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The deed was done. Cazador’s corpse lay still, covered in knife wounds, his clothes seeped in crimson. The knife was heavy in Astarion’s hand.
While his siblings quickly left the sacrificial chamber, Astarion weeped and weeped. He was free.
“Go on then, help the spawns escape,” he murmured to Gale and the others. “There are a few dangerous items in this dungeon that I must dispose of,” he lied, “ancient, vampiric artifacts. Nasty stuff. I’ll meet you at The Elfsong later”.
The look on Gale’s face revealed that he could see plain as day through Astarion’s lie. After all, only hours before Astarion had remarked that he had never seen the dungeon before. But, the soft, pitiful frown that had formed indicated that Gale had no intention of revealing the lie to the others.
The next minutes were agonizingly slow as Gale and Shadowheart directed the others to follow them out of the dungeon. Gale shot one more sorrowful expression to Astarion before turning around, following the others out.
The dungeon was quiet, only a flutter of bat wings would occasionally disturb the silence. It smelled of damp and blood.
Astarion’s legs shook as he carried the deceptively heavy corpse out of the dungeon, up the elevator. He knew exactly where the door to his master’s room was. He had dreamt of entering it. A click was heard as the door unlocked, accepting the family ring like a key.
Inside was a four poster bed, with red velvet sheets. The room was luxurious, perfectly fitting for a vampire lord.
He deposited Cazador onto the bed.
He muttered the incantation for Speak With The Dead as Gale had taught him, but the corpse did not stir. A few moments of bewilderment passed him before he could hear Gale’s annoyingly corrective voice in his head – It doesn’t work on the undead. Of course, how could he forget. Vampires had no souls.
The three questions he would have asked were destined to remain unanswered it seemed.
Shrugging off the embarrassment of forgetting such a simple fact, Astarion gazed longingly at his master.
As he peeled back Cazador’s waistcoat, adrenaline coursed through him. The white undershirt was mostly red, like a delicacy to be unwrapped.
He had never seen Cazador in any state of undress. In the few and far between moments where Cazador had sought to fuck Astarion himself, he had only opened his trousers enough to free himself, refusing to expose any skin for Astarion’s prying eyes. None of the other spawn had seen below Cazador’s collar, not even his precious spawn Leon.
As he ran his hands through the soft red velvet of Cazador’s waistcoat, Astarion’s mind floated away to the past, to a memory.
It was the night of a grand banquet, where Astarion was presented as a gift to the rich patrons in attendance. He had spent the night in a side room, blindfolded, on his hands and knees servicing the wealthy elite. Being offered as a gift to loosen the tongues of politicians or gain the favour of wealthy lords was not an uncommon experience for Astarion. It was much more favourable an experience than being flayed or whipped by Godney - it was an opportunity to impress his master, to earn rewards.
He recalled stumbling down the hallways back to the dormitory at the end of the night, a mixture of cum and blood leaking down his legs under his trousers, when Cazador grasped his neck and dragged him into his private office. Astarion had never had the pleasure of seeing the office. A beautiful ornate rug decorated the floor, which Astarion was roughly pushed down onto. Behind him, Cazador kneeled, tearing Astarion’s measly undergarments to shreds.
Cazador scoffed in disgust at the sight of Astarion’s debauched backside, “you filthy whore, hasn’t anyone ever taught you a basic cleaning cantrip? Or are you determined to leak your filth all over my carpets?” He muttered the incantation, and Astarion felt a sharp burning in his entrance, as the fluids dissipated. “I suppose I was foolish to think a dim-witted fool like yourself could learn even the most rudimentary of magic.” His master’s voice was slurred, probably from the drunk victims he had drained earlier. He felt large hands poke and prod his hips.
The insults continued as Cazador unbuttoned his trousers and shoved his hard cock into Astarion, instantly tearing him. A scream escaped his mouth, before being smothered by his masters hand. “Silence! I’m in no mood for your whining tonight.”
He fucked into Astarion at a brutal pace, ignoring the whimpering cries and tears wetting his hand. Cazador was a man of few words, but that night he muttered filthy praises at Astarion. “You were the star of the show,” he whispered, “a perfect gift.” He scratched at Astarion’s backside, drawing blood.
“But you are mine.”
Astarion felt his body betray him, his cock growing hard. He longed to turn around and face his master, bring his lips into a kiss. But he was destined to be fucked like a dog, knees scraping against the rough carpet. He tried to move his hand towards his cock, to try to find some relief, only to find it roughly slapped away.
“You’ve had enough pleasure for tonight.” Cazador sneered, “I saw how many times you came, you incubus.”
Fangs pierced his neck and he nearly came untouched, arching into the sweet, soft lips of his master.
As soon as his master finished inside him, Astarion was roughly pushed to the floor, his cock still hard and leaking. He had been taught to not gaze his master directly in the eyes, as it was not permitted. But, that night he ignored his training.
Cazador’s eyes were heavy, and he looked weary as he re-buttoned his trousers. For a moment they locked eyes, and Astarion prayed to every God he knew for his master to take him to bed. To hold him.
“You performed well tonight. Go to bed.” That was one of the highest compliments Astarion had ever heard from him.
He was still not awarded the favoured spawn bedchamber.
The memory was strangely comforting to Astarion. It was the closest he had ever felt to pleasure at the hands of his master. Cazador rarely touched him.
It felt perverse to now strip Cazador. To run his hands along his master’s skin.
The blood flowing from his masters wounds was still fresh, and he couldn’t help but taste it. It was better than any delicacy he had ever sampled. Each wound was meticulously clean by the time he finished tasting his master.
Some of the wounds were so big that he easily slipped his fingers below the flesh, digging into the tender meat of his master’s stomach. The comforting warmth enveloped his fingers.
Cazador was thin and nearly hairless. Scars littered his back – they were old, most likely from before Cazador had been turned. He spotted what he recognized as a turning scar, on Cazador’s inner thigh. A terribly violent scar, he must have lost a lot of blood. Cazador’s cock was half hard, somehow.
Astarion curled into his masters pelvis, suckled on it, praying it would miraculously respond to his mouth. Oh, how he had dreamt of this.
He kissed the cold, dead lips, breathing in his master’s scent. He longed for the corpse to writhe, to kiss him back.
If only he had asked Gale to teach him Animate Dead. Though, perhaps this was for the best – he had been thoroughly disgusted by that foolish girl with her decomposing, undead husband.
But Astarion could feel no disgust - Cazador was fresh, he still smelled of sweat and blood. He could have easily been asleep.
His own cock throbbed in his trousers, leaving a sticky wet patch. He freed himself, stroking his cock slowly. As a spawn, he was never permitted to touch himself. When he had finally been free, he had spent an embarrassing amount of hours fucking himself in his tent, relishing Cazador’s displeasure.
He fucked the still corpse, overwhelmed by how tight Cazador was. He imagined the sounds Cazador would make, the whimpers. He imagined holding Cazador down, smothering his protests. Cazador’s eyes were closed, his lips curved into a small smile, as if in the middle of a pleasant dream.
A wave of disgust filled him as he imagined the others finding him in this state. Yet, he could not stop.
Tears leaked down his face, and a sob escaped his mouth as he approached his orgasm. He couldn’t bring himself to finish in his master. It felt sacrilegious. He instead finished in his hand – splattering the liquid across Cazador’s pale chest.
A deep feeling of shame and disgust washed over him, but it was soon replaced with an all encompassing sorrow. He was finally free, but all he had known for centuries lay cold and dead beside him.
The bed shook slightly while Astarion rocked back and forth, tightly embracing his master.
Astarion wasn’t sure how much time had passed when he got up again. Every window in the palace had always been covered by thick curtains – lamplight was the only source of illumination.
He stared at the body beside him, pondering what to do with it. Should he bury it, just like his master had done to him the night of his turning?
In his years as a slave, Astarion had often been tasked with disposing of corpses. Often they were lowly businessmen or merchants who had displeased Cazador. Astarion was expected to dismember the body and discretely bury the separate pieces far away from the castle. His mind drifted yet again to the distant past.
One particularly memorable night, Astarion had been summoned to the dance hall. Expecting a long, exhausting night of displeasure at the hands of nameless, sadistic nobleman, Astarion was surprised to find said nobleman lying dead on the floor. He recognized the corpse – a man who had on many occasions taken his time in his vicious enjoyment of Astarion’s body.
Over the body stood his master, wiping the blood from his lips with a handkerchief.
“Spawn.” His master spoke, “The plans for this evening have changed. You will no longer be sweetening the business deal, it has fallen through. Dispose of him.” He left the hall without another word.
Astarion had dragged the corpse to the kennels, grabbing a bone saw from Godney’s stash. Miraculously, there were no spawn in any of the cages. It must have been a week of good behaviour, or a particularly pleasant one for his master. He had the room to himself for the night.
Astarion had always enjoyed the company of corpses. For one, they were quiet – he never had to pretend to care about them or engage in idle chatter.
They also were unmoving – they could never hurt him or force themselves upon him.
Finally, he could have total control over them. His hands and teeth could tear their flesh apart without so much as a whimper of pain from them.
That night he took pleasure in cutting apart the corpse. He giggled to himself as he castrated it, savouring the fresh smell of blood that spurted out from the pubic mound.
His trousers grew damp from arousal.
He was a sick, depraved creature.
That night he lay awake, unable to trance, horrified by the perverted feelings he had unearthed.
If Astarion had an ounce of courage left in him, he would have properly disposed of his master’s corpse as he had done all those long nights. His master had done far worse to him while alive, it was the least he deserved.
But, he couldn’t bear to.
In all the anger and hatred he felt for Cazador, a part of him still loved his master. A part of him always would.
Instead, he gently positioned Cazador as if he were sleeping in the bed, pulling the sheets up to his chin.
He left his masters corpse behind the sealed door that could only be opened by the ring on his finger. Perhaps in a few decades some robbers would find a way into the room and be surprised by the decomposing corpse in the bed.
The rays of the sun bathed Astarion as he left the palace. By the door stood Gale, propped against the wall, reading a book.
“I thought perhaps you may need help with those vampiric artifacts, you can never be too sure with ancient magic. It felt prudent to stay nearby.”
“Ah yes, well it was nothing I couldn’t handle.” Astarion looked down, becoming very interested in Gale’s shoes.
“Are you ready to depart?”
“Yes, I believe I got everything I came for. Would you hold onto this for me, dear?” Astarion placed the ring in Gale’s palm, “In case I need it again.”