Chapter Text
Disgusting. The whole thing ticked under your skin, and there was nothing more you’d like than to leave.
Smoothing down the silken fabrics of your intricate attire, the gentle orchestra of the bards grated your ears. The Szarr Palace’s ballroom that trapped you was grand. Grand enough to impress you the first time you attended one of his silly parties. He threw one every moon cycle. Just on the cusp of the full moon, just as the wicked creatures of the night got antsy for blood.
You put your thumb to your lips. Sharp, your eyes traced dancing aristocrats and politicians alike.
It was getting tiresome. Cazador and his appearances, him and his insistence on being the one to pull Baldur Gate’s strings. Sometimes the fact that he lagged behind newer, younger nobodies was amusing enough for you to forget your annoyance.
That Gortash fellow, to name one. How quickly he rose from nothing. A handsome and charismatic young man– though his visage was much akin to a wet dog, he was still more appealing than Cazador.
“I’d like to think,” Speak of the devil. You hadn’t even noticed him slink up to you, though you were sure the manner he did it was in the grandeur sort. “That you aren’t going to squirrel away as you always do, hm?”
Taking the chilled wine glass in your hand and putting it to your lips– not yet drinking, just musing over the thought– you turned your head to look at him— Cazador, with his slicked-back hair and unattractively sharp features. You studied him. For a moment, nothing more.
He was in a good mood. Something just went his way. You knew he had dirt on one of the Flaming Fist officers, so perhaps he just cornered them into a favor. He was in a good mood– and it’d be wise to keep it that way. You raised a brow in a perfectly manicured expression, and a light smile played on your painted lips.
“Of course not, my lord,” An endearing term that only stemmed from how long you’ve known each other. Little over a century. Not that you were counting the years until you could move to the other side of the Sword Coast or anything. “I am simply finding it hard to restrain myself right now. With how these nobles move and flourish, I cannot think of anything but the blood running under their thin skin.”
“Oh?” Cazador’s attention flitted from your face. Back to the ballroom’s floor, back to his esteemed guests. “I suppose I understand your plight. But I have already marked the most beautiful in the room. Unfortunately, my dear, you’ll have to feed off scraps tonight.”
Tilting the glass pressed to your lips, you let the wine give you a respite from the conversation.
“... Yes, I’m sure,” Even though you were able to control your hunger and your desires, playing into his idea of you– the illusion that you were no more than an immature vampire who managed to become pure by a stroke of luck- made your fingers twitch to rip your hair out by the very roots. “I’ll wait until I go back home for the night to feed. But I…”
Cazador was in a good mood. Still, you didn’t want to talk to him or any nobles eyeing your unlikely duo standing in front of an impeccably furnished window. You make a show of tapping a finger to your chin. Deep in thought– just for his viewing pleasure.
“Oh my. I mustn’t ruin your wonderful ball, Lord Szarr. What a blight that would be. If I could keep my spawn on as tight of a leash as yours, I’d have been able to bring one with me as my blood bag for the night,” Tilting your wine glass as you talked, you watched the dark liquid swirl. “Pity, pity. I have never been as proficient as working the mind as you.”
He exhaled. A huff, an amused noise that let you know he was proud of himself. Cazador lost his focus on you entirely. Now, his gaze flitted across the ballroom. Through its patrons and guests, he searched for a head of white hair. “It’s a talent I’ve finely honed, yes.”
“I never tire of your demonstrations,” You said lowly, and too, your eyes searched. Where was his little star? Not far from him, surely. Never far from him. “I am good with business. Not so much intrapersonal nonsense that goes on between. But… I believe if I were able to have one of my spawns as obedient as yours, I’d be able to fully enjoy your next splendid ball. I won’t squirrel away, as you so affectionately said.”
“You just need to break them,” Cazador’s voice dropped. Both to protect yourselves from prying ears, but he was also speaking quicker– more excitedly. Psychological intrigue was his favorite self-indulgence. “We have the gift of immortality, and it pains me that you’ve yet to explore the weak human psyche. Perhaps that’ll change tonight.”
“I do hope it will,” Hiding your smile behind the chilled glass, you felt Cazador’s demeanor lighten. Following his eyes led you right to him. The jewel of his servants, dressed in a uniform overcoat with the same frilly white dress shirt you’ve seen him don for the past century. “A deal, then?”
Cazador didn’t even seem to hear you. He was much too entranced by his plaything. He tilted his chin up slightly, an affirmative gesture. “I’m listening.”
“You faithfully entrust your favorite spawn to me for the night,” You watched as Astarion animatedly excused himself from the conversation he was entertaining (his first mistake, or was it a deliberate act of defiance?), “I some take notes, and by the next ball I’ll be fully… social, with a servant in tow. It works, doesn't it? You won’t ever have to worry about getting to be ‘too much’ at one of your events– because of my hunger, that is.”
Which, believe it or not, did happen fifty or so years ago. It was a mild scandal– how eagerly you dug your nails into the arms of a ‘suitor’ and dragged them to ‘Cazador’s bedroom’! No, it was just a persistent noble who was pissing you off. It was a miracle they left the party alive.
“Child,” Cazador demeaned when Astarion drew closer. Out from the crowd of lively bodies, closer to your long-dead chill. He held himself in a very particular posture when he addressed him like this: his head raised, eyes slanted down at him. The spawn fell into a matching demeanor: his chin lowered, and he raised his red eyes at him. “What have you been up to?”
Astarion didn’t avert his stare. Already more notable than the other servants, than the others who scurried in Cazador’s overwhelming presence. Instead, he spoke evenly– practiced, weighted. “I’ve been tending to your guests.”
“Very good, boy,” Cazador said, and you now just noted the silver tray of finger foods precariously balanced on Astarion’s hand. His bare hand. Which, in its casted shadows, was starting to redden. How interesting.
Cazador analyzed his ward’s face, then tore away. For the first time since Astarion was mentioned, he glanced at you. “You’ll be under our dear noble’s jurisdiction for the rest of the night. Do not misbehave.”
With the last hiss, Cazador leaned in– his lips at Astarion’s pointed ear. Low, cold. The spawn’s jaw tightened. A muscle in his cheek twitched. His throat moved with a thick, nervous swallow. For a moment, he stared at the side of Cazador’s face (you couldn’t imagine him so close. Cazador smelled like a ruminated mummy) before forcing his attention away in an unsurmountable show of willpower. He fixed his eyes on you instead.
What an interesting look. Astarion had long, dark eyelashes, framing his watery eyes very femininely. How piercing the color; in the dim, gothic lighting, the shade of red his eyes bore dark. It reminded you of a set of ruby gemstones you had. Not to mention the smoldering emotion– fiery resentment barely kept back by a thin, feigned veil.
Astarion seemed to be many things. ‘Tamed’ was not one of them.
“If you insist.” He mumbled, and Cazador finally retreated.
Looking between the two of you, the vampire lord had a rather cruel tilt to his politician’s smile. “Don’t have too much fun, my dear. Try to leave him… sensible, by the time you return him to me, yes? It’s easy to get carried away. He makes the prettiest noises.”
“Of course,” Impeccable, you took a step away from Cazador. A quick survey of the ballroom revealed a handful of eyes on you, but you didn’t particularly care; you would outlive every one of these ant-like aristocrats. Sooner or later, you’ll hear the crunch of their skulls under someone’s heel. With that wistful thought, you beckoned the little star to follow you. “Come, Astarion.”
You knew Cazador’s palace very well. Many times have the two of you spent bickering over his decoration choices– with his ghoulish appearance, eerie mansion, and actual bats roosting in some parts of the structure, you told him everything was a bit on the nose. He digressed. So when you passed by the table of drinks on the way out, you swapped your empty glass with a bottle of finely aged Ashblossom Wine and popped the cap with a curved nail.
Astarion was silent while you moved through the winding halls. Lessar servants moved out of the way and bowed their heads to you. Mortals who vied for the curse of vampirism– their eyes were piercing, following not you, but the spawn at your tail. Greedy and envious stares. Whether or not this bothered him, you didn’t check. You only heard him handing off the silver platter to the first body you came across.
At the top of the lavish staircase, you made a right and waltzed down the hall. At the twelfth gold-accented mahogany door, you stopped.
“You sure seem to know your way around,” Astarion said, and his voice was much smoother than in the ballroom. Not relaxed. No, there was still a twinge of unease that dripped from his words still.
“Mhm.” Was the response you dignified him with, and you pushed open the door by its gilded handle.
The room was as luxurious as the rest of Cazador’s palace. A velvety red carpet, a king-sized bed with a frame of hard maple, fine dressers, and wardrobes with shiny trinkets and amenities. Other pieces of expensive furniture were laid out appeasingly. You strode to the dresser, watching the door close in the lifeless reflection. Lifting the bottle of Ashblossom Wine, you waved over your shoulder. “Take a seat, Astarion.”
He sat noiselessly. You took a swig of the spiced drink and savored its liquid smooth— one of your more profitable flavors, and certainly one of your first picks. Letting your hand fall limp at your side, you leaned against the dresser and turned to face him, free hand moving to loosen your stuffy clothing, “Ugh. I’m not–”
Your eyes dropped. Astarion’s broad-shouldered form was knelt on the ground, his back straight and his knees pressing into the downy rug. He refused to bow his head, even in such a subservient posture. Reflecting on your surprise, you raised your eyebrows at him.
“... I meant in a chair, Astarion.” You put a hand to your face in exasperation, the other loosely on the weighted bottle. “Nine hells. I am not Cazador. Make that distinction now.”
His eyes, a much brighter red in the room’s enchanted light, caught a clear note of surprise. Then, his lips parted.
“I knew that,” Astarion fumbled to regain himself, and you had never seen someone rise to their feet so quickly. “Haven’t you seen the newest clerical article in Baldur’s Mouth Gazette? Sitting on your ankles does wonders for your joint health.”
“I’m sure,” You dismissed, turning your head to the side. “Like you need to worry about things like that.”
“Longevity is not without its drawbacks,” He went to a chair, but notably the one closest to him– and he had a slight hesitancy in how he moved. Astarion wanted to stare but kept averting his effeminate eyes. “Got to keep young and spry, after all. Not all of us have the privilege of bathing in virgin’s blood every other day.”
“He told you about that?” The wine bottle almost slipped from your clawed hand from the sudden revelation. This spawn was good on his feet. You embarrassed him, and he dropped some intimate fact about you like it was nothing! Wiping the surprised look off your face, you relaxed your posture. “Tell me, what else do you know about me?”
“That was a lucky guess– you just seemed the type. And he doesn’t talk about you,” Astarion mimicked your relaxed posture. He crossed his legs, leaned back, and propped his face on his knuckles. Still, the stress from his shoulders did not leech. “Not really. You’re the vintner, aren’t you?”
In a mock toast, you tilted your bottle towards him. “Has my name on it, too.”
“Ah.”
Something in his eyes caught in the light. A twitch of his lips accompanied. Curious? Was he curious? Yet he bit down whatever words prattled on his tongue, stopping them just before they could tumble out and ruin the evening.
“Catch,” You tossed the bottle to him. He startled terribly, but smoothly caught it out of the air. He inspected it– glancing between the label and you. “You can have the rest. Finest wine in Faerûn, guaranteed.”
“I’ve heard,” Astarion said, and he studied your demeanor. Was he trying to decide if he could trust you or not? He was going to drink either way. You knew for a fact that Cazador didn’t treat his property to luxuries like alcohol. Not unless he was pouring it over their open cuts, anyway. “Are you going to keep me in suspense about what we’re doing this fine evening, or can you just tell me? I’ve never liked surprises much. You’d have to get a different spawn for that, I’m afraid.”
“What the tongue,” You mused and briefly wondered how snarky he was when there wasn’t such a power dynamic. “I don’t have anything planned. I was just getting dreadfully bored of your master’s lackluster party.”
His face relaxed from its slight grimace, and he leaned in. “Aren’t they just the dullest thing?”
Here it was. The key to getting Astarion to drop his guard was just criticizing Cazador! Perfect. You gestured with your hand, still leaning most of your weight on the fancy dresser. “He thinks them high fashion, too. It’s embarrassing. I’ll have you know, Cazador’s never invited to any of the Four Grand Duke’s parties.”
For the first time tonight, Astarion grinned. His little fangs glinted in the dim light. “Really? Do tell me more.”
“Oh,” You got tired of leaning against the dresser and finally went over to the bed, sitting on the edge. “Not even Duke Eltan can bear his face. No noble enjoys entertaining Cazador. Whatever service they think he could do for them, I can do the same. So I catch all of their invites.”
He raised the bottle to his lips and tilted his head, taking a swig of the drink like it was cheap beer. “I hardly blame them. Your company isn’t nearly as bile-inducing.”
With the way he swiped his tongue over his lips and how he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, you could only understand the age-old reach of hunger. Vampiric, primal. He was trying to hide the urge but was doing a poor job of it. Besides– you could hear his faint heartbeat quicken. From stress or something else was indiscernible.
“Honeyed words will not flatter me so easily,” You said amusedly. Cazador did keep him on a tight leash. Maybe being treated like an equal by someone of his master’s status was something Astarion craved. Whatever was happening, he was enjoying it, judging by his still-crossed legs. “Relax. I’m not going to send you to your Master covered in little marks.”
The tension in his body did not lessen. He moved and shifted in his seat like it did, but you had a keen eye and he was young. Astarion’s voice was thick with his sarcasm. “Oh, what a relief to hear. I won’t get sent to the kennels just because you wanted to have a little fun.”
Your eyes flashed. In delight, maybe– because he finally dropped the performer’s curtain to how he felt. The string tying his emotional baggage started to fray.
“Vindictive, are you?” You murmured and met his fearful eyes. “I told you a minute ago. I am not him.”
“Well, I’ve never met a vampire lord who played nice,” He bit. “I’m still waiting for you to drop your pleasantries act. Hells, you’re even sitting on the bed right now! There is one reason and one reason only that my master’s ‘friends’ drag me to the guest rooms. Which by all means for someone like you I’m more than happy to provide, but can you blame me for getting a little antsy?”
So he was trying to goad you into just taking him? In a roundabout way. In another lifetime, perhaps, you would’ve done just that. For now… the prospect was entirely uninteresting. You grabbed one of the lush pillows and propped it behind your lower back.
“I can assure you I’m very real, though ‘nice’ isn’t a term I’m too familiar with,” While you talked, he took another drink. The bottle should be nearly empty by now. The poor little spawn didn’t have a fraction of your tolerance and seemed to be letting himself get carried away. “I was simply getting bored. Besides, Cazador talks about you more than you know. I wanted to know what I’ve been missing this past century.”
“Like I’m some show pony.” Astarion bitterly mumbled. He ran a hand through his mussed hair, preening in a way you weren’t sure he realized.
You smiled. “Something like that.”
“Well, he talks about you too,” He said quickly, tacking the sentiment onto his prior thought. “Too much. I’d be careful. He’s threatened by you. It’s a miracle I’m even in this room.”
While not surprising, the very thought of Cazador quaking in his boots on what he planned to do about you was hilarious. You barked a laugh, your hand fluttering to your chest. “Oh, oh my. Well, little spawn, thank you for the heads up.”
“I’m being serious!” The bottle of wine lolled from his hands, and he put it on the floor next to him before it slipped and shattered. “I don’t even know how you can fraternize with him so carelessly.”
“Someone sounds worried,” You teased. “I’ll be just fine.”
“Tell me how you did it,” Astarion leaned forward. At the edge of his seat, his eyes desperately searching for something in your face. “Tell me how you did it before it’s too late. How did you– how did you drink the blood of your master? How did you become a lord?”
Ah. What a surprising letdown. He was getting so frantic, so caught up, just because he wanted to be free? You climbed out of serfdom over a century ago, but it was recent and painful enough for you to sympathize with the man.
“And what’ll you do with this knowledge?” You sighed, though your softening demeanor was making it difficult to play hard to get. “What’ll you do for this knowledge?”
“It’s not like what worked for you will work for me,” His stammer was a poor attempt at downplaying it. “Besides, we’ve exchanged less than stellar comments about my– about him. I thought I was safe in assuming you didn’t like him. The enemy of my enemy is a friend and all that.”
“That’s true. I intended on telling you anyway, I just wanted to mess with you.” Reaching into the innermost pocket of your intricate outfit, you pulled out a flask. Astarion seemed surprised. “What? This is literally my job. Anyways, you’re going to insist I’m lying– but I admit I had to get help.”
“From who?” Astarion disregarded your show of alcoholism, instead greedily pressing for more information. “Who would be stupid enough to stand up to a vampire lord?”
“I was under my captor for three centuries,” You punctuated it by holding up three fingers, “Three centuries. I shouldn’t have made it out. No, not really. But nearer to the last… twenty or so years, I stumbled into a little group.”
“I can’t last that long,” Astarion’s voice dropped to a low murmur. Realization set in, and it reflected in his watery eyes. “Oh, shit. I can’t last that long. Tell me about this group.”
“No one special,” Another gulp from your flask. It wasn’t strong enough, but it burned when it went down your throat. “But they were a new look on life. A new way to live. I was a little braindead back then, from the near-eternity, so after I realized there was something different out there for me– we schemed.”
“So you managed to get some of your former master’s blood with this group,” Astarion tapped his fingers on the chair’s armrest. “And you escaped, then it was all kumbayah?”
You snapped at him, “Be patient. As far as I’m concerned, I’m doing you a favor.”
Though restless and shaky, Astarion pursed his lips shut.
“Anyway, I’ve long fallen out of contact with them. The ‘leader’ of the group, ironically a lycan bloodhunter, was the one who got a vial. We left the city. I left that part of Faerûn entirely. I went with them, at first, but they were just as bad,” You paused. “Not as bad, but a little below that. Out of the frying pan into the fire, as they say. I left them too. They’re still alive, I assume. They all are. All powerful enough to live forever. Just… out there. But I don’t look the same as I did all that time ago. I don’t carry the same name. I am not the same person. If you’re lucky, you won’t be either by the time you escape.”
Astarion grimaced. “You’re telling me that if I am ever to get out from Cazador’s thumb, I need some kind of external help? And even then, I’ll live in fear for the rest of my life?”
“Yep,” You didn’t look at him. Instead, your eyes blurred, and you stared off into non-discrepant space. “Victims are hardly as lucky as media portrays, you know.”
“That’s bullshit,” He simmered and stood up. Astarion’s anger wasn’t turned at you, surprisingly. Instead, he paced throughout the room. “I don’t deserve that. I don’t deserve any of this!”
“Well neither did I, spawn,” You spat. The cold flask in your hands weighed empty. “Neither did I.”
Astarion paced. His footsteps against the floor were the only things breaking the tense silence. He was only so upset because briefly, you had been something more precious than anything else in the palace. You had represented his freedom. But the magician’s cape atop your bird cage had been ripped away; you were free, but forever burdened by the open sores of your past.
His illusion of a perfect escape shattered, and it made him volatile.
“I wish you luck,” Your words were starting to slur. Just a little messy, your tongue was thick in your mouth. Astarion’s rabid pacing was more in tune with a stumble now too. “Because you will break free. It’s in your nature. It’s just a matter of time.”
“I have endured so much,” He seethed, and again his hand was in his hair with curved nails digging into his scalp. “And it’s a matter of time? Time!? I have to live with him for– you were there for three centuries?”
“I should be dead,” You stood. Astarion’s head whipped towards you, and he clumsily took a step back when you strode for the door. “But I’m not. I lived. You’ll live, too. Even if you don’t want to.”
“Like that’s comforting.”
You threw the door open and stuck your head out. There, much further down the hall, was one of Cazador’s little footmen. Waving, you raised your voice. “Hey, you. Bring me as many bottles of wine as you can carry. Quickly.”
They froze before scampering off. Then, you looked to Astarion. From the long-casted shadows of the door, he looked so small. The broad-shouldered charismatic sire was reduced to a mess of equal parts fury, indignation, desperation, and fear.
“Let’s drink until we forget all about this conversation,” You offered. Your voice was quiet– the shushing of a wounded animal. “And until Cazador kicks me out in the morning.”
The proposition didn’t do much to soothe him. Astarion’s breath shuddered, and his voice trembled. A stowaway to the shadows, he hugged himself. “Deal.”