Chapter Text
I gazed into the eyes of my doppelgänger, the reckless sweep of its gesture.
A hand grazed the surface of the water—I couldn't move.
I ached to feel the flesh, not the shivering cold,
If my shadow-self tipped beyond the edge, we’d both die.
Laura Bocharova
If Astarion said he was prepared for this day, he would be lying. It was impossible to be prepared for something like this. Nevertheless, it was the most long-awaited day of his undead life.
Ever since he had learnt the secret of the scars, he was clearly left with no choice. He could either come to Cazador’s lair on his own free will, or become like a rat, hiding from those searching eyes his whole existence of eternity. Having tasted the sweet pleasure of freedom, Astarion would no longer accept such a thing.
He almost believed they were special. Not gods, of course not, but fairly lucky mortals. They were able to defeat Ketheric Thorm himself, passed the trials of Shar, and were ready to call the Absolute and her army into battle. Indeed, how could Astarion not wish to satisfy a modest thirst for revenge, among these heroics?
But something had gone wrong.
With his mind controlled by some diabolical magic, Astarion couldn’t move. The remaining spark of his volition struggled to consciousness, perhaps the tadpole was saving him. That disgusting creature had served him better than anyone else could in Faerûn.
The sounds of battle echoed through the depths of water. The clanking of weapons, screams, groans. Astarion waited for Lae’zel’s strong, confident hand to seize and haul him out of the trap of restraining magic.
But this did not happen. Symbols, the inferno carved onto his back, joined by new ones, whirled in front of his eyes into one all-consuming vortex, like burning flames.
Suddenly, the dizzying whirlwind weakened, the world around him quaked with a thunderous roar. Astarion felt like a cog in a machine, a part of which began to crack and crumble. Something was wrong. Instead of joy that the ritual was coming apart at the seams, primal fear crashed through him.
***
Astarion awoke to the cold sensation of the stone floor. He must have been lying on the floor of the kennels, he thought at first. Or, why would he feel so bad? He must have been beaten up really badly, his whole body was a painful clump of nerves. Astarion let out a muffled groan and moved. There was something sticky in his hand. He snapped open his eyes and threw away the bloody bat corpse in disgust.
The dim bluish light, grey stones, coolness and the smell of devilry. He was still in Cazador’s dungeon.
Astarion quickly pushed himself onto his elbows, ignoring the pain and fatigue. His arms were trembling, but he couldn’t afford to lie down. If he was still here, the battle wasn’t over yet. Astarion looked back and saw a really ghastly scene.
In the centre where all the magic energy of the ritual flowed, there was a charred black trace of an explosion. Bodies were laying around, bruised and limp, like the broken toys of a young aristocrat.
"Lae’zel?" The sound of his own voice was scary, too high-pitched. Astarion had probably hit his head really hard, he almost couldn’t hear his own thoughts from the pain. Even the tadpole was surprisingly quiet. After a short silence, he called out again. "Gale? Wyll?"
The answer was dead silence.
A shiver of horror ran down his spine. Yes, there was always the risk that they would lose. However, Astarion knew clearly where there were losers, there would be winners. Why was he still alive? And where the hell was Cazador? His eternal paranoia suggested it was some kind of cunning trick of his former master. But Astarion couldn’t decipher its meaning at point bank range.
Astarion sat up and wiped the mud and blood off his face. He already recognised the familiar armour in the bloody mess, which was somewhat comforting. His brothers and sisters were much less fortunate. They seemed to have been pierced through by a magic ray, which left gruesome holes in their bodies. His hand flew up involuntarily for his chest, checking whether it was intact. His fingers touched the sticky fabric, and his chest was certainly unscathed. Something stirred on the edge of his consciousness, but Astarion paid no attention to it.
Trying to stay quiet, he crawled up to Lae’zel’s shiny armour. Astarion often found himself on the brink of life and death, he had really died once. But never had his body felt so clumsy and poorly controlled.
He was lucky. Wyll and Gale were lying breathlessly not far from Lae’zel. As he hurried to check their pulses, Astarion couldn’t help but smile with relief—Gale must have managed to cover his allies with a magic shield at the last moment.
"Oh gods, you’re alive," he muttered, looking around for a healing potion. If he didn’t hurry up, his companions were really going to die. Unfortunately, all the flasks he could find were empty.
With an effort, Astarion rose to his feet and staggered. There seemed to be a slash on one of his thighs. And it was clearly not alone. It was strange, for he had not been involved in the battle. He could have possibly been hit by a shard, but when he woke up, there was nothing nearby except for a pair of defeated undead and an unfortunate mouse.
His gaze lingered on the coffin in the centre of the hall. Obviously…Cazador hadn’t been able to finish the ritual, since Astarion was still alive. Something must have exploded, Astarion was thrown back, his allies were shielded, Cazador’s minions died, and Cazador escaped to his cursed coffin to regenerate.
His heart beat faster, his mind focused on the black spot of the coffin. Astarion picked up Lae’zel’s dagger and slowly moved forward. There was still a chance that Cazador had simply fallen into the abyss… But Astarion felt that couldn’t be true. Bastards like Cazador don’t die a simple death.
When he reached the coffin, he raised the dagger, preparing to strike. For many nights Astarion had dreamt of telling his tormentor everything he thought of him. Perhaps he’d even have time to make him suffer before death. Right now, however, that pleasure could cost a life. Their squad had been defeated, and he couldn’t risk it. All that was left was to strike the last blow and…
The lid creaked and opened. Astarion froze in disbelief. The coffin was empty.
He hissed feebly. With a glint, the dagger was plunged into the bottom of the coffin. The thirst for revenge, coupled with fear, pulsed in his veins, making him look around nervously.
Among the gray, motionless bodies of ghouls, something caught his eye, holding his gaze in place. On the edge opposite the stairs lay someone else who was neither his companion nor Cazador’s minion. Astarion frowned incomprehensibly and limped forward. That could have been a recent spawn of Cazador. But why had no one noticed it before?
Astarion stumbled and fell to his knees with a strangled wheeze, but continued to crawl through the bodies and debris. When he got very close, he froze.
Right in front of him lay a pale high elf, naked to the waist. His eyes were closed, his mouth contorted in a grimace of horror. Tangled hair, once silver but now dull and dirty, his facial features so unfamiliar and oddly familiar… Astarion stared, mesmerized, oblivious of where he was and what was happening. Had his spirit been separated from his body and now trapped in this cursed place? But how could a ghostly heart race with such desperation in his chest?
Like a boy fascinated by a harpy, he reached out, touched the elf’s cheek and immediately pulled back. Astarion felt breath on his skin, the elf was definitely alive.
There was a rustle and a Gith swearing behind him. When Astarion turned around, there was no joy or fear on his face, only confusion.
"Lae'zel, over here..."
He didn’t manage to ask about the strange elf as he intended. The last thing he heard before falling into oblivion was the sound of a bowstring being released.