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“Master, please, I’m sorry, I’ll never run away again, please—”
Cazador regarded Astarion silently as he wailed and sobbed and debased himself on the floor of his master’s quarters. He had been caught a few miles outside the city, pitifully hiding from daylight in some abandoned barn. It was a pathetic attempt to escape, clearly not made by someone with a sane mind.
Astarion kept his face against the cold stone floor, his hands clenching and unclenching spastically. “Master, I beg of you, I beseech you, have mercy.”
There was a matrix of fading scars down the side of Astarion’s face, deep bruises around his wrists, a sliver of dead, flayed skin peeking from his collar. These were not new injuries, Cazador recognized them as his own handiwork, from the night that Astarion had run away.
It was with a great sense of shame that Cazador realized he had overindulged in the boy. Not indulged him, but indulged in him. He had bit into him like fresh piece of fruit, torn him open, and now he was broken. It was a terrible lapse of judgement. A well-tended spawn would never think to do something like this.
“I’m sorry master, please, please, I’m sorry,” Astarion sobbed. The thugs Cazador had hired to track down his wayward son had been rough with him, but only around the edges. A black eye here, a cracked rib there, nothing of true note. Nothing compared to what Cazador wanted to do to him.
But… that’s the issue, isn’t it. Cazador sighed. He had been luxuriating in Astarion for weeks, months. Every time he passed him in the corridors he found some pretext to place his hands around his slender throat, press his fingers into his wanting mouth. Every infraction was another excuse shove needles beneath his skin, push a hot brand into his pale flesh, penetrate him in a way a mortal body was never meant to be penetrated.
It was easy because Astarion always deserved it, and he always took it so prettily. His screams of terror were only a few shades different from his screams of delight, and Cazador dearly loved finding the moments where they overlapped.
It had become an obsession, an addiction. A distraction. He let his duties fall to the wayside as he took pleasure in the boy. Discipline, not indulgence, Cazador reminded himself. This heedless self-gratification was unbecoming to someone of his station.
Even now, Cazador wanted to reach down, gently brush Astarion’s tears away, and press his thumbnails deep into his eyes until they burst, spilling aqueous humor down his cheeks.
It was no wonder Astarion had fled. Even a glutton for punishment like him had a breaking point.
“What am I to do with you?” Cazador said. Astarion would still have to be disciplined, of course. Even if his master had been… overenthusiastic, he should still know better than to run away. That sort of behavior had to be nipped in the bud.
“Please master, I’ll do anything, I’ll get you ten, twenty people, for tonight. You can fuck me anywhere you like, I’ll be so good. I’ll make it so good,” Astarion blabbered, “Just please don’t hurt me. Please.”
Astarion face was streaked with tears and snot, already alluringly ruined. Cazador imagined what it would look like after an hour or so of attention— No! Can I not resist my base impulses? Am I no better than a rutting animal?
“I will not hurt you,” Cazador said finally.
“Thank you master, thank you!” Astarion reached forward to kiss his boots, but Cazador jerked them away from his grasp.
“Do not touch me!” he snapped. Eager little whore. “I said I will not hurt you. I didn’t say you weren’t to be punished.”
Astarion cowed at those words, but there was still an hint of cautious optimism to his eyes. It was one of his more endearing and enduring qualities, the spark of hope that this time, it would be different. Cazador longed to snuff it out.
“Come,” he said, snapping his fingers.
Astarion got carefully to his feet, his posture hunched and nervous. Cazador did not look behind him to see if he followed; to disobey now would be suicide. He led them down, past the living quarters and civilized floors of the Szarr palace, until they reached the cellars. The air here was stagnant, seeping up from the sewers below, and even the quiet noises of the house were muffled.
As they descended, Cazador felt Astarion grow more jittery. The tap of his fingernails and the stumbling of his feet were obnoxiously loud in the silence. But Astarion said nothing, which was a small testament to his training.
The smell of mildew assaulted Cazador’s nostrils as they entered one of the bottom-most floors. These had been family crypts at some point in the distant past, but they had been long abandoned. Vampires rarely died in ways that left their bodies intact. Now they were just another series of empty rooms, gathering dust and rats.
Cazador stepped to one of the stone sarcophaguses that still remained empty. It was heavy lidded, with large iron chains draped across it. Perhaps this one had been used by vampires after all; it would do for his purposes.
He turned to Astarion for the first time since they left his quarters. “Get in.”
Astarion glanced between him and the coffin, clearly with a question in his mind but too afraid to ask it.
“You will stay in here until I see you fit to be released,” Cazador said.
Astarion squirmed. “Ah, is this the only option? I just—”
“First you beg for leniency and now you ask for options?” Cazador said, the rage coming back to his voice. Astarion stumbled backwards at the sound of it. No. Self-control. Do not allow him to seduce you. “Do not test my patience.”
Astarion lurched over to the sarcophagus and pulled himself inside, his limbs trembling. He looked small in that box, easily crushable. Cazador had the bizarre impulse to ruffle his hair, but that would only tempt him to yank it out by the roots.
Neither said a word as Cazador maneuvered the heavy stone lid on top of the sarcophagus. Astarion’s eyes were wide with terror as he laid there, and it was almost enough to stop Cazador in his tracks. God, how he wanted to take him then and there.
Instead, he slid the stone into position, and locked the chains into place. There was a small whimper from inside, but no other sound emerged.
Cazador traced a finger on the lid, imagining the fear dancing across Astarion’s face. He would be beautiful in there, a shivering little lamb just begging to be slaughtered.
Cazador sighed, closed his eyes, and made his way back to the upper levels.
This will hurt me as much as it hurts you.
———
The first week was the hardest. Astarion was the perfect vessel to release frustrations on, and in his absence his siblings took the brunt of Cazador’s anger. He knew he was being unreasonable, punishing them for imperfections he would never had noticed before. But something had to take up the great, gaping hole in his life.
He dreamed of Astarion’s white curls, the elegant curve of his spine, the way his skin peeled beautifully under a knife. None of the others could cry the way he did, although they made a valiant effort trying.
The cattle took some of his anger too. He drained them over hours, carving delicately into their skin and dancing whips upon their flesh. But mortals were so helplessly weak: after a mere half-day of attention they passed quietly, without even the good grace to make a spectacle of it.
But it got easier. As the weeks changed to months, Cazador found himself turning his mind to other, more important matters. Astarion would appear in his trance-dreams, but only transiently, quickly fading in the waking hours.
It was only when the seasons bloomed and faded once again that Cazador realized how long it had been since he had last laid his hands upon Astarion. He still thought of the softness of his skin, the wetness of his guts, but the crazed desire had been tamped down.
Cazador allowed himself a moment of pride. He had beaten the addiction. He had no petty, mortal weaknesses. He could cast aside something lovely for the sake of his ambition, and he would do it gladly.
And since he had firmly established his self-control, there was surely no harm in opening the tomb again.
———
The crypt was much the same as he had left it. Even the mold on the walls and the rat skeletons in the corners had not moved an inch.
A year… it was practically nothing. The beat of a bird’s wing. If anything, he had been generous in his punishment.
The coffin was also unchanged. Cazador had wondered, no fantasized, about the sounds Astarion made once he realized he truly trapped. Did he scream? Cry? Curse? Beg for mercy? It was a terrible temptation to return to the crypt, lay his ear on the stone, and listen for Astarion’s despair. One time Cazador had made it halfway down the stairs before he stopped himself. Despite everything, he stayed strong.
Cazador began to remove the chains. He half-expected Astarion to cry out when he finally heard the sound of another person, but there was nothing. Even when the chains fell to the floor with a clank, there was only silence.
With one motion, Cazador shoved the lid to the side and revealed the interior.
Astarion laid there, as thin as a skeleton, as still as death. His skin was a sickly, pale yellow, and so tightly stretched over his bones that it seemed like it would tear. He smelled of dust and dry rot. There were deep, desperate scratches in the stone of the sarcophagus, and his clothes had been torn to shreds, but none of that energy remained in his inanimate corpse. His eyes were closed, and only the slight twitch of eyelashes showed he was alive at all.
Cazador didn’t know what he would feel when he saw Astarion again. Would he want to smash his skull in? Ravage him raw in the coffin? Cover him up again and leave him to rot out the rest of his unlife?
What he didn’t expect to feel was a strange sort of tenderness. It wasn’t quite paternal, but something close. Astarion looked like a little porcelain doll, and Cazador felt the curious desire to take him down from the shelf and clean off the dust. It was wrong to mistreat his things, but he also shouldn’t neglect them. He would be a poor owner if his spawn fell into disrepair on his watch.
“Astarion,” he murmured, trailing one finger down his cheek. “Answer me.”
Astarion stirred then. His eyes blinked heavily in the dull candlelight, his pupils roving wide and blind. He made a noise in his throat that might have been “master”, but sounded more like a creak.
“There, there,” Cazador said. He ran his hand through his spawn’s dull curls, and a shiver ran through Astarion’s body. “Let me get you something to eat.”
It was a matter of a minute to grab a scurrying rat from one of the adjacent rooms. Cazador held it, squeaking and twisting, over Astarion’s face. Astarion twitched weakly, his eyes still blind from the darkness, his limbs still weak from disuse.
Cazador sighed. “My poor, pathetic boy. Let me help you.” He plunged a sharp fingernail into the rat’s throat and let the red, hot blood drip onto Astarion’s mouth.
As soon as the blood touched his lips, Astarion’s body came to life. He pushed himself upwards mouth-first and latched onto the rat with his teeth, like a newborn kitten finding its mother’s teat. He fell back into the coffin with the rat in his mouth, heedless of his head hitting the stone. The only sound in the catacombs was the soft sucking noise of his mouth against rat fur.
“Do you feel more like yourself, pet?” Cazador asked after a minute. He touched his hand to Astarion’s chest, counting each of his ribs in turn.
Astarion made a muffled noise in his throat, unwilling to part with the rat. His cheeks grew faintly pink against his otherwise-jaundiced skin.
Cazador continued to pet his head as the rat went from plump to desiccated. Astarion whined as he struggled to get the last few drops.
“Master,” His voice was dry and hoarse, barely above a whisper. “Please… more…”
“Ah, ah, enough of that.” Cazador pried the rat from his weakened fingers. “Your stomach has shrunk. You’ll be sick if you drink any more.”
“Master—” Astarion’s eyes had gained some focus now, they trained themselves on Cazador’s face. “Is this… are you real? Am I free?”
“Yes, my child,” he said. “I’ve decided to end your exile. Are you grateful?”
There was no moisture left in his body for tears, but Astarion wept anyway. He clung to Cazador’s hand and pressed it against his face, as if he was afraid it would disappear.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” he whispered.
Cazador ran his fingers along Astarion’s brows, his nose, pressed them against his lips. Curious. A year ago a pitiful display like this would have him bending Astarion over the nearest surface and having his way with him. There was still a stirring of that, deep in his viscera. But he was content here, with Astarion trembling softly under his hands. It was easy to be lenient with something so well-behaved.
Perhaps their bond was strengthened by this period of abstinence. Cazador regained his self-control, and Astarion had become soft and obedient. What more could he ask for?
Cazador touched Astarion’s hair again and rubbed his fingers together; they were gritty with coffin dust.
“You’re filthy,” he said.
“I’m sorry, master,” Astarion said automatically. “Please forgive me.”
His training hasn’t completely deteriorated. “Get up. You need to be bathed.”
Astarion forced himself to his elbows. He attempted to mount the lip of the sarcophagus, but his legs gave out from under him, and he tumbled to the floor.
Cazador pressed the toe of his boot into his ribs. “Hopeless child. It’s only been a year and you’ve already grown this feeble?”
“A… year?” Astarion asked to himself. He seemed to realize the words were said out loud and quickly bowed his head. “I’m sorry, master. Please forgive my weakness.”
“It can’t be helped,” Cazador said. “Come. I’ll carry you.”
Astarion’s eyes went wide, but he obediently raised his arms to be lifted. Cazador gathered him up easily; Astarion had always been slim, but now he weighed almost nothing. Each and every one of his bones stood out starkly against his horribly taut skin.
As he was lifted, Astarion nestled into Cazador in a way he never had before. There was no fear, no cringing away from his master’s touch, only pure animal gratitude that anyone was touching him at all.
It was such a lovely gesture of dependence that it made Cazador almost break his composure. Astarion never expressed himself so honestly. Somehow his willful, disobedient child had been replaced with a creature much more endearing.
“Perhaps there is hope for you yet,” he said softly, as Astarion nuzzled into his chest.
It was a long walk from the crypts to the civilized quarters of the palace. On the second floor they encountered a maid, who was well-trained enough that the surprise barely showed on her face.
“Prepare a bath in my quarters,” Cazador said. She nodded and hurried away.
The servants and spawn of the Szarr household probably assumed that Astarion had been killed. A few of his siblings had dared to inquire about his whereabouts in the past year, but they had all learned to regret asking. As far as they needed to know, Astarion was dead.
Cazador rarely allowed the spawn to enter his quarters, but he carried Astarion over the threshold without much thought. Of course a loyal dog was allowed to sleep at the foot of his master’s bed. But the pathetic little thing would have to be cleaned up before he actually touched any of the furniture.
He placed Astarion unceremoniously on the hard, cold tile of the bathroom floor. As the servants filled the bath with steaming jugs of water, Cazador removed his doublet and rolled up his shirt sleeves.
Astarion stared at the spectacle with a confused sort of dread on his face. He tried to get to his feet, but his legs still crumpled easily underneath him.
The servants bowed and left, and Cazador approached Astarion again. He removed the torn scraps of clothing without pretense, and left them in a neat pile on the floor. Astarion’s body was even more decrepit when fully revealed; Cazador dug curious fingers into his hips, his shoulders, anywhere the shape of the bones pressed through the skin. But again, his curiosity was more clinical than it was lustful. How much he’s diminished in a single year… how long would it take make him disappear entirely?
Without a word, Cazador picked up Astarion and deposited him into the bathtub. Astarion gasped as his body entered the hot water. Cazador dipped his hand in: it was near boiling, a stark difference from the clammy chill of the crypts. Still, hot water was best for cleaning. Cazador reached for a bar of soap and set to work.
He could’ve gotten one of the servants to do this, but that didn’t seem proper. Cazador was the last touch Astarion felt before imprisonment, he should be the first touch he felt after being freed. There was something poetic in that, death and rebirth. He had buried and birthed the boy twice now: Astarion belonged to him fully, as both murderer and maker.
Astarion shivered and panted in the heat of the water, but did not complain as he was rubbed raw by first a bar of soap, then a scrubbing brush, and finally a washcloth.
Cazador did not clean much of anything as a rule, but there was admittedly a strange sort of satisfaction in the act. It was lovely the way the dirt swept away to reveal the skin, pink and shining. He scrubbed down every surface and crevice with a methodical eye, as if he was cleaning a cooking pot and not a man.
Even so, Astarion did not shy away from Cazador’s hands, relishing the touch even when it overwhelmed him. He had retreated into a trance-like obedience, likely a side effect of his imprisonment. Idly curious, Cazador dug fingernails into Astarion’s forearm until they left pink stripes in his pale flesh. The spawn gasped and fluttered his eyelashes, responsive and coquettish but unresisting.
Pitiful little creature.
Cazador recalled his own punishment, Vellioth’s decade-long impalement. He had never acted so brainless and weak-willed after the stake was removed. No, he kept his wits about him even in the depths of his despair.
His punishment had been crueler too. Instead of a private, comfortable little box he was left on full display, so others could gawk and prod at the guts spilling from his stomach. He could still feel the ache of that wound, deep and never-healing.
As he rubbed the suds into Astarion’s scalp, turning the hair from dull gray to bright white, Cazador sighed. Perhaps I’m growing soft in my old age. I really do spoil them.
He traced fingers down Astarion’s wet, smooth back, imagining how it would look with a spike pierced through it. Ugly, inelegant, not a proper sort of punishment at all. Vellioth was always that way, all brutality and no finesse.
The water had cooled, although Astarion’s skin was still red and raw. Cazador looked upon him approvingly, admiring his own efforts. The disobedient rot had been expelled, leaving a creature as pure and gentle as a fawn. Vellioth had never managed to do something like that.
“Up,” Cazador ordered.
Astarion struggled to brace himself on the edges of the tub. Cazador pulled him out impatiently and set him on the edge of the tub. He toweled off each limb in turn, and hair last of all.
“Are you too weak to stand?” he asked. “Must I continue to carry you?”
Astarion’s voice was still hoarse. “I’m sorry, master. I- I can crawl.”
“Such a useless boy,” he said softly, without malice. “Come.”
He picked him up in his arms like a child, and carried him to the master bedroom. When he dropped Astarion on the bed he fell ungracefully, like a marionette.
“Because I am full of infinite kindness and unimaginable grace, I will allow you to convalesce here,” he said. “But your idleness will not be tolerated for long. You’ve had a year of rest already.”
Astarion looked away. “Thank you, master.”
He looked particularly doll-like now, cleaned of dirt and bare of even a stitch of clothing. His eyes were blank and expectant, his limbs akimbo, begging to be pushed into position.
I could take him now, Cazador thought idly. Would he remember his old habits? Or would he whimper and tremble like a virgin on their wedding night?
His interest was, of course, purely academic. He did not need to succumb to low-minded temptations. No, he would leave Astarion here and attend to other matters. He was a master of his own mind. He stalked toward the door.
“Are you leaving?” Astarion said in a small voice.
Cazador had one hand on the doorknob. “Do you wish me to stay?” he said slowly.
“I don’t— I just…” Astarion struggled upwards on weak limbs, then thought better of it and fell back onto the bedclothes. “Never mind. I’m sorry.”
“My darling boy, if you desire my company you need only to ask.” Cazador stepped back towards the bed and leaned over Astarion’s prone form. “Is that what you want? Be truthful now.”
Astarion stared upwards with eyes wide and scared. “I… don’t want to be alone,” he said finally.
Cazador reached down and brushed a strand of hair from his face. “So you’ve found your sweetness at last. It’s only natural a spawn would desire the presence of his master.”
Astarion said nothing, but his nervous look betrayed a craving as fundamental as his desire for blood.
“Do not worry, child,” Cazador said. “I’ll stay with you.”
He crawled into the bed, pressed their bodies together, his chest against Astarion’s back, his nose buried in those white curls.
There. No need for vulgarity. There was no overtures in his movements, only the simple comfort of body against body. After a year alone in a crypt, who wouldn’t crave a simple thing like that?
His spawn felt right in his arms, small and delicate, a thing to be held and played with. Played with, but not mishandled. As long as he behaved like this, a light touch was all that was needed.
Astarion shivered against him enticingly, ever the minx.
“No, no, not yet,” Cazador murmured, petting his hair. “I’m sure your constitution is much too delicate for anything like that. Later perhaps, when you’ve regained your strength.”
Yes, temperance in all things. Cazador relaxed against his newly compliant spawn, feeling satisfied for the first time in a year.
They had all the time in the world.