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Leoline had been hired on at the Szarr Palace only a month before the Master’s Ascension. They’d wanted it, badly, for a long time. Had searched and listened and stolen till rumour bore fruit and the truth of the Szarrs was discovered. Had finally found another servant to ask. Had shown enough proof of devotion to be hired as a servant of all work to the Vampire Lord of Baldur’s Gate.
And Leoline is devoted. There is no other way for them to be, not when the Master is so wonderful, so immaculate. They had nothing before this, only their hopes. They’d be stuck in service no matter where they went. Here there was at least a Master worth serving. And one day they could be elevated, if they’re devoted enough. When the Master saw how much they cared, they would be protected from everything. Even death.
The day of the Ascension had been eagerly anticipated, the fresh glory of the Master and the entire household through him assured. And while the servants did not tend to speak companionably to each other, joined only in their adoration of the Master and in competition for everything else, they had mentioned some bits of information about it to Leoline in passing. How things had changed. How things used to be. What they knew or speculated about the ritual, and how there was one spawn being kept aside from the plans, prepared for something afterwards.
Leoline had dreamed of being that spawn, especially after finding out the Master’s desire to take a consort. They had been eager to witness the perfection the Master was sure to demand of one in such an important role. They’d envisioned the ultimate ideal, an undying testament to the Master’s taste and discernment.
Instead they’d been met with Astarion.
And it isn’t right, the Master going around with a man like that. Not that the Master could make a wrong decision, of course. But the other servants had said that Astarion was one of the first spawn the Master had turned. A youthful transgression, one that he evidently felt some nostalgic affection for. The Master wasn’t at fault. His awful husband was a wily thing, and he didn’t realise, blinded by his looks as he was.
Even the other servants refer to Astarion as that brat or the spawn. They're jealous of course. Astarion has everything they all aspire to. But there’s also just something about him. Something that invites disdain. Something that encourages hatred.
Leoline could be a much better spawn to the Master, a true spawn. One who obeys and defends and appreciates the gift they’ve been given. One who would actually be worthy of elevation.
But they have their chances, and they will have their day. Since the Master’s Ascension, Leoline has had more work of a more important kind. They still run errands, still make deliveries, but now there are new servants that Leoline is above, servants who don’t know the Master’s true glory. There are new tasks for Leoline to help manage, ones they are even in charge of. And most excitingly of all, they are the one trusted to bring back scum for the Master to sate his needs on.
It isn’t a task required of them often. They’ve only been asked to do so four times since the Ascension ceremony. It bodes well that they’ve been given a job the spawns used to have, they think. And they’re sure at least that they do a better job than Astarion did.
Leading the detritus of the Gate back to the palace is easy. A bit of food, an offer of shelter, and the down and outs of the city follow them with gratefulness. Almost as if they know the greatness of the one they’ll be brought to. And Leoline is always organised, always clean in their acquisition of these cattle. They never take someone from the same part of town twice. The Master appreciates such things. It’s one of the reasons he’s so admirable.
He’ll notice, soon, how suited Leoline is to his tastes.
---
It’s blissful to watch when the Master punishes his husband. A privilege of being a selected member of staff, one of the one’s in the know. Astarion is unpleasant and ungrateful — to see him be put in his place is a balm for the injustice of his station. The brat has been good, ever since he failed at carrying the Master’s second child, but it couldn’t last. Leoline had known.
And indeed when they go to deliver this month’s household accounts for the steward they find the office occupied, Astarion kneeling naked before the Master. What must be the clothes he had been wearing are lying in a heap beside him. Messy. Leoline would never have been so haphazard in their disrobing.
This is not the first time they have walked in on discipline — the Master had bade them to enter, but Leoline knows they are not to interrupt. They wouldn’t dare. Being here is a pleasure they do not want to lose. And Leoline is good at making themself invisible.
“Why did you seek to hide yourself from me? Why did you not answer my summons? Must I myself go on the hunt anytime I have need of my husband? Am I to wander the corridors aimlessly to satisfy your whims?” The Master sounds so upset. And Astarion doesn’t even have the decency to look ashamed of himself.
“As I said. Donnela was crying. She was hungry. I believed you had ordered me to attend her when that was the case, sir.” There’s a spark of something in Astarion’s eyes, disobedient and wrong. Leoline wants to claw it out of him.
The Master sees it too, evidently, for he slaps him fast and hard, a red hand print immediately showing on his cheek. He does not waste time, his hand moving to seize Astarion’s curls in a punishing grip before saying, “Do not give me that cheek, boy. Are you so indolent that you can’t even make sure my child’s needs are met in a timely manner?”
“I’m not clairvoyant. ” The petulance in his tone, the audacity of it. Leoline cannot turn away. They don’t want to. They must be witness to the inevitable repercussions.
The Master’s hand that isn’t holding Astarion is already moving up to his neck, fingers wrapping around, thumb digging in to the side. He is so graceful — the Master almost makes the threat look casual. His pointer finger claws into the scar that must be from when Astarion was given the Master’s gift, sharp nail drawing a droplet of blood. Astarion lets out a gasp at the feeling. All that power concentrated and controlled to be turned to just a pinprick. Leoline has never seen anything more erotic, more obscene.
“What was that you said, Astarion?” The Master’s voice no longer holds the annoyance and anger from a moment before having turned instead to something calm, placid. Like deep waters. It makes the danger more palpable.
There’s an instant, even now that the Master’s displeasure has been made clear to one as stupid as Astarion, where the horrible wretch seems about to continue arguing and disobeying. The air is charged; bodies on the precipice of further violence. Leoline finds that there is an eagerness within themself to see it peak. But the moment passes by unconsummated, Astarion’s eyes moving up to meet the Master’s before they fall again and a far more acceptable expression plasters itself over his face. The hand is lowered from his hair in response.
“I’m sorry Master,” and Astarion’s voice has lost the insolent tone it had held as well. Good. He never should have had it in the first place.
“Oh my boy. You try my patience sometimes,” the Master says, only softly chiding, milder than Leoline would have put it. He withdraws his hand from Astarion’s neck, pushing him down slightly as he does so. There’s a drop of blood on his finger still. The Master admires it for a moment before it up to his lips, delicately placing it upon his tongue. His eyes close, and a smile spreads across his face. Leoline has never seen a more beautiful sight.
“But you can be sweet, hm? With guidance. Remain by my side today. Watch me work. Perhaps some industriousness will rub off on you.” The Master is so merciful.
Astarion’s eyes dart to the pile of clothes on the ground and the Master laughs as if he’s just told a joke rather than made a display of disobedience. “Perhaps I need to organise lessons for you. Do you not remember? The recalcitrant mule gets the whip, child. If you wanted the privilege of clothes you should not have hesitated when I ordered you out of them. Remaining this way is not such a harsh punishment, in consideration. Thank me for my benevolence.”
“Thank you. Master,” Astarion says. The words are bitten out but delivered, and apparently that is good enough. The man is always afforded undeserved leniency.
The Master positions them then, himself gracefully seated behind his desk, prepared to work, one hand dipping down to rest in silver curls; Astarion, an out of place figure in a scene of stark professionalism, naked and cowed beside the Master’s legs.
And as quick as that it is back to business. The Master summons Leoline to the desk with a nod. As they walk forward they can’t help but look at Astarion. His head is bowed, his posture submissive, but there’s defiance in the downturn of his mouth. The brat gets off with barely a harsh speaking to and he looks like that? To be allowed at the Master’s side is privilege, not punishment. How dare he look like that. How dare he.
The jealousy sits virulent and spitting in Leoline’s chest for days.
---
They would never criticise the Master, but he is too soft on his husband. Astarion whines and complains so much about his miniscule duties, his trivial discomforts — he needs a firm hand. If only to shut him up. He can’t even be grateful for being given a purpose. When first required to do his duty as consort the man had groused constantly about the feeling of the Master’s child inside him, about his skin itching and stomach cramping, about headaches and fatigue. A litany of disrespect.
The Master had taken it all so good naturedly too, smiling and pulling the man onto his lap to silence him, allowing Astarion to give thanks through compulsion rather than true obedience. Perhaps it is because he is so perfect, that he is too forgiving of his spawn’s imperfections.
Leoline can hardly believe the audacity of Astarion, to complain about the role the Master chose for him. And worse, when the role provides him such a boon as the Master’s own child to carry. It is inconceivable. Astarion is an aberration within the palace. Everyone else works, everyone else gives their all. Everyone else loves the Master. And yet he who is placed on a pedestal above them all does nothing for great reward.
Leoline can’t help but observe Astarion, the way he moves through his perfect world with disdain and exhaustion. It is infuriating to watch as he receives gift upon gift upon gift without appreciating any of them. Fine clothes, a fine room, a family. The wonder of eternal life. The promise of the Master’s attention.
And yet despite the anger he inspires, Leoline cannot help but continue to watch him. Him and the Master. The two of them together.
It would be such a delicious thing, to be the beloved of the Master. To be his spawn. Being loved, protected, cared for by a powerful man... Doesn’t Astarion know nothing else can touch him? Doesn’t he realise the luck he has, being so desired? Doesn’t he understand that with the Master’s gift, if he just obeyed he’d be perfect forever?
And he doesn’t even have the backbone to truly rebel. He whines and avoids and disobeys and then when he earns himself punishment, when he deserves the pain he receives, he cries over that too. The urge to hurt him is stayed only by Leoline’s devotion to the Master.
Perhaps it’s just impossible for him, Leoline thinks. They’ve seen Astarion’s attempts at submission. He can look pretty on his knees, yes. His tears do make his red eyes shine brighter. Even that voice can sound sweet, when it refers to the Master with proper deference. But there’s always an undercurrent of fear and... distaste. He never wants it. Never actually accepts his place.
No idea how to be a proper spawn. Perhaps the Master just feels pity for him.
It doesn’t change how frustrating it is, seeing Astarion leave with the Master loved and cosseted and taken out to be shown off. He hasn’t earned such attention. He hasn’t earned such care. Everything about him is insufferable. His looks, his manner, his walk. But for lack of any other option, Leoline nurses the impotent hatred inside themself. Because Astarion doesn’t deserve anything that’s happened to him.
Someone needs to remember that.
---
One day, after the physician has come and departed, Leoline is called to the Master’s room. It must be something to do with the brat. The physician only ever comes for Astarion, another way the wretch is a drain on the house, on the Master’s resources.
The exam seems to have taken place in the Master’s room today as Astarion is there as well. He sits haphazardly dressed on the bed, a fine diamond chain around his neck. That must be new — Leoline has catalogued every bit of jewellery in the palace and has never seen that piece before. And yet Astarion looks haggard, fatigues. Not even putting a token effort into his appearance for his husband, who brings a physician to him and bestows such lovely gifts.
But then Astarion doesn’t matter because the Master himself is addressing them.
“Take him to his room. Ensure that nothing happens to him on the way,” the Master says to them, and it is bliss. Bliss until Astarion draws him back in and the Master turns away, back to his spawn.
“And remember. You’re to stay there till I come for you. You’re not to exert yourself,” his voice is happy, even though Astarion is being as disobedient and slovenly as ever. The man doesn’t even give his sire the respect of a verbal answer, just nodding as he stands to leave.
Still, Leoline’s own distaste for Astarion aside, they know the Master values him. And now they’ve been charged with keeping him from disaster for a time. This is their chance to truly prove themself. Perhaps if opportunity shows itself, Leoline can even be a good influence on Astarion. Make him be better for the Master.
Perhaps then the Master will want Leoline to stay on a more permanent basis. In a more permanent position.
They’re high hopes, for a short walk through the palace, and no chances to do anything more than asked appear. Astarion says nothing to them, doesn’t even look at them, following orders silently for once. It seems like it will be an utterly unremarkable day after all, except for the Master speaking directly to them.
But the minute they reach Astarion’s room the peace ends. As before Leoline can even close the door behind them, they see the new diamond chain go flying towards the far wall, see Astarion stomp down on it, see him begin reaching out to throw things.
Technically their task is done. They’ve brought Astarion to his room. But this is a chance to show their worth. They don’t return to their other duties.
“Stop that!” It isn’t their most brilliant moment of elocution. But Astarion does turn to look at them standing in the reopened door. He does stop.
But it’s apparently more out of surprise than any latent desire to obey, because Astarion rolls his eyes at them. “You’re job’s done, you stupid pissant. This doesn’t concern you, ” he says, making a shooing motion with his hand before turning away to start destroying things again.
It’s too much. He has everything, and yet remains petulant and insufferable and ungrateful. Leoline can’t take it any longer. They couldn’t stop themself from speaking if they wanted to.
“You should be more appreciative of the Master.” They didn’t know their voice could sound so blisteringly angry. It even brings Astarion back into stillness for a moment. The stupid brat stares at him, face dumb and blank.
And then he laughs.
It’s an annoying sound, crude and overly affected. Just like the man emitting it. But it is deep, and long, and shocks Leoline into taking a step back. When he finally stops laughing there is something dangerous in his eyes.
“You think I should be more appreciative, you little rat?” His smile is like a knife, cold and glinting. “You think I should, what, simper out thank yous? Worship the ground my husband walks on?” He spits out the word husband like a curse. “Come in my pants when he walks in the room, like you do?”
Astarion takes a step closer, not touching, but threatening. Someone like that shouldn’t be threatening, and yet-
“You’re a desperate idiot. You’ll spend your life crawling and bowing and begging for scraps from a man like him, and when you run out of use he will kill you, because no matter how much you do for him, no matter how much you genuflect, he doesn’t care.” That smile is cold enough to freeze the Chionthar. “He doesn’t even notice.”
“You don’t understand anything,” Leoline chokes out, because how dare this man question them? Their devotion? They’re finally confronting Astarion for his disobedience, and he dares not feel the weight of his actions?
“I understand more than you. You’re truly pathetic, you know? I’ve seen the worst of this city, the true underbelly, and yet there is nothing that can compare with the contemptible twits that stumble about this place willingly. I can’t imagine what induced any of you to do so. Dying in the street would have been a better option than coming here.”
Leoline can’t let this vain whining thing speak to them like this any longer. “I don’t have to listen to a whore like you. The Master may be kind enough to forget but I know what you were like. I’ve heard the stories. You used to get on your back for anyone. I’m trusted. I’m respected. You’re just jealous-”
“Of you? Yes. I’m jealous that the privilege of leaving here every night is wasted on someone who returns in the morning. You want the Master? You can have him. But that’s the problem for you, isn’t it dear?” And perhaps this was a mistake because Astarion’s eyes are shining, not with tears now, but like those of a hunting bird just released from its jesses. There is no clear way to stop him now.
“Your problem is that he doesn’t want you. What he wanted, apparently, was a family, and because no one in their right mind, no one he wanted, would stay with him willingly, it has to be a family that can’t leave.” Astarion doesn’t even have the decency to look at Leoline then, staring at the fire as he says, “You’re nothing. Just a foolish bit of tamed prey. He probably doesn’t even know your name.”
A ringing sound, and Astarion’s head is slammed to the side by Leoline’s slap. The man, whether from shock or apathy, doesn’t bother to reach up and cover the skin that must be stinging, and so the red handprint Leoline has left is immediately visible.
It is remarkably similar to how the imprint of the Master’s hand had looked, that day in the office.
There’s silence, a pause. This is unprecedented. Astarion is barred from attacking the servants, they know this, but there is no corresponding rule in place about attacking Astarion. No one would think to, normally. Or at least no one would dare to put the thoughts into action.
They are at an impasse, the air around them still pulsing with a violent, taut tension.
It is Astarion who breaks it.
“You’re fucked.” He doesn’t say it passionately, not like before — he speaks now with barely any feeling at all. And then he drops himself onto the settee behind him.
“You were being hysterical,” and he was, he wasn’t staying calm like the Master had ordered and now he’s gotten Leoline stuck in his mess, “I had to stop you. There was no other option.”
“Excuses, excuses,” his tone remains flat. And the bastard still won’t look at them.
“The Master knows I’m loyal, he’ll understand I needed to use force with a thing like you. He’ll forgive-” And that brings some of the colour back to Astarion’s voice.
“Ha! He doesn’t forgive. And you missed your chance on touching me without his permission. He was only big on that before he decided I’d be better off as a-” Astarion cuts himself off then, like he can’t complete the sentence. It doesn’t matter anyway. He’s wrong. Just as always.
Leoline loves the master — they serve him well. He would not reject such dedication for such a minor slight, despite the hold Astarion has on him.
“You understand I’ll enjoy watching him take you apart. I get so little in the way of entertainment these days,” Astarion says, no longer collapsed in a heap but instead sitting like a spoiled prince, artfully reclined. The image is only ruined by the still red handprint on his face.
“You deserved it. He’ll understand that. You’ve got your hooks in him but he can still see that you’re a capricious thing. The Master knows how you don’t listen.”
“I’m pregnant.”
No.
“That’s why the physician was here this morning. To confirm that I’ve been tupped enough that something’s caught. And the Master has promised he’s going to be terribly careful, after last time. Can’t have anything getting in the way of his child taking over my body, after all. Why do you think I’m not allowed to leave this room? Only in his presence, he said. To, and this is funny, keep me calm. To make sure nothing can go wrong.”
This cannot be true. Astarion’s just trying to scare him. For if the Master found out that they had slapped his pregnant husband, slapped him hard enough to knock him back, to leave a mark- No. No point engaging with him. Leoline should just leave.
But Astarion has found a rhythm again, has sensed some small space inhabited by fear within Leoline and latched his talons in with killing force.
“I thought to myself that this whole confining me here thing was terribly inconvenient. Bringing Donella to and from the nursery all the time — I was counting on that to be what tipped him over the edge on deciding that order wasn’t worth keeping. But you’ve probably sped that realisation up a bit. He won’t like that I couldn’t run to him right away to confess that someone else touched me. In fact I suspect he’ll be angrier than he’s been since that stupid botched child. He hates when anyone tries to take his things, you know.” Astarion is babbling now, ridiculous nonsense. Letting out all his errant, poisonous thoughts.
“You could really seal the deal and fuck me.” Leoline freezes. They can’t even appreciate that Astarion’s attention has turned fully to them, not when he’s saying such deranged things as that.
“You’re done for — you could at least get the most out of it. I’m sure you won’t get another chance to get off before he kills you, and I know you’ve been watching me. You want to know what he likes, don’t you. You want to know what he sees in me. Well, there’s only one way to find out. Take what’s his. I can’t stop you, and he won’t know, not till after you’ve done it. And isn’t that what you want? To hurt me?”
It’s too much. There’s a part that wants, suddenly, desperately, to do it. To hold a pliant Astarion down and punish him for all his transgressions, to take from him till he behaves. To know what the Master feels, maybe even to figure out what he likes, what Leoline could do- But the Master-
And now Astarion is looking at them. His eyes are manic, bright without tears. And perhaps this is why the Master favours him, because those eyes are like open wounds. They expose everything, protect nothing of the man’s emotions. Reveal a soft interior primed for someone to tear into. And now there’s hatred in them. Disgust. Fear.
This is all about what Astarion wants. A partner in rebellion, someone to help him in his insubordination. He is disgusting — he will not uphold the sanctity of the role he’s been given. But Leoline is better than that. They will not betray the Master. They love him. They will not bite the poison fruit being offered no matter how enticingly it is presented.
“Act with a little dignity,” Leoline manages to say, before departing the room as fast as possible. There’s silence for a moment after they close the door, and then howling laughter behind them as they go. The sound of more things breaking. The sound of something that resembles sobs.
Leoline hopes he hurts himself. Abject, sorry little harlot.
---
It takes only a few hours for the summons to Cazador’s office to come. They’d known that it would. But Leoline is prepared. They’ll explain, calmly, directly, exactly what happened. They didn’t do anything wrong after all. They’d been following the Master’s orders.
And even if Astarion wasn’t lying, even if he is pregnant again, Leoline was still right. Astarion was being hysterical. He had to be stopped. The slap would be far less damaging than whatever episode he would have gone in on, had they not done something.
“Is this the one?” The Master asks, as Leoline enters the room. Astarion is seated beside him, not on the ground today but in a lower chair, akin to one for a child to sit by the fire on.
“Yes Master,” Astarion says, with none of the vindictive joy of earlier. His voice is flat and his eyes don’t seem to be looking at anything in particular. He only glances at Leoline to confirm that it is indeed them, and then moves on to stare blankly elsewhere.
Either disobedient or absent or crying. What a useless thing Astarion is. It’s enraging to feel such jealousy towards him, when he’s barely a person at all.
The Master looks to Leoline, expectant. Silently demanding the explanation he is owed.
And they must let the Master know how they feel. They must try to make him see the despicable true nature of his spawn. But the pressure of the Master’s gaze causes them to lose themself, leads them to ramble.
“I’m sorry Master, but it’s him, he’s the one who- He doesn’t respect you. Doesn’t accept your authority. Doesn’t give you the love you deserve. He’s, he’s tricked you somehow, tricked you into wanting him. He’s not worthy of your gift, your regard. Not of you Master, not even to be in your immaculate presence. At the very least he needs to be shown his place, and, and he was hysterical. He was destroying your gift, your things. He might have hurt himself. I had to slap him, to make him behave for you.” It’s hardly an explanation at all.
The Master looks at them, and for a moment Leoline can bask in the attention. Bask in the hope that they’ve gotten through to the Master. Bask in the feeling of those red eyes upon them.
But then the Master turns to bloody Astarion again.
“See boy? It is your own fault that you get hurt. You inspire such disrespect even among the servants. What am I to do with you?” Despite the chiding words, the tone is that of an indulgent father greeting a wayward child. Of a man who knows he should be angry but finds himself amused instead.
“Whatever you choose, Master.” Astarion seems more like a doll brought to unnatural life than an elf, an utter lack of feeling in his words, his limbs lying slack where they’ve been placed.
But this is pleasing, apparently. A smile spreads across the Master’s face – he seems terribly, undeniably affectionate as he brings a hand to Astarion’s cheek, still red from the force of Leoline’s slap. A scourge of jealousy writhes through them at the sight. There is something impenetrable here, a barrier they cannot cross, for all that this meeting is supposedly about them.
As if to further mark this divide, the Master still doesn’t look away, keeping his eyes locked on Astarion even as he addresses Leoline.
“Are you disappointed you didn’t take him up on the opportunity he presented? Lying on his back is one thing he can be trusted to do successfully.” And how does he know? How far does the Master’s power extend? “Oh, but even when he misbehaves, Astarion knows who he belongs to. He’s already repented for his behaviour earlier, because for all his faults he’s easy enough for his sire to manage. A sweet little thing, when it comes down to it. Aren’t you my child?” Astarion, still below him, says nothing at all. His silence a tacit agreement.
The Master does turn from Astarion, voice harsh suddenly, and says, “You are no longer needed. Take yourself to where the other gutter filth goes.” And this is the first time Leoline feels that the Master has truly looked at them. The experience is a strangely cold one.
His command isn’t mere dismissal. The words carry an enthrallment in them, and Leoline cannot disobey. They know, in a guiding place in the back of their mind, that they must go down to the dungeons deep below. That they must walk into a cage and wait there for the Master. That they will not walk out again.
The part of them that is still thinking for itself relishes the fact that there, at least, they’ll finally have the Master’s undivided attention.
And as Leoline’s body begins to pilot itself out of the room, they catch a final glimpse of the scene behind them. The Master, all his attention on Astarion, a hand carding through his hair as he looks down on him. Astarion, eyes distant, not looking back.