You think it might have been the bright white of his hair that drew you to him. It so perfectly curled around his face and knife tipped ears, complimenting his pale complexion with the color of starlight. It was practically begging for you to run your sharp nails through, just barely scratching his scalp to add a hint of red-
No, wait, it was his blood red eyes. Those sharp eyes that saw everything but revealed nothing. They glittered with false affection, a beautiful lie that served as the worm on the hook dangling in the water. So many unsuspecting fish in the water, so many stupid, naïve, fish unaware of the fisherman's hands-
How could you have missed those hands? Each a delicate instrument meant to caress daggers as precisely as they caressed waists, cheeks, lips. Or his smile, gleaming white fangs in a mouth as dangerous as it was sultry, spilling words spun from sweet venom. His voice, a siren's song, the piper's piece, death's final dirge-
Oh, how silly of you. How could you have forgotten?
You fell in love when you caught the smell of death hiding underneath his camouflage of bergamot, rosemary, and brandy. You hadn't known it was love at the time. He had passed you with nary a glance in your direction, absorbed in his current task in the dead of night. You had halted, hesitating as you took in the air around you. It was subtle, but you lived with death, were born to it. There was no hiding. Not from a monster like you.
He had his arm looped with another man's, gently laughing as he casually stroked his hand. They were walking away from the bright taverns and inns of the Lower City and towards the walls of the noble houses. Every step was light, casual, the steps of new lovers wanting the journey to never end.
You followed at a distance, sticking to the shadows and alleys. You had only been in Baldur's Gate a year now, but Sarevok's first order had been to familiarize yourself with every crevice, every forgotten corner of the city. It would not do for Bhaal's own child to wander aimlessly as they hunted. You were grateful for his teachings now as you snuck passed the Flaming Fists and into the Upper City without a trace.
You weren't sure why you were following this man. You were curious, certainly, but there was a feeling you couldn't name that sat deep in your chest. It twisted and writhed and refused to be ignored.
"Sebastian, you can't be serious. Gelid, a better poet than Jovir? I think your taste in poetry must be as lacking as your taste in wine." The object of your attention spoke conspiratorially to his companion.
"Now, now. My tastes are refined on the options available to me. Not everyone has access to the vast pleasures of the Upper City." This man, Sebastian, winked as he gave your mark a look up and down, his eyes speaking more than his mouth.
The resulting laugh was like hearing music for the first time. It was haughty, a tiny staccato of HAs that gave off amusement and adoration. Your heart stuttered as it echoed in your head. What a perfect sound for luring one in, and only part of it was fake.
This man knew what it was to hold power. He smiled with the confidence of an apex predator, moved with the grace of one too. HIs face was regal, his features finely sculpted. His body was lithe, yet strong and he knew how to put every asset of his on display. Every part of him was perfect for enticing sweet, naïve prey. He had this Sebastian wrapped around his finger, and he was unafraid of controlling him with it.
The two men continued to flirt in barely hushed tones as they made their way to a house along the Upper City wall. You hid behind a tree, watching them walk up the steps to a lavish front door. Your mark smiled devilishly as he held the door open for Sebastian. You couldn't help yourself, you leaned forward, desperately clinging to the last seconds you'd have with him before he shut the door and was gone.
A twig snapped under your foot.
His panic was immediate, red eyes glaring out into the night. You hugged yourself to the tree, holding your breath as you watched him work. You could see it in his posture, in the sudden straightness of his back and the widening of his stance. You hadn't been wrong. This wasn't a man, he was a weapon.
"Astarion?"
Your heart leapt in your chest and you hoped he couldn't hear it from the door.
Astarion relaxed back to his charmed façade and gave his prey a warm smile.
"Nothing, Darling. Let's head inside."
When the door shut, you leaned back and slid down the tree till you were sitting on the grass.
"Astarion" you tasted the name on your tongue. It soothed the beast inside, the one that had forced you to follow.
You were not familiar with feelings other than bloodlust. Bloodlust was your inheritance, your birthright. You were born into the world with only bloodlust as your guide. The other feelings had started to come as you formed into something more than your Father's blood. First had come hunger, than exhaustion, then the feeling that had pulled you to Baldur's Gate. Sarevok had called that one fate. You wonder what he would call this one.
The thought sent a wave of distaste and anger from inside you. It seems this new feeling didn't want to be shared. And then it named itself, a new part of you.
Want.
You smiled as the feeling settled, curling up in it's new home solidly behind your heart.
You walked home singing the name Astarion to yourself all the while.
—-
You didn't see Astarion again until several months later. You missed him, replaying that day over and over in your head until it had twisted itself into new shapes. You didn't know anything about the man other than his name, but that didn't stop you from fantasizing. Sometimes, he tried to kill you and you were only too happy to return the favor. Sometimes, you were a mark who so easily got caught in his web.
Sometimes, he'd find you behind the tree and invite you in to watch his deadly performance. You imagined yourself walking into his home and selecting a pristine weapon, a dagger most often. Astarion felt like a man who liked his kills to be a bit personal. And then you'd watch as this master went to work, carving his malice into the poor victim's body. Sometimes, he carved your name on them too.
But those fantasies weren't enough to feed the want that lay growling in your heart. You wanted to see him again. You needed to see him again.
It hadn't been for lack of trying, you had spent many nights hoping to glance him passing by as you worked. Unfortunately, as the newest Bhaalspawn to come home to Baldur's Gate, and the only one from the original undiluted bloodline, the temple kept you busy. You were a literal piece of their god, after all.
It was why you had been allowed to complete this mission alone. You were a writer of tragedy by nature and to the surprise of all in the temple, that made you a magnificent bard. That night was the festival of Balduran, a grand celebration for the founding father of the city. Getting yourself selected as one of the performing acts had taken very little effort with your skill. You were walking near the docks, playing your violin, penning the tragedy of the sailors so drunk they couldn't help but drown, when you spotted Astarion dancing. Dancing with a beautiful tiefling woman.
The beast in your heart did not like that.
But you continued to play your joyful melody to all those in attendance. You were a professional after all. Each pluck of the string, each pull of the bow, was done with careful precision to lead the actors to their places. But while each sailor moved closer to their untimely demise, your eyes stayed focused on the pale elf and his paramour. His eyes were alight with joy as he led his partner around the cobblestone paths.
The woman seemed equally as enchanted, holding onto his hand with a gentle grip that refused to let go even as they swayed and dipped to the music. You wanted to rip that pretty hand off her body, to use her silky hair as a noose, to pull her shining emerald eyes out her skull and shove them down her thro-
With an over dramatic pull, the climax of your song ended, and with it came an eruption of applause followed by the sound of several bodies hitting the sea. At first there was laughter from your audience, and you were sure to smile and play the part of songstress as you left the scene. It wouldn't be but another minute before they realized those men weren't coming back up for air.
Their deaths didn't quell the darkness inside. It festered and called for the tiefling's blood. It ached to feel her break under your hands.
Instead you watched quietly as Astarion, your Astarion, led her up the road and away from prying eyes. Your head tilted just slightly as his hand landed on her waist. Was this another mark, or a real lover? The thought made your insides twist.
When you got home, you made your way to a mirror, styled your hair in braids and coated your eyelids in coal. You made yourself look like the tiefling, and yet you were missing something. There was an innocence in her, a naïve tilt to her smile, a gleam to her eye that spoke of a mind free from violence and death. You tried to copy that smile but it ended up pained. You didn't know innocence. You were born a sin.
Your butler stood by your side, nervously ringing his hands as he watched you smear the coal and rouge on your face. Then he flinched as you smashed the mirror.
"Sceleritas" your tone was hollow.
"Yes, my mistress?"
"There is a tiefling girl, azure skin and emerald eyes. Her hair is like a raven's wing." You turned to him, your hatred burning under your skin. "Find her. I want to flay her personally."
He gave a deep bow before running to fulfill your command.
The next morning he would tell you of a girl named Lydia, who spent a magical night dancing with handsome strangers before being whisked away, never to be seen again. He cowered, trembling in unrestrained joy as he gave you the news, anticipating a knife in his throat for failing to find you your prey. Instead he was disturbed to find you smiling the widest grin he'd ever seen.
But you couldn't help it. What a beautiful death, the tragedy of a maiden killed by her first love. You knew he couldn't possibly have known that you would be watching, that you would care. And yet, this felt like a gift only you could appreciate.
You spent the rest of the day writing Astarion's name in the puddles of blood around the temple.
—
When you found out his secret, you were incandescently happy. It had been another night in the Lower City, the sky heavy with clouds and rain. You had decided today was a fine day for a drink at the Elfsong Tavern. You liked to listen to the other patrons gossip and chatter, liked to weave your tragic stories from their words. Today, you would listen. Tomorrow, you would act.
Then you would come back to hear their grief.
Tragedy really was the best form of murder. Killing things was easy. Lives ended with but a simple point of pressure. Killing was not enough to earn your Father's true favor. You were more than just any murderer, you were a storyteller. Every life you cut down rippled into sadness and grief. The who and the how mattered as much as how often. Orin, whom you called sister, disagreed.
Orin liked to kill because she could. She tried to make it art, tried to cut erratically and position her corpses just so to earn Father's eye. But you knew better. Bhaal wasn't looking for the deaths of beggars and vagabonds. You made every kill feel like the death of a king.
After your second drink, you heard it, the lead that would bring you to your next mark. A young man was about to be married to his childhood sweetheart and tonight he was celebrating his last moments of bachelorhood. You could already see the story in your head, the poor bride coming down the aisle to her groom dressed in crimson. The shock of all in attendance, the wails of a blissful day turned suffocatingly tragic. You were almost giddy as you paid for your drinks and left the tavern.
It hadn't taken you long to find the man. The first step of any good murder was finding your target. What you hadn't expected was to find him in an erotic embrace with Astarion.
You carefully watched from the edge of the alley they had hid in, yes an alley, as Astarion gently moved his hand inside the man's pants. The poor groom seemed unable to do anything but gasp for breath as they moved together, Astarion's lips laying kisses over his neck. Your blood burned at the sight and a whisper of a spell was already at your lips when you saw it.
It was just a moment, a glimmer of fangs and a flash of hunger. But then you knew. You knew as if the information was so obvious that you having not known before was the real impossibility. Astarion was a vampire.
Your relief was immediate, your body relaxing from the tense position it had found its way to without your input. Of course he was a vampire. They loved to play with their food, and seduction was just another form of play.
He didn't bite his prey, not yet. You left him to his dinner, instead watching the street for anyone who would potentially interrupt them. After three permanently dispatched watchmen, who might have gotten a bit too close if you hadn't heroically stopped them with your sword, you left Astarion to his work and continued on your way.
After that little realization, you began to leave little gifts for him. You read up on vampires and their habits, what they couldn't do and what they could. The stories said they liked virgins so your marks became older, leaving the naively blushing lords and ladies to potentially become his prey. Other stories talked about being unable to cross running water, so you ordered Sceleritas Fel to repair all the bridges in the sewer system until every path was bone dry.
Some of the sillier stories claimed they had an aversion to garlic, so you stopped eating any meal with the offensive bulb inside.
You once wrote a poem about him on the Upper city wall in the blood of at least 5 Gur. The monster hunters had been looking for vampires and you had been looking for ink. But after reading your poem you became incredibly embarrassed and covered it up in more blood. Orin said your art needed work, and you were happy to let her think it.
Your best days were still the ones where you were able to see him. When his white hair caught your eye and all you could do was stare. Where his laugh rang out from the other side of the road and your ears perked in response.
Once, you pretended to be drunk just to brush against his arm before hurrying away. The high from that day had lasted you weeks. You had done some of your finest work then.
But as the time passed on and months turned to years, you felt him change. On the brief occasions where you caught sight of him, he seemed dull. He looked just as well put together as he always did, his hair was still perfectly curled, his clothing still trendy and indulgent. But his smile had lost the mischievous edge that made it truly stunning. His eyes had lost their light. He was a well oiled machine that spoke the same lines, performed the same touches, gave the same laugh. A laugh that no longer held any of the joy it once did.
Something had broken your Astarion. The thought made you feral and led to the deaths of at least six of Father's apostles. Sceleratus Fel himself was killed no less than three times on nights where you saw Astarion's broken shell. It was an all consuming fire that burned you with a rage you didn't know how to quench.
You tried leaving a pretty girl barely alive and bleeding in a corner near his usual haunt. You found her with a knife in her stomach the next morning, no bite marks on her skin.
You got so desperate that you tried something you had only dreamed of trying. Hair done in a simple style, new clothes that pegged you as a regular peasant, you walked into the lion's den of Fraygo's Flophouse. If you couldn't make Astarion happy indirectly, perhaps the time to show yourself had come. He would see you as an easy mark, you'd play the game in kind, and then he'd find you were not so easily killed. Maybe the change in routine, the addition of a player not unlike himself, would bring the life back into his undead eyes.
Secretly, you hoped he might decide to join you. To come back to the temple and become one who serves your Father. Then you could speak to him, actually talk, and ask all the little things you've been dying to know. Because you wanted to know everything about him, how he came to be what he was, what his favorite story was, if his favorite poet was really Jovir because you had spent three years collecting and reading all of his work and, quite frankly, you could do better.
But it never came to pass. You spent a month in that pigsty waiting and praying that he would come to steal you away. Instead a different vampire, one that thought himself just as charming with half the good looks, took note of you. He bought you a drink, asked about your family, travel plans, anyone waiting for you, all the little checklist boxes that needed to be checked before he went in for the kill. He was so clumsy compared to your Astarion.
Astarion would have made you tell him everything because you wanted to. He had a way with words that made his marks feel safe to give away all their secrets. He could convince husbands to leave wives and mothers to abandon children if he wished. You would know. You'd watched him do it a hundred times, each filling you with more and more adoration. Astarion knew the art of the story. This man, this roach, did not.
So at the end of the night you bid him farewell instead of inviting him to your bed, much to his disbelief. You held your tongue as you left, part of you begging to end him violently for even bothering to think of you in this way. But it would do Astarion no good if you killed one of his kin. Not until you knew more about what had changed him in these last decades.
Instead you found a man who unfortunately looked just a tad too close to the vampire at the flophouse. You removed his tongue for his trouble.
Being Bhaal's chosen had a few perks. For one, you could transform into a four armed demon built for carnage and mayhem. For another, you were invited to very fancy balls held by vampire lords.
Or rather, just the one.
Seravok had informed you only days prior that there was a sort of ritualistic agreement between the Temple of Bhaal and whomever was the major vampire lord of Baldur's Gate at the time. It was a celebration held every hundred years by the vampire lord where they would offer mortals to you and you would leave the blood for them. It was a show of cooperation considering both parties hunted the same prey in the same space.
As Bhaal's newly appointed chosen, you were to be the guest of honor. You would sit at the metaphorical head of the table next to Cazador Szar as the leaders of Baldur's Gate's most unsavory underbelly.
Whomever this Cazador was didn't really matter to you. The only thought that had run through your mind when this party was announced was whether Astarion would be there. Certainly at a gathering of vampires this important, he was sure to have been invited.
The thought of him seeing you in a fancy outfit, one that was actually tailored to make you look desirable instead of invisible almost made you swoon. You had immediately rushed to your room to look through everything you had, and to plan a trip to Figaro's new clothing store for everything you didn't.
Part of you wanted to ask Orin for advice, she knew the local fashion better than anyone, but your relationship had soured ever since Father chose you as his Chosen. She said you stole her birthright.
You didn't even bother to argue that as a literal creation made straight from his blood, the idea that anyone else had a better claim to his affection was laughable.
You settled on something simple and elegant and red, the closest shade you could find to Astarion's eyes. You smiled at yourself in the mirror as you twisted around, admiring how you looked. This would turn a head or two.
The only damper on your plans was the fact you'd have to wear a mask. It wasn't you specifically, everyone from the temple was going to wear them. Being a murderer was a lot harder the more people knew who you were. It made sense, but you mourned the loss of the fantasy meeting that could have been.
Instead, you waited with baited breath for the party.
The night was beautiful, stars glittering in full form above the lavish home you stood in. It was a home built into the Upper City wall, literally looming over the inhabitants of the Lower City. You had held your breath when you realized Cazador's home was the same building Astarion had brought his first victim to. Your heart thrummed with renewed hope that you might see him here.
The inside of the manor was even more lavish than the outside, decorated in deep reds and golds. Bats clung to the ceiling and several thralls waited hand and foot on you and your entourage. Your coats were taken and drinks were served as if you were the Grand Duke, a feeling you enjoyed immensely. You received appropriate respect and veneration from the Temple's apostles, but your group didn't do lavish. Or parties.
Or anything but murder, really.
Once you entered the ballroom, you were greeted by eight vampires bowing elegantly to their guests. Your eyes quickly scanned the row before settling on impossibly white curls. Your body relaxed before you even had the ability to realize you had tensed. He was here. Astarion was here.
The vampire in the center stood and made his way to you, holding a hand out as he gave you a practiced smile.
"Bhaal's newly appointed chosen, welcome to my humble abode." You gave him the hand not holding your drink and watched him raise it to his lips.
"Lord Cazador, thank you for your kind invitation."
With the prerequisite pleasantries exchanged, Cazador dropped your hand and motioned to the ballroom, music beginning to sound from the thrall at the piano.
"Please enjoy the entertainment, dinner will be served soon. I hear you are quite a show yourself." His wide smile gave away his excitement at the mere thought of you drawing blood. You were excited as well. It wasn't often that you had an audience.
He went to talk to the other Bhaalists who had joined you, leaving you to sip on your wine. As a bard, your instinct was to jump next to the piano and start playing. The beast in your heart wanted you to run to Astarion and beg him for a dance. But you were here as Bhaal's chosen, and that title required some form of dignity. So you ended up frozen in place as you battled all three instincts at once.
It seemed fate was on your side today as the object of your thoughts made his way beside you first. Your free hand clutched the fabric of your outfit and you took a swig of your wine.
"Hello Darling, not a fan of dance?" You swallowed, wanting to carve those words on your skin.
Instead, you tilted your head towards him. "I enjoy it immensely. I just happen to find myself in want of a partner."
"Allow me to remedy that." He stood in front of you, hand outstretched.
He was dressed in Baldur's Gate's finest; rich, dark, material embroidered in gold. His suit was tailored to him perfectly, not a stitch out of place. He looked like a dark fairytale prince.
But his eyes were still empty and his smile was still broken.
You let him lead you on the dance floor, leading you into a waltz. You kept up easily, you hadn't lied about enjoying a proper dance. The music was traditional compositions you had familiarized yourself with decades earlier. Briefly you reveled in the feel of his hand in yours and his arm around your waist.
It had taken a couple years for you to sort out your feelings enough to realize you had wanted him to be yours. It had taken twice as long for you to realize you wanted him to touch you. It was a foreign feeling that only existed in relation to him. Many Bhaalists had tried to get in your bedchambers and Sceleritas would lecture you after every refusal. You were a direct child of Bhaal and it was vitally important you breed to keep the bloodline alive.
But what was the point in lying with anyone? The only time you wanted to feel someone else's skin was when you were flaying it. The only exception, always the exception, was Astarion.
And now he was here in your arms. Even if you knew you were nothing to him yet, his touch made your blood sing. You would not waste this perfect moment.
"May I ask my partner's name?"
He raised a single eyebrow before leaning in, almost whispering it against your ear. "Astarion."
A shiver ran down your spine.
"Astarion, may I ask where you learned to dance?"
"Only if you return the favor." You glanced up underneath your mask before smiling.
"I once knew a bard who was a terrible singer, but an amazing dancer. Gave me lessons for a week before I had to save the poor city from his wailing. I considered the lessons payment for my services."
He let out a chuckle. Your heart stopped because it was real. A real laugh. Oh, not as boisterous and unrestrained as you had heard before, but it held the sound of honest enjoyment you had been missing for years. You had to remind your feet to keep moving, your heart to keep pumping.
"I applaud your giving nature. I learned from a hag during a drunken escapade after getting my heart broken."
You let your lips fall into a playful pout. "Liar."
He smirked. "A colorful embellishment of truth."
"So which is the truth, the hag or the drink? For certain it isn't the heartbreak."
He lifted a delicate eyebrow. "Oh? Whyever not?"
"Because you do not have the looks of a man who gets left. You have the looks of one who does the leaving."
He gave another laugh, this one louder. It still held the stiffness of a practiced laugh, but a part of it hinted at genuine mirth. "You flatter me."
"I do."
You continue your dance together in companionable silence. Your steps were in perfect sync to the music. There was no passion in this dance, no chemistry between two fated lovers. You recognized this as the carefully practiced movements of two professionals. Your thoughts, however, were racing, trying to determine the next course of action. Every cell in your body desperately wished to hold him, to let him know of your adoration, to own him. You wondered if he could feel the need for him radiating off of you.
The music slowed to a halt and you bowed to your partner. You waited for the next song to start, but instead the doors of the hall opened again and a group of people were dragged in. Each was unique, a halfling here a Dragonborn there, with clothes that hinted to a wide variety of social classes. You even spotted a duke that had gone missing three months prior. You smiled in satisfaction. Your host had impeccable manners.
Cazador strode in behind the line of prey, his head held high, never glancing at those he condemned to death. His prescience caused an immediate quiet amongst both Bhaalist and Vampire.
"Several hundred years have found themselves between us and the original pact of blood, but as all in attendance can see that pact is still as strong as when it was first forged." He looked around his audience with the bearing of a king looking upon his noble court. Pageantry. As if these weren't just pretty words proclaiming an alliance out of nothing more than a paper thin agreement not to murder one another.
"In honor of this momentous celebration, I have brought you a banquet of Baldur's Gate's finest. Something to represent all this lovely city has to offer." Everyone in attendance clapped politely as a thrall came behind each victim and cut their bindings.
The people trembled in fear, cowering together or bolting towards locked doors. Their mania was infectious, filling you and the other attendants with a rush of adrenaline. You drank in the impending tragedy, the eternal hunger gifted to you from your Father howling for relief.
Cazador seemed to understand he was losing his audience quickly, so he motioned to you. "Will you do the honor?"
You had been prepared for this. The Vampire Lord prepared the feast, hunting and collecting the unwilling guests of the night. The head of the Temple organized the entertainment for those guests, so to speak.
You had thought long and hard about how to show off. On the slightest chance Astarion would be in the crowd, you wanted him to see you be spectacular. And now he was here standing beside you, a front row seat to your performance.
You pulled out your violin and began to play.
Your bow hit the instrument with perfect pressure and form. Your body swayed with the music. The notes came easily to you, for they were your notes. Carefully you had crafted this piece while thinking of your early encounters with Astarion. How you had watched him revel in power, how he had stood like a man who knew he was a god. You played notes that echoed his staccato laugh and others that emulated his growls.
The song was beautiful, and you hoped that it would convey your feelings. But no one was here to listen to a concert. They were here for blood. You were more than happy to give it to them.
The notes slowed into a soft lullaby and the guests all watched as the victims slowed their desperate struggles for freedom. Their hands fell from curtains and doorways, and every one of them turned and walked to you. They stood in a circle and swayed softly to the song. Then you started to raise the tempo, increasing the intensity of the song. Their bodies started to move frantically, grasping and clawing at their own skin and clothing in an attempt to release this new energy.
You took a quick breath before launching into the climax of your composition, a writhing mass of notes and sound that tugged at the hearts of those under your spell. It was a marriage of music and magic, a little Confusion and Crown of Madness mixed into your performance. As soon as the spell took hold, all bodies in the circle went mad, attacking themselves and each other in a mass of flailing limbs.
They tore into each other like wild animals. They treated flesh like butter and bones like bread. They ignored their own gaping wounds in favor of inflicting more. Their blood pooled underneath them and yet even slipping on their own draining life wasn't enough to stop them. It was a symphony of carnage, with you its bloody composer.
When your last note echoed softly into the silent hall, not a single victim remained moving.
An eruption of applause sounded from all around you from both Bhaalist and Vampire. You gave a deep bow, putting your violin away as you accepted compliments from everyone. You preened at the praise of your artistry. You were Bhaal's Chosen, His most precious child, the writer of tragedies, and you deserved to be revered.
Once you were free of the crowd you made your way back to Astarion's side, a satisfied smile glued to your face. You stood next to him, desperate to hear his thoughts. Did he enjoy the show? Did he think you impressive? Did he understand that the music was for him, all of it was for him?
Instead, you noticed the thralls taking the bodies away and decided on a safer question.
"Are you not going to partake in drinking?" You asked him, head tilted in curiosity.
It was Cazador who answered.
"I do not let my spawn feed on thinking creatures. They are happy enough with the rats, aren't you my boy?" He smiled a malicious grin at Astarion, who almost hid his flinch.
Almost.
"Of course, My Lord."
Cazador's smile turned towards you and it became one of perfect etiquette. "How has my Astarion been treating you? I hope he has been heading my order to make your visit an exceptional one?"
Later you might be hurt by the knowledge Astarion approached you on his master's orders. Now, you could only repeat two words in your head.
My Astarion, My Astarion, My Astarion, My Astarion, My Astarion
"He has been perfect. I could not ask for better company." You hoped this would appease the vampire lord so that he would leave and you could seethe in peace. Unfortunately, while your interest in Cazador had all but vanished, his was just beginning to show its teeth.
"You know, if he is so enjoyable to you, you are welcome to stay the night in my home. He is quite talented behind closed doors."
Retched, vile disgust settled in your belly. Without the life in his eyes he was no more than a corpse, and if you had wanted to bed his corpse you would have done so already. You were worth far more than an uninspired lay. You reached for a more diplomatic rejection.
"Tempting, but I do not partake in carnal pleasures. Unless you mean for me to enjoy him piece by piece?" You tried not to think too hard on how divine that would be.
Cazador's smile faltered a hair's breadth. "You Bhaalspawn are a breed of your own." He reached a hand forward and cupped your jaw. You froze, every instinct calling for a removal of the appendage. "You all seem so distant from the mortals you haunt."
He moved forward, crowding your space, tainting your air. "I've always wondered what the blood of a god would taste like." He whispered it to you as if a secret shared by lovers.
You kept your eyes on his, refusing to waver despite your revulsion. "I wish you luck finding one willing to give it." He frowned for a second before smiling genially, backing up and bowing before leaving to bother his other guests.
You could feel your body tremble, not in fear but in anger. He spoke about Astarion as if he were no better than a dog. Feeding him rats? Selling his body for favor? His head should be rolling on the floor. His tongue should be fed to your butler. His body should be placed in the sun piece by piece until you could pinpoint the exact moment a vampire truly dies. His blood would start a river you'd feed until it washed all of Baldur's Gate away. You'd pave your path with his corpse, you'd build your castle with his bones, you'd-
A hand on your shoulder brought you back from your spiraling thoughts. You blinked quickly before looking up at the man attached to the hand. It took a moment, but you came back to yourself enough to recognize Astarion's worried look.
Not for you. No, you would not delude yourself into thinking he cared for you. It was for himself, for his mark had rejected his master and that was sure to be punished.
You took the hand in yours and gently lifted it from your shoulder. "I apologize for my rudeness. I believe that is my que to leave." You smiled ruefully at him before dropping his hand. "Thank you for your company. You have been the highlight of my evening."
As you left, he gave you his false smile and practiced bow, a marionette dancing on the end of taught strings. The performance made you angrier. You would find a way to cut his strings. You would locate the sharpest sword, the strongest axe, and hack at each one until he fell to the ground with only you to pick him back up again.
You didn't want a puppet. You wanted him.
And you always got what you wanted.
Time was not your ally. Since the ball in Szar mansion, you had been busy. There were the ceremonial duties to perform, the discipline and education of new apostles to manage, the whining of Orin to ignore, the ever gnawing hunger of your Father to feed, and the populace of Baldur's Gate to scare. And you were good at all these things. This was your city to ruin and it did as you pleased.
You had managed some time to solve the problem of your pretty caged bird. You stole books from the Sundry and delved into dungeons for magical artifacts, but most of what you found wasn't enough to free Astarion. He still sat in that lavish mansion, only to be played with at his master's behest. You had kept an eye on him, but you never approached him after the ball. You wanted the next time you meet to be when you were giving him his freedom.
Sometimes you got frustrated and planned Cazador's death in gruesome detail. Your thoughts had become so vivid that you lamented he had but one unlife to lose. But killing the master without separating the spawn was asking for casualties. Namely, Astarion.
For once you were planning to save a life instead of take it, and that proved more challenging than any of the numerous assassinations you had carried out. Bhaal did not impart healing or nurturing into his children. All you were born with was bloodlust and it told you Astarion would make for a very pretty corpse.
Which made this all the more important to get right.
This feeling, your longing for Astarion, was something wholly you. Your Father's blood called you to bloodshed, it led you to Baldur's Gate, it determined your features and your manners. You were not so different from Astarion, both puppets on strings.
But you knew your Father knew nothing of affection or the want of another person's touch. He was a god and gods do not need anyone else. But despite everything, you were just a person and after decades of living, this one thing felt entirely yours. Astarion was the first want you had ever picked for yourself.
So you studied and traveled in between your duties. You looked into history and legend, conversed with mage and litch, explored the heavens and hells. You even discovered a rogue Mindflayer calling himself The Emperor in the darkened halls of your city. That had made you chuckle, another puppet escaping his master, so you left him to his business so long as he never interfered with yours.
It took another decade or two, but you managed to find a lead. Karsus's Folly, a man who died trying to become god.
Once upon a time a king made a crown, and that crown gave him enough power to destroy even magic itself for a moment. In the end, his hubris cost him his kingdom and his life. The crown could accomplish anything, but it was far too powerful for one man alone. You read the story hundreds of times. It was history written like a fairytale.
A god's magic could definitely cure Astarion of Vampirism. Or at least, it could rid him of its ill effects. And you were getting desperate, every day without seeing him feeling that much longer. What had been a side project began to become an obsession. You were no longer content with watching Astarion continue to deteriorate from afar. You wanted him with you now.
You started to ask around about the crown's whereabouts. You looked for tales after the fall and gossip from the most elite collectors. Most held no value, leaving you with more dead ends and time wasted. You started to neglect your duties to the temple in favor of chasing down another hint, another clue, another lead. Orin bristled in anger every time you left the temple for another indeterminate amount of time. Sarevok wisely kept his mouth shut, but his eyes betrayed his disappointment. Sceleritas Fel continued his groveling with new urgency.
It didn't matter. Nothing else mattered. This was your purpose. You would free Astarion from his bonds and worry about everything else later. You felt yourself getting so close, tantalizingly close, to getting your first taste of your long held fantasies.
Your big break came when a devil had a loose tongue after you served him several of the Gate's strongest wines. He told you a tale of his lord Mephistopheles and his trove of treasures. There you were certain to find the old king's crown.
You thanked him with a knife to the gut.
All that was left was to figure out how to use the crown. The answer had come to you during one of your routine murders. You had gotten bored of easy kills and frustrated by the puzzle of Karsus' crown and in your melancholic mood you had taken to dismembering your latest victim. Each removal was methodical, until they had been cleanly separated into six parts.
And then it hit you. A head cannot exist without its limbs even when the head is so much more important than the limbs. It has power, but the body is a leash. An uneven but necessary symbiotic relationship.
What you needed was a fitting head to wear the crown, a strong enough being that could withstand its power and wield it. Then you would become its limbs, the only way for it to experience the world. But even that may not be enough.
A body was not one limb. It was many. You needed allies.
The Bhaalists wouldn't do, their only goal was the total death of everyone on this plane. Your Father's blood wanted it too, the total annihilating of mortals. You thought that was boring. There is no such thing as tragedy when everyone is dead.
No, you needed like minded and yet not totally aligned allies. Allies that would believe this to be a plan to bring about destruction without looking too deep. People who craved malice and control the same way you craved Astarion.
And then a new politician made his debut on the political stage and you had your man. The charming smile, the patient restraint, the attention to detail, he made a perfect conspirator. Oh, he played the part of a concerned citizen well enough, but you could see the lust for power radiating off of him like the mist of a roaring waterfall. This Enver Gortash was no mere man. He was like you. Chosen.
He took almost no effort at all to recruit. A gentle brush of a hand here, a compliment there. Seduction wasn't your strongest skill, but you had the advantage of a terrifyingly doable scheme to rule Baldur's Gate. He was like putty in your hand as you told him your plan, and he had his uses. He's the one who brought in your third, Kethric Thorm. The man was ancient, a veteran who had already given up everything for one wish. He had no ambitions of his own, just the orders of an equally crotchety god. He posed no threat to you and therefore made a perfect pawn.
Together you made a deal with Helsik to travel to Mephistopheles' home in the Hells. You and Gortash snuck in and stole the crown with nary a devil knowing any better. Meanwhile Kethric captured The Emperor, holding the mindflayer in a cell as he ripped all knowledge of the elder brain from his mind. What had taken you almost a century to plan had been accomplished in a handful of months.
And then, after two centuries of agonizing longing, it was time.
You held the white tadpole in your hand, lovingly stroking its glistening back. The tadpoles had been Gortash's solution to the complex problem of mass control. He had worked with you on every combination of spells that could possibly halt ceremorphosis and yet grant you the hivemind control of an Elder Brain. It was truly inspired to use MindFlayer parasites as the conduit for your control. With your mastery of mental magics and his knack for innovation, you had put together a new breed of tadpole.
You had been open with your allies to a point, but no one but you knew the real goal of this plan. It was right here, in your hands. This little tadpole had been lovingly serenaded by you every night, imbuing them with an extra adaptation. This tadpole would give its bearer immunities from the sun's bright rays, from running water's barrier, from the restriction of an earned welcome.
This tadpole removed all the negatives of Vampirism. Your latest gift for your love, Astarion.
You thought you would confess your love while you handed the creature over, for surely that must be what this feeling was. The stories always told of how love allowed a person to tap into untold strength and courage. The knight was always able to withstand one more blow, a pauper was always able to outthink one more monster. You had used your love to come up with a plan that would make you a god and save your beloved in one fell swoop.
The thought made you giddy. You could already see it, Astarion as he had been that very first night oh so long ago looking upon you with devoted eyes. He would be your dark consort, free to wreak whatever havoc he wished before returning to your arms every night. You would spend your days showing him the delights of a bright sunny day, and he could teach you the real pleasures of the night.
You carefully placed your gift in a special pod. You had secretly programmed it to target Astarion once the siege began. No one was to spoil your gift before you could give it to him in person. When the pod closed around the tadpole, your heartbeat quickened.
You were finally going to do it. Two centuries watching your love from afar and the time had finally come to properly meet.
You couldn't wait to hold him in your arms.
You couldn't wait to rule over everything together.
You couldn't wait to tell him you-
A dagger to the back ended all of your musings. Instead, the world swam in total darkness before oblivion claimed you. If you had kept any of yourself afterwards, you would have been proud.
Orin finally learned how to pen a perfect tragedy.
"Heroes didn't save me, the Mindflayers did"
You don't know why, but you bristle at the sentence. A heavy weight tugs at your mind, demanding correction but with no evidence. Astarion's right, over two centuries of torture and abuse and no one helped him. It breaks your heart.
You've only known him for a few days, but already you've learned enough to see his broken edges. He's a vampire spawn, but also a jaded man beaten down by life only handing him losing cards. He only accepts the darkest parts of the world and rejects any of the good. But he's so alive, so animated and full of personality, you can't help but be lured in even as his edges scrape and draw blood out of your skin.
You look back to the campfire and stay silent as he sips a bottle of fine wine you snagged from the goblin camp. You want to tell him you took it because you thought of him, of the fact he's complained about the quality of alcohol from every vendor you've visited so far. You want to tell him you hoped he'd find it distasteful because his grimacing face is cute. You want to tell him you find everything about him cute.
You don't have any of your memories, and you are plagued by distressing feelings constantly, so the joy you find in his prescience is sometimes the only comfort you find in this whole situation. It was immediate, like looking upon him was the equivalent of drawing the curtains away from the window. Before there was only darkness and now there was light.
Even as he had held a knife against your neck, something inside you told you this was where you needed to be.
Astarion looks over to you before handing you the bottle. "Come on Darling, join me. It's absolutely dreadful to drink alone." You smile and take a swig because you already know you can't deny him anything.
His eyes light up in amusement as you cough against the burn in your throat, a smile joining not a heartbeat later. You glare, though there is no anger in it, and pout. That makes him laugh.
And it's like hearing music for the first time. It's haughty, a tiny staccato of HAs that give off amusement and adoration. Your heart stutters and body warms as it echoes in your head. What a perfect sound for luring one in, and only part of it is fake.
You'll spend the rest of your life working to hear a real one. And of course you will, it's all we've ever worked for.
He has his freedom because WE gave it to him.
He has his joy back because WE spent our lives working to find it.
He is here because WE wished it.
You don't remember, and that's ok. You don't need to remember all the little details. They're unimportant. You just need to remember the feeling that's pulled us to him from the beginning, the one that knows he is ours. Because we love him.
Deep in your heart, I'll make sure you never forget that he is only partially right.
Heroes didn't save him. We did.