I Will Follow You into the Dark

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/51392317.

Rating: Explicit
Archive Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Major Character Death
Category: F/M
Fandom: Baldur's Gate (Video Games)
Relationships: Astarion/Amalthea (Baldur's Gate), Astarion (Baldur's Gate)/Original
Female
Character(s), Cazador Szarr & Original Character(s), Cazador
Szarr/Original Female Character(s), Cazador Szarr/Amalthea (Baldur’s
Gate)
Characters: Astarion (Baldur's Gate), Amalthea (Baldur's Gate), Cazador Szarr,
Shadowheart (Baldur's Gate), Gale (Baldur's Gate), Karlach (Baldur's Gate),
Jaheira (Baldur's Gate)
Additional Tags: Rape/Non-con Elements, Graphic Description, Torture, Psychological
Torture, Female Amalthea (Baldur's Gate), Half-Elf Amalthea (Baldur's
Gate), Hurt
No Comfort, Spoilers for Act 3 (Baldur's Gate 3), Act 3 (Baldur's Gate
3), Vampire Spawn Astarion (Baldur's Gate), Astarion Needs a Hug
(Baldur's Gate), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Soft Astarion
(Baldur's Gate), Protective Astarion (Baldur's Gate), Spoilers for Quest:
The Pale Elf | Astarion's Companion Quest (Baldur's Gate),
Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort eventually, Astarion is Trying His Best
(Baldur's Gate), Artificer Amalthea, Vampire Bites, Vampire Sex, Dead
Dove: Do Not Eat
Language: English
Series: Part 1 of The Pale Elf
Stats: Published: 2023-11-06 Completed: 2024-03-26 Words: 14,064 Chapters:
7/7

I Will Follow You into the Dark

by CtrlAltDelMe

Summary

Cazador gestured down to the man in crippled subordination. “Astarion knows nothing of
selflessness. Allow him to ascend in my place and you will be discarded here once you’ve
served your purpose, another corpse to litter my palace.”

“No, he-“
 “Do you truly think he cares for you? A vampire spawn? Ha!”

Amalthea recoiled.

“It would be pathetic had you been the only one taken in by him. You are no different to him
than the spawn in the cells were. A warm body to find comfort in. To fuck and feed from. A
pretty means to an ugly end.”

-OR-

Cazador captures Amalthea and uses her to lure Astarion back to him. Act 3 spoilers obv

*editing my warning to include: this whole fic is trigger-city. Pls use good judgement and
consume responsibly*

Broken Body
Chapter Notes

This is your one (1) additional sex/physical/emotional abuse trigger warning for this chapter.

For everyone else:

How ya doing, ya gluttons for pain?

She tried to pretend it was him.

It was a twisted, frantic attempt to escape the inescapable — to reframe the physical atrocities
that had stretched an eternity. And maybe on the surface, this part felt like him. His body was
cool to the touch, each movement practiced and measured, he took everything her body had to
offer in a clinical sort of way.

But it wasn’t him.

There wasn’t even the pretense of care now. The mirage gave way to sharpened nails trailing
bloody ribbons across her flesh like a living canvas — detailing her disobedience in furious
shades of pain. His grip around her jaw cut cheeks against teeth, and the cackle of sadistic
laughter that rang through empty chambers at every whimper punctuated the sound of his body
dominating hers. In fleeting moments she could squeeze her eyes tight to retreat to a quiet, far
away place in her mind, but never for long.

Just when she began to fade away, Cazador knew exactly how to rip her back.

Clawed fingers pierced her tender throat, wrenching her back flush with his body. Amalthea
choked in a breath, frantically grabbing at his hand. His merciless assault on her swollen sex
slowed nearly to a halt as he cocked her head to one side, inhaling.
“Astarion has always been a weak, pathetic, little boy,” he said disdainfully, voice taut like a
strung lute. “But even the weak are drawn to power.”

A cold, wet tongue flattened against the side of her neck and trailed up behind her ear.
Amalthea shuddered, heart throwing itself against her ribs. Paralyzing, animal fear rooted her
in place as she felt him hum in approval. He pressed into her again, agonizingly slow.

”That is why he follows you in his master’s stead.”

She grimaced, twisting her head away from him and her airway squeezed tighter. Despite
herself, her body responded faithfully to the tightening grip and languid strokes into her. As
he’d intended. Warmth pooled in her lower belly as he savored delivering every inch.

“I am laden with thralls, each more pathetic than the last. But in you-“ he sheathed himself
fully “-there is promise. All you have wanted, shall be yours.”

Her legs trembled beneath her, knees biting into stone as the rush of adrenaline from her initial
capture was beginning to wane. A second hand palmed over the quivering skin of her belly,
coming to roughly twist a pebbled nipple. Every lash, every thrust — her resolve weakened.

”All you must do is obey me.”

’Anything to make it stop.’

“No,” she choked, thrashing against him. “I won’t!”

But the protests had begun to weaken.

He was gone from her in an instant and she tumbled forwards onto her hands. The moment of
respite was brief before a vengeful kick collided with her side, body crashing into the cold,
stone floor. Eyes snapped open as she drew a frantic breath. She was too late to shield her face
as another skull-rattling blow landed, teeth chattering in her head. The world upended, stars
crashing through her vision. The echoes of a scream chimed off the walls but it sounded distant
and certainly not hers.

His approval echoed after it.

“Now there’s a voice!”

A few soft steps circled her, hungry eyes tracing her body like a man considering livestock,
lecherously taking in every curve and every angle. She wished to shrink out of existence

“I could turn you — make you powerful, give you all of eternity to serve me,” he promised,
voice low and dark. He stopped in front of her, hand moving to the base of his bobbing cock,
lips twisted into a poisonous smile. “I could make you perfect.”

She remained silent, eyes locked on his as he knelt before her. Again, she willed her body into
action, but it was unresponsive. A hand jutted out, fingers twisting deep into ashen hair and
ripping her face forward til the cold, slick flesh of his swollen cock head rubbed over her
bruised lips. She could taste herself on him and it turned her stomach
“But look at you now — pathetic,” he spat, his other hand digging into the sides of her jaw.
“Not even that worthless excuse of a spawn you’re all too willing to die for would stoop to
this.” The tip of his member insisted into her mouth, quickly intruding far past the point of
comfort.

Tears streamed down her cheeks, utterly powerless under centuries of practiced desecration.
She dug her fingernails into his hips as her lungs screamed for air, thrashing less and less
restrained as she choked on thick, bloody mucus.

“He will discard you,” he bit, voice cutting through teeth, “once he sees how useless you are
against me.”

It was true. She was nothing here. No flashy trap, enchanted crossbow, or bag of gold could
turn this to her favor. Here, with no allies and no recourse, her survival depended entirely on
her utility. That sick, desperate voice inside hoped she would live long enough that he grew
bored with her obedience.

The grip in her hair tightened, burying her nose in coarse, black hair as she gagged. All at once,
he was gone. She coughed and spit, air coming fast and hard as she smeared a hand across her
face.

“Come now, cattle. Thank your master for the mercy he shows you.”

The moment of silence hung too long trying to spit a mouthful of blood. Master’s correction
came in the form of a foot, ribs protesting in muffled cracks as she now stared up at the
impossibly tall ceilings. The gurgled shout ripped out of her without warning, wetness running
down the side of her face and back of her throat. Red hot pain burst from her face, spots
flashing in and out of her vision as she struggled to orient herself.

“Once more, since I am nothing if not patient and forgiving,” the dark-haired man sneered.
“Thank your master for his mercy.”

’Thank you.’

“Fuck. You.” The words were strangled. Weak.

Amalthea braced for the blow. It didn’t come.

An amused chuckle bubbled up from her left — pale lips pulled back over a pointed grin as he
regarded her below him. Deep crimson smeared itself along his knuckles, lining the cuffs of
brocade finery otherwise undisturbed save for the unlaced trousers parted to either side of a
blood-streaked cock.

“I see you get your manners from the boy,” he said. He closed the distance, stooping low to
place a single, slender finger under her chin to meet his gaze.

Bright ruby eyes flicked between her own. She could see herself being studied as he turned her
over in his mind, riddling apart who she was. The unbearable intimacy of it stripped her down
to her core. His eye-line traced down her body, laid naked and battered in the massive, desolate
ballroom. She was suddenly aware of her rapid, shallow breaths. Predator observing prey.
His eyes hesitated over her throat, the corners of his lips twitching up as they traced over two
pink pockmarks marring the skin.

“And he’s been feeding on you?” Cazador laughed incredulously and Amalthea tried to shrink
away. “The disrespectful welp will soon know his place.”

His hand snatched forward under her jaw, clamping down as her body left the floor. Her legs
kicked frantically as her grip flew to his. Piercing red eyes drank in the panic that overwhelmed
her sense of reason as he pulled her close. Bergamot, ink, and brandy filled her nostrils and the
pang of familiarity gutted her.

“Go and fetch him for Master, will you?”

Before she could react, fangs punched through the delicate skin of her throat and jaws crushed
together, tearing her flesh in sickening wet churns. A fleeting thought of how gentle Astarion
had tried to be with her — an icy sting, grateful affection — gave way to a brutal symphony of
gurgled screams. Her vision tunneled and her ears rang, stomach tumbling inside her.

She crumpled into a twist of limbs in a puddle of her own blood, clutching at the sticky, gnarled
wetness of her throat. She whirled. Nothing but the shadowed corners of the ballroom greeted
her, but the numerous dancing black spots in her eyes threatened to manifest into the vampire
given enough time.

Heavy limbs scrambled for the door, tripping over infinite, undulating carpets and stairs. Breath
came ragged, fingers numb as she fumbled with latch after latch. Stumbling down unfamiliar
halls of the massive palace, she shoved her way through something like a foyer.

Throwing her whole body weight against the impending double doors, she tumbled out into the
streets — naked, bleeding, dying. Her heart pounded in her ears, all but drowning out the wet
padding of uneven footsteps as she staggered through the street. The faintest hint of morning
light began to peek out from behind the horizon. She struggled to remain upright.

Amalthea had set off for a walk down to the market for a few carafes of wine after a
particularly heated conversation about the fate of the Elder Brain. Gods, it seemed so long ago
that the evening light glittered through green and red bottles. She’d picked a nice vintage, too.

Lifetimes had past in that damned ballroom but Baldur’s Gate slept on.

Had they noticed she was gone? It wasn’t uncommon for her to take her time wandering to
clear her head, but surely someone had noticed her absence over the course of the night, right?
Her breathing was ragged and wet as she rounded another corner and chilling reality settled in
her gut like a rock.

‘I’m not going to make it…’

Legs faltered, dropping the half-elf to her knees. It’s only now that she began to realize the
extent of the damage — face swollen, throat throbbing with each heartbeat, gods she couldn’t
breathe — and how much effort it had taken to get her here. She pulled her body forward with
her hands, willing herself to make it to safety. The world began to lose its edges.
After all of that pain — all of that loss — and she was destined to be a nameless corpse dead in
an alley? The fury didn’t burn as hot as it should have.

Amalthea could just barely make out the lamp in front of Elfsong, but it may as well been a
tenday’s journey away. Her lungs fought a gurgling breath and the scream dying on her lips.
Once more, her body fell to the earth, drowning on dry land.

The tadpole thrashed in her brain unexpectedly. Perhaps it was fighting it’s host’s untimely
demise. Or maybe it recognized an Absolutist passing by, moments from running her through
with a blade in her helpless state.

Either way, she hoped death would at least take her quickly.
 Broken Mind
Chapter Summary

Astarion finds Amalthea.

Chapter Notes

Hello, darlings~

A little Astarion POV since Amalthea is taking an extended nap. Our boy is so fucked.

Very exposition heavy, but this was a great (awful) character study

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Astarion’s gut twisted violently.

A waft of sticky, metallic sweetness assaulted his senses. Strong and heady, it smelled like
home. Even if after a century of its absence, he was certain that a single drop would more than
suffice to stir memories of sunlit laughter and awaken a long-dead heart.

Amalthea’s blood.

Fear thrashed in his chest like a caged animal and Astarion began to run.

He’d waited too long to search for her. He’d waited too damned long. The others had chided
him for wondering aloud where she’d nipped off to a few hours after their disagreement
disbanded. Gale had mocked him, insisting she deserved time away from his incessant griping
after he threatened to go out searching. And like a fool, terrified to smother the one object of
his affection, he had listened. Hunched over that damned book, eyes trained unseeing on its
pages simply to maintain the door to their suites in his periphery. But she never came through
them. Hours and hours had rolled by, various party members turning in and waving off any
concerns with visions of Amalthea slumped over in blissful drunkenness in the lower level of
the Amaltheaern.

So he’d checked the Amaltheaern. And the flophouse. He even took a lap through the brothel,
to no avail. Gods, even the idea of finding her wrapped in the arms of a lover would’ve been
preferable to the most likely scenario now. If only just.

Had she succumbed to a band of Absolutists? Maybe Nine-Fingers had sent the guild after all.
Perhaps Orin had taken advantage of her solitude and —
As he skirted the edge of the park, he saw it — a broken spattering of bright red on the stone
street. And another. And then another. Footprints. Her footprints. An uneven trail left in sacred
ichor, flavored with all the love and goodness that could exist in this fucking twisted plane,
detailed her frantic stumble into the streets of the lower city. His thoughts began to race and his
mouth went dry.

His mind painted her in horrifying detail; face slack and sick with death’s pallor as rivulets of
crimson fell across her features with poetic cruelty. He imagined cradling her cold, stiff body
against him, never to feel her fluttering heart beneath his touch again— all of the warmth and
care in the world snuffed out in an instant. The terror ripped a hole in his chest and that
hysterical creature in him tried to claw its way out.

But the prints were fresh; the splashes fully liquid and showing no sign of discoloring. A
strangled rush of relief choked him — maybe there was time. Astarion sprinted next to the
stilted, bloodied footprints, panic suffocating each additional block that they continued
increasingly far.

It was unlike her to get caught out alone — years of dealings in the guild had left her
observant, quick, and resourceful — but the gruesome trail certainly spelled disaster for what
laid at the end of it.

A familiar, if still unnerving, writhing came from the parasite nestled in his brain. Hastily, he
pressed into it but it faded just as quickly. It had to be her — it must.

Please.

Astarion had pled with the gods before, but always for himself. Each time they’d ignored his
promises of devotion in exchange for sanctuary, despite his ragged desperation. Perhaps it was
simply the recipient of the miracle they’d taken issue with — the spawn of some undead
creature unworthy of the effort required to deliver him to safety. He hoped they’d make an
exception for Amalthea.

And his world upended.

There, at the end of this sanguineous trail, was the naked, bloodied body of a woman. Adorning
the stone pathway in a sprawl, the desecrated body abruptly collided with the memory of the
Amalthea that had left the Amaltheaern just hours ago. He was all but overcome with the smell
of gore as his mind worked to make sense of what he was seeing.

Angry, weeping streaks of flesh were missing from her back, ashen hair matted, dark, and wet
at the ends. Purple and blue patches decorated large swaths of too-pale skin and small pool of
blood spread away from her, lining the grout of the old cobbled street.

Had it still beat, his heart would’ve surely stopped now. He reeled, a dozen half-formed
thoughts and fears crashing around the inside of his skull, all but drowning out any reason.

She couldn’t be dead. Not Amalthea. His Amalthea.

It all started to be snatched away; the hope, the love, the safety turned to mist inside him.
Severe, familiar loneliness wrapped its fingers around his gut. To have hoped that this perfect,
idiot stranger that fell out of the sky — protected him, fed him, cared about him — would get
to stay with him was naive. This is what he deserved. For hoping for a future beyond a spawn
destined to be sacrificed, she had to die.

Astarion’s chest felt like it was torn open, mind racing as he looked down on the brutalized
body of the half-elf. He dropped to his knees and put a tentative hand on her shoulder, her body
limp.

“Amalthea?”

Deep in her chest he could hear her heart squeeze weakly. The sound alone inspired a small
breath of relief, but he had no time to relish in it.

He gingerly peeled her shoulder from the ground and her head lolled to the side, eyes lidded
and unseeing as she pulled a wet breath in. The shredded, discolored flesh of her back paled in
comparison to the destruction that consumed her features. Lips he’d lavished were split and
bruised, blood smeared from one cheek to the other. Her left cheekbone had split, the resulting
swelling spilling up to her eye. But the worst of it was below her jaw — a gory display of
tattered flesh and blood, the throat he’d marked as his own after nights spent buried in its
warmth was disfigured beyond recognition. Thick streams of blood from the still-pulsating
wound painted down the pale skin of her breasts and belly, streaked over a multitude of smaller
gashes.

Astarion’s eyes locked on the tell-tale tracks of fangs on the edges of the wound consuming her
throat. It was only then that his body recognized the second scent that lingered in the bloody
mess — that of his old master.

Time ground to a halt.

“Amalthea!” he shouted at her, voice ragged and desperate. “Gods, please — wake up!”

White-hot fury punctuated the fear that twisted his insides. He gripped either shoulder and gave
her a quick jerk, her eyelids fluttering as her head bobbed limply.

“Gods, Amalthea— did you drink from him? Amaltheairelle! Did he make you drink from

him?!” She did not respond.

With a growl he scooped her battered body into his arms, pressing her tightly against his chest
— warm blood instantly soaking through his clothing and wetting the skin beneath. He
bounded down the fifty paces to Elfsong, crashing through the nearly-desolate Amaltheaern
gracelessly and thundered up the stairs to their rented suites. With an unceremonious kick, the
burst through the doors, dazed faces jolting up from their beds and squinting at them in the
dark.

“Oh shit—“
He had no time to entertain the flurry of questions that were shouted at him as he placed her
body into the nearest bed, linens be damned. As bodies began to rouse from their sleeping areas
to crowd his love, he peeled off to frantically snatch at and upend every satchel he could find in
search of potions, poultices — anything — that would keep her heart beating. Amidst the
symphony of rattling glass and crashing belongings, their companions began to feverishly work
over Amalthea and Astarion began to spiral.

It was his fault.

The statement repeated endlessly as he furiously gathered materials through blurry eyes.
Desperation and shame clawed through him, urging him to run. He wanted to be far from this
place and this horrible, unforgivable mistake that might not be undone. His incompetence
stained his tentative new life and he wasn’t sure if he would survive the reckoning he so
deserved.

In just a matter of months he’d become so weak — allowed this indulgence to develop into
something that would devastate him to lose. And Cazador knew it. He was foolish to think that
his siblings wouldn’t be watching him, observing this softness that should’ve starved to death
in that tomb over a century prior. Despite his best attempts at deceit, his fragile heart was no
longer his to protect. And right now, it was dying alongside the half-elf who dared insert herself
in his life.

Was her fate sealed? Regardless of if they could keep her alive — which seemed unlikely given
the circumstances — would she become a spawn like him? Had he, by loving her, condemned
her to an eternity of darkness and ravenous hunger under the same unforgiving master? An
image of Amalthea, pale and beautiful, situated naked on his master’s lap pierced his heart.

He threw down armfuls of potions, quickly unstoppering the most potent of the selection and
tipping it into her parted lips as he cradled her head. Beside him, Shadowheart pushed thick
tendrils of pulsating magic into her broken body, the light so bright it cast shadows against the
bones of her hands. The bruising slowly began to recede, the edges of her more superficial cuts
beginning to knit together as beads of sweat formed on the cleric’s brows. Slowly, the shredded
flesh of her throat began to undulate under a layer of coagulating blood, drawing in on itself as
the destroyed structures underneath began to reassemble.

Astarion scanned over every visible wound, inspecting it for faithful closure before his gaze
caught on the fading lines that scored Amalthea’s hips. His eyes followed them inward to a
crimson imprint of teeth marks on the inside of her thigh. His insides dropped as realization set
in.

It had been hours that he’d been convinced to sit there with that damned book while she had
been surviving the true brutality that his master spent centuries honing on him. Flashes of
nights spent bloodied and on his knees broke his composure, colliding with a surge of pure,
unadulterated rage as he envisioned Amalthea in his place — broken, hopeless, and alone. If he
could not save her, he would avenge her. His vision began to tunnel as he barreled towards his
cleaned arms and armor.

“I am going to fucking kill him!”

Chapter End Notes Emphasis on the

HURT no comfort
 Broken Will
Chapter Summary

Amalthea survives, but not unscathed.

Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

She awoke to a ragged scream.

Guttural. Painful. Raw. It tore at her heart, seizing at the space in her chest, and pulled her
down from the black nothingness. A million miles away, it was much too faint to be her own,
but whose could it be?

Her mind hung in some liminal space outside her body, floating aimlessly as pain and panic
floated into her in the darkness. An echo of a woman’s voice muddled together in low, hushed
tones, punctuated only by the squeak of cork being pulled from glass. Through the surreal choir
wove that voice that tugged her along this numb, non-existence, something in the timbre of it
soothed her drowning thoughts. Far, far away, heat pushed into her chest with the unmistakable
crackle of magic as the world shook beneath her.

Her mind assigned the intrusive hands to the guild healers — rough but effective. She imagined
herself sprawled on the infirmary cots in the dingy back room as the grumpy halfling —
Aiden? Aewin? — pieced her back together for the umpteenth time. Her gold purse ached at
the surely-mounting cost of her unwilling revival.

Hot, unrelenting pressure bore down on her throat, the surge of terror coming back as she
choked. The pain tugged her mind back down through the dark. She wished hopelessly that
they would hurry up and kill her already — the dull, persistent ache finding it’s way into every
muscle and joint, nagging at her to —

“-myself, then — I don’t-”

That voice again, it pulled a thread in her swimming consciousness. Not the commanding
woman, but the one who’d woken her from earlier. The sound was so familiar, but now it held
an edge of desperation that managed to unravel it — a pang of curious grief settled behind
broken ribs. It wasn’t the voice of someone issuing a command or declaration, but rather of
someone pleading — bargaining. She tried to focus in on the sounds, but the words bled
together in an unrecognizable rhythm.

The air was too thick, too hot to choke down, but her breath came and went against her will.
The room was bathed in nothing but intense blue-tinged light and it blinded her. Blinking hard
and fast, she could just make out two figures looming over the top of her but crushed her eyes
closed once more as her insides threatened to come outside her. She heard someone whimper
and pain bloomed, hot and vengeful, down the front of her neck as someone manipulated her
head.

“Hey there now, soldier. We’ll get ya patched back up in no time, don’t you worry.”

A small rush of relief dulled the onslaught of magic and centered her un-anchored reality.
Amalthea’s blurry eyes lulled over to the the fiery face of her infernal companion, looming
over the top of her two immediate caretakers. She found the familiar wall decor of the Elfsong
suites behind her head, confused but comforted by its existence.

“I’ve done about all I can do,” a woman’s breathy voice called out from above her, a long silver
braid cascading off her shoulder. “I need to rest before we can try again, but she needs those
wounds packed and bandaged until then.”

Amalthea weakly pulled away from the hands fussing over her face. Gods, she just wanted to
be left alone and not touched . She peeked down at herself for but a moment and should’ve
been alarmed at the absolute state of her unclothed body slick with crimson but couldn’t
manage more than a grimace. Vague memories of the darkened streets of the lower city —
crushing fear, choking hands, face pressed into the cold, stone floor— appeared and fizzled just
as quickly. She rested her head back down on the hand at the base of her skull.

“Here — drink this,” a gentle voice insisted, sounding like books and theory and magic as a
metal rim pressed to her lips with the utmost care and affection. Fingertips gently rubbed her
scalp as Amalthea pulled in long draws of water, only faintly noticing the medicinal aftertaste.

“That’s better,” he hummed.

Shadowheart stood from her place at Amalthea’s hip, bringing a hand up to her head and slowly
pacing out of view. She looked tired. Amalthea felt a swell of gratitude as her place was
quickly taken by another faintly smelling of decaying wood and rainwater, laden with bundles
of bandages. She worked quickly, the Harper cleaning of the areas around the worst of the gore
of her throat with a dampened cloth. She made a sound of annoyance in the back of her throat.

“That’s enough, leave us. You’re doing nothing but blocking me.”

The robed man at her head hesitated for a moment before withdrawing his support. There was
the sound of a few more bottles being deposited at the side of the bed and some receding
footsteps as Jaheira came even closer to the gash in Amalthea’s throat. Despite her efforts to be
considerate, the tugging at the freshly closed edges of the wound caused her patient to writhe
under her.

“Go to her,” she heard a soft rumble say somewhere further in the room, voice deep and rich
like evening sunlight.

Amalthea’s thoughts were sluggish and disjointed, floating somewhere between death and the
room full of her fussing companions. Everything hurt but the sensation was dulled on its
journey from her body to brain. She felt so heavy and weak, wanting nothing more than to curl
into a ball in the darkest corner she could find, away from the commotion and intrusive
touches. Her heartbeat pounded against the inside of her skull — it would be a mercy to
remove it from her shoulders.

Jaheira had moved on to smearing a paste into the raw edges of her throat, gingerly applying a
sheet of dried herb over the top to seal the medicine in. With the same cloth, she removed some
of the blood around her lips to assess the extend of the damage, ultimately deciding it was not
worth the effort to dress. Amalthea pulled her face to the side, away from her painful prying.

“Open your eyes,” she commanded, hand softly gripping her jaw to turn her face back.

Amalthea blinked hard against the aged face, laid bare under her unwavering gaze as it bore
through her. Curiously, her eyes fell behind the elven woman’s shoulder to a pale face encircled
by a mess of white curls. A few blinks passed before her shattered mind could put a name to
him, but the dulled thrum of love that soothed her aching heart was instantaneous.

Astarion was undone — she’d never seen him in such a state of disarray. Disheveled curls had
been raked through by crimson fingers, the front of his clothing saturated in blood, with streaks
of it decorating the perimeter of his angular face. His eyes were glassy and wild with an
emotion should couldn’t quite recall, brows knit together and jaw clenched as he tentatively
stepped closer to the edge of the bed. Concern tainted the delirious relief, though the feelings
failed to fully materialize.

Someone deeper in the room muttered something that Amalthea couldn’t hear, but Jaheira
ceased her attentions with an annoyed huff, punctuating her departure only with the sound of
the curtain being drawn to the sleeping area. Outside, the group burst into anxious, hushed
chatter.

But they were the furthest thing from her addled mind.

Her thoughts still swam adrift in dreamlike consciousness, burdened by a body that was only
partially reassembled and struggling to continue. On some level she knew how dire her
situation was, but she simply acknowledged it with the attention one would give the weather.
Large, swollen bruises decorated her abdomen and legs like a canvas, chest heaving under a
thick layer of blood that originated from what she assumed must be a devastating neck wound.
Much of what throbbed with each heartbeat was obscured from her in her current position, but
her limbs were far too heavy to consider moving to continue her assessment.

The pale elf sank to his knees by her side, still silent, eyes following her gaze down her
battered body. The carefully constructed mask he’d so often wear had fallen, his eyes lingering
on each wound before coming up to her face. His mouth opened, only to close again as he
peeked down her length once more.

Even as disconnected from reality as she was, Amalthea noted his uncharacteristic silence and
was compelled to break it.

“You look… terrible.”

Astarion barked a stunned laugh, tears threatening to spill over his lashes. He reached for her,
fingers trembling in the air hesitantly before deciding to gently cup her cheek.
“You absolute wretch,” he chastised, voice broken and hushed as he leaned into her. “If you
survive this, I’m going to kill you.”

Amalthea offered a weak, albeit self-satisfied, grin. Her eyes closed again, a numbness
beginning to seep in from her fingers and toes. A thought flitted back to the bitter-laced water
Gale had offered her, but she wasn’t sure why.

“It hurts,” she heard herself whisper, the ghost of shame unable to find her behind closed lids.

“Stay still, darling.”

Water fell into a bucket near her head and the rag appeared again, this time smoothing delicate
circles across her face. Her vampire attendant was so gentle and unhurried that she could feel
her consciousness slipping again. His fingertips brushed around the edges of her face as he
tucked her hair out of the way. Her mind floated aimlessly as he removed layer after layer of
dried blood from her. As he made one final pass with the damped rag over her features, he
paused briefly to press a lingering kiss to her brow. The cloth was wrung out, gently starting on
the cascade of blood that fell down her chest.

A faint recognition of context flickered in the back of her mind, reminding her of all the
occasions she had shielded her body from him in weeks past. She’d tried to protect him,
changing and bathing at opportune times or tending to wounds in the solitude of her tent. But
now, she laid so utterly bare. And worse yet, she had neither the energy nor faculties to do
anything about it. The guilt came and went for this moment she’d failed in — at least dying
saved her any long-term embarrassment.

The cloth worked down her front, carefully smoothing over her breasts and over her broken
ribs. She heard herself suck in a breath through her teeth, her carer redirecting his attention to
her arms. Gentle hands unfurled hers, lacing their fingers together as he carefully stretched out
her left arm for better access. Warm affection softened her, even daring to open her eyes to
watch his beautiful features knit together in loving devotion as he tended to her. Satisfied with
his handiwork, the elf wrung out his instrument once more before raising slightly to begin on
the other arm.

Cool fingertips came to rest on her side as he leaned over the top of her and she recoiled
violently at the innocent gesture. Snapping her eyes shut against the piercing, maniacal
laughter that erupted between her ears and melted her surroundings. She curled away from the
touch, stomach threatening to return its contents as she clutched her arms across her chest.

‘You will watch as I take everything from you.’

Astarion pulled back, crimson rag clutched in one hand and the other held out in the space
above her. His face was twisted into… concern? Pity? She wasn’t sure, but looking into those
ruby eyes ran her through with a bolt of fear. Even behind her lids, she could see that predatory
gaze boring into her soul, the memory of hands knotting into her hair to crane her face up to
meet it. Her eyes fixed on the gnarled planks of the ceiling as she drew a shuddering breath,
fingertips clawing into damp linens. She felt tears run into her hairline. ‘And all that will
remain is me.’
 “Amalthea — darling, I—“

She couldn’t bear to look over at him, instead swallowing hard against the tension in her coiled
body. Laboriously, the half-elf pulled herself up into a seated position, the bed linens painfully
peeling off of the scores of claw marks marring her back. Her breath came hard and darkness
closed in as ears roared with the effort. It was better like this, legs pulled into her chest and her
arms wrapped around them, safer . Resting her head on her knees, she closed her eyes for a few
breaths as the tears continued their silent descent.

Gods, she just wanted to die.

Chapter End Notes

Really bait-and-switched ya with the comfort on this one. One more kinda sad chapter
before we get into the fluffy stuff, I promise <3
 Broken Heart
Chapter Summary

Astarion contemplates what he stands to lose.

Chapter Notes

Happy Friday, darlings~

Next chapter is all the love and other drugs, you’ve been so faithful on this journey <3

More exposition and character development for Astarion

See the end of the chapter for more notes

She reminded him of himself like this, curled into a quivering ball of fear.

Back when he was a younger spawn, still freshly aquatinted with the talents inflicted by a
sadistic master, each shiny new horror taking something new and precious from him. Those
early years were easy to recall, even though many new atrocities had been had between then
and now. He wondered what Cazador had taken from her this time and if it was even possible
to get back. The crippling stab of sorrow he felt as he lingered over this broken creature
threatened to rend him in two.

She looked so small curled up into a bloodied ball, battered arms wrapped around shaky legs.

Cazador had reduced his Amalthea — whose boldness occasionally bordered on insolence —
to a terrified animal just as he’d done to Astarion so many times before. Many long nights were
spent sitting just like that in pools of his own blood and sick, unable to do anything but sob.
But in the beginning, he prayed. He’d prayed to any god or devil that would listen, begging for
safety and later to blame them for his suffering.

He wondered briefly who Amalthea blamed for this.

There was a sacred vulnerability to her; to cast his gaze on her quivering form was an
unforgivable act of intrusion. It’d been so long since he’d seen her in any state of undress, and
her nakedness in this context left her even more exposed. But this was not how he had
imagined seeing the whole of her again.

Amalthea had been so careful to spare him the sight of her since he’d told her of his struggle to
reconcile with the demands of physical intimacy. A woman previously unbothered by the
nudity that came with wound dressing or bathing had a sudden affinity for modesty — but
particularly so around him. And he hated it. Just because he couldn’t enjoy her in the way he
wished didn’t mean he was blind to the way his body yearned for hers.

But this was different. Wrong.

He wanted to shield her from the world; from himself even. A precious, delicate thing to be
protected — that he had failed to protect. It tore Astarion’s heart out of the center of his chest,
the void that opened up threatened to swallow him whole. Rage, despair, guilt coursed through
him like blood. This was his fault, his own sickening cowardice to blame for not going after her
sooner. He wanted to cry, to scream, anything — do anything, you worthless idiot!

He discarded the rag hastily, tearing a clean blanket off the adjacent bed and wrapping it around
Amalthea’s shaking frame. He desperately, desperately needed to reach out, to touch her, to
hold her, but couldn’t. Gods, he just wanted to make this right, to take the pain away. He’d
been the one to practically deliver her to Cazador anyways, just like the other—

Without thinking, he crawled up onto the crimson mattress and settled beside her, careful to
leave a gap between their bodies. Her face turned towards him, head resting on her knees. Dark
grey eyes were drowsy and unfocused as they lazily flitted over his face, her brows knitted
together with pain. A hand shifted out from under the edge of the blanket, not-quitewarm
fingers grasping clumsily at his.

“I’m… so sorry.” Her voice was thick, broken, and barely audible.

Astarion fought the urge to scream.

It took everything in him not to wrench his hand from hers and burst into a furious tirade
detailing every aspect in which she had been a victim in this situation. The words materialized
in his mouth for how she’d been lied to, manipulated, brutalized, and now nearly killed because
of him and his selfishness. She’d been gone all night, at the whims of a vampire lord with
centuries of practice pulling sick pleasures from the flesh. He gritted his teeth together,
blinking back stinging tears as his body remembered the symphonies of pain written into him
over the years.

She owed him no apology for this.

He violently wished he knew how to comfort her. And he searched for any honeyed words or
gentle caress that would transfer this undeserved suffering onto him, the one who deserved to
bear it. Thinking back to the few occasions he’d come undone in front of her, he gained a new
appreciation of the restraint it took to to not smother the suffering out of her.

Instead he tightened his grip around her fingers, imbuing them with care

Under a watchful eye, the pain began to fade from her expression and her lips just barely
parted. Her breath began to lose its urgency and her hand fell limp in his grip. The elf froze,
training an eye on her back to count every rise and fall before deciding she was simply
unconscious rather than the more permanent alternative.
 Astarion was sundered by this unrelenting churn of… something foreign. It burned and
thrashed and cut him up inside. This must be some devil-sanctioned punishment — to have
something so stupid and fragile and precious that it could simply die and kill you along with it.
In his attempt to gain an asset in this war he waged against his master, Astarion had simply
obtained a massive, mortal weakness.

And selfishly, he’d have it no other way.

Satisfied that she was well and truly under, he scooped her warm, yielding body into his arms
and gently transferred her into a cleaner set of linens. With great care, he brushed her matted
hair out of her face, and pressed a delicate kiss to her freckled temple. He savored the feeling
of her warmth on his lips.

He stood and turned, just a few paces from the dividing curtain before he cast a glance back to
Amalthea’s carefully arranged form.

His heart.

Chapter End Notes

bb boy is in love, he just doesn’t know it yet :(

 Broken Promise
Chapter Summary

Amalthea gets a bath. Astarion gets a reality check.

Chapter Notes

Hi, darlings~

Some fluffy cuteness for you before we get into the finale <3

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Her mouth was tacky and bitter.

A variety of medicinal cocktails swirled in the back of her brain but the thought fizzled out. A
persistent, dull headache settled in behind her eyes, throbbing with each heartbeat. The air had
an undertone of old linens and dust — she was inside, and warm. There could be worse places
to wake up.

Just barely, she could make out the muffled sounds of mundane daily activities; garbled
conversations, clinking glassware, and heavy footfall across old wooden floors solidified her
theory that she was indoors.

A rustling drew her attention closer, into the room with her. Paper maybe? Amalthea imagined
a few sheets of parchment fluttering off the edge of a desk. How curious.

Her body ached, though It was notably stronger from the hazy memories of blood and pain and
darkness and fear. She shuddered and pushed the thoughts away, drawing in a steadying breath.
A maniacal cackle, cold hands, goading words — she tensed against the onslaught, trying to
ground herself in the linens beneath her fingers.

A book’s edges snapped shut, punctuating the silence.

The room was a hazy mix of golden light dashed by shadow. Amalthea blinked hard a few
times, eyes locking in on a blurry figure moving to lean over her. Soft white curls caught a halo
of evening light, framing angular features lined with worry. Her heart swelled in her chest.

“Good morning,” she rasped, painfully clearing her throat before trying again. “Enjoying your
day off?”
He offered a placating chuckle.

“Hardly, keeping you alive proved to be a full-time job. I should’ve volunteered to go out on
the fools errand with the lot of them when I had the chance.”

With a groan, she righted herself on the bed, ensuring her covering was tightly clutched to her
chest. Her neck was sore and hot and, from the way it protested any movement, she was
worried what gory mess lay just outside her view. The rest of her was far from perfect, but
certainly nothing life threatening. Gods willing, a couple more nights and she’d be ready to
travel again with the right regimen.

“In that case, thank you for your exceptional sacrifice,” she jested. “No one knows suffering
quite like you.”

He did not laugh.

A scowl tugged down the corners of his mouth, but instead of spitting any cutting remark as
she expected, he took a seat next to her. He caught her jaw in gentle fingers, tipping her gaze
up to meet his as she winced. Scarlet eyes flickered between hers, brows pulling together.

“You look dreadful, darling,” he finally assessed, trailing whisper-light knuckles down her
cheek. A smile played at the edges of his mouth and it caught on her heart. “Now that you’re no
longer actively dying, there’s no excuse to consciously choose to look like this.”

Amalthea wrinkled her nose.

“You flatter me,” she said flatly.

He stood, offering a pale hand. A memory of the elf standing over her obscured her view, his
favorite clothes saturated with dark, wet patches. Bloody fingerprints painted his beautiful face,
leaving trails of worry through delicate, white curls. Her gut twisted with panic, heart suddenly
jumping to her throat, and her eyes began to sting.

In a moment, he closed the distance and squeezed a trembling shoulder, tracing down the
length of her arm and taking her hand in his own.

“No, no. None of that, darling,” he reassured gently, smoothing over her knuckles. “Stay with
me, love.”

The words sounded odd in his voice. She’d remembered whispering them to him as she’d
watch his eyes go glassy and distant the night after they’d stumbled on Petras and Dalyria in
the city.

She swallowed, fingers tightening around his grip. His skin was unmarred save for the two
scarred punctures on the long column of his neck — no blood to be found. Usual white ruffles
were replaced by an understated black collar, clean and new and contrasting sharply against his
lunar complexion. She wondered briefly when he’d gotten his new set of clothes — and,
furthermore, how long she’d been unconscious.
He tugged her to her feet, ensuring she was steady before turning to fiddle with the knobs to the
bath plumbing. She paused for a moment and considered need to shortly disrobe in front of
him. Although, peeking down at the blanket currently protecting her disheveled modesty, she
imagined that after last night and their precious two escapades, she didn’t have much left to
hide. Besides, at this point it was essentially the same state of undress shared between camp-
mates as they mutually tended to one another’s battle wounds.

She allowed the clumsy justification to let the blanket fall around her feet, brushing past the
elf with glass confidence as she tenderly situated her stinging body in the warm water.
Plumes of steamy aromatics wafted through her senses, a far cry from the river water she’d
become so accustomed to. It was only once submerged that some of the invisible injuries
came to her attention, unseen lacerations screaming as water lapped at partially-healed
wounds. She sucked in a sharp breath, settling to face the wall with her back to the room. “I
don’t mind, you know.”

“Hmm?”

“Seeing you,” his voice was gentle, lilted by the barest hint of humor. “It can be difficult to
compare yourself to someone with my stunning good looks, of course but… you are a vision.”

Amalthea felt her cheeks flush and pretended to rub at the dried flecks of blood on her hands.

“You should see me on a good day, then.”

She heard him settle in on the bath footstool behind her, offering a bemused sound. She idly
rubbed her hands over her legs, attempting to ignore the speed with which the water was
beginning to take a copper tinge. Peeking over her shoulder, she caught the tail end of an
emotion fade into a careful smile.

“Let me help you, darling,” he offered, though made no move to close the distance between
them.

She scrutinized the tone, realizing that he was asking permission.

Amalthea nodded, the elf moving to tenderly guide her head back, a hand cupping the curve of
the base of her skull. Warm water ladled over matted tresses, followed by fingertips tenderly
scrubbing an floral cocktail into her scalp. Despite her best efforts, she was comforted by this
quiet closeness. The alternating rinsing and fussing soothed the anxious thrum of her heart,
domesticity rooting her in a safe reality. She opened her eyes, catching something tender,
intimate, pulling his features together with thoughtful contemplation.

This brush with mortality — Amalthea’s mortality — had bound them together in another layer
of twisted understanding. But they had this. This moment of silent care that only existed to
them. The silence held them comfortably, Astarion’s touch delicate and intentional as warm
fingers caressed the edges of her face with tender adoration.

After a moment, his eyes found hers, gaze softening. He lifted her head back up, wringing out
her hair and laying it over the front of her shoulder. There was a quick splash of water before a
cloth found her back, gingerly dabbing around the deeper claw marks that had yet to heal over.
She cocked her head to the side, curling her knees into her chest.

“I heard you. In the street.”

“Hmm?” he responded absently. “You

were worried he had turned me.”

The cloth faltered on its journey.

“Yes,” he said breathlessly. He continued, almost exasperated. “I thought you were dead. That
he’d killed you. Or—“

—worse, she finished the thought, turning her forearms over to inspect the split purple
splotches.

“I’m sorry—“

“Don’t you dare apologize for this, Amalthea. This is a—“

“No, I —” she tried again. “Cazador is… a monster. I didn’t realize how — how he…”

Her voice broke, words failing her. Any sentiment that might’ve been remotely adequate to
describe the heartbreak she felt — for the man in front of her; for the harrowing, hateful
intimacy she’d bore; for the glimpse of the life he’d lived for centuries and the way it had
destroyed her — died on her lips.

She turned so she could face him, his features twisted into something raw — angry. She could
faintly make out the glimmer of tears in his eyes and they locked onto hers. He looked so
young, so terrified with his silver tongue stilled.

Astarion had certainly not skirted around the topic of his old master, though each story lacked
the gravitas that Amalthea’s experience was now able to paint in fine detail. Being forced to
denounce one’s autonomy to spare the rod, hoping for mercy from the same man who he’d
relied on for cruelty - the taunts, touches, talents they’d endured to simply entertain the
master’s waning interest.

A trembling, wet hand found a slender jaw. Her thumb brushed the line of his lower lip, his
eyes round and obscured beneath his brow. She’d personally seen the elf rend through scores of
enemies, adding stylistic flourish to the end of each of their lives. But in this moment he felt so
fragile, as though moving too quickly would shatter him.

Cautiously and deliberately, she willed the edges of her mind to twist into his, the tadpole in
her skull wriggling excitedly.

Astarion relented. A torrent of that night flooded the space between them. Anger, defiance, and
terror that blinded reason and crushed the delicate parts of a person into the deepest corner of
their minds. Every instance the master had whittled away at her laid bare in her mind —
choking and pleading through mouthfuls of thick metallic anguish. The things she would have
done to escape that damned palace. Amalthea intentionally tried to dull these feelings but they
poured out in uncontrolled waves, crashing against him.

But something darker lurked beneath it all. Something she’d never felt before. Tendrils of
terrible, blackened malice reached up for their trembling hearts. Hatred and desperation painted
themselves in thick strokes across his soul as Master’s voice echoed in a thousand different
iterations, peeling away the personhood to reveal the pathetic creature beneath. Vengeful and
cruel, this animalistic desire was blind to reason and relentless. Yet despite it’s unwavering
fixation, this anger broke, if for but a moment.

Stilted fragments flashed in succession. Some places she could pick out — the dreary shadow
lands, the inside of the crèche, Wyrm’s crossing — but she struggled to exactly place the
occasions. But it was her. Laughing, fighting, even stolen moments of sleep or contemplation,
each one imbued with nearly painful foreign comfort. She realized she was looking at her own
face again, lip adorned with a bruised split, left cheek swollen, and hair wet from bathing, as
the emotions came into focus. The emotions that steeped into her image were rough, indistinct
and strung together with uncertainty but one rang out louder than the rest as she watched him
trace over her features:

Hope.

Something else brimmed at her, hot and demanding. But just before she could pinpoint the
feeling, the connection faltered as cool, earnest lips found hers. Amalthea’s fingers found their
way into his curls, desperate to be lost in his gentle reverence as he lavished each lip but the
respite was hollow. His hands found either side of her face, thumbing over the wetness that
streaked her flushed cheeks.

She was the first to break the kiss, pulling away just far enough to look into glassy, crimson
eyes. Brushing at the errant tears that marred pale skin, she pulled his forehead to rest on hers.
Locked here, in this embrace, she rediscovered a small piece of what it felt to be untouched.

“We are going to kill the bastard,” she promised, hoarse. “You and me. Together.”

“Were it that easy, pet.” His voice was soft, wistful.

“No,” she conceded, shaking her head. “But he’ll hunt you across the whole of Faerun. I will
not let you spend the rest of your days looking over your shoulder for him. I owe you this.”
“You owe me nothing. ”

“Astar—“

“Once I ascend,” he interjected, eyes locked onto her with burning intensity, “no one will stand
against us. The power I’d wield — we’d wield… We would fear nothing. Anything in this
world would be mine to give you.”

Blood drained from her face and her heart threw itself against her ribs as her beloved’s eyes
grew cold. Vengeful determination flexed the muscle in his cheek as he gritted his teeth
together.
“Y-you don’t mean that,” she stuttered out meekly.

“I do, Amalthea,” he rasped, gathering her hands in his. “For you, for us — anything. We’d rule
over Baldur’s Gate, together, an army of spawn to wage war against our enemies.”

“You can’t be seriously considering this still. Your siblings—“

He clicked his tongue in annoyance.

“Worthless. No one will shed a tear for cretins that preyed on innocents for centuries. Think of
what I stand to gain.”

There he was. Cazador.

Perhaps he adorned the visage of her love in this moment, but the vampire lord was there all
the same. Ruby eyes she’d drowned in were hungry and vacant, the callous disregard for
anything that stood in his way apparent in the beginnings of a sneer. His hatred blinded him,
threatening to raze everything to the ground in his path if it meant feeding that desperate
creature inside. For the first time since he’d held a blade to her throat in the Nautiloid
wreckage, her trust in his intentions faltered.

“You can’t want this,” she whispered in disbelief. “I don’t want this. Isn’t it enough to kill him?
To be free of him?”

“I’m owed this, Amalthea. Centuries on my knees, no say in anything — the food I ate, the
lovers I took. I had nothing. I was nothing. Absolutely nothing.”

”You were never nothing, Astarion,” she argued, a breath against his torrent. “And now you
have a chance to be free — forever! And I want to help you — we all want to help you. You
don’t need—“

“No!” He growled through clenched teeth, ire unraveling the edges of his voice. “You don’t
understand! You can’t understand what you’re asking of me — what you’re asking me to give
up!”

She flinched, eyes squeezing shut. One of them was trembling and she fought the urge to pull
her hands back. When Amalthea dared to meet his gaze again, he had transformed back into
that broken boy — soft, scared, sorrowful. But what had been seen could not be forgotten.

“This is your choice. But I can’t— I won’t-“ her voice broke.

Amalthea took a couple steadying breaths, casting her gaze down to the worn floorboards of
the Amaltheaern. Astarion’s ascension had always been a far-away thing, something to ponder
the way one would receiving a hefty sum of gold. But it was here. And it was now. And though
she’d only dared to contemplate her life after all of this in the dead of night, she could feel his
place in it begin to fade.

She worked a hand free, gently sweeping over a pale cheekbone with her knuckles.
 “We’ll kill the bastard, like I promised,” she said slowly. “But Astarion, I love you. And I want
you to live a life that you’re proud of.”

The words hung in the air but Amalthea no longer feared them.

Astarion was still, unblinking. Ruby eyes flicked between her own and full lips parted but
neither breath nor rebuttal came through them for a long while. And she waited, faithfully.

“I… I don’t even know what that means for me.”

“Give yourself the chance to find out.”

He was silent again, but this time Amalthea did not push for an answer. She traced the curve of
his lip with her thumb, humming contemplatively before gesturing to be let out of the visibly
filthy water. If he noticed her deflection, he said nothing.

She stepped out of the bath, her undead lover catching her form in a tattered Amaltheaern
towel, somehow managing to maneuver it around her body without actually touching her.
Though known for nothing if not his salacious inclinations, he handled her as though she were
but one ill-placed hand away from crumbling. He bore uncertainty plain across his features, his
mind visibly realms away but she offered him a facade of reassurance. She caught a wrist,
gliding her fingers down the skin of his forearm until they could interlace with his. Bringing
their joined hands up to her face, she turned into the touch as she rested his on her cheek.
Astarion took a stilted half-step forward, but still left an uncomfortable distance between them.

“We’ll get through this,” she said into his skin, savoring this fragile embrace.

As though it would be their last.

Chapter End Notes

Lmao jk you thought I would let this /just/ be comfort?? Have you learned nothing?

We’re so close to closing this story out, stay tuned :)

Broken Soul
Chapter Summary

The gang find the dungeons. And it’s a very not good time.

Chapter Notes
 Hi babes~

Much exposition. I didn’t want to rip too much in-game dialogue, but let’s set the tone for
this final battle, hmm?

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Though it was daylight, an impenetrable darkness consumed the palace.

All the preparation, meditation, reassurance leading up until this point vanished in an instant,
dissolved into the dampness that hung heavy in every room. Around every corner and in every
shadow, Amalthea saw him. Waiting for her. Every stone, painting, and chandelier in the place
loomed over them, impossibly menacing yet undeniably inoffensive. The gore-steeped air stuck
in her lungs and her lips pulled back in a near-permanent grimace as the large ballroom doors
shuddered behind them, sealing them and the fresh gnoll bodies away from prying eyes.

Amalthea wrenched a bolt from an enormous carcass, picking the worst of the flesh from it
before stowing it away. As the party picked over the corpses for any valuables or information,
it was all she could do to hold it together.

Each step through the palace felt surreal, cursed, as though she navigated the place a few inches
back from her own body. Brimming just behind gritted teeth was the undeniable instinct to flee
— to run, to save herself, companions be damned. Her heart pounded in her throat, unrelenting
despite the moments rest from their scuffle, and an undeniable tremor settled in her extremities
as she moved through the room. This place didn’t want her here anymore than she did.

Each bolt she tugged free from a corpse was a task to focus on — to keep her eyes from finding
the exact stone tile her face had been rubbed raw against, to search the cracks in the floor for
dried remnants of her torture. The ghost of her cries lived in those walls and they called out to
her from a not-so-distant past. Heavy breaths, twisted cackles, sound of flesh on flesh — it was
all there, all she had to do was let her gaze linger…

And when the useable bolts had all been recovered, she grounded herself in her main objective:

Protect Astarion.

Amalthea was a professional after all. When there was a job to be done, all the other feelings
had to fall to the wayside — the time to deal with them came after she had both coin and drink
in hand. So she crushed those emotions down, into a too-small box in the back of her mind,
over and over again. This was Astarion’s fight, one she needed to be lucid and capable for. Her
one bad night in this palace paled in comparison to his lifetimes fought and lost here. He’d
been suffering under the master’s thumb longer than she’d been drawing breath.

And she had to be there.

She’d, at the very least, kept him in her periphery the entire time as they moved through his old
home. Despite the inexplicable horrors he’d faced, he seemed to regard the place with a
wistfulness Amalthea was baffled by. Except the kennels. It was clear there’d been no good
memories there. And he’d marked it with the crushed, skeletal corpse of its resident tormentor
for good measure.

But here, in the ballroom, she could clearly picture him traipsing through ostentatious crowds
— draped in velvet finery, hair coiffed, perhaps donning a decorative mask she’d seen nobles
attend these functions in — every eye in the room trained in on the beautiful immortal. Sipping
on imported spirits and entertaining guests with that practiced charisma that made everyone
feel like a someone, he’d certainly relish the opportunity to be showered with attention and
adoration, however shallow it may have been. It was a shame, she thought, that it was only a
facade.

The study was as mundane as it came, all things considered. A long wall of books, lined neatly
in wooden shelving, led down to a solitary desk — adorned with a few headed sheets of
parchment, a decanter and silver cup, both stained crimson, and an elaborate pen and ink pot.
Amalthea absently thumbed through the pieces of parchment, finding nothing of note, turning
her attention to the exorbitantly expensive writing utensil.

“Should we do another sweep of the ballroom?” Her voice sounded flat and far away.

“Cazador never kept the ballroom off-limits, but his study-“ the snowy-haired elf gestured
vaguely along the row of bookshelves he’d been thumbing through “-was kept under lockand-
key. It has to be here.”

The edge of desperation in his voice did not go unnoticed, but she said nothing.

“Amalthea, c’mere for a minute,” Karlach called, voice muffled somewhere in the entry of the
study.

“Huh?”

“The floor’s all… weird over here.”

“What do you mean?”

But Amalthea had already pocketed the vampire lord’s pen and started off in her direction. The
infernal fighter poked a horned head outside the doorway on the left of the hall, leading to a
small, empty room. Instead of the stone flooring throughout the rest of the palace, a large,
metal disk dominated the space. It was ornate, as everything in the palace, but a different
design — smooth lines of overlapping layers of metal encircled by a solid outer ring, maybe
Sharran? — and marred by a handful of large drag marks. Immediately, Amalthea noticed the
air gap that separated the disk from the stone around it, as well as what appeared to be a
toothed shaft supporting the structure that disappeared into the dark below. This this was
designed to move.

“What in the hells is that?”

“It’s an elevator,” Amalthea concluded, stomach sinking. “They’re underneath us.”

Astarion skirted around her, brow cocked as he stepped out onto the platform.
“I’ve never seen anything like this before,” he said, peering down into the darkness between his
feet.

“You’ve lived here for how long and didn’t notice the giant elevator in the floor?”

“Cazador never let us in here,” he said, shaking his head. “Not that he was ever exactly
forthcoming. I never thought anything about it.”

“I’ll take it to mean that you don’t know what’s waiting for us down there,” the cleric
concluded.

“Someone who wants to kill us, if it’s any guess.”

“Let’s go, we’ve waited long enough,” Amalthea heard herself say, unable to participate in any
banter.

She followed him out onto the disk. A pair of heavily armored footsteps echoed close behind
and they took a collective breath before descending into the depths below. The rush of air was
somehow even mustier than the rest of the vampire den, and it did nothing to soothe
Amalthea’s mounting anxiety. But nothing would have prepared her for the absolute horrors
that waited for them under the palace.

It was true evil.

Not the children’s game of power crooked nobles or corrupt politicians were playing. An
unscrupulous thief or a hired sword that cut down a man for his gold was hardly noteworthy.
Even the occasional betrayal that would rock the guild paled in comparison to this.

Seven thousand souls; men, women and children. Maimed. Starved. Caged. To be discarded.

In a single man’s pursuit of god-hood.

Glittering, hollow eyes stared up at her — no, not at her, just slightly to the right of her. Filthy
and emaciated, she was transfixed on every skeletal face. These weren’t the whole lot of them,
merely a couple dozen people locked behind enchanted bars that lined either side of the stone
walkway. She shuddered to imagine the forgotten places in the bowels of the palace the rest of
them were stored in. Perhaps these were the trophies Cazador was most proud of. Front and
center. Their suffering on display.

The world moved in sickening tumbles.

The vampire lord had been playing with her. That night that would be etched into her mind for
the rest of her days was just foreplay. The depth of depravity that existed in the realms was here
— now — in front of her. Gods, the list of names they found in Cazador’s quarters. Old
Baldurian names long thought to have died out survived in here in some twisted unlife, their
owners trapped, alone, and starving for centuries.

She clutched a hand to her mouth in an attempt to quell the overwhelming nausea, locking her
feet in place lest she abandon her companions where they stood.
Amalthea realized their gazes were transfixed on the vampire spawn beside her, who regarded
the filthy, famished creatures with distain. Until one of them stepped forward. The disheveled
man uttered something she could not hear over her own heartbeat but it managed to drop
Astarion’s sneer. But some part of her didn’t need to hear it all to understand their meaning.

“Sebastian,” Astarion breathed.

They were her. Every one of them hoping for a night with the beautiful, charming elf, only to
be left here. For lifetimes. But her anger never appeared.

Astarion looked so… remorseful. Hands hovering in the air in front of him, shoulders rounded,
and eyes wide, he looked as though he wanted to reach out — to comfort this broken, blond
boy. His voice was small, soft, as he talked to Sebastian. The vampire who’d brazenly killed
his skeletal torturer, braved a ballroom of worgs, and dismissively picked through each of his
grand-sire’s memories was shaken by this. Something deep inside the haze recognized his hurt
and wanted to comfort him, but it was buried just out of reach.

But broken ruby eyes cut through the fog like a blade when he finally glanced back in her
direction. And her heart shattered. In a mere moments’ silence, they shared an understanding.
All that separated her from those ravenous people in cages was the tadpole nestled in her brain.
Astarion looked away first.

Desperate for anything to latch onto, she turned to her other companions. Shadowheart
regarded her gently, opening her mouth to speak but deciding against it. Instead she offered a
sympathetic nod, but Amalthea struggled to register it. The cleric’s grey eyes hovered over her
face before her lips pressed into a thin line. A too-warm hand found her shoulder briefly with
the sound of shuffling metal. But the touch felt numb, like it fell on someone else’s shoulder.

“We should keep going,” Amalthea said mechanically.

Heavy, metal boots led the way, leaving the poor souls behind. Amalthea kept her eyes firmly
on the stone in front of her, taking but one step before something caught her wrist.

“Don’t hate me for what I did.”

She turned slowly, ruby eyes struggling to meet hers. Beautiful features contorted into
something desperate and undone. Something painful swirled in her chest, but she worried if she
paid it too much attention, it would unravel her completely.

“You don’t understand,” he pleaded, voice raw. “I only did what I had to.”

“I know.”

And she did, but the words were empty.

She swallowed down that which threatened to consume her, trying to contain her tremble as she
took his hand. His fingers closed around hers instantly as the pair slowly padded after their
companions, the large ornate door swinging open to a cavernous expanse of steps, stone, and
the crackle of sinister magic.
 Protect Astarion.

Chapter End Notes

Ya’ll ready for some shit to pop off??

Thank you all for your undead support for this fun little project <3 ya’ll are the best

Broken Contract
Chapter Summary

Amalthea stands up to Cazador. Astarion finally knows what he wants.

Chapter Notes

Hi darlings~

I felt like the game could’ve really played up Cazador’s psychological mind games that
come with abusive authority figures. So here’s my take.

Last one :) enjoy

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Amalthea was simply a passenger in her own body.

An endless array of cold, stone steps led down to a platform of similar design, hovering
without apparent support in the midst of the cavernous dungeon. In the center, a large relic
resembling a coffin was propped up at an angle, facing the entrance, guarded by a slender man
clutching a staff in hand. The air was damp, unwelcoming, steeped in the smell of undeath and
stale blood. Amalthea’s stomach turned.

Six bodies hung suspended in positions of surrender above the perimeter of the platform,
intricate etchings of infernal reminiscent of Astarion’s scars marked the stone beneath them.
Angry, red tendrils of weave jutted from each motionless chest as they hovered above the
stone. The air hummed, charged with ancient magic — even Amalthea, who only casually
dabbled in the arcane could feel the throb of energy as it pricked up the hairs on the back of her
neck.
“And so he returns, our prodigal son.”

The taut bowstring of his voice sounded warm, nearly welcoming if one didn’t know better.
Cazador stood as though ready to embrace his long-lost child, arms wide away from his lithe
frame, his fingers still curled tightly around this strange staff. Astarion withstood the full force
of his predatory gaze, stance balanced as though ready to launch himself into the master at a
moment’s notice.

“And you’ve so faithfully delivered him to me.”

But Amalthea withered under the attention. Pale lips pulled back over a fanged smile, but it
didn’t reach his eyes. No, those eyes stripped her bare beneath him under the pretense of
approval. She struggled to lock her features in place as the vampire lord strode out a few steps.

“Perhaps you’ve reconsidered my offer,” he said, delightedly extending a hand out. “Take me
as your master, serve me in my bid to take the realms for my own.”

“Never,” she said, though it sounded hollow. “I can’t let you do this. Not after-“

“-after everything I’ve done?” Cazador tutted. “Tell me, what tales has the boy spun for you,
hmm? He’s always been so gifted with that tongue of his.”

Amalthea faltered, mouth open but empty. Astarion, however, was furious. He all but lunged
forward, teeth bared and reaching for the blades at his hips.

“How dare you,” he snarled, ragged words echoing endlessly off ancient walls. “You took
everything from me!”

“Silence!” the vampire lord snarled.

The end of his staff smashed into the floor with a booming crackle of that same, sinister magic.
Amalthea felt the weave shift next to her as Astarion crumpled, head bowed and knees crashing
into stone. That familiar paralyzing fear settled into her extremities, locking her in place
without magic.

“Weak, foolish boy. So little it took for you to forget your place.”

The dark haired man slowly approached his subdued spawn, disappointment pulling his face
into a sneer. Amalthea’s body betrayed her, fear quivering in every limb as she placed herself
between them. Behind her, the shuffling of her companion’s metal armor drew nearer. Cazador
then brandished an unnatural smile, eyes boring into her.

“You would give your life to destroy his master on empty promises of power — power that he
knows not even how to wield?” He gestured down to the man in unwilling subordination.
“Astarion knows nothing of selflessness. Allow him to ascend in my place and you will be
discarded here once you’ve served your purpose, another corpse to litter my palace.”

Memories of cold touches laid over one another— fingertips trailing across her cheek, ripping
flesh from her thighs, lips against her neck, against her neck — crashing against the words
echoing off dungeon walls with such conviction. She shook her head.
“No, he-“

“Do you truly think he cares for you? A vampire spawn? Ha!”

Amalthea recoiled.

“It would be pathetic had you been the only one taken in by his lies,” he offered in
mocksympathy, wicked grin spreading with every word. “Beguiled by spun tales of heartbreak
and yearning — your neck is hardly the first he’s marked under such pretenses. Take comfort
that it will be the last.”

Her ears began to roar, eyes fixed on the trembling body of her snowy-haired lover. He stared,
unblinking, into the air between his face and the floor, jaw flexed with gritted teeth. Her heart
lurched, chest pulling tight and breath coming harder.

“You are no different to him than the spawn in the cells were.”

“You’re wrong,” she bit back through clenched teeth.

“Is that so?” he replied, amused. “Do you think after all this time I wouldn’t know my boy and
his inclinations? His temper? His hungers?”

Amalthea wanted to argue but the words turned to ash in her mouth.

“Does it pain you? To know what you are? A warm body to find comfort in. To fuck and feed
from. A pretty means to an ugly end.”

Cazador’s wicked grin cut through to her core, sharp and serrated. But it wasn’t the pain he
intended. No, this was something far more… lively. Something hot, burning, bubbled up from
her belly, setting fire to her insides, scorching the protective cloak of numbness that settled
over her.

“Join me,” he proposed, rotten smile verging on bared teeth. “You will be the first in the
newest, most powerful generation of spawn. We will lead them across the Storm Coast.
Together. Forever.”

“Enough!”

And at last, her rage had broken through.

She could feel it — every bead of sweat, every crease in her gloves, every agonizing heartbeat
crashing in her chest. The air bit into her lungs and her fingers itched, that familiar hum of
tension setting fire to every muscle. The roar in her ears was all but deafening.

Before hands could find blades, an overwhelming burst of shimmering, red weave consumed
Cazador’s form, nearly knocking Amalthea off her feet. Astarion’s body lurched unnaturally,
pulled through his armor and into the air by some insurmountable force. She reached for him,
but tendrils of magic claimed him first, ripping him across the platform to occupy the space
above the last ring of glowing infernal etched into the stone platform. He hung, rigid,
frightened and vulnerable, bound by the magic that permeated the air around them.
Swords loosed from their hilts and the dungeon erupted into chaos.

“Cut me a path!” Amalthea screamed over the hum of charged weave and scrabbling ghouls.

“About fucking time!”

Dutifully, Karlach charged forward with a blood-cuddling roar, sweeping the blade of her great
axe through the torso of several abominations as though they were nothing. Wretched limbs fell
to the ground without bodies, the sickening scent of open flesh set her brain on fire. The
artificer lodged an explosive bolt in the eye socket of the last one in her path, the charge
detonating in a shower of gore and aerosolized blood. And it was easy. The numb detachment
from reality that had plagued her journey into the depths of the palace had melted away. Each
additional bolt she fired, blow she parried, and foe she felled burned hot and vivid in the center
of her.

A warm glow settled in her extremities, hand pressing into her back as Shadowheart followed
her into the space Karlach had left behind, casting a ring of spirit protectors to safeguard a
circle around them.

“The staff!” she called out, cranking another bolt into her crossbow as a whirl of burning, angry
magic shuddered past them. “Daylight, sunbeam — anything! Keep the bastard grounded.”

“Go! We’ll handle this!”

She needed no further reassurance. Amalthea pulled on the weave, calling on the enchantment
dutifully laid into her armor as she phased through the space in front of her. A rush and fizz of
magic reformed her body several yards ahead and she scrambled into the glowing infernal
circle that bound her love, helpless, in the air. The devil-sanctioned ritual nearly repelled her as
she forced a hand into the too-hot beam of scarlet energy, fingers closing around a rigid
forearm. Amalthea all but dislocated her shoulder wrenching the spawn from his suspended
prison, the both of them crashing down onto the cold stone below. Astarion gasped a ragged
breath but leapt to his feet and pulled her up with him, releasing a scimitar from Amalthea’s
back.

She sprinted back towards the center of the platform, heart in her ears as she lined up another
shot, loosing a bolt through the shoulder of another ghoul. A blinding burst of light ate through
her eyelids, punctuated by a ragged wail and the sound of searing flesh. Amalthea blinked
harshly, large swaths of her vision obscured by dancing light and shadow. Though she hadn’t
been in the direct path of the well-intentioned sunbeam, it dazed her enough to prevent any
defense against the onslaught of claws. Two quick blows came swiftly across her torso,
shredding the leather of her cuirass and sending crashing into the ground.

Somewhere near her head, she heard the sickening crunch of her crossbow shattering.
Amalthea reeled, clutching at her chest and her gloves came away wet. Shadowy figures
collided above her, a spray of something hot misting across her face as she clambered to her
feet. She went for her remaining dagger, brandishing it out in front of her as the platform
slowly came back into focus.
Astarion abandoned his weapon in the body at his feet, launching himself instead at the
crumpled form laying in ash towards the edge of the platform. Cazador’s right side had been
incinerated by the cleric’s spell, large flakes of flesh falling to the ground as he attempted to
regain his footing. But as Astarion lunged for him, his body evaporated in a cloud of mist that
darted into the center of the platform, slipping between the cracks between the stone coffin and
its lid.

“No you don’t!”

The stone lid shuddered out of the way, crashing into the floor with a deafening clatter. Furious
pale hands twisted themselves inside the coffin, wrenching a nearly limp body from its depths
and casting it down on the floor. Astarion loomed over him, enraged, shaking, and ready to
dive into his master. He stooped, releasing an ornate blade from Cazador’s hip, fingers winding
around it with bruising force.

“Foolish boy,” the master mocked, though it had lost its bite now that he laid crumpled on the
ground. “You’re short one spawn — Mephistopheles won’t accept this sacrifice without
another. It will consume you.”

“And if it’s not a spawn?” Astarion growled, voice dark. Amalthea’s hairs prickled on the back
of her neck. “What if I intend to barter with your soul instead?”

His eyes caught hers, poisonous determination etched into his face. Her stomach dropped
violently.

“I need you to help me,” he suddenly pleaded, voice raw. “Use the tadpole. Show me my scars
so can carve them into his back.”

Amalthea reeled, taking a stumbling step forward and reaching out as though to take the
weapon from him.

“Please. “ The word cut through her.

“Don’t ask this of me.”

He jolted as though she’d struck him, scarlet eyes wide and frantic as they picked over her
features. But it was Amalthea’s turn to beg.

“I’ll do it,” she confessed despite herself, eyes stinging and voice nearly broken. “I’ll do it if
you ask me but— Astarion, please. Please , don’t ask me this. Don’t ask me to help turn you
into him. I—“

The words caught around the rapidly forming lump in her throat. Save for the relentless
pounding of her heart in her ears, they stood in silence for what felt like an eternity. Her whole
body trembled — out of exhaustion, fear, or pain, she wasn’t sure.

His gaze was unwavering as his jaw set, muscles flexing under cheeks. The terror in his eyes
warped into something more sinister, brows coming together and teeth bared as he turned back
to Cazador, left propped up, helpless, on the stone floor.
“This is more than you deserve,” he snarled.

His hand shot out to grab a fistful of dark hair, craning Cazador’s face up to him as he hilted
the dagger into his master’s chest. Again, and again, again, with sucking churns of mutilated
flesh. Amalthea stood stalwart as they both fell to the floor, the pale elf straddling the
increasingly lifeless body as he brought the dagger home thrice more. He stumbled backwards,
covered in gore of dubious origins, breath coming hard and fast as his face tipped up to the sky.

His cry ripped through her.

Bloodied, broken screams rang off the cavernous walls and spilled her insides. Each wail cut
deeper than the last, rending her heart from her chest with a wounded ballad of suffering she’d
never truly understand. It lodged itself deeper in her skull than even the parasite could reach,
weaving every sob into the fabric of her. Head thrown back in surrender, pale shoulders heaved
under the weight of it all.

This was no victory. The master was dead, a corpse like any other. Astarion was painted in its
stolen blood, knelt in the pool of proof that he’d torment him no longer. But what had been
taken would never be returned. Each piece of him that had been carved away over the centuries
of his long life were gone for good. No amount of mangling would serve the justice owed. This
was it. A dirty dagger and a body.

Amalthea tentatively closed the distance between them, terrified to smother him but equally
unwilling to let him suffer this alone. A trembling, hand found his shoulder and she slowly
came to her knees beside him. The elf all but fell into her touch. His arms crushed her into him
and fingers frantically clawed at tattered armor as his cries began anew. She returned his
embrace with a similar fervor, a hand coming to cradle his head as his body was wracked with
another wave of crippling grief. Broken sobs were wet and muffled against her neck, and no
amount of resolve could prevent her own tears from spilling down her cheeks.

There were no words for this. And so they stayed, locked in this desperate embrace until his
breaths came softer.

The sounds of shuffling feet drew Amalthea’s attention to the steadily amassing crowd of the
other spawn. Astarion’s siblings regarded this moment in bewilderment; frightened, scarlet
eyes darting between the crumpled body of their former master and the man who’d freed them.
Amalthea eyed the staff laying, unassuming, on the ground beside him. She pressed her lips to
his cheek briefly.

“One last thing,” she whispered.

He took two unhurried breaths, grip tightening momentarily before his arms fell away.
Amalthea was the first to stand, offering him a steadying hand as he stooped down to grab the
staff. He turned it over in his hands.

“What do we do now?” A small, shaky voice asked.

“We’re free,” Astarion said breathlessly, eyes still trained on the staff. “Take the others, leave.
Go to the Underdark.”
 “What about the rest of them?”

He paused, rounded eyes finding Amalthea’s. She offered a small nod.

“They’ll need a leader.”

“You’re going to free them?” the woman Amalthea recognized as Dalyria asked. “You can’t be
serious.”

“They deserve a chance,” he explained slowly, as though the words surprised even him. “After
everything we’ve done to them, they deserve this.”

The six of them looked amongst each other, coming to some silent agreement before they
began a solemn ascent up the stone stairway out of the ritual room. Dalyria cast one last glance
back at her brother, her master’s desecrated corpse, and Amalthea before turning back to climb
the steps.

Gore-streaked hands stacked over one another around the staff, bringing it down in a crackle of
scarlet weave. The air shifted around them, a pulse of magic flashing and fizzing out. Amalthea
briefly expected a hoard of ravenous spawn to burst through the door, but they never came.
Astarion drew the staff overhead, sending it flying over the edge of the suspended platform to
be lost to the palace forever.

They hung in the silence for a moment, Amalthea’s eyes trained on the bloodied elf. Ruby eyes
flicked to hers, brows knit together and visible unease beginning to settle into the empty spaces
this loss left behind.

“Let’s go,” he finally said, voice weak and broken. “I… I don’t want to be here anymore. This-
I just want to leave.”

Amalthea gave a curt nod. Trembling, bloody fingers found hers, gripping too tight but she
merely squeezed back as she tugged him along. The four of them shuffled, sore and exhausted,
away from the suffocating sorrow that hung over the place. Astarion had no quips to offer, no
witty commentary about a fitting end for a cruel master. Instead, he clung to her side, silent and
fragile.

But it was over.

And he was free.

Chapter End Notes

Thank you all for your outstanding support. It was a ton of fun to torture you all emotionally

(The ayes have it, see part 2 of this series for the aftercare party <3)

Please drop by the Archive and comment to let the creator know if you enjoyed their work!