But Cazador isn't here.

It's Wyll, the regal lines of his cheekbones highlighted gold in the candlelight, already taking
his hands back and holding them up, palms out, to show that he means no harm. "Apologies,"
he says. "I did not intend to startle you."

Astarion finds that he's gasping for air that he doesn't need. His face is still pressed to
something soft – a blanket, or perhaps two, gathered in against his chest and clutched there in
a manner he suspects he'll find really rather embarrassing if he thinks about it for too long.
There are more atop him, heavy and soft, at least three of them.

He doesn't remember there having been so many, when he went to sleep.

"Yes," says Astarion, fumbling to make himself sound unconcerned. "Well, just don't do it
again."

There's a slight pause; Wyll smiles at him, and there's something softer in it than anything
Astarion is used to. "I wouldn't dream of it," he says. "How did you sleep?"

Wonderfully.

If this is how humans sleep every night, frankly Astarion feels a little cheated.

"A bit longer would scarcely have gone amiss," he says primly, instead of answering.

"Ah," says Wyll. "Yes. I hadn't intended to wake you, but my companion has returned from
hunting, and I thought you might appreciate something fresh."

All at once, Astarion is incredibly awake. He makes as though to sit up – reels, dizzy with the
motion, and curses, and slumps back down again.

The hunger crashes over him like a waterfall, a relentless pounding that's nearly too much to
bear. The anticipation makes it worse somehow, and Astarion hadn't been aware that it could
be worse.

Wyll reaches out – hesitates, before he sets a hand on Astarion's shoulder. "May I?"

Astarion nods – licks at his lips – swallows against the sudden moisture that floods his
mouth. He can smell it, now that he knows to look for it under the intoxicating scent of Wyll:
something animal, rangy and wild.

Wyll's hands take hold of him, careful, and guide him up to sitting – lean him back against
the crate pressed into the corner of the room.

There are more blankets, Astarion is reasonably certain. They pool around his waist, making
a blanket nest now that he's upright, and Wyll reaches to rearrange them, automatic, into a
more comfortable position.

Something in Astarion's chest feels strange and aching at the sight of it, at those hands
fussing over such a little thing. He doesn't have the time to examine it very closely, though;
he's quite preoccupied, just at the moment, trying to catch a glimpse of the promised meal.
"Wyll, darling," he manages, with great effort. "You're terribly considerate, and far be it for
me to discourage a gentleman. But if you don't hurry – "

His voice cracks, on the last word; realization dawns on Wyll's face.

"Yes," he says. "Yes, of course." And he reaches behind him, for something on the floor, and
Astarion's eyes dart toward the motion, captivated by the promise of blood.

He expects what he's asked for: a pest. Something that won't be missed – a rat, or perhaps
even a mouse.

What he doesn't expect is a rabbit, the plush white of its fur tinged golden in the lanternlight.
There isn't a hint of blood on it, though it hangs limp and dead in Wyll's hand; however it was
killed, it was managed in a way that didn't waste a single precious drop, and for an instant
Astarion is dizzyingly, pathetically grateful.

Then Wyll presses the creature into his hands, and Astarion's thinking mind gutters to a stop.
The smell is overwhelming; it lodges itself into him and pries, and Astarion makes a low,
helpless sort of a noise and hunches in over it, biting down with shaky desperation.

It's good, is all he can process.

It's better than good.

Blood spills into his mouth, fresh enough to still be warm – gamey and vibrant and a
thousand times better than the rats that were all Cazador ever allowed him. He gulps, and
gulps, and gulps again, and for a wonder there's still blood left. It's so much larger than a rat
– there's so much more to it – and Astarion gets four full swallows before the feast slows to a
trickle.

He worries at it with his teeth – works at the fur with his tongue, trying to coax free every last
drop. He's shaking, he realizes distantly.

He scarcely registers Wyll at all, so intent is he on drawing forth everything the rabbit has to
give – scarcely pays him notice, right up until Wyll shifts and makes as though to reach out
toward him.

The reaction is built in.

Astarion makes a sound caught somewhere between a snarl and a whine – a feral, wounded
animal sort of a noise.

His fingers close down on the rabbit in his hands; he clutches it in closer and twists to one
side, protective, hunching in over the creature to prevent that reaching hand from snatching it
away.

It was always a favorite game of his master's – to make him beg, grant him a taste of
something, and then to take it away again before Astarion could finish what little it had to
offer.
"Easy," Wyll says, very soft, like he's trying to soothe a feral cat, and Astarion would bristle
at the tone, would snap something sharp and unkind, but his mouth is full, and he doesn't
intend to let go of the rabbit long enough to respond.

"I'm not going to take it," says Wyll, in that same careful tone. He shifts again, so that he can
reach closer still, and Astarion wishes desperately that he had a dagger – that he could lash
out enough to buy himself another few seconds.

Then he sees Wyll's hand. It isn't empty, fingers spread and reaching.

It has another rabbit in it.

There's an endless moment, when the world tilts a little sideways. When nothing quite makes
sense.

Then Astarion is too busy snatching up the second rabbit to worry about trivial matters like
whether or not something makes sense, clinging to the offering as tight as his shaky hands
will allow.

When he bites into it, he discovers that this one is every bit as fresh as the first – every bit as
satisfying – every bit as good, each swallow working to soothe the relentless, yearning need
inside him. He groans softly, and his eyes flutter closed, that jagged, too-sharp edge finally
beginning to blunt to something bearable after all this time.

By the time he's finished, he feels lightheaded with it. By the time he's carefully licked every
scrap of blood clean from the fur, a peculiar sense of contentment has settled over him, soft
and warm as the blankets still pooled about his waist.

Astarion can't remember ever having had so much at once before.

"I know it wasn't much," Wyll is saying. "Not after so long without. But my compatriot has
set out again to catch you something more."

More.

It seems an impossible sort of a promise.

Astarion would do unspeakable things, if it meant that Wyll would follow through.

He licks at his lips, carefully – sits himself up, and finds that he can sit up, just a little,
without needing anything to support his weight. "Oh, you do know how to sweet-talk a man,
don't you, darling," says Astarion.

"It's hardly sweet-talk," Wyll tells him, tone steady and even. "Just a little of us helping you,
so that you can help us."

Ah, yes. That again.

Probably Astarion ought to be worrying about what he means to do when the hunters
discover he has no information to give them.
 But perhaps that can come in a little while, yet. Perhaps he might be able to charm another
meal from them, first.

"And what a help you've been," Astarion purrs.

And then, on a whim, because it will be much harder to interrogate him while he isn't awake
to be interrogated – and surely not at all because his body is suffused with a strange, deep sort
of lethargy, and the thought of that true sleep settling over him is more appealing than it
ought to be – Astarion says, "I don't suppose you have another of those potions, do you?"

Wyll is looking him over, careful and considering. It's the sort of scrutiny Astarion doesn't
particularly want; he lowers his gaze and peers up from under his lashes, doing his best to
look exhausted and unsteady and in need of a bit of kindness.

He tries hard not to examine how very little of that feels like an act, just now.

"We may have another on hand," says Wyll. "But before that, I think that you and I should
have a talk."

And there it is. The part Astarion has been hoping to avoid a while longer yet.

But for all that, he oh-so-desperately wants that promise of more to come to fruition. And
despite himself, Astarion finds that he quite wants the potion, as well.

"Yes," he manages. "I suppose we'd better."

Already, his thoughts are running along ahead, trying to land on the best way to spin the fact
that he has nothing of value to tell this man. Already, he's thinking about what will happen if
the hunters decide he's being obstinate rather than honest.

But for the first time in a very long time, he's fed and he's warm and he isn't in pain. For the
first time in a very long time, he has unspeakable luxuries: light, and blankets, and something
to ease the awful ache of hunger.

He isn't sure what he means to say, just yet, but there's one thing he knows for certain.

Whatever it is, he had better play nice. Astarion isn't sure he can avoid a stake in the chest,
much less keep these gifts he's been granted – but he certainly means to try.

Chapter End Notes

I did a little research for this chapter on how much blood is in a rat. Apparently about
1/10 of a cup on the low side and 1/4 of a cup on the high side. A single rabbit is double
the more generous estimate.

Anyway, this boy has been having a rough time.

 Chapter 8
Chapter Notes

Thank you so much to the folks who have been reading. Your enthusiasm and your
comments are incredible. You're all amazing. <333

"So," says Wyll. He's sitting cross-legged across from Astarion – a casual sort of a pose, as
though he's seated on a picnic blanket with a friend. His hands are folded in his lap, fingers
intertwined. "What can you tell me about your master?"

Astarion makes a disgusted sort of a scoff, even while a part of him all but rejoices at the
opening.

It's the best lead-in he could have asked for. Not "Where is your master?" or "Does your
master have any safehouses?" Instead, a question he might actually provide an answer to –
something far more open-ended.

Astarion can work with open-ended.

Perhaps if he gives the hunters enough general information, they won't notice that he has
nothing of true importance to offer.

"You know his name, I presume," says Astarion. "If you found your way to his estate."

Wyll nods. "Cazador Szarr."

"Every bit the monster one might imagine a true vampire," Astarion says, words more bitter
than he intends. "Not content to slink in the shadows, though, no. He rather prefers to hide in
plain sight, behind dazzling soirees and his little spider's web of high-class connections."

"He had them often?" Wyll asks, perhaps a touch too intent to be casual. "These soirees?"

Astarion thinks about it. "Once a month at least, if I had to guess." He pauses – thinks harder.
"Although, my information is a touch out of date."

"Hmm," says Wyll. "And what of the connections? Did he ever mention what he was getting
out of them? And from whom?"

"Darling, we were hardly his confidantes," says Astarion.

But Wyll is watching him with a great deal of focus, and Astarion – well, Astarion does so
very much want another meal.
There's another part of him, deeper still, baked into his very bones, that balks at this – that
imagines what Cazador would do if he learned Astarion was spilling his secrets. Not a year
sealed beneath the earth, next time, but two, or five, or ten – trapped away forever, never to
see the light again.

Even the thought of it – even the barest edges of imagining it – feels like a shard of ice
lodged in his chest.

But these hardly count as secrets, do they? It isn't as though he's leading them to him. Any
coiffed noble at any one of those balls would be able to offer up a few tidbits; it isn't as
though he's giving away anything of substance.

Astarion licks at his lips – tries hard not to wonder how much of this decision rides on the
simple fact that he wants another rabbit quite badly indeed.

And at length, he adds, "Though I suppose it was easy enough to overhear things, from time
to time."

"Oh?" says Wyll, and his tone is remarkably mild. "Go on, then. If you have any names."

Does he have any names?

Astarion thinks back, and it feels a little like trying to wade through deep water. It's been so
very long, and even before the endless horror of the sarcophagus, the years have not been
kind. After a while, all nights become the same.

He remembers days spent forgotten, kneeling in the corner, as Cazador goes about his
business as though Astarion isn't there. He remembers careless voices through the
floorboards, as he lies starving and bloodied in the cellar. He remembers Cazador offering
cocktails of an evening, the best and brightest of Baldur's Gate reclining on the sofa while
Astarion kneels between their legs to provide the entertainment.

He doesn't know all of their names, no. But he knows some.

"Baron Bormul," says Astarion. "Lady Hullhollyn. Milon Tillerturn, and Madam Linnacker,
and –" Astarion pauses. Thinks of narrow fingers in his curls, tugging too hard – a breathy
whimper, and a hand with entirely too many rings patting at his face. "I'm afraid I don't recall
the name. Dreadful man. Ridiculous hair. A monocle, of all things."

Wyll sits up a little straighter. "Lord Petric Amber?"

"I couldn't say," says Astarion. And then, because Wyll looks so invested, and he'd really
quite like for Wyll to continue being invested – for any of this to earn him another mouthful
or two to eat – he adds, "Yes, I suppose it could have been."

"And they knew about Lord Szarr?" says Wyll, the words carefully probing. "These visitors
of his?"

Astarion finds that he's holding to one of the blankets in his lap. The fabric is really quite
soft, some sort of time-worn patchwork. He ought to let go, but he can't quite bring himself to
do it.

"They didn't know that he was a vampire, if that's what you're asking," says Astarion. "He
kept that particular subset of his proclivities quite private."

Wyll is watching him very intently indeed now. "But not all of them," he says.

Astarion blinks. "Pardon?"

"You said that that particular subset. That means they knew of others."

There is a long, uncomfortable silence.

Astarion thinks of another year trapped beneath a slab of marble, and he glances to one side.
"Some," he allows. "Yes."

Wyll is watching him – waiting, Astarion thinks, for him to elaborate.

"Perhaps I'd better not say," says Astarion.

Something must show on his face. Wyll is frowning, now – leans in, eyes earnest and intent.
"You don't have to provide details. Just – a hint, if you would. If you can. Please."

Please.

It's such an innocuous word. Astarion can't remember the last time it's been directed at him
when he isn't sprawled out in a bed, mouth busy swallowing down the cock of some poor
bastard who will be dead before the night is out.

Please.

As though he can choose to answer – or not. As though he's the one who holds the power
here.

It's an intoxicating feeling.

Astarion looks up again, to meet Wyll's eyes. "There were a handful who took their
entertainment in – shall we say, similar amusements."

Wyll takes a slow breath in. He lets it out. His jaw is clenched so tight that a muscle in it
jumps.

"With you," Wyll says, and it sounds like a question, but also not a question at all.

"With me," says Astarion. "Some nights were rather bloodier than others. There were... a
variety of tastes."

Astarion examines his nails, pretending at indifference. He rather suspects it would be more
believable if his other hand wasn't refusing to let go of the blanket.

For a long handful of moments, silence reigns.

Then Wyll says: "And the missing people? What of the men and women disappearing out of
flophouses in the lower city?"

Astarion runs his thumb over the blanket. It really is very soft. "I'm afraid I can't name names
for them, darling."

Wyll leans in, intent and earnest. "But you know of them."

"None of the recent ones, of course," Astarion hastens to tell him. "So if you've lost someone
special, I'm afraid it wasn't me."

For a long moment, Wyll watches him and says nothing at all. His eyes flicker back and forth
over Astarion's face, like he's reading a book. "But before your master locked you away," he
says, carefully. "Before then, it was you."

Astarion is on dangerous ground. He knows that.

He's standing over the center of a frozen lake, and the ice has begun to crack. He ought to be
better at watching his tongue than this. He's out of practice.

"Yes," says Astarion, reluctantly.

"You'd go out into the city and –"

"Yes," says Astarion, the word a little more brittle this time – sharper, like a warning.

He takes in a shaking breath he doesn't need – lets it out.

Starts again, mind racing on ahead, scrambling to come up with what Wyll wants to hear.

"I can't precisely say no to him, my dear." Astarion licks at his lips – tries to rearrange his
thoughts into something resembling working order, and finds that he can't. "He sends us out
to do his hunting for him. A few pretty lines, a bat of the eyes, and back they'd come."

"He kills them," says Wyll, tone careful.

"Drinks them dry," says Astarion, and can't quite keep the longing from his voice. He clears
his throat – glances aside. "If we did a very good job, he'd ask whether we wanted to join
him."

Wyll is watching him closely now. "You said that you couldn't drink from thinking beings."

"Just so." Astarion gestures with his free hand, aiming for flippant and falling rather short. "If
I said yes, he'd grant me the kindness of a rat, putrid and half gone to rot. If I said no, he'd
avail himself of his favorite flaying knife and we'd have a memorable evening together, just
the two of us."

He can feel Wyll's eyes on him – lifts his gaze, slowly, to find that Wyll is staring with naked
horror.
"A charming man," says Astarion, words jagged like broken glass. "Truly."

Wyll takes a shuddering breath in. His eyes are perhaps a touch too bright, and Astarion
wonders for a strange, unsettled moment whether he means to cry.

The man is a fool.

What sort of a monster hunter cries over his mark?

"Astarion," says Wyll slowly. "I want you to understand something."

Astarion glances back up at him. "I'm listening, my dear."

"We're going to find your master," Wyll says, tone low and intent. "And we'll see him put to
death for what he's done. No one will ever come to harm at his hands again."

A laugh bubbles up out of Astarion's throat, then, sharp as a blade and just as deadly.

"I might have known the hero would be one for fairy tales," he says, before he can think to
rein the words in.

Wyll doesn't flinch. He doesn't falter. Instead he says: "You'll never come to harm at his hands
again."

All at once, Astarion finds that his throat has grown too tight. His traitorous lungs, which
don't need the air, hitch in a breath anyway.

The words seem an impossible fancy. They are an impossible fancy.

But even if they aren't true – even if they can't be true – they lodge in his chest like the blade
of a saw, cutting away at him inside.

"You're a fool if you think he'll be dispatched so easily as that," Astarion says, and he's
horrified to discover that the words aren't anything like steady.

"We are well aware of the risks," says Wyll.

"He's more powerful than you know," says Astarion. "He's –" The words break; Astarion
swallows.

"I know," says Wyll, and reaches out to catch at his free hand.

"You don't know," snaps Astarion. "He's an absolute – he's a monster of a man. He can do
what he likes, to whomever he likes, and he has the power to get away with it."

"We aren't few in number," says Wyll. "And we're well-trained."

"Well-trained fools," hisses Astarion, "are still fools."

Wyll hasn't let go of his hand, yet. He ought to snatch it away, but it really is very warm
where their palms press together.
There's silence for a long few moments – the sound of Wyll's breathing, steady and even – of
whatever reflexive attempt passes for Astarion's breath, unnecessary and ragged, to match the
tightness in his chest.

"Do you know where he is?" Wyll asks at last, softly.

He ought to lie.

He ought to make something up – get them to bring him to some location far from anything
and then slip away again. He's had enough to eat that he thinks he can walk.

From there, he can find a way out of the city. He can be free and clear of this mess once and
for all.

But Wyll is looking at him still, gaze intent and earnest. His palm is very warm against
Astarion's.

Astarion can't shake those words still echoing through his mind, the most impossible,
fantastical promise he's ever heard: "You'll never come to harm at his hands again."

He's spent centuries dreaming that someone would tell him that.

Astarion shakes his head, the motion careful. "Like I said, darling. My information is a touch
out of date."

The hand in Astarion's squeezes a little tighter – reassuring, almost.

"Alright," says Wyll. "That's alright. We have plenty to start from."

Astarion regards him sidelong. "You have hardly anything at all."

For the first time, the corner of Wyll's lips quirk upward, into a grim sort of a smile. "We
know his connections, don't we? We'll start there. When you flush out a fox, it runs for
shelter."

Despite himself, Astarion finds that he's smiling back. It's a wan, sardonic sort of a smile – an
honest smile, more tired than charming.

"Careful, darling," he says to Wyll. "This fox has quite the set of teeth on him."
 Chapter 9
Chapter Notes

Thank you so much to everyone who's still reading. You're all wonderful! I hope you
enjoy. :>

See the end of the chapter for more notes

The hunters, it seems, are having a rousing argument upstairs.

Astarion can't make out any of the words, but the raised voices and the tones are quite
unmistakable. He makes his way to the top of the stairs for a time, to try to better listen in –
but the words are no clearer from the little landing there, and he hasn't anything on him to
pick the lock, and even that small amount of exertion has him exhausted and dizzy.

By the time he gets back down to his little nest of blankets, he needs to take a few moments
to recover again.

Those moments come and go, and the argument shows no signs of abating.

At length, Astarion rouses himself again – pokes through the box Wyll opened, and avails
himself of the rest of the blankets. He spreads them out on the floor, and he reinstates his nest
atop them, and he tries very hard indeed not to think about the fact that whatever the hunters
are yelling about just now is likely to decide whether he lives or dies.

The second crate, easy enough to open now that he isn't panicked and scrabbling and
pathetically weak, holds a variety of household goods.

Astarion helps himself to two candles – three candles – five, actually, just in case, you never
really know – and then a likely looking pair of pillows, as well.

The third crate holds rations, and while Astarion would quite like something to eat, none of
what's packed away here will much help him.

He selects a bottle of wine, though, just because he can – brings it back to his blanket-nest
before he realizes he hasn't anything to work the cork free with. Then he gets up again and
manages, with quite a lot of effort, to pry free one of the nails from the now-open crate – uses
it to painstakingly peel aside the wax and lever the cork out of the bottle.

When he's done, he considers the nail briefly – but it's a wide thing, clumsy, too large by half
to fit into the lock of the door atop the stairs. He pockets it, instead.

Then he lights himself a candle – then two – then three of them, and sets them about his little
nest, and he sits there drinking his wine.
It tastes like vinegar and dust on his tongue, and he hasn't been able to get drunk since the
change – but he finds that he quite likes sitting upright, swaddled in soft things, helping
himself to something he doesn't need just because he can .

The wine is all but gone by the time Wyll reappears. There are a few sips left at the bottom of
the bottle, and Astarion is considering taking another, since no one is here to stop him or tell
him no, when the door at the top of the stairs swings in.

There are two figures outlined in it, and all at once Astarion goes stiff and alert, eyes trained
on the doorframe.

"Stay here," says Wyll, in a tone that brooks no argument.

"So that you can spend more time with your pet vampire?" says the other voice, and Astarion
recognizes it quite well indeed as the man who'd come to call, earlier. He wishes, with a
simmering sort of resentment, that the crate with all the home goods had contained a kitchen
knife.

"Oh, don't hold it against him, darling," Astarion calls up the stairs. "He's ever so charming,
and not everyone can be enough of a fool enough to aggravate their only source of
information."

The man beside Wyll snarls – takes as step, as though to start down the stairs. "The way I
hear it, spawn , you don't have anything left to tell us."

And for an instant, Astarion feels a sinking, icy sort of dread.

The man is right, after all. He does have nothing left to tell them. There's nothing to offer, in
exchange for keeping his chest free of stakes, now that he's given them everything he knows.

He thinks of Wyll's words – impossible words, too good to be true, of course they were – and
he slips on a smile that shows all of his teeth. He may not have a knife, but the nail from the
crate is a reassuring weight in his pocket. He's learned all too well from Cazador exactly how
much damage can be done with a nail.

Then Wyll is reaching out to set a hand on the man's shoulder, and he says, "Aradin," and his
tone is so threatening that he sounds like another person entirely.

The man – Aradin – scoffs and turns back toward the door. "I'm telling you," he says. "This is
a stupid plan."

He slaps Wyll's hand away, and turns from the cellar – stalks off somewhere out of sight. It
isn't until he's gone that Wyll comes the rest of the way inside and closes the door behind
him.

It isn't until he's gone that Astarion feels the tight line of his shoulders begin to relax again.

Wyll takes a deep breath – runs a shaky hand through his hair. "I apologize for him."
Astarion sniffs, delicately – finishes off the wine, in one long pull. "Gods know someone
should," he pronounces. "Atrocious man."

"He's upset because he didn't get his way," says Wyll, and carries on down the stairs.

"Let me guess," says Astarion, and waggles his fingers. "A nice, sharp stake and a rousing
celebration after, the better to enjoy the vampire spawn no longer lurking about the cellar."

"More or less," says Wyll, and comes to stand by the blanket nest. He eyes the extra padding
– the candles – the bottle of wine. "I see you've made yourself at home," he says, and there's a
hint of amusement in his tone.

"It was rather a long argument, my dear," Astarion tells him, dry. "Who did win, by the by?"

"A sort of – conglomeration of ideas, if you will," says Wyll, delicately, and sits himself
down beside the blankets.

"Goodness," says Astarion. "Have you ever considered a career in politics? I've never heard a
sentence say so very little before in all my life."

Wyll snorts, a sound that comes somewhere adjacent to laughter.

"You would be surprised." He hesitates, then; the smile slips away from his face. "I'm afraid
it won't be an easy plan to explain."

"You'll find I'm much better at following along now that I've had something to eat," Astarion
tells him.

Wyll glances up at him – spends a long moment, searching his face. "And it's rather riskier
than I'd hoped."

"And here I thought the lot of you were strapping young heroes," says Astarion, wryly. He
takes another swig from the bottle – remembers too late that it's empty, and sets it aside.

"Risky for you, I mean," says Wyll, and Astarion goes very still indeed.

"Pardon?" he says, carefully.

Wyll holds his hands out, palms face forward, as though he means to soothe a riled animal.
"There's more exposure involved than I would have preferred," says Wyll. "I wanted you to
have nothing to do with it."

"Ah," says Astarion, distantly. His ears are ringing. "And instead?"

"Well," says Wyll. "Your master has gone to ground."

"Yes," says Astarion. "We've covered that."

"And he isn't likely to show himself for some time," says Wyll.
Astarion's eyes are fixed on his face, trying to read the expression there. It's quite a lot more
difficult than he would like. "That stands to reason."

"But," says Wyll, "if there was something he would be willing to show up for –"

All at once, it feels as though someone has kicked the floor out from underneath him. All at
once, it feels as though he's clinging to hold on, but there aren't anything like good enough
handholds, and gods save him, but he is going to fall .

"No," says Astarion, faintly.

"You wouldn't ever be in real danger," says Wyll. "He wouldn't ever come close to you."

Astarion is shaking.

He really ought to rein it back in again. He really ought to think through some sort of strategy
here – think of a way to talk Wyll around, somehow.

Instead, he's rising to his feet, and his teeth are bared, and he's saying, "Absolutely not.
Absolutely not ," and his voice is shot through with something dangerously close to hysteria.

"All you have to do is be somewhere visible," says Wyll. "A public place, that's all –
somewhere he's likely to receive word of you."

"You don't understand," Astarion hisses. "He can make me do whatever he wants . The only
reason I haven't gone crawling back to him is because he hasn't made me yet."

Wyll stands as well – slowly, telegraphing the moves. "And why hasn't he made you?"

"I don't know," says Astarion, and there's a jagged, desperate sort of an edge to the words that
he can't quite get under control. "Probably he knows that if I wander away back to him, I'll
have a horde of wretched monster hunters on my tail."

There's a beat of silence, as Wyll considers this. "Then he'll have to believe you've lost us.
Where would you go, if you were trying to get clear of the city?"

"To the docks," says Astarion immediately. The answer comes easy – built into a thousand
fantasies, stretched out over centuries, of what it might be like if he could only find his way
free. "But that has nothing to do with anything," he hastens to add. "If Cazador is lounging
about in some noble's manor, he's hardly liable to watching Grey Harbour."

Wyll nods to himself. "You're right. It will have to be someplace more visible. A high class
affair, maybe. You can pretend to be looking for connections to smuggle you out of the city."

"I'm not going to pretend anything," Astarion hisses.

"I know that you're worried," says Wyll, tone very gentle indeed. "I do. But if you want your
master dead, this is the best chance we have."
"You're an idiot," Astarion snaps, the words bitter on his tongue. "Why in all the hells would
I go to some noble's soiree to find passage? He'll know it's a set-up. He knows I'm not stupid
."

Does he, though?

A thousand whispered words come to Astarion's mind, then – fingers in his hair, and blades
on his skin, and Cazador murmuring: "Foolish boy. You never did know when to listen."

Astarion is shaking, and he finds that he can't stop.

His stomach is churning, and he rather suspects it isn't the wine.

"I'll tail you," says Wyll, voice low and earnest. "You won't be alone. And when he makes his
move, all we'll need to do is follow you back to where he's staying."

Astarion thinks of the nail in his pocket. If he puts Wyll's eyes out and makes a break for the
door, he might still be able to salvage this.

Did Wyll lock it after him? Astarion can't recall.

"It isn't that easy," says Astarion, and his voice is trembling as badly as he is. "He isn't some
weak little nothing that you can waltz in and plant a stake into."

"We know what we're up against," says Wyll.

"Yes, you, of course," hisses Astarion. "And what about me ? What about when you fumble
this idiotic fucking plan and he finds a way to make a year in a sarcophagus seem like
kindness next to whatever new horror he concocts?"

Now's the time. If he means to make a run for it, he should do it now. His hand eases toward
the pocket with the nail in it; panic thunders along his veins like an ice storm.

"Astarion," says Wyll then, and something about the way he says it slices neatly through the
panic.

It's so calm, and so careful, and so – soft, really. Softer than it has any right to be.

Astarion falls silent.

"I meant what I said," says Wyll. "You'll never come to harm at his hands again."

Astarion laughs, and it's a rusty, ugly thing, caught somewhere in his throat. "You can't
promise that, darling."

"I can," says Wyll. "And I am. On my life, Cazador Szarr will never touch you again."

It sounds like some foolish bit of nonsense from the pages of an adventure tale. It sounds like
the sort of words that ought to have him swooning and sighing and draping himself,
picturesque, over a divan riddled with rose petals.
 Instead it makes him feel as though he might weep.

Astarion swallows, and he glances away again.

It's the worst plan he's ever, ever heard. If Cazador gets hold of him again, he'll find ways to
make a year with no food and no light seem child's play by comparison.

But Astarion has spent so very long dreaming – and hope, he's discovered, is a vicious,
stubborn little thing that never quite dies, no matter how hard he works to snuff it out.

Astarion glares hard at the stone of the floor – at the blankets puddled against it – at the
candles that flicker softly, keeping the darkness at bay. "Say it again," he demands, voice a
ragged sort of a whisper.

"On my life," says Wyll, softer than before, "Cazador Szarr will never touch you again."

He holds a hand out, palm up – an offer, if Astarion chooses to take it.

He would be a fool to. If this doesn't get him killed, it will get him worse than killed. He'll be
lucky if the world is kind enough to grant him the mercy of death.

And as for Wyll – Wyll won't survive another tenday.

Yet he finds that he reaches out to take that hand, all the same. It's warm, and the palm is
calloused, and those fingers curl in around Astarion's own.

It feels like a pledge, the insipid sort that knights swear in fairy stories.

Astarion still feels as though he might weep.

"I'm afraid I've nothing at all that's suitable to wear to a ball," he says at last, when he thinks
that he can speak again.

It feels a little like stepping out onto a tight wire strung between the tallest ramparts of
Cazador's palace.

Perhaps he'll fall. Perhaps someday, years in the future, he'll look back at this moment as the
worst decision he's ever made.

But hope really is a stubborn little thing. It's been beaten so badly that it ought not be able to
scrape itself together and rise up off the floor any longer. Astarion rather thought it had bled
out, by now.

And yet when Wyll smiles, Astarion feels something kindle somewhere in his chest, close
and warm, not dead at all, even after all this time.

Chapter End Notes

I was complaining to someone about how I'd wanted to make the nameless asshole in
Chapter 5 an NPC from the game but couldn't think of anyone who was a big enough
asshole, and they suggested Aradin. And you know what? He is absolutely that big an
asshole. So it's Aradin now. (✿◡‿◡)
 Chapter 10
Chapter Notes

Thank you again so much to everyone who has read and commented. You're all
amazing.

I think I actually know where I'm going with this now. So... victory? (✿◡‿◡)

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Wyll goes, and he promises that when he returns there will be more to eat. He promises soap,
and water for a bath, and a change of clothes.

It all sounds, frankly, like some absurd fantasy – like fathomless luxury, on top of everything
he's received so far.

Curse the man to the hells and back for being so damnably earnest, but despite himself,
Astarion actually believes he means to follow through.

This time, there is no argument upstairs – or if there is, at the least, it's none that Astarion can
hear.

This time, the door stays closed for hardly any time at all before it swings open again. In it
stands a woman, and she doesn't dither in the doorway but strides inside, taking the stairs
with a steady, single-minded intensity.

She's wiry and small of frame, a touch on the older side; her narrow face is lined, and her
hair, elaborate coils and braids, has all gone grey. But there's an understated strength in her
steps, and a certain economy of movement. She stalks like a panther, coiled and prowling;
despite himself, Astarion eyes the door, which she's left open, calculating whether he might
be able to make a dash for it before she's had time to react.

He doesn't get the chance. The door, it seems, is open for a reason; a tiefling woman with
dusky red skin steps in behind her and then closes it.

The new arrival is massive, with broad arms and muscled shoulders, and even at the sight of
her, every alarm bell in Astarion's mind begins ringing. She looks like a bruiser, if he's ever
seen one – the sort to break any bones that need breaking.

At least for now she stays where she is, at the top of the stairs, arms folded across her chest.

But the other woman is fast approaching – stands above him, looking down. She has sharp
features and arched brows; despite her age, the eyes set in that face are bright and
considering.
She's trouble, Astarion knows right away.

"I suppose I've been deemed safe enough for visitors," he says, pleasantly. "To what do I owe
the pleasure, darling?"

For a moment, she doesn't answer; she just continues to stare down at him, as though he's
some bug scuttling along the cobblestones. He feels a sharp spike of annoyance at the look,
and forces himself to shove it down.

For all that he's won Wyll over, he knows very well that Wyll's opinion here isn't the only one
that matters.

"Perhaps I wish to meet the spawn I've been gathering rabbits for," she tells him, and when
she speaks, her voice is crisp and direct, a heavy accent curling the words.

Ah. The compatriot Wyll had mentioned, then. Astarion tries on a smile, charming as he
knows how. If she means to bring him another rabbit, he can forgive quite a lot. "The lady of
the hour," he says. "And one of my very favorite people just at the moment, might I add."

The woman snorts. She stares down at him for another moment longer, and then she reaches
out, casual, to take hold of one of the smaller crates. She drags it into place beside him – sits
atop it, and leans forward so that her forearms are resting on her knees.

"I will be plain," the woman says. "Wyll is a good man, but he is something of a fool. He is
taken in too easily by a pretty face and a convenient story, you might say."

Astarion feels himself go very still – evaluates every line of his body, the position of every
limb, and forces himself to relax. When he looks up again, his expression is one of wounded
innocence.

"My dear, you're hardly inspiring trust," he says, the words carefully tinged with mild
reproach. "I haven't much experience with alliances, but from what I understand they aren't
often begun with accusations of ill intent."

The woman leans forward slightly. "Make no mistake," she tells him. "This is no alliance.
You have things we need to know; you can offer up the bait for our trap. In exchange, you
carry on without a stake in your heart. Have I made myself clear?"

Astarion feels, suddenly, as though the ground beneath him is riddled with rot. After Wyll's
words, intent and earnest – after the warmth of the man's hands and those avid promises – he
had almost come to believe –

But no.

Hope may be stubborn, but it's foolish, as well. Astarion ought to know that better than
anyone by now.

"Blindingly," he tells the woman, and feels his smile go crooked and a little bitter.
"Good," says the woman. "You may call me Jaheira." She reaches into the pouch at her waist
and comes out with a small vial of liquid – not the healing potions Wyll had given him, nor
even that delightful little brew that had allowed him to sleep. This is something else entirely.
"You and I are going to get to know one another, now. I will ask you questions; you will give
me answers. Then we will see whether Wyll has been taken in."

She doesn't reach out to offer him the potion. Instead, she drinks it down herself. When the
bottle is empty, she corks it again, and she slides it back into her pocket. Then she says: "Tell
me about your master."

Astarion spreads a hand – gestures casually toward the pocket with the little vial. "Come
now, sweetling. Not a word of explanation?"

The woman tips her chin up. "A little something," she says, "to help me ensure that you speak
the truth."

All at once, Astarion suspects he knows what she's availed herself of. There are several
possibilities, really, but none of them are good . At best, he'll need to watch what he says; at
worst, she'll be peering directly into his thoughts.

Cazador never needed to employ such crude methods; when he wanted the truth, he could
always just order it. A word of command, and out it would come like a fish hook lodged
down his throat, dragging the words out inevitable and unwilling.

He despises that this will be much the same – that he hasn't a choice here, any more than he's
had one for the past two centuries.

He despises this woman, too, suddenly and viciously – wishes with a sharp spike of
resentment that he had a dagger – realizes that he needs to stop wishing he had a dagger,
because odds are very good that she can see that, curse it all. The resentment grows deeper
still, dark and ugly; something tight and borderline-panic wells up to twine together with it,
the understanding that if anyone is going to get stabbed here, it's likely to be him.

Jaheira is only watching him, sharp eyes watchful.

"Your master," she reminds him.

"You'll find that I've told Wyll already," Astarion says, and he can't quite keep from sounding
like he's sulking spectacularly.

"Yes," says Jaheira. "We spoke. He said that you have been sealed away for some time."

The reminder comes with images: the cold, slick feel of the marble; the pain of splintered
bone. Screaming until his voice is raw, and begging for someone – for anyone – for the barest
scrap of mercy. Hunger like some vast and fathomless thing, swallowing him whole, until
death seems kinder.

Jaheira's expression flickers – goes guarded and stiff. It isn't quite a flinch, but he suspects it's
as close as a woman with her poise can come.
Astarion can't help the vicious surge of triumph that flits through him at that, nor does he
suppress the smile he gives her, showing entirely too many teeth.

"Charming experience, wasn't it?" he manages, when he trusts his voice "Though, darling,
you'll find my head isn't precisely an appealing place to visit."

His hands are shaking, slightly; he smooths them against his trousers, to steady them.

"I am not here for pleasant things," says Jaheira. "I am here for the truth." She takes another
breath. "Let us speak of the people you lured away. What of them?"

He can't suppress those memories any more than the others: long nights in rundown taverns,
or in back alleyways, or in his master's chambers, entertaining some new guest until Cazador
deigned to arrive. Hands on him, wandering, greedy – practiced smiles and charming words –
faking the way he arches beneath them, trembling less from pleasure than from the creeping
ache of starvation.

Blood, later, great gouts of it, as Cazador drinks his fill. Waiting on his knees, unable to touch
a drop.

Cleaning the mess with rags and buckets, and wanting, and wanting, and wanting .

"All gone, I'm afraid," he manages, distantly. And then, on its heels: " Must we do this?"

"And those names you gave," says Jaheira, unyielding. "Are they true?"

Powerful men sprawled on a couch; hard hands; the way Cazador gestured them to do as they
liked, casual and proprietary. Split open and laid on his back, staring up at the ceiling, feeling
a thousand realms away from what's happening to him.

Wishing, with a distant sort of ache, that he could just not be here anymore.

"They are," Astarion grinds out. He wishes again for a dagger, quite a lot more strongly than
before.

For a long moment, Jaheira says nothing. She just watches him, eyes flickering over his face
as though she's reading a book. At last she says, "I have one final question. Do you wish to
see your master dead at our hands?"

The tangled knot of emotion that rears up out of him is staggering in its intensity; it catches in
his chest and swells there, as though it means to break every last one of his ribs on the way
out.

"I wish to see him dead at my hands," Astarion snarls.

Jaheira is still regarding him with that level, knowing sort of a look. "But?"

Astarion bares his teeth. "But if we swipe a blade at him and miss, sweetling, I'm the one
who's going to pay for it. Do you understand?"
He doesn't want to imagine what Cazador will do to him. He can't imagine what Cazador will
do to him. Two hundred years, and his master still manages to find new horrors. Astarion
can't conceive of anything worse than the time spent trapped inside that tomb, but he knows
that Cazador will find something.

He will find something, and Astarion will pay, and pay, and pay .

Jaheira nods, slowly. "Yes," she says. "I think I do."

"Splendid," Astarion manages, faintly, caught up in hating her.

And then the woman smiles, a crooked, sardonic sort of a smile. "Hate me all you like, little
spawn. The price for this mission, if there is one, will not be yours to bear." There's nothing
gentle in the way she holds herself—nothing gentle in her tone. She is not, Astarion suspects,
a woman who does gentle very well. But after a moment, she leans in, and she adds: "I am
not so taken with you as Wyll, but nor would I consign you to suffering such as that."

The laugh that chokes him comes out as an unsteady thing. "The both of you are so sure it
will all go to plan."

"I am the High Harper, little spawn. Making sure that things go to plan is my job."

Realization dawns, like the slow brightening in the sky that heralds a new day. Astarion peers
up at her, and he can feel that his eyes have gone very wide indeed.

If what she says is true, this woman pulls the strings of dozens of trained fighters. She has
access to at least three safehouses the city wide, and those are just the ones Astarion has
heard whispered of.

All at once, the words are caught in his throat.

All at once, hope, that wretched, stubborn thing, feels as though it might strangle him.

"A word to the wise," Jaheira tells him. She stands, and she looks down at him, and her
expression is not quite so hard as it was before. "Do not think how much you would like to
stab someone before you know who they are."

"Yes," Astarion manages. "Point quite taken."

That sardonic smile grows a touch wider. "I will send you down something to eat. Rest, if you
can. When we make our move, there will be much to be done."

Then she turns for the stairs with that confident, understated strength, like a panther readied
to strike, and her bodyguard trails behind her, shutting the door after them.

In the lanternlight of the cellar, Astarion rests his forehead against the soft folds of half a
dozen blankets. He takes in a breath that he does not truly need, and he lets it out again, slow.

His chest aches, and his eyes burn, and he's surrounded by fools. But gods help him, the High
Harper.
 Perhaps they have a chance at this, after all.

Chapter End Notes

Yes, that's Karlach on the stairs. I've wanted to get her in here somehow, and then I got
to her in-game line about wondering how things would have turned out for her if she
worked for Jaheira instead of Gortash, and my brain went: !!!!!

PS, I took liberties with Detect Thoughts because it seemed more fun. Let me have this.
>>
 Chapter 11
Chapter Notes

Time for Astarion to get some nice things (✿◡‿◡)

When Wyll appears in the doorway at the top of the stairs again, Astarion is midway through
a second bottle of wine.

"You know, darling," he says, casually. "Failing to warn me about dreadful old ladies lying in
ambush is hardly a way to begin a relationship."

"Come now," says Wyll, and bends to retrieve something at his feet, out of sight in the
hallway beyond. "She isn't as bad as all that."

Astarion's eyes dip down to follow the motion, idly. He sniffs, as though insulted. "I'll have
you know I'm trying to improve my standards."

Wyll huffs what sounds suspiciously like a laugh. "Oh? Well, in that case, she's just awful."

When he straightens again, there's something really rather large in his hands. It takes
Astarion's mind a long moment to catch up with he's seeing, and when it does he sits bolt
upright in the nest of blankets.

"Is that – ?" he manages, and his voice catches, before he can quite finish the question.

"It is," says Wyll. He balances the thing on his shoulder, and he pulls the door closed behind
him, and he starts down the stairs. And then, decidedly gentle: "It may help, as far as
improving your standards goes."

"Ah," says Astarion softly – not entirely steady. He sets the wine aside with a shaking hand,
before he drops it. "Then it's for – ?"

Wyll is at the bottom of the stairs, now. He crosses over to the little nest that Astarion has
made for himself, and he sets what he's carrying down on the edge of it.

"For you, yes," Wyll tells him.

Astarion swallows, with effort.

This time, what he's been brought isn't a rabbit at all. It's an entire deer, and it's warm beneath
his palm when he reaches out to touch it. Astarion feels as though the world is reeling all
around him, even though he's still sitting on solid ground.
"Go on, then," says Wyll, and his tone is so kind that it feels like the sanding-paper that
carpenters use, scrubbed across an open wound.

Astarion glances up at him, and then back down to the deer again.

He ought to say something, he's sure, but the words are stuck someplace in his throat.

When he nods, it's a jerky, unsteady sort of a gesture – and then he's leaning in, and he's
biting into the creature, and he stops worrying about words altogether.

It's richer by far than the rabbits, and Astarion moans softly as the first taste spills into his
mouth. It's heady and bright and satisfying , easily the best thing he's ever tasted, and after the
first few swallows it strikes him in a distant, wondering sort of way that there's still more .
The flow of blood hasn't abated even slightly, and Astarion makes another sound, caught
somewhere low in his chest, as he begins to gulp in earnest.

There's just so much of it.

There's just so much of it, and Astarion swallows it down greedy and urgent, hands trembling
where he clings to the deer.

It's beyond a feast; it's beyond extravagant. It's more than Cazador would have allowed him
in literal months at his most generous, but here it is, all at once, and Wyll is sitting back and
making no move to take it away again.

Astarion drains it dry. He drains it dry, and by the time he's finished, he's outright dizzy with
euphoria.

He feels replete for once – feels sated for once. The gorgeous, foreign feeling of having had
enough shivers through him in waves, and he revels in it.

When he lifts his head again, he sways slightly – laughs, enraptured and slightly unhinged.

Wyll reaches out a hand to steady him. "Doing alright?"

"Oh, darling," Astarion breathes. "I've never been better."

Wyll smiles, and the expression crinkles the corners of his eyes. "Good. If you feel well
enough, I believe I have a few other promises to keep."

For an instant, Astarion can't even remember what they are. He's all but floating, so giddy
that he nearly feels drunk. Then it comes to him, all in a rush. "That's right," he says. "You
did promise me a bath, didn't you?"

"Just so," says Wyll. "Though you'll have to wait a moment or two, I'm afraid, while we get
everything in order."

Astarion, who finds that he's feeling quite magnanimous indeed, now that he's been fed,
waves a careless hand. "I'm hardly in a hurry, dear."
"A moment, then," says Wyll. "If you would."

He bends to retrieve the deer corpse and turns back toward the stairs – opens the door and
calls out: "He's ready, Karlach, go on in."

The hulking tiefling woman who had accompanied Jaheira appears in the doorway, then, and
she has a wooden tub that's half her size balanced on one shoulder, as though it weighs
nothing at all. She clops down the stairs with an easy, casual sort of confidence – sets the tub
on the ground a bit away from the nest of blankets.

Then she turns to him, the grin on her lips entirely at odds with the sheer physical imposition
of her size.

"Astarion, yeah?" she says, and she saunters on over to him – holds out a hand. "Sorry I
couldn't say nothing earlier. Introductions got to keep, when the boss lady's got something
she wants to say."

Astarion, who finds that he's charmed despite himself, reaches out to accept her hand.
"Karlach, was it?"

"Sure is," says Karlach, and she gives his hand a shake as though they're business
confederates, meeting at the dock to arrange a deal, rather than a bodyguard and a half-
starved wretch burrowed in a pile of pilfered blankets. "Let's get you cleaned up, yeah? No
offense, soldier, but you look like you've had a rough time of it."

She doesn't say it unkindly – and she doesn't say it with pity, either. A part of Astarion wants
to bristle at the implications, but he quite likes that word, actually: soldier, as though he's
come through some sort of battle and survived it.

In a way, he supposes that he has.

"You have no idea, darling," Astarion tells her, and she squeezes his hand a little.

"Well, hang in there just a bit longer," she says. "It's going to take a minute to get all the
water down."

She isn't wrong. It does take a minute, and then some. They bring it down a bit at a time, in
kettles hauled by Wyll and cauldrons hauled by Karlach and, little by little, they fill the tub.
When it's ready, gently steaming, Wyll brings a bar of soap, and some clean linens, and
Karlach sets out a change of clothes.

It all feels somewhat extravagant, truth be told.

He stands, a little unsteady – dips his fingers into the water. It must have been quite hot
indeed, to start, because it's the perfect temperature now, so warm he can hardly stand it.

There's a tangled sort of knot lodged somewhere in his chest; he swallows against it, and he
half-turns, trying to form the right words of thanks.
What he finds is that Karlach is gathering up the blanket nest, and Wyll is bending to help
her.

He doesn't mean to squawk like some ungainly rooftop bird, but he finds that he does anyway
– finds that he reaches out to take hold of the other end of the blanket Wyll has in his arms.
"Now hold on," says Astarion, and his voice is a register too high, brittle about the edges.

Wyll's smile falters – struggles into place again, softer than before. Karlach has paused, arms
full of fabric, to dart a glance his way, and this time, that careless grin has been replaced with
something more troubled by far.

"I should have asked," Wyll tells him, and lets Astarion take the blanket. "We mean to
launder them. We'll have fresh bedding prepared, by the time you've bathed."

Astarion's hands are still holding tight to the cloth. His knuckles have gone white where he
clings to it. "Leave this one here," he says, and he says it haughty and commanding, and he
tries very hard not to notice the way his voice cracks around the edges.

Wyll nods; he makes no move to take the blanket back. "It's yours."

Astarion keeps hold of it, as they gather up the rest of the nest. He watches as they bundle the
blankets up the stairs. At the top of them, Wyll glances back down at him. "Take your time,"
he says. "When you're done, come knock on the door. Nobody will bother you until then."

That tangled knot in Astarion's chest coils tighter, curling in around itself. He nods, carefully
– doesn't quite trust his voice to respond.

"Is there anything else you need?" Wyll asks him.

And that – oh, that. When was the last time anyone has asked him what he needed ?

Astarion finds that he can't recall. Never, maybe.

He gathers himself as best he's able – swallows against an aching tightness in his throat. At
last he manages, "Not just at the moment," and his voice wobbles on the last word, despite
his best efforts.

"Until later, then," says Wyll, very soft indeed, and he closes the door behind him.

All that's left after that is to see about the bath.

Astarion undresses with unsteady hands – all too aware of the way the cloth clings to his skin
with own blood, the pale lines of his limbs marred by evidence of old hurts.

He's done this too many times before – spent countless nights with a rag and a bucket,
cleaning off the leavings of his master's punishments. He knows all too well that if he doesn't
get the worst of it off, he'll spoil the bath water immediately.

And so he stands there beside the tub – wets a cloth and wipes it over his face, and his neck,
and the ridges of his collar bone. By the time he's done, the cloth is ruined; he needs another
for his chest, and another for his arms, and still more after that. When at last he's clean
enough to step into the tub, he's shivering from the cold.

The water greets him like a hearth fire, warm and welcoming, spreading heat through chilled
limbs. It seeps into him like mulled wine in the winter, and Astarion sinks down into it like
he's never needed anything more.

He can't remember the last time he was warm. Not like this, where it surrounds him on every
side, pressing in close and comforting.

Baths, Astarion might be tempted to think, are a blessing from the gods.

He knows better, of course. The gods are horrendous bastards.

But there is something of the divine in the heat of the water – some rapturous bliss to be had
in the way it soothes sore muscles and lulls him into a vague, drifting sort of a daze.

He could stay like this forever, he thinks, as he lets his head sink back against the smooth
wood of the tub. Suffused with simple pleasure, full and sated and warm, not so much as a
scratch on him.

Astarion is aware, vaguely, of the ache in his throat. His cheeks are wet, and it has nothing at
all to do with the bath water.

For a time, he ignores it. He lets himself drift, thoughts in a pleasant sort of a fog. The
flickering flames of the candles – all five of them, now, and the lantern besides – leave little
specks of reflected light in the surface of the water.

It's lovely.

Astarion lifts one hand, idly, and lets the water run through his fingers – does it again, just for
the feel of it. On the third time, he catches sight of his own nails: not splintered any longer,
nor red and raw, but caked with filth and dried blood.

However much he wants to lounge about, the water will hardly stay hot forever. He supposes
he'd best get cleaned up before the lovely warmth of it has faded.

And so Astarion helps himself to the soap beside the tub – sniffs at it, surreptitious, and is
pleased to find it a mild scent, earthy and herbal, replete with undertones of sage. It lathers
the wash cloth with a rich, frothing foam, and then all that's left is to get to work.

It takes longer than he'd like by half, despite his preliminary wipe-down. He has to scrub
where the old blood has settled into the creases of his elbows and the spaces between his toes.
His hair, when he ducks it into the bath to rinse it free of suds, turns the water vaguely pink.
He has to spend what feels an eternity, clearing the mess from beneath his nails.

But when he's done, it's glorious to be clean again – glorious to be free of any proof of the
past year of his life. He stands, cautiously, and he finds that his legs don't wobble – reaches,
careful, to retrieve the extra bath linens.
Then he towels himself dry, and he rubs the water from his curls, and when he's finished he
steps from the tub.

The clothes are simple, but they're clean and well made – cotton, soft to the touch. Astarion
pulls them on, carefully – does up the lacing on the chest and the buttons at the wrists.
They're too big on him by half, all but dwarfing his narrow frame; they won't flatter his
figure, but there's no helping it, he supposes.

He spends a long time there, just staring down at himself. He's dried his face already, but
perhaps he didn't do a very good job.

The water, Astarion finds, is dripping from his chin again.

 Chapter 12
Chapter Notes

Thank you so much to everyone who's reading. The response to this fic has been
incredible, and I love you all ;;

Wyll is as good as his word.

All Astarion needs to do is tap on the door at the top of the stairs before it's swinging open
again, and there Wyll is, standing on the other side.

It's gratifying, really, to see the man's expression.

Astarion can't help but laugh at him, low and amused – can't help but lean in, to peer up from
under his lashes. "I did mention that I clean up pretty, darling."

Wyll clears his throat, and he glances aside. "Yes," he manages. "Well. Consider yourself
proven correct. You look a proper gentleman."

Every line of the man's body announces that he's flustered , and quite frankly, it's delightful.
Astarion leans in to set a hand on his arm, just to watch him squirm. "I suppose I have you to
thank for the outfit?"

"Until we find something that will fit you better," says Wyll. "I hope it will suffice."

"My dear," Astarion purrs. "It's hardly an imposition to find myself dressed in the clothes of a
handsome man." He steps in closer, the motion graceful and insinuating; when Wyll steps
back, Astarion fills the newly empty space, venturing beyond the door and into the hallway.

He doesn't mean to run; his odds, he's begun to suspect, may well be better here, with this
merry little band of monster slayers and Harpers. But old habits are hard to break, and
Astarion finds himself casing the hall for exits, taking in a path of stone that runs one way
and then the other, draped with tapestries, lost before too long in either direction with a
corner that hides the rest from view.

And there, leaning up against the wall to their right, arms folded over her chest, is Karlach.
She barks a laugh, bright and bawdy. "Think you're barking up the wrong tree, soldier. Wyll
here's saving himself for his one true love."

Astarion arches a single eyebrow. "Oh? I suppose the lucky paramour is delighted."

When Wyll laughs, it's decidedly less bawdy – soft and a touch self-conscious. "I'm afraid I
haven't met anyone, just yet. But the person of my dreams is out there, still. I have faith that
I'll find someone worth waiting for."

"A valiant monster slayer and a hopeless romantic," Astarion says, in a tone that leaves little
doubt as to what he thinks of both. "Darling, I've read adventure tales less cliché than you
are."

Wyll sputters – smooths down the front of his doublet, though it doesn't need smoothing.
"Matters of the heart are anything but cliché," he says, and he says it so earnestly that it's
almost endearing.

Astarion sniffs, delicately. "I'll leave you to write sonnets to your someday-beloved," he says,
primly. "But before that, I believe you promised me more bedding."

"Right," says Karlach. "Nearly forgot!" She unfolds herself from the wall and pads off down
the hallway. "You better shove over, mate, or I ain't going to be able to get all this down the
stairs."

At first, Astarion hasn't the slightest notion what she means.

Then she reappears carrying an entire bedframe, and all at once he understands quite well
indeed and scrambles aside to make space for her.

Next comes a mattress, and great piles of blankets, easily as many as they took to launder, all
in cotton and wool. A charming patchwork quilt is the crowning glory, in a dozen colors and
patterns.

There are pillows, too, and an extra lantern; there are socks, thick knitted things in a vivid
shade of lavender that don't give fashion so much as a passing nod but look so breathtakingly
soft that he'll forgive them. By the time they're finished and Astarion stands in the cellar
again, surveying the absolute treasure trove that lies at his feet, he's quite aware that he's
gaping.

Karlach grins her toothy grin at him, and she claps him on the shoulder. "Get some rest,
soldier. You look like you could use it."

Then she saunters for the stairs, and he's alone again with Wyll.

"Feeling a little better, I hope?" says Wyll.

Astarion laughs, and it's a breathless sort of a sound, entirely more overwhelmed than he
intends it to be. "Darling, I haven't felt this alive since I was alive."

"High praise," says Wyll. "The good news is, you have a while to recover and enjoy it. We've
started to talk timelines, and I suspect we're a tenday out at least, from making our move."

Despite himself, Astarion feels a touch of the tension run out of his shoulders. "No likely
galas coming up to bait your little trap with?"

Wyll hums, the sound low and thoughtful. "There are a few. But if we mean to have enough
security in place to keep you safe, that means quite a lot of invitations. We might manage one
or two on short notice, but nothing on the scale of what we need."

Astarion has begun to edge over toward the bed – leans down, to rub the quilt between his
thumb and forefinger, and discovers that it's very soft indeed.

"A pity, truly," he pronounces, airily. "I suppose we'll have to call the plan off."

"Fortunately," says Wyll, tone dry. "We've found a solution."

Astarion sets himself down on the edge of the mattress – settles and then rises and does it
again, just to feel the way it gives beneath his weight. It's lovely, soft and oh-so-very
yielding. The stuffing is wool or cotton, he thinks, rather than straw. "Oh?"

"Oh," says Wyll. "We have a – connection, who will host the affair. It should guarantee that
we can slip enough people in."

Astarion pauses – glances toward him, eyes sharp. "If word leaks to Cazador that it's a trap –"

"He won't catch word," Wyll assures him. "I swear it. Our connection is an honorable man."

Astarion reaches down, casually, to pick up the socks. "Quite a lot of men have that
reputation who don't deserve it, darling."

Wyll tips his chin up, intent and earnest. "This one does."

"Well?" says Astarion, and unrolls the thick, warm bundle cradled in his palms. They really
are remarkably lavender. "Don't keep me waiting, dear, not with a lead-in like that."

"Duke Ravengard," says Wyll, and he says it with a certain inflection to his tone that Astarion
finds he can't quite parse.

"Ravengard," says Astarion. "Truly? How in the hells did you manage that? The man hasn't
hosted an event since his son came of age – and word is, he didn't attend even that."

Wyll winces, slightly – glances aside, uncomfortable, finding something suddenly very
interesting about the cracks between the stones on the floor. "I was able to call in a favor," he
says, carefully.

Astarion leans down to pull on the first of the socks. It's a dreadful thing, like something a
child would receive from a doting aunt. It's the warmest clothing he thinks he's ever worn.
"Oh, you do have friends in high places," he purrs. "Charming and connected both. If you're
not careful, sweetling, you're liable to make me swoon."

Wyll snorts, a sound that doesn't truly contain enough amusement for it to be a laugh. "I don't
know that connected is the right word. We aren't exactly what you'd call close."

Astarion waves one hand, dismissive, the remaining sock flopping with the motion. "A favor
from the duke is a favor from the duke," he points out, primly, and pulls the sock into place.
Wyll glances up from the floor, finally – breaks into a smile after a beat of consideration, the
expression crooked and frightfully warm. "You know," he says. "I think lavender is your
color."

Astarion sets a hand to his chest, mock-offended. "I'll have you know that every color is my
color."

"Oh, of course," says Wyll. "That rare complexion that can manage to flatter chartreuse."

"Chartreuse," Astarion sniffs, with everything he can muster of his dignity, "is an
abomination, and not to be counted."

When Wyll laughs, it's a quiet sound. It's lovely, really; it catches somewhere in his chest,
bright as the long-forgotten sun.

It's absolutely dreadful.

Then Wyll says, "I suppose we'll know what shade to put you in for the ball," and Astarion
squawks, the least dignified sound he thinks he's ever made, and hisses, "You wouldn't dare,"
with enough venom in his voice that Wyll holds both hands up, palms out, to placate him.

"I wouldn't," he says. "I wouldn't, truly."

Astarion allows himself to be placated, though he makes a show of sulking about it. "Just for
that," he says, "I'll want something with gold thread."

Wyll hums, consideringly. "I don't know that we'll have time to prepare anything custom," he
says. "But perhaps someone can venture by Facemaker's Boutique and bring you a few
options. There ought to be time for adjustments, even if we can't get you something
bespoke."

Astarion leans in a little, trying hard to keep his expression casually uninvested.

"Oh, I'll need five outfits to choose from at least," he says.

"Five, is it?" says Wyll, with amusement.

"And shoes, of course," says Astarion.

"Well, it wouldn't do to go barefoot," says Wyll.

"And a cravat," says Astarion. "Are cravats still in style?"

"You've just missed them," Wyll tells him, consolingly. "They fell out of favor last season."

"Hells," says Astarion. "Well – a cloak, then, at least."

"A cloak I think we can do," says Wyll.

There's silence, then. It stretches for several beats, and then for several beats longer.
During it, Astarion wonders when the last time was that he'd asked for something and
actually gotten it. He can't honestly recall.

Cazador is enamored of the sound of his begging, but the things that he begs for – another sip
of blood; a moment's rest from the jagged rip and tug of a saw; for him to please, gods, please
be let out, he promises that he'll be good, he swears – have always been an impossibility. An
abstract. Some childish fancy, too grand to be hoped for.

And yet here he sits, amidst a mound of blankets, the world's most ridiculous lavender socks
on his feet, fed and bathed and promised some dazzling new wardrobe to wear to this
absolute disaster of a plan.

He takes in a breath that he doesn't need. He lets it out again, slow. At some point, he's taken
hold of the quilt, and he isn't entirely sure when it's happened.

"You must be tired," says Wyll, kindly. "I've gotten hold of another of those potions, if you'd
like to rest for a while.

"Yes," says Astarion, carefully. "Yes, I think I'd like that."

Wyll digs into the pouch at his belt – comes out with another of those glowing bottles.
There's something comforting in the soft light it gives off – something quite promising
indeed.

Astarion reaches out to take it.

"I suppose you've things to do," he says. "Blades to sharpen, monster hunting meetings to
attend."

"I'll stay," says Wyll. "If that's what you mean. You needn't worry about Aradin."

Astarion, who was in fact worried about Aradin, draws himself up as though offended.
"Darling," he says, "I'm hardly weak as a kitten anymore. If he wants to try to waltz with a
vampire, I can assure you, he won't find me nearly so dull a partner this time."

"Best for him, perhaps, that I don't intend to let him find out," Wyll says.

Astarion smirks – stretches, languid and deliberate. "Best for him, indeed." He swings his
legs up onto the bed – arranges the blankets about him, the quilt with all its colors and
patterns atop the mound. "Well," he says. "If there aren't any farewells to say, I suppose I'll
say good night."

"Good night, Astarion," says Wyll. "Rest well, and may the dreams that find you bring you
peace."

It ought to be outlawed, he thinks, for anyone to be quite so earnest. The sound of it spreads
through him like the heat from the bath did, slow and gentle, warming him all through.

"Gods above," Astarion says, and rolls his eyes. "Has anyone ever told you that you don't
have to be quite so much a prince out of a fairy story?"
Probably there's a retort to that. From the look on Wyll's face, caught between amused and
offended, it's even likely to be a good one. But Astarion's drunk the potion down already, and
it's nothing if not fast.

By the time Wyll opens his mouth to answer, he's fallen back against the pillows already, the
sweet pull of true sleep guiding him down into its embrace.
 Chapter 13
Chapter Notes

Looking vaguely like this might be 21 or 22-ish chapters, all told. We'll see how it goes!

Thank you again so much to everyone who's taken the time to read and comment. I love
hearing everyone's thoughts <33

Dreams don't find him at all.

Wrapped in the velvet embrace of the potion's effects, Astarion knows nothing – deep,
endless, restful nothing, up until his eyes flutter open and the waking world returns.

For a moment, the disorientation is all but dizzying. For a moment, he can't recall where he
is; all he's aware of is the weight of something soft above him, warm and yielding, and the
gentle give of a mattress. There's the smell of sage, and a deep, radiating, satiated
contentment that is so absurdly unexpected that his mind, still only half awake, stumbles
muzzily about in confusion.

He blinks his eyes open – takes in the soft glow of the candlelight, and the colored patches of
the quilt. There atop it, at the very edge of his bed, is Wyll – seated on the floor but fast
asleep, his head resting on the blanket.

He looks delectably vulnerable like this. There's something almost pretty to the curl of his
lashes and the bow of his lips – to the long, tempting curve of his neck. Even the scars along
the side of his otherwise unmarred face only seem to serve as an accent, highlighting the
dashing good looks.

It's unfair, Astarion thinks to himself, with more than a trace of bitterness. If someone had
painted this man as an illustration into the adventure tales Astarion used to so treasure –
stolen moments, snatched here and there when he'd dared risk them, the words on the page
his only lifeline to an existence beyond sex and hunger and pain – if someone had put the
shape of this man in between those flowery words of hope and heroism, Astarion would have
laughed, and called it the most inane sort of drivel, and turned the page and kept reading
anyway.

But here he is. Here he is, asleep on the edge of a prisoner's bed – a monster's bed – like he's
keeping vigil at the sickbed of a beloved.

"You know," Astarion says. "I'm beginning to think you're quite bad at this monster hunting
thing."

Wyll, to his credit, startles awake.

To his discredit, the foolish man doesn't even make to reach for a weapon.

"Ah," he says instead. "Welcome back. I didn't want to wake you, if you needed the rest."

"So you had a little lie-down with a vampire, instead," says Astarion, the words arch and
amused.

"I was trying to stay awake," Wyll admits, quite wry indeed. "But you've been out for the
better part of a day."

A day. Truly?

It feels the blink of an eye. He tries to imagine Wyll sat beside him the whole while – notices,
at last, that several of the candles have burned down to guttering pools of wax and been
replaced with new ones.

Astarion falters – laughs, an unsteady breath of a noise. "You might have found your own
bed, darling."

Wyll lifts his chin, a gesture that's almost stubborn in its determination. "I promised I'd stay."

Astarion thinks again of stolen moments – the spicy, mellow scent of an old book – sitting
tucked into a nook of stone up on the ramparts of Cazador's palace, pages spread open on his
lap, viciously mocking every sentence as he reads it.

He thinks of finishing the book and then beginning it again, immediately, because the ending
– oh, the ending is as unbearable as all the rest, bright with the promise of new horizons.

That same feeling is caught in his chest, just now: something unspeakably tender, like
pressing on a bruise.

"That dreadful old lady has the right of it," he manages, at last. "You truly are a fool."

The next few days pass in a pleasant sort of haze.

Each brings with it something to eat, fresh and plentiful: rabbits, or ferrets, or deer, or a boar.

The hunters never demand anything of him in exchange for the privilege. His skin stays
whole and unbroken for the longest stretch Astarion can ever recall.

When he complains of being bored, Wyll, sweet fool that he is, brings down a small pile of
books to choose from, and Astarion takes to lounging in his bed amidst the blankets, idly
kicking his feet as he works his way through a truly dreadful series about a girl who's really a
dragon.
Wyll keeps him company, more often than not, and they talk of trivial things: the goings-on
of various nobles, and the style of shoes Astarion wants for the ball, and the absolutely
atrocious paint job on the new banner they've hung out front of Sorcerous Sundries recently.

From time to time, Karlach ventures by as well, bringing lively conversation of a different
flavor: the blacksmith's apprentice she wants to fuck, and how she's recently adopted a dog,
and all about the time she punched Aradin out because, in her words, he was being an
absolute twat.

Even Jaheira comes to call once, though her visit is markedly free of gossip. Instead, she
brings him a floor plan of Duke Ravengard's ballroom. She spends near an hour laying out
the safety precautions that they're taking, and how she means to have a man posted at every
door, dressed in Ravengard's livery.

She's insufferable, Astarion finds.

They all are.

Devils take him, but he rather likes them.

"What do you think you'll do, when your master is dead?" Wyll asks him one evening,
apropos of nothing.

Astarion is in the process of pouring wine into his cup – pauses midway, a little splash of the
liquid pooling on the stone of the floor.

"Pardon?" he says.

"Well," says Wyll. "You'll be free to do as you please, won't you? Surely you've given some
thought to it."

Astarion sets the wine down, carefully, on the little bedside table Wyll's brought him for his
books.

He hasn't thought about it, truth be told. He's had two hundred years of dreaming – idle
escape fantasies that seemed nothing more than childish yearning for something so very
thoroughly out of reach. Now that he's so close, it feels as though he's tempting fate to snatch
it away, if he thinks of it in earnest.

"I always thought," Astarion says slowly, "that I would take a ship somewhere. The sea
scarcely counts as running water, and the Sword Coast has more than its share of attractions."

Wyll hums, thoughtful – reaches to wipe the spilled wine with a handkerchief.
"Neverwinter?" he muses. "Waterdeep?"
"You know, I never got that far," says Astarion, and to his own ears his voice sounds
bewildered – disconcertingly young. "The draw was always 'away' more than the
destination."

When he glances up, he finds that Wyll is watching him with earnest brown eyes. There's
something entirely too soft in that expression; it cuts like the edge of the flaying knife, laying
him bare.

"Oh, stop," says Astarion, and he reaches out to snatch up the glass of wine. "You look as
though I've kicked your puppy."

Wyll's smile goes crooked and a little unsteady. "I haven't got a puppy."

"Well," sniffs Astarion. "Kicked Karlach's, anyway."

"Astarion," says Wyll, and then he falters to a stop. He swallows—rallies. Tries again. "If I'd
known, before. If I'd had any inkling that in the center of the Upper City there was someone –
someone doing the sorts of things that he was doing to you –"

"– it wouldn't have made a scrap of difference," Astarion cuts in, sharper than he intends.
"How old are you, dear? Twenty? Twenty-five? He's been picking me apart since before your
parents were born."

Wyll winces – shifts, eyes trained on the ground at his feet.

"There have been generations that have been and gone and turned a blind eye," Astarion
pronounces, with a dismissive wave of his hand. "A year or two off the end would hardly
have mattered." When he downs the wine, he doesn't sip it but swallows it all in a single pull,
like choking down cheap whiskey.

Not for the first time, he wishes, bitterly, that he could get drunk.

"All the same," says Wyll, quietly. "If I might have spared you a year, or an hour, or even a
minute of suffering at his hands, I would have."

For a long moment, Astarion says nothing at all. He just looks at this man, this impossible,
unspeakable, infuriating caricature stepped straight from his dreams.

"I've decided," says Astarion, abruptly.

"Decided?" Wyll echoes, plainly taken aback.

Astarion tips his chin up. "I've never seen a play at the Oasis," he says. "I've always rather
wanted to."

Wyll blinks at him, looking for all the world like nothing so much as a startled barn owl.
"What about Waterdeep?"

Astarion waves a hand, careless, and reaches to pour himself another glass of wine. "Do keep
up, darling. My master won't be here anymore. Why should I go running with my tail
between my legs?"

For a moment, Wyll says nothing at all. Then, slowly, he begins to nod. "It's your city, too,"
he acknowledges, at last. And then, quite careful indeed, as though meant as a peace offering:
"I've heard that there's quite a spectacle showing, just now. A poetic monologue with some
grand illusory magic, and a young lady on the trapeze."

Astarion's hand hesitates just for a moment. Then he reaches out to pour Wyll a glass, too –
lifts it up, to offer it.

"I wouldn't mind a little company," Astarion says. "If you find that you're inclined to
spectacles."

Wyll doesn't reach out to take it, just yet. He spends long moments searching Astarion's face,
as though looking for – something. But perhaps what he sees pleases him, because the smile
that spreads across his lips is very warm indeed.

"They have their place, I find," he says, and he reaches out to take the wine.

Astarion lifts his own glass, in a toast. "To the stupidest plan I've ever heard."

Wyll taps his glass to Astarion's, and the ring of fine crystal chimes pleasantly in the candlelit
cellar. "To your freedom," he says, and then he drinks.
 Chapter 14
Chapter Notes

Thank you guys for sticking with me. This continues to be a blast to work on. :>

See the end of the chapter for more notes

The fabric of the vest is a fine indigo brocade, shot through with strands of silver. It's a lovely
pattern, truly: stylized clouds against a night sky smattered with stars.

Astarion thinks it's the finest thing he's ever worn.

"A trifle dull, isn't it?" he says, as he swans his way out from behind the changing screen set
up in the corner of the cellar.

Wyll and Karlach are precisely where he left them, seated on a pair of crates side by side,
arranged beside his bed as though chairs in a bedchamber to entertain visitors.

At the sight of him, Karlach surges halfway to her feet. "Yo, fangs," she calls. "Looking
good!"

Wyll has been fussing with another of the outfits – preparing the next, doubtless, for him to
try. At Astarion's reappearance, he glances up – pauses, and does a gratifying sort of double-
take. "The cut does rather suit you," he says, and there's something in the tone that's
pleasingly flustered.

"You're only saying that," says Astarion, primly, "because you like the lavender."

Truth be told, the shirt is a thing of beauty. It's all in lavender, as pale as the vest is dark,
crafted of light, flowing silk. It sets off the indigo, and the both of them look eye-catching
indeed against the smart black trim of the trousers.

"What's wrong with lavender?" says Karlach. "There's flowers in the park that color, and they
don't got nothing on you."

"Why, darling," says Astarion, and flutters his lashes at her. "Kind of you to notice."

She laughs at that, loud and brash, and when Astarion smiles back at her, he finds that for
once the expression on his face isn't for show, a painted-on surface to distract from what lies
behind it. For once it's genuine – a trifle giddy, honestly.

Somewhere at the back of his mind, a slow bubbling panic is fighting with whatever this
strange, bright new possibility is, and the anticipation of the both of them may well squeeze
the un-life from him – but here and now, in this moment, he feels more as though he's been
launched into flight than caught in a free-fall.

"Have you decided on a victor, then?" says Wyll, mild and amused. "No need to try on the
rest?"

"Oh, come now," says Astarion, and swipes the final outfit up off the little table that stands
beside his bed. "There's only one left. Surely you wouldn't deprive me of my fun."

"Surely not," says Wyll, at the same moment Karlach says, "Let him live a little!" and elbows
Wyll in the side, casual.

Astarion gives them a delicate finger waggle of a wave and disappears again, behind the
changing screen.

The final outfit is as formal as the others, but more constricting by half. The collar is sharp,
and the sleeves have a bit of a flair to them. It's a deep, vibrant crimson, and the double-
breasted coat that sits atop it echoes more of the same, blood red framed by black.

It puts him in mind of the halls of Cazador's palace, he finds. It puts him in mind of blood
that stains the carpets, and the scent of iron in the air, and screaming echoing off down the
hall, half muffled by the heavy drape of velvet curtains.

He's worn something like this, once, when he accompanied his master to the private
chambers of a noble he wished to impress. Astarion dreams of that night, still, and the dreams
are not pleasant ones.

This shade of red, he recalls, does quite a lot to hide the blood.

His fingers are stiff on the buttons of the lavender shirt as he undoes them; the silk is cool
beneath his fingers. As he pulls it off and begins to undress, he finds that his hands aren't
quite as steady as they were before.

On goes the crimson of the new shirt, just the right shade to hide the blood. Up go the
buttons, gold set with garnet, a deep and gleaming red like his master's eyes.

Astarion is preparing to announce that he doesn't much care for this one, after all, when he
hears the unmistakable sound of the door at the top of the stairs opening and then closing
again.

"I see the fashion show continues," says a heavily accented voice, amused.

"And you've missed near all of it," Astarion says, brightly, as he tucks his shirt into place and
does up the buttons along the cuffs. "A tragedy, you know. You might have had more of this."

When he steps from behind the screen, he does it with a flourish to the sight of Jaheira
coming down the stairs. She moves to stand behind Wyll and Karlach, watching him with a
raised eyebrow and a hint of a smile. "However will I survive the disappointment?"

"Oh, honestly," Astarion sighs. "Where's the enthusiasm?"

Jaheira's smile creeps a little wider. "Reserved for grander things, I'm afraid."

Wyll sits up a little straighter, turning toward her. "Have we a final date?"

"We do indeed." Jaheira withdraws a slip of paper from within some hidden inner pocket;
from here, Astarion can make out the crisp edges of the parchment and the flowing, elegant
script. "The invitations have been sent out. On the twenty-third of Deepwinter, our trap
springs closed."

Karlach tips her head to one side. "Taking our time about it, huh?"

For an instant, Jaheira's eyes flicker to Astarion; Wyll's do, as well. Astarion finds he can't
quite parse either of their expressions.

"The duke had his opinions," says Jaheira, smoothly. "Besides which, it is best that our quarry
has adequate time to stew in his troubles. When an opportunity presents itself at last, he will
be rash and prone to haste."

Astarion still resents her, rather. Her poise and her confidence are insufferable; he can't forget
the way he'd felt so very laid bare before her, every last moment of pain spread out for her to
pick through like a vulture crouched over a corpse.

But he does rather like the thought of Cazador as a quarry, for once. There's a certain appeal
to that: his master, one more rabbit for this woman's snare.

When he smiles, it's a narrow thing, slow and considering. "You know," he says, "Perhaps
you aren't as dreadful as I'd imagined."

Jaheira fixes him with a canny look, a wry smile playing about the corners of her lips. When
she waves the invitation, it is an idle gesture. "Keep your blade for the one whose throat
deserves it, little vampire."

Astarion sketches a bow, every inch of the gesture courtly and proper. "Believe me, darling,"
he purrs. "I mean to."

By the time he straightens up again, Jaheira is headed for the stairs.

"Going so soon?" says Wyll, turning to look back toward her.

"The Harpers have many talents," says Jaheira, tone dry. "But without a hand to guide them, I
find they gallivant in the dust like a rooster with no head."

Karlach makes as though to rise. "You need me, boss?"

The old woman waves a hand, dismissive. "Stay," she says. "I would not interrupt something
so grand as a fashion show." She reaches the top of the stairs – pauses there, hand on the door
knob.

When she glances back, her eyes linger over Astarion. It's a sharp gaze – insightful. Under
that piercing stare, he feels dreadfully seen.
"A lighter shirt would suit you better," she says at last. "Red, I think, is not your color."

"I might have run, you know," Astarion says, apropos of nothing, the evening before the gala.

He's dressed in more of Wyll's clothes, a comfortable ensemble in cream and forest green that
laces at the chest.

The lavender socks don't go with it at all. Astarion has them on anyway.

Wyll is cross-legged at the foot of the bed, atop the blankets, and between them the surface of
the patchwork quilt has been overtaken by a game of whist, the Talis cards splayed out in
dazzling array.

Wyll's losing somewhat spectacularly. It's because Astarion has been stealing his cards every
time he glances away.

"Oh?" says Wyll, mildly, as he considers his options. After a pause, he lays a four of waves
over one of the stacks.

"Several times, really," says Astarion. "You've grown remarkably sloppy, my dear." He taps a
four of flames to Wyll's four, and claims them both -- and then, just to be contrary, he palms
the four of stones, as well, when Wyll glances up again.

"And yet here you are," says Wyll, and spreads a hand.

"Here I am," says Astarion. And then: "Your move, darling."

Wyll begins a new stack – lays down the Night, the whole of its painted sky smattered with
stars. Perhaps he hasn't any cards to go atop it, because he ends there, with a casual tap of two
fingers to concede the round. "I don't suppose," Wyll says, carefully, "you mean to say why."

Astarion stares down at the swirl of stars for a long moment. "Because I'm a fool, I imagine."
He makes as though to select a new card -- hesitates, and changes his mind. Sets the Sun
down, at last, to obscure the Night, its painted golden rays and brilliant cobalt sky covering
up what lies beneath it. "A part of me still wishes I was on a ship to Neverwinter by now."

For a long moment, Wyll stares down at that little painted sun. When he glances up from the
cards, his smile is so sincere that Astarion quite forgets to steal the five of winds when he's
not looking. "Another part, it seems, has found good reason to stay."

Astarion tips his head to the side – fixes Wyll with a slow, considering sort of look. "That part
of me has been quite seduced by pretty promises, I'm afraid."

He ought to add more. He means to add more.

 Perhaps some clever threat involving a knife and what Astarion will do if those promises fall
by the wayside.

But his throat is very dry, and Wyll's lovely brown eyes are very earnest, and somehow that
would-be violence withers and slips away, unspoken.

"They're more than pretty promises," Wyll tells him, low and heartfelt . "I swear it to you."

"Would you look at that," Astarion drawls. "This new one is as pretty as all the rest." His
hand, deft and clever, makes to steal the five of winds, after all.

He only gets caught because Wyll reaches out just then, earnest and gentle, to take hold of his
hand. The look on his face, bewildered and then comically indignant, is a sight to behold.

"Have you been stealing my cards?" he demands.

And Astarion can't help it. He laughs, there in the cellar with its blankets and its candlelight,
the sound not a ragged gasp or a rising tide of hysteria, but something far more genuine, high
and light and breathless.

Chapter End Notes

Disclaimer: all I know about Talis cards and the game of whist, I learned from the
Faerun wiki. The cards are the cards in the Talis deck; no rules were mentioned for
whist, so I just made something up. If those live in one of the Faerun setting books,
oops. I was too lazy to go dig mine out. >>

Next chapter: the gala (✿◡‿◡)

 Chapter 15
Chapter Notes

(✿◡‿◡)

The gala is a glittering masterwork of light and color.

Duke Ravengard's grand hall has been transformed into a dazzling spectacle, beset with
glowing candles that catch and reflect delicate hanging sculptures of crystal. They sway
gently in the air, suspended from fine silk ribbons, and the light through the graceful facets of
them sets little motes of liquid gold to dancing through the room in shimmering ovals.

Everywhere Astarion looks is a riot of color: silk gowns in butter yellow, and delicate chiffon
sprays in deep ocean blue, and pressed linen all in ripe-plum purple.

At any other time, he might call it stunning – but Astarion can't appreciate it, just at the
moment.

He's too busy feeling as though his long-dead heart has squirmed to panicked life in his chest,
trying to claw its way up his throat. He's too busy feeling as though it's strangling him.

This is a terrible idea.

He takes a glass of wine, and he wonders for the hundredth time how he ever agreed to an
idea like this.

He smiles charmingly as a young woman passes by, and he thinks that if he had a spell that
might turn back time, he would use it to carve out his own wretched tongue before he could
agree to what is surely the worst plan ever conceived by mortal minds.

Astarion checks the exits again, just to be sure – recognizes a few familiar faces among the
Harpers dressed in the livery of Duke Ravengard's estate. It ought to reassure him.

Instead Astarion rather feels as though he might vomit.

He sips at his wine, and he laughs at a joke that a well-dressed middle-aged gentleman is
telling. He scans the crowd, surreptitious, to look for Wyll, doing his level best to seem as
though he isn't a hair's breadth from bolting for the door.

Wyll is meant to be tailing him.

Astarion takes another sip of wine, and he laughs again, and it's higher pitched than before, a
touch jagged at the edges.
Wyll must be here somewhere, of course: one more trim, charming figure amid the polished
upper crust of Baldur's Gate. He'd sworn he would be here, and Astarion's eyes flitter over
the dance floor and then to the doors again, just to be sure, and he finds that his next sip of
wine drains the goblet.

A hand touches his arm, then, a bare brush of contact, and Astarion – Astarion jerks
backward and drops the gods-be-damned glass.

It shatters on the stone of the floor into a hundred, thousand pieces, and Astarion whirls
around, expecting dark, sleek hair, and narrowed eyes, and a knowing smile, and he finds –

Wyll. He finds Wyll, and he just has the time to take it all in: the flattering cut of the man's
sweeping white coat, and the way that trim of burnished gold brings out the warmth of those
earnest brown eyes, and the concern that suffuses his face. All at once, Astarion finds himself
dizzy with relief.

"Apologies," Wyll is saying. "Apologies, my good saer, entirely my fault."

Astarion is aware, over the ringing in his ears, that half the ballroom has stopped to stare at
them. If they wanted to ensure that he'd be spotted, there's no better way than this, and the
very thought of it makes him feel a touch faint.

He unsticks his tongue from the roof of his mouth – manages to swallow, with difficulty.
"Not at all," Astarion tells him, and his voice sounds breathy and strange, even to his own
ears.

Wyll, thank all the gods, seems to have kept his head about him. He flags down a passing
servant, an elderly maid, and he says, "Vittoria, would you mind having this seen to?"

And the woman says, "Of course, my lord," and there's something about that exchange that
ought to strike Astarion as odd, he thinks, but he can't wonder over it too much, just now. He
can't think of much of anything, he finds; his chest is heaving as though he needs air, and he
feels all of those watching eyes like hands on his skin.

"Thank you," says Wyll. And then, to Astarion: "Allow me to make it up to you, saer. Come,
I'll find you another drink."

He takes hold of Astarion's arm – as carefully as before, but this time, he makes certain that
Astarion sees it coming. The touch is light, is gentle, and he steers them toward a vacant table
at the corner of the room. An instant later, Astarion is sinking gratefully into a wrought iron
chair with its back to the wall.

All around them, those watching eyes have turned back to their food, their drinks, their
partners, their gossip. Astarion lets out a breath he hadn't been aware he was holding, and he
smooths his shaking palms against his thighs.

"Have I mentioned lately, my dear, that this is a terrible idea?" says Astarion, in a voice that
isn't entirely steady.
Wyll slides into the chair opposite him – flags down a passing servant with trays of sparkling
wine, seizes one, and passes it Astarion's way. "The hard part is over," he promises, soft.
"Nothing will be more difficult than it was to walk through that door."

Astarion flashes Wyll a weary sort of a smile. "I would have gone straight out the window,
truth be told, if it hadn't been for Karlach."

"She does have a reassuring sort of a presence," says Wyll, "doesn't she?"

Astarion snorts – takes a sip of the wine. "More that I thought better of mussing my hair by
getting manhandled just before my grand debut."

Wyll stifles a smile. "It is rather dashing," he says. "Quite finely coiffed, if I say so myself. It
would be a shame to ruin it."

"Lucky for you, then, that I didn't run after all," says Astarion, very dry. And then, before he
can think better of it – before he can think of anything else at all, really, he says, "Wyll,
darling. Why don't you ask me to dance?"

"To dance," Wyll echoes, sounding a touch taken off guard.

"Since we've officially met, now, before all the city's finest," says Astarion. "Surely a
charming young man such as yourself knows a step or two."

There's a scrap of truth to the request: Wyll cuts quite the eye-catching figure. If this were
another time, another place, Astarion suspects he would want nothing more than for this man
to hold a hand out and ask him to take a turn around the dance floor.

Here and now, he has something far less of a storybook romance in mind. Here and now, he
thinks he might scream if Wyll slips off into the crowd and leaves him on his own again.

Perhaps Wyll sees something of it in his face. His expression softens; when he smiles, very
gentle indeed, it crinkles the corners of his eyes. "I would be delighted if you would join me
for a dance," he says. "After you've had a moment to catch your breath, of course."

"Please, darling," Astarion sniffs, voice pitched low enough that he won't be overheard under
the murmur of conversation. "I don't need to breathe."

"After you've accustomed yourself to the crowd, then," says Wyll, just as soft. "It must be
overwhelming, after so much time."

There's a pause; in it, Astarion takes another sip of wine, to buy himself a moment to
respond. When he lowers the glass, he says, "Perhaps it's taken a touch of readjustment." He
sets the goblet on the table – turns it by the stem, clockwise, a single half-rotation. "Though
it's scarcely the crowd I'm concerned about, you know."

Wyll nods, careful. "I know," he says. He opens his mouth, as though to speak – subsides.
Makes another attempt of it. "Did you know," he says, softly, "I think you're the bravest man
I've ever met, even to be standing in this room."
Astarion glances at him sidelong. For an instant, he thinks of sniping back that Wyll hasn't
the slightest notion what bravery is – hasn't the slightest idea of the ways he's crawled, and
begged, and debased himself. But the man looks so damnably earnest just then – so intent –
and Astarion does very much want him to stay for that dance.

"I'll have you know," he says instead, primly, "that I have it on good authority this whole
thing will go off without a hitch. Something about a certain someone's hands never being on
me again, as I recall."

Wyll leans forward a little, over the table – splays his palm out, face down, fingers spread.
His expression is solemn; if he were down on one knee, he would look every bit the knight in
some adventure tale, prepared to swear an oath to some fair maiden he's sworn to protect.

It's patently absurd.

"I meant that, you know," Wyll tells him, very soft.

Gods, but this man is impossible. Sometimes Astarion can scarcely stand to look at him.

"Well, yes," says Astarion. "I'm rather counting on it." He lifts his wine glass and takes a long
sip – finishes it off and sets it down again. "Now are you going to ask me to dance, or aren't
you?"

And Wyll takes to his feet. He sweeps forward in a half-bow, courtly and picture-perfect. He
offers Astarion his hand, and he says, "May I have this dance, saer?"

And Astarion sniffs, and places his hand in Wyll's open palm, and he says, "Oh, I suppose ."

The musicians are seated on a raised wooden platform at the far end of the great hall. It's a
beautiful stage, all of smooth, dark wood – not temporary, it seems, but a permanent fixture,
high enough off the ground that the players are easy to pick out, in their glimmering outfits of
silver and white.

Whoever arranged for the musicians, Astarion reflects absently, knew what they were about.
Talented hands guide the bows of the violins, and talented fingers coax the melody from a
handful of flutes, and a harpist stands at the far back corner of the stage, her hair falling like a
curtain over her lovely face as she plucks out music that seems as though it shouldn't even be
a part of this realm.

It's lovely. It's ethereal.

If Astarion still had a heart that could beat, he's certain that it would be slamming in his chest
just now, strained nigh to bursting with the awful awareness that at any moment, this entire
night could go terribly, terribly wrong.

Still – Wyll's palm is very warm against his own, and Wyll's steps are very sure as he guides
them out to the center of the dance floor. When Astarion feels eyes on him, this time, he
doesn't feel quite as acutely that he might crawl out of his skin.
He thinks instead of how they must look: Wyll, with his handsome, clean-shaven face and
warm brown eyes, posture impeccable as any fairytale prince. And Astarion beside him –
well, Astarion isn't entirely sure how he does look beside him, but beautiful, surely, and with
a truly stunning outfit, all in lavender and indigo, to help him along.

"Shall we?" says Wyll, and he lifts a hand, palm out, toward Astarion.

It's an offer – the starting position for the court reel that the couples on the floor are dancing.

Astarion smiles at him, demure; he tilts his head. He says, "Darling, there's nothing I'd like
more," and he presses his palm to Wyll's own.

Wyll moves the way he looks he ought to move: all elegance, pure grace, every step a
measured, courtly thing.

It's the easiest thing in the world to follow his lead, closing in to circle after him as he begins
the first quarter-turn.

There's a give and a take to dancing, Astarion has always found. With an inattentive partner,
it can be something truly dreadful: a series of awkward moments, of stepped-on toes, of
sputtered apologies and curdled pride.

Wyll, he discovers, is not an inattentive partner.

He steps into the turns as though he means them; his touch against Astarion's palm is steady
and firm, and when they come apart and join together again, twirling in time with the music,
he's exactly where Astarion expects him to be.

"Will wonders never cease," says Wyll, the next time they're close enough to speak. "You
might have said that you knew your way around a dance floor."

"Really, darling," Astarion tells him, haughty. "You don't get to be as old as I am without
picking up a thing or two."

They part again – trade partners with the pair beside them – but not before Astarion hears
Wyll's laughter, low and melodic. When they come together again, he's still smiling, the
lights from the chandeliers dangling far above them sparkling in his eyes.

For a wonder, Astarion finds that some of the tension has crept out of his shoulders. For a
wonder, he finds that just as the music begins to fade, the song tapering off into the quiet of
murmured background conversation, he would really quite like another dance.

"Shall we see what they play us next?" Astarion asks, and he tilts his head just so, offering up
his hand in turn.

"Leading this time, are you?" Wyll asks him, lightly, and presses his palm to Astarion's.

"Do try to keep up," Astarion purrs, and then the music begins, and they're off again.
They dance two reels, and then a waltz, and then something altogether slower, a handspan
closer, the turns they take about one another just distant enough to be within the bounds of
propriety. Wyll has noticed that extra closeness, Astarion thinks; by the time the final song
concludes, Astarion can hear the racing of Wyll's heart, a drumbeat thundering in his ears.

The edge-of-his-fingernails terror has abated, somewhat; it hasn't been washed away, no, but
he finds that it's allowed itself to be ignored, for once, in favor of something else entirely.

The something else, Astarion is startled to realize, is fun . Against all odds – against most
things that might be considered common sense – he's here on the dance floor at a dazzling
gala, dressed in an outfit the likes of which he's dreamt of, idly, for the past two hundred
years. He's waiting for his master to appear to snatch him away, and somehow – somehow –
he finds that he's having fun.

It's the worst kind of foolishness, he thinks idly. All that time sealed up in the cellar has quite
addled his brain. There are a thousand and one things to think about beyond the next dance –
a thousand and one worries of what awaits him at the end of this night, somewhere far from
here, sealed up and screaming.

And yet Astarion finds that he offers his hand again, and he says, "I don't suppose – ?"

He never quite finishes the invitation.

A man's voice interrupts him, low and somber, an edge of disapproval to the tone. "Wyll," the
voice says, and Wyll starts as though guilty, half-turning toward the new arrival.

Astarion turns as well, and when he does he sees that Duke Ravengard himself is addressing
them. The man is something of a legend – or something of a menace, depending upon which
circles you happen to be running in.

His portrait has appeared in Baldur's Mouth often enough for Astarion to recognize his face –
severe brows and piercing eyes, stark beneath a head shaved entirely bald.

"Our illustrious host himself," Astarion says, brightly. "I must say, my dear, you do know
how to throw a party."

No sooner has he spoken than those piercing eyes pin him with an implacable gaze. The
man's face, already grim, starts to frown.

"Is this the creature?"

That little spark inside him, that small swelling thing awakened by the music and the touch of
Wyll's hand, goes quietly sour.

And then Wyll hisses, "Father, please," and something goes more sour still.

Astarion looks between the two of them, and – yes, there it is. The same strong jawline and
the same sensitive brown eyes – a certain furrow to the brow when they're upset and, just
now, it seems, the both of them are.
"Darling," Astarion croons, with a smile that only just hides his teeth. "You never mentioned
that daddy dearest was the star of the evening."

Wyll, for his part, at least has the decency to look ashamed. "It didn't seem entirely relevant."

"It's a little relevant," Astarion tells him, cooly.

Duke Ravengard clears his throat, pointed. He fixes Astarion with a lingering glance. "I'd like
to speak to my son for a moment. If you'd excuse us?"

Astarion presses his hand to his chest. This time, his smile is closed-lipped and practiced.
"Anything for his excellency the duke," he says, honey smooth, and gives a little mock-bow
that's precisely three degrees too shallow to be proper.

Then he turns and stalks toward the table at the corner where Wyll had sat him down earlier –
realizes he's going there, and makes himself stop, and turns instead toward the banquet table,
where he seizes a goblet of sparkling wine.

It's dreadful. Not just vinegar but sparkling vinegar, and Astarion swallows it down and takes
another, just because he can.

He's not entirely sure why it bothers him so badly; it's as Wyll told him. Duke Ravengard is
an honorable man either way.

Wyll's father or not, the man has granted them the venue for this awful plan; their relationship
has no bearing on anything at all.

Perhaps, a small voice whispers at the corner of Astarion's mind, it isn't the omission that
rankles quite so badly.

Perhaps it's that word: the creature, as though that's the way Wyll told the tale to his father –
told of Astarion to his father – in private, when there was no one he felt he ought to charm.

Astarion swallows down the second glass of wine – catches the startled gaze of a mousy
young maid who watches him do it and fixes her with a flat look, daring her to say anything.
She doesn't – flusters and turns away – and Astarion helps himself to a third.

Gods, sometimes he wishes he could get drunk.

He skulks his way over toward the wall – sips at the wine, this time, rather than swallowing it
straight. There's a commotion near one of the doors, and he glances that way idly – catches
sight of a flustered dwarven guard with long, dark hair shot through with a smattering of
gold. She looks decidedly upset about something or other.

Astarion can't hear much of anything, but he can make out a little: "Helm strike me dead,
Gregor said that?" she's saying. "Please, Aradin, just for a minute. I swear I'll owe you
anything you like."

And then another voice is saying, "Go on, I can man a door as good as anyone." Astarion
recognizes the voice right away – it's Aradin's, shot through with that smug, careless bravado
that so makes Astarion want to bury a knife in his ribs.

Maybe he can break the glassware off at the stem. Broken glass, he's found, always makes
such jagged cuts.

But he doesn't break the goblet, temptation be damned. All he has to do is get through this
stupid night and this terrible gods-damned plan and he'll be free of all this – free of idiotic
Harpers, and of inane dress-up balls, and of Wyll, and his insufferable charming face.

Astarion throws back the rest of the wine – scowls, and turns toward the table, as though to
get another.

And then a voice at his elbow says, "I think you've had quite enough," and Astarion goes
very still indeed.

He knows that voice.

It's written into the scars on his flesh and it's carved in the very marrow of his bones. It
speaks to him in the nightmares that come during his reverie, and it chases him to waking,
and all at once Astarion is sure that if he needed to breathe he would have stopped, just now.

A pale, elegant hand reaches out to pluck the glass from his hand and set it casually on the
table.

Then Cazador says, "Take my arm, boy," and Astarion reaches out to take his arm.

He tucks it into the curve of Cazador's elbow, as though they're a couple going out for a stroll
in one of the parks of the upper city. His mouth, caught in a rictus of a smile, can't open to
scream.

It's fine, Astarion tells himself.

This is the plan. This is the stupid, awful, gods-fucked plan, and it's going exactly as it
should.

"Come along, child," says Cazador, voice smooth and even, a blade cloaked in silk.

And Astarion – Astarion can do nothing but what he's told.

They make their way toward the side of the room, below the glittering chandeliers. They pass
through teems of people arrayed in silk and velvet – through chatter and gossip and bright,
pealing laughter – through the grandest ball Astarion thinks he's ever been to.

This is the plan, he tells himself. This is the plan .

"I hope you've enjoyed yourself, boy," says Cazador, conversational. "You've had quite the
remarkable little holiday, haven't you?"

"I'd have come back if I was able," says Astarion, and he can't quite stop the pleading tone
that creeps into his voice.
"Would you have, indeed?" Cazador asks him.

They're passing the table in the corner, now – the one where Wyll sat him down until he'd
stopped shaking quite so badly.

He's shaking again, he finds.

"Of course, master," says Astarion. "You know better than anyone – you know I know better
than to run ."

"Hm," says Cazador. There's something teasing to the tone – something almost playful that
never bodes well. But Astarion knows what's lurking behind it, like a snake coiled to strike:
the edge of a temper that's carefully leashed, but only for here. Only for now.

Astarion's hand is unsteady where it holds to Cazador's arm. Dark spots dance at the corners
of his vision.

He knows this is the plan. He knows .

But as they approach the door in the far corner of the grand hall, Astarion feels something
sick and cold twist inside him – meets Aradin's gaze as they come even with one another and
then as Cazador leads him past.

He knows how this is meant to go.

He knows that an alarm is meant to go up, quiet, whispered Harper to Harper, so that a
hunting party can set out to track Cazador's path.

Astarion half-turns, frantic, just in time to see the way Aradin smirks at him – just in time to
see the man settle in against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, and start to whistle, turning
back to face the glittering gala inside the duke's manor.

"You're making a spectacle of yourself, boy," says Cazador, sharply. " Behave. "

And Astarion – Astarion opens his mouth as though to speak, but instead his chest hitches,
jagged and unsteady, trying to drag in air that he doesn't need. It feels as though there are bars
of iron wrapped around his ribs, tight and squeezing tighter.

"Master," Astarion manages to gasp, through the rising, icy wave of panic. " Please ."

Cazador inclines his head, slightly – steers Astarion toward a stately black carriage parked at
the far edge of the duke's walkway.

Through the rising tide of terror, he can see the bodies of the Harpers that were posted along
the west wall, crumbled in the immaculately trimmed hedges.

"If I hear one more word out of your lying, faithless mouth," Cazador tells him pleasantly, "I
will find a way to make what I have planned seem a luxury. Have I made myself
understood?"
Astarion's mouth snaps closed so fast his teeth clack together. He nods, frantic; his chest
hasn't stopped hitching yet, and the black spots at the corners of his vision are really quite
remarkable now.

He's aware, peripherally, that the footman has stepped down to hold the door for them.

"Well?" says Cazador. "Go on, boy. Get inside."

And Astarion – all Astarion can do is listen.

 Chapter 16
Chapter Notes

The response to the last chapter was absolutely incredible. Thank you all for the kind
words and incoherent screaming, it was a delight to see. <333

And thank you again SO very much to the amazing thecheeseburgercat on Tumblr, who
drew Wyll and Astarion in their outfits for the gala. I love it so much!! They both looks
so dashing! :>>>>

"I'd like to speak to my son for a moment," says Wyll's father. "If you'd excuse us?"

Wyll turns toward Astarion, an apology on his lips – winces when he sees the smile there.

It's a pretty smile – a practiced smile – and when he says, "Anything for his excellency the
duke," the tone behind it is just a shade to the left of polite.

Wyll doesn't think he's ever seen a sarcastic bow before, but there it is, the lines of Astarion's
form a touch too stiff, a touch too exaggerated. And before Wyll has a chance to get another
word in edgewise, Astarion is flouncing off across the dance floor.

Wyll watches him go – glances back toward his father. "That might have gone better," he
says, and he can't quite keep the reproach from his voice.

"You've brought a vampire to my grand hall," says Wyll's father. "What did you expect?"

"He's not some mindless animal," Wyll protests. " Creature , father? Truly?"

Indignation burns like an ember somewhere in his chest – and something far guiltier, besides.
The look on Astarion's face in the instant that word had registered lingers in his mind's eye –
something genuine, just for an instant, before it had been hidden away again.

"Well, he is," says Wyll's father. "And if it weren't for the fact that you mean to catch another
monster with him, he wouldn't be here at all."

Wyll grits his teeth – resists the urge to answer back. Two tendays ago, he'd have felt the
same – but that was before he'd learned Astarion's name. Before he knew that the man
enjoyed vapid adventure tales and wry, witty jokes. Before they'd planned a trip to the
theatre, when all this is said and done.

Wyll thinks, sometimes, about the night he ventured forth to the Szarr manor, hunting
monsters. He thinks about how very close he came to putting a stake through Astarion's heart
and ending him entirely.
An inch to the right, and the man he's grown to know in the time since would have been gone
for good. No dreams of the future; no stacks of books on a bedside table; no drinking wine
from a goblet in a pile of blankets.

Just gone, and the last thing he knew would have been a year of pain and hunger, followed by
a brief moment of terror and then – nothing.

Wyll thinks about the others, sometimes – the spawn they didn't miss. An elven woman and a
halfling man, both of them put to death in the space of a single heartbeat. He wonders if they,
too, had hopes of escape – if they, too, had dreamed of something beyond the walls of Lord
Szarr's palace.

It makes Wyll a little sick, every time he comes around to it again.

Wyll scrubs a hand over his mouth, absently – looks back up at his father. "I suppose he
wouldn't," Wyll manages. He swallows – rallies. "There was something you wished of me?"

"A report," says Wyll's father. "Has there been any sign of their lord? I'll not have my guests
put in any danger."

Wyll shakes his head, slow. "We've seen neither hide nor hair of him. It may take some hours
yet. Word will have to reach him before he can make any meaningful sort of move."

Wyll's father lets out a breath – a displeased huff of a sigh. "And I'm meant to keep this little
charade going until then?"

All at once, the notion that Wyll's father could call this short occurs to him. If he so chooses,
he could send all the guests home and leave them scrambling for a way to set another trap,
this time with Astarion's position compromised.

"Father," says Wyll. "Please. If we end this now, we'll never get another opportunity like this
one."

"I'm well aware," says Wyll's father, curtly. "Else we wouldn't be standing here."

All at once, Wyll feels as though he's twelve years old again, on the training field, with his
father watching as his instructor disarms him of the rapier in his hand. His cheeks burn; the
tangled knot in his chest feels remarkably like shame. "Thank you," says Wyll. "Truly."

"Hm," says Wyll's father, noncommittal. "Well – keep me abreast of the situation. I'll not
have the goings-on in my own home kept from me. Understood?"

"Understood," says Wyll.

Duke Ravengard spares him a curt nod, and then he turns to walk away.

Wyll watches him go – takes a moment, to collect himself. Later, he'll have to find a way to
make this up to his father. Later, he'll have to find some triumph that can balance the scales
against a request dismissed as "foolish" and "frivolous" and "unnecessary."
Later, he'll have to try and find the newest hole in the tattered shawl of their relationship and
attempt to patch it over, one clumsily sewn hole in among a dozen or more already there.

But for now, there are more important things to attend.

Wyll takes a steadying breath, and he turns toward the rest of the great hall. His eyes scan the
gathered guests, searching for a pale figure in a stunning outfit of lavender and indigo.

It really is a lovely soiree, he reflects, as he searches the crowd. Vittoria outdid herself on the
planning, with only a few suggestions here and there on Wyll's part. It's remarkable, really. If
Wyll hadn't known that she'd been his father's maid for thirty-five years, now, he might have
suspected that she was an event planner by trade.

He'll have to tell her, later, how brilliant a job she's done.

In the here and now, though, he finds that he has other things on his mind. Astarion hasn't
returned to his table, nor to the dance floor. He's not in the arched doorway that leads to the
adjoining hall, either.

Wyll frowns, and he ventures to the raised dais where the musicians are performing. He
stands on the bottom step, that he might peer out over the dancing throngs to get a better
view.

Still nothing. That familiar figure, striking enough to stand out from even a distance, is
nowhere to be seen.

Wyll veers toward the back of the room – steps through the arched door into the adjacent hall.
It's more crowded in here; there's less space, and the bar at the far corner, it seems, is serving
hard liquor. Still, it shouldn't be enough people to make him feel like this: vaguely
claustrophobic, as though something unnamable is closing in on him.

Wyll stands beside the door, and his eyes scan the crowd with increasing urgency. He'd know
that well-coiffed head of curls anywhere, and it's not here, either.

By the time he turns sharply to the right, approaching the door where Karlach's stationed, his
palms are damp with sweat.

"Have you seen Astarion?" he asks, and his voice, aiming for even and in control, is
remarkably unsure.

Karlach's lounging against the doorframe, looking bored – but she straightens up at that,
yellow cat's eyes narrowing. "You're shitting me," she says – and then, when she realizes that
he isn't: "Fuck. No. Not since a while ago."

"Right," says Wyll. His chest feels as though somebody is laying weight on it, one unbearable
boulder at a time. "Where's Jaheira?"

"You think the hunting party went out and she didn't say nothing?" says Karlach.

Wyll doesn't know what to think.

It could be that. He hopes it's that.

"I'll find out," he tells her. "Jaheira will know what's happened."

Jaheria doesn't know what's happened.

He stands to the side as she snaps orders in a back corner of the grand hall, looking out of
place in a blue dress that seems more battle tunic than ball gown. He feels ten years old
again, seated to one side as his father talks to the other adults – feels helpless and frantic and
not a little sick.

"Begin a search," Jaheira commands, "starting at the manor and spiraling outward. Interview
everyone who might have seen where he went."

"Yes, ma'am," says the Harper in Ravengard livery.

"Quickly, now," says Jaheira. "We have no time to waste."

The Harpers turn to walk away; so does Wyll.

"Not you," Jaheira snaps. "Walk with me."

She's setting off across the dance floor in long strides, with all the barely-banked agitation of
a caged panther. Wyll has a full head of height on her, and he still has to scramble to catch up.

"Where did you last see him?" Jaheira asks.

"There," says Wyll, and he nods to the spot on the dance floor, where Astarion had turned and
walked away. Even now, he feels something in his chest twist at the recollection.

"And when he left, where did he go?" Jaheira demands.

"I'm not sure," says Wyll. "Behind me somewhere." He turns – gestures toward the back half
of the hall. "I thought he'd gone back to sit down again."

"Plainly not," says Jaheira. "Or if he meant to, he was intercepted along the way."

She's begun to move in the direction Wyll indicated, and her eyes are narrowed, sharp and
watchful.

Wyll thinks of broken hands, and of the heavy marble lid of a sarcophagus. He thinks of
Astarion clinging to the blanket that he'd brought.

He thinks of how scared the man had been, to go anywhere near his master again.
Wyll has made what feels a thousand mistakes in his life, but he can't ever remember one
worse than this.

Jaheira's coming up on one of the doors now; when she speaks, her voice is like a whipcrack,
pointed and abrupt. "You," she says. "You are not meant to be on this door. Where is Fytz?"

Wyll is half lost in his thoughts. He's half lost in the remembrance of his own words – the
promise that Astarion's master would never lay hands on him again.

When he looks up, he sees that Aradin is standing at the door – and all at once, with an awful,
icy sort of dread, he thinks he knows what happened.

"She had something to attend to," Aradin says, in a casual, unconcerned sort of a drawl. "Her
husband had an emergency, as I recall."

"I see," says Jaheira, sharply. "And while you were standing in for her, I don't suppose you
noticed anything out of the ordinary?"

Aradin leans back against the doorframe, casual as anything. "Just a party and some well-to-
do types dancing."

"Nothing else?" Wyll cuts in, unable to quite stop the way his voice pitches up with the
tension.

Aradin makes a show of looking him over; his eyebrows lift, in the worst pantomime of
surprise Wyll thinks he's ever seen. "Why, young lord Ravengard," says Aradin. "Don't tell
me you've lost your pet vampire."

"Aradin," says Jaheira, sharply.

"Did you see him," Wyll grates out, "or didn't you?"

Aradin spreads his hands – smiles, wide and unconcerned. "Not all of us have such a hard
time keeping from ogling the prisoners, you know."

Wyll feels his hands curl into fists; he steps forward, a retort on his tongue.

"Leave him be," says Jaheira. "We have other concerns."

Wyll grits his teeth together – manages to choke out: "You're right. Of course."

And he might have left it there, if Fytz the Firecracker hadn't come storming up through the
crowd just then, her friendly face darkened with an uncharacteristic scowl. "Aradin, you
fucker," she's saying. "My husband didn't get in any accident!"

Wyll turns to look – takes in the way Aradin is leaning against the door, arms crossed,
languid and self-satisfied. The smirk on his lips, Wyll is suddenly sure, tells everything he
needs to know.
One of his hands reaches out to take hold of Aradin's shirt – Ravengard livery, bearing his
father's colors – and the other hauls back to punch the bastard.

There's a crack when his fist connects; Aradin curses and stumbles forward, hands going to
his nose. "You asshole !" he gasps. Blood is starting to drip from between his cupped fingers.

"Fytz," says Jaheira, in a voice unbending as steel. "See Aradin to a holding chamber, if you
please. He and I will have a very long talk, later."

"You're both crazy," Aradin hisses. "Are you even listening to yourself? He's a fucking
vampire!"

"You got it, boss," says Fytz, cheerfully, and twists one of Aradin's arms behind his back.
"Start walking, saer , or you're about to get another fist in your face."

She says more after that, but Wyll isn't listening. He's stepping out past the doorway and into
the brisk night air.

The hum and laughter and sweet trill of the orchestra falls away as his eyes sweep across the
even-cobbled walk and the manicured hedges of his father's garden. Little rose bushes dot the
edges of the walkway, and – here, too, there is no sign of Astarion.

Above, the moon shines wide and bright, a silent, all-seeing eye.

In the distance glimmer the lights of the whole of Baldur's Gate, infinitely wide – tens of
thousands of homes and shops, taverns and temples, thoroughfares and alleyways.

Somewhere, in one of them, there is a man scared out of his wits, desperately waiting for the
help he's been promised to arrive.

And Wyll – Wyll has no idea how to find him.

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