There is a period of Astarion's life – he no longer remembers when or for how long – in which Cazador does not allow him to speak.
"I did not bless you with immortality because I desired your conversation," he says, tracing Astarion's mouth with the knife. Astarion whimpers under the touch. (Crying is still allowed, even if begging is not). "You should be thanking me, boy. Your mouth always gets you into trouble."
Bastard that he is, Cazador doesn't make it a compulsion. Instead, Astarion is forced to struggle and fail and then suffer under a series of horrifying punishments that put many of the previous ones to shame. But Cazador is consistent enough, and insistent enough, that eventually it works. Astarion stops talking.
"Good boy," Cazador whispers, stroking his hair.
"Too high and mighty to talk to us now, Astarion?" Petras sneers. Cazador has not seen fit to share knowledge of this torment with the others, and so they take Astarion's silence for conceit. "Or has our master finally seen fit to remove your tongue and spare us your jabbering?"
In retrospect, sticking his tongue out at that point had been a mistake.
"You know, a simple 'thank-you' wouldn't go amiss," Dalyria says after helping him patch up his latest wounds. "You're not the only one who's suffering."
'Not like this,' Astarion wants to say. 'He doesn't torture any of you like this.' Maybe some of the frustrated rage shows in his face, because next time, Dalyria doesn't offer to help.
"Isn't it so much better this way?" Cazador says with a smile of satisfaction. "So peaceful."
Worse, it extends to his hunts.
"There is a better use for your mouth than boring your marks to death," Cazador says, waving a hand to dismiss Astarion's pleading look. "Home before dawn, my child, and then, if you've provided me with a suitable guest, I shall invite you to dine."
This silence he does compel, leaving Astarion no way to wiggle out.
There is to be no drop in victims, of course. There are a hazy few weeks of horror and pain, and then Astarion adapts. He starts visiting a lower class of tavern, one where the quotient of "beautiful souls" is lower, but also no one is interested in talking. He focuses on body language. Arch your back enough, tilt your chin, flutter your eyelashes, and you don't need words to find yourself on your knees behind the trash bins. Smile just right and the mark will follow you willingly back to the palace, hands roaming your skin while you dream of a rotten rat.
And, of course, silence prevents tedious phrases like "Stop" or "No" or "For the gods' sake, help me!"
Astarion has never felt so alone.
Eventually, Cazador grows bored and moves on to other torments. But Astarion's body remembers. If people later call him performative or over-the-top, well, it's because he's gotten used to functioning without words. He's lewd, he's lurid, he's the very picture of a willing whore.
He is what Cazador has made him.
Years later, Tav sighs. "Astarion, shut up."
