Dying isn't any easier the second time around.
He has spent quite a lot of time wondering, of course, fully expecting that he'd get himself killed sooner or later. Maybe it'd be a monster hunter, maybe it would be Cazador eventually getting sick of him, but he has always braced himself for the possibility - even wished for it more times than he could count.
Of course, he didn't expect his death to be caused by someone who is supposed to be his ally.
They meet Karlach, who Wyll realizes is not a devil like he had been told. She tells them of the fake paladins who are hunting her and they agree to help her kill them.
It does not take long to take care of them, not with their newfound ally. Of course, they don't all make it out unscathed. Astarion in particular is badly injured. The paladins were strong, had to be to capture Karlach, and Astarion is decidedly not. He has never been a fighter. He does not have the experience in combat and adventuring his companions do. And though he usually manages his way through fights through stealth and cunning, the one thing he is better at than the rest of his party, he hadn't been able to hide in the shadows from the paladins.
Shadowheart does not have time to heal him before Karlach flies into a rage, quite literally burning with it. She smashes and burns whatever she can get her hands on, the fire quickly spreading throughout the building. The rest of them turn tail, fleeing before they get trapped in the flames.
The problem is this: Astarion is too injured to go anywhere very quickly. He heads for the door only for burning debris to smash in front of it, blocking his escape. He turns to look for a different path and finds himself quite surrounded by flames. They are spreading quickly, eating through everything around him and blocking any path of escape. He swallows nervously, eyes darting around as he searches for a possible way out. Sweat drips down his face.
It's no use. The flames form a circle around him, quickly eating their way through the wooden floor. Every passing moment they inch closer to him. He has no way out.
He wonders if the flames can kill him. He knows the sun would cause vampires to burn to death, but he'd never been certain if fire could. Cazador, though he had burned them on occasion, never took it far enough for death to have been a possibility. Maybe it can. The flames lick at his feet. He feels as though they are cooking inside his shoes. Then they reach the rest of him.
It is absolutely excruciating. He is no stranger to pain, of course, but your body being enveloped in flames is quite a different experience altogether. His veins turn to lava in his body as he bites back a scream. He chokes on the smoke as instinct takes over and has him gasping for air he does not need.
It's a blur of pain. His leather armor blackens, the sickening smell of burning hair making him retch. It eventually catches fire, and he distantly remembers that it's supposed to be quite difficult for leather to do that. It's not long after that the cotton clothing beneath his armor ignites, the flames eating through it quickly. He isn't sure if there is any part of him that isn't charred.
Huh. His arms don't hurt anymore. How odd. Distantly, he recognizes that it's probably nerve damage, but it's too hard to think. Everything feels fuzzy, like the smoke has penetrated his skull and made its way into his brain. His eyes droop as he coughs again before his world goes dark.
When he awakens, he finds himself on the ground in front of the strange skeleton that stays in their camp, looking impassive as always. Karlach is standing over him, eyes wide and filled with tears. He is pretty sure there is smoke coming off her cheeks where the water makes contact with her burning skin. He groans, forcing himself to sit up.
"Astarion!" she cries out, tears spilling over more intensely than before. "Gods, mate, I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to, I swear! I never-"
He holds a hand in front of her face, cutting her off as he rubbed the bridge of his nose. "It's quite alright, darling. See? I'm not even injured anymore." He idly wonders how that even happened. Scrolls of Revivify and resurrection spells only bring you back, leaving you right on the threshold between life and death. What the hells did the skeleton do differently? "But you know, I really am quite exhausted after all that, so I think I'll be heading back to my tent now for some quiet." And with that, he fled.
He didn't blame her, not really. Her anger was more than reasonable. Astarion understands. There is nothing more wonderful than freedom after being held prisoner for so long, and he feels a similar rage toward his own captor. So really, he can't blame her, and not just because he needs allies against Cazador one day. It's just a risk that comes with allying with a barbarian who has a tendency to set herself on fire.
Understanding, however, did not mean he felt safe around her.
He takes a shuddering breath once he's in the safety of his own tent. He can still feel phantom flames licking his skin, ready to devour him once more. He squeezes his eyes shut. It was an accident, he tries to reassure himself. I'm sure we'll all end up killing each other before this is over. No need to make a fuss over it. It's nothing worse than what you've been through before. If anything, he can use it to his advantage. It could serve as leverage to let him stay with the group when the secret of his vampirism eventually comes out, and perhaps he could use it to ensure her help against Cazador. Really, it's for the best that it happened.
So why does he still feel as though his skin is still engulfed in flames?
They go to the swamp to track down Auntie Ethel in the hopes of removing their tadpoles. Of course, she is apparently a hag, so that's lovely. Astarion thinks it would be best to just leave rather than take any chances with the hag, and tells the others as much, but they're set on saving the woman she'd kidnapped regardless of his complaints. So here they are, stuck hunting a hag instead of focusing on more important things, like stopping their impending transformation into mind flayers.
They stop to gather all the supplies they might need for raiding a hag's lair and to plan out how to go about doing so when a horrid smell catches their attention. "Iron-vine," Wyll realizes. "To drive away monsters. Is there another monster hunter here?"
"Perhaps we should check," Shadowheart suggests. "They could be convinced to help us with the hag. Could be useful having another monster hunter against her."
"Oh, surely we don't need them," Astarion says, and immediately regrets it for the attention it brings on him. But it's too late to take his words back now, so he continues. "I mean, we're plenty capable on our own, aren't we?"
Shadowheart says nothing, but raises an eyebrow at him. Wyll gives him a long look before speaking. "Hags aren't to be underestimated, Astarion. If there's someone here familiar with them, we should seek them out." Astarion resists the urge to sigh dramatically and trails behind the rest of them as they follow the scent of iron-vine.
It isn't long before they find their monster hunter. "Apologies for the smell," he says.
"Iron-vine. Good thinking," Wyll praises. Astarion rolls his eyes. Gods, is he going to have to sit here and listen to them talk about monster hunting?
Wait a minute. The man is a Gur. How interesting. Well, Astarion definitely isn't going to sit back and hold his tongue now. "You're a monster hunter?" he asks. "I'm surprised. I thought all Gur were vagrant cutthroats!"
Wyll glares at him, but the Gur presses ahead before he can chastise Astarion. "Yes, and we also steal your chickens, curse your crops, and seduce your daughters." He turns to Wyll. "No need to get upset on my behalf. Your friend has heard it all before, I'm sure. Nothing I'm not used to."
Gods, this man is irritating. He could've at least given Astarion a more entertaining response. No matter. Astarion continues. "So you're a monster hunter, hmm? What are you hunting? A dragon? A cyclops? A Kobold ?" He can feel Wyll's irritation through the tadpole and the questioning looks of the others on his back. He ignores them all.
The Gur simply chuckles. "Nothing so fearsome, I'm afraid. I'm hunting for a vampire spawn."
Astarion freezes. Ah. Perhaps this was a mistake, after all.
The hunter continues. "His name's Astarion, and I'm afraid he's gone to ground." Astarion couldn't hear a thing he said after that, trapped in his own head. He can feel the others' gazes burning holes into his back. He is well and truly fucked now. Unless…
The Gur is distracted speaking to Wyll about his hunt. Astarion's hand creeps downward, reaching for his dagger. Three, two, one.
He launches himself at the Gur when he reaches one, dagger raised. The man has surprisingly fast reflexes, moving quickly enough that Astarion stabs his arm instead of his chest, where he'd been aiming. With a cry of surprise, the hunter pulls out his bow. Astarion, driven by blind panic, rushes toward him with his daggers, ignoring the shocked protests of his companions. If he could just get a little closer, the man wouldn't be a threat any more.
The problem with running on fear is that it leads to single-minded focus, blocking out everything around you. Astarion did not notice the hunter firing his bow until an arrow lodges itself in his chest, directly into his heart. He falls to his knees and before he can blink, the world goes dark.
The first thought in his mind when he comes to is that taking an arrow to the heart is a much faster way to die than burning alive. The second is that he most definitely should be dead by now, but he isn't. Huh.
Wyll stands over him, a used scroll of Revivify in hand. Astarion blinks, trying to make sense of the scene before him. He brought him back? He knew Astarion was a vampire spawn and he brought him back?
Wyll sighs, helping him to his feet and offering him a healing potion as Astarion very shakily tries to keep his balance. He instantly feels better upon drinking it, sighing in relief as the pain ebbs away.
"Perhaps," Wyll begins, drawing Astarion's attention, "you should talk to the rest of us before trying to fight a monster hunter by yourself."
Astarion laughs nervously, unsure where exactly he stands now. He had not expected to be allowed to live after they found out, and now he's lost. "Ah…yes, that would probably be for the best. Speaking of, where…?" he trails off.
"Dead," Wyll answers. "We took him down after you'd…fallen."
Astarion blinks. "You…killed the monster hunter and brought the monster back?" he asks incredulously.
Wyll pinches the bridge of his nose, looking very tired. "Astarion, I knew you were a vampire from the moment I met you. From what I've gathered, most of the others had figured it out, too, or at least suspected. None of us were going to kill you."
He stands there, Wyll's words not quite processing in his brain. "Oh."
Wyll takes a deep breath. "Why don't we take a moment to let Shadowheart heal you the rest of the way, then have a talk about this…situation, yeah?" Astarion nods mutely, in no position to argue.
He sits still as Shadowheart heals him, admonishing him for his stupidity. Astarion says nothing, a stark contrast from the way he usually complains when his injuries are being tended to. She heals him completely, no wound left untended.
Why, then, does he still feel such a gaping hole in his chest?
The hunter is gone, but the hag is still a problem.
Frankly, Astarion could not care less about the hag, but the others are insistent on dealing with her.
The others try to insist on Astarion staying in camp so he could recover from his last death. He, of course, adamantly refuses. They may not plan on killing him, but they didn't mean they wouldn't leave him. It's bad enough already that he had no combat experience before the nautiloid, but now they all knew for certain he's a vampire. Who in their right mind wouldn't leave him the first chance they had? But he knew he couldn't survive alone, not with the tadpole in his head and now monster hunters searching for him. It's not a risk he's going to take. He doesn't want to be abandoned.
So, exhausted as he is, he treks after them into the hag's lair.
There are people in her lair under Ethel's control. They leave Astarion injured once more. Nothing too bad, but his left arm isn't moving as much as it should. But they have to save their spells and healing potions for the hag, so he'll simply have to live with it. They take down their attackers - alive, as Wyll insisted, even though Astarion thinks that it's a waste of time - and continue on.
Her lair is rife with traps. Astarion swiftly disarms all of them. He can't help but give the others a smug look. "Looks like it's a good thing I came after all, hmm?" Gale rolls his eyes at that, but Astarion elects to bite back the scathing comment on his tongue in favor of disarming the final traps. He could irritate Gale for it later.
The hag does not miss Astarion's injury when the fight begins. Her gaze focuses on him, eyes narrowing, and Astarion clutches his dagger with his good arm more closely.
She teleports, making copies of herself as she does so. Wonderful. Which one is the real one? He can't tell. They are awfully close to him, though. If he stabs each of them enough, he could probably find the real one. Gripping his dagger and gritting his teeth, he rushes at the one closest to him.
"Is there still rat stuck in your teeth, slave?" the one he was heading toward calls out. Astarion freezes in his tracks. What? The hag grins at him, an ugly, bone-chilling thing.
He feels himself anchored in place as Hold Person is cast on him. "Deep down, you like being leashed, don't you?" says one of the other Ethels.
"You're one thirsty night away from betraying everyone," the third says. He wants nothing more than to clamp his hands over his ears, block her out, but he can't. The spell she'd cast on him ensures he hears every acrid word.
Distantly, he thinks he hears Gale calling out. Is it to him or to Wyll, who he last saw can't to free Mayrina from her burning cage? He can't tell. Ethel's biting words pierce through his ears, filling his skull until they're the only thing he knows. He can't think.
With a grin, one of the hags sends a spell his way. Green light strikes him and he suddenly feels sick. Did the hag just poison him? He shivers, dry heaving, certain he'd be vomiting if he had anything left in his stomach, but the earlier shot to his heart ensured any blood he'd had was gone.
Everything is fuzzy, his vision and head alike. He wobbles as he attempts to remain standing while the world around him spins, distantly noting that she'd released the hold person spell. It doesn't matter. He isn't going anywhere, anyway, not like this. He just wants to lie down and rest for a bit, just until the nausea passes.
He thinks he sees Magic Missiles flying toward each of the hags, but his mind is too addled to tell if they're real or not. He blinks, hoping it would clear away the blur and confusion. It does not. He just needs some rest, he decides, and then the world would make sense again. Just a little bit of time to trance and he'd be good as new.
He hears a cry from above him as his eyes slip shut.
When he awakens, Gale stands above him. He briefly wonders if, instead of the normal reincarnation elves experience, he was sent to an afterlife of torment, before noting the scroll of Revivify in Gale's hand.
"You've really got to stop doing that," Gale says. His tone is light, but his voice shakes. Which makes no sense whatsoever. Perhaps some poison is still in his system.
Astarion pushes himself up, disregarding his exhausted body's protests. "The hag?" he asks.
"Dead. For now, at least. But knowing hags, that's not likely to last." He hesitates a moment, looking almost afraid to speak - which was a first for him - before continuing. "But, um, Astarion? Maybe next time you're exhausted you should stay at camp. It wouldn't do for this to keep happening."
Astarion scoffs, pushing himself to his feet even as his body shrieks at him for it. "Oh, please. I was just caught a little off guard. It won't happen again. Besides, you need me. You'd all have died before reaching her if I wasn't here to disarm all her traps." Astarion isn't sure who he was trying to convince more - Gale or himself.
Gale opens his mouth to reply, but Astarion barrels over him. "Look, I'll be more cautious in the future, alright? But I'm still useful, I swear. I won't slow us down anymore, promise."
Gale furrows his brow, once again making to speak, but Shadowheart comes over for another round of berating and healing before he has the chance. Astarion would never admit it, but he's thankful for it. He does not want to have that particular conversation.
They finally emerge from the hag's lair, Astarion eagerly drinking in the sun once more. He ignores the look he can feel Gale giving him from behind and the nausea that still lingers in spite of him being fully healed. It's probably nothing. Perhaps poisons healed differently from normal wounds.
He'll just have to keep telling himself that until he no longer feels like he's going to be sick.
They move on to the githyanki crèche they'd heard about back in the grove.
The druid they had rescued from the goblin camp could not remove their tadpoles, so they have no choice. Lae'zel seems vindicated at it being the only option they had left.
Astarion is getting better at combat, thanks in no small part to their resident githyanki. He hasn't died or been seriously injured since the swamp, not even when they had gone up against gnolls. It had shocked him, to be honest. He was sure those creatures would lead him to another grisly death.
"You are soft. Weak. Inexperienced," she had told him one day. He had a biting retort on his tongue, but before he could spit it out, she continued. "We must fix this. I will train you." He blinked, surprised, but accepted her offer. Though knowing her, she probably wouldn't have taken "no" for an answer. Regardless, he's no longer quite the liability he once was in battle, which he is immensely grateful for.
His nightmares are becoming twisted amalgamations of past and present. One moment Cazador would be flaying him, the next, the Gur hunter would shoot him in the heart. His trances are restless, and he finds himself dreading them more and more each passing night. Lae'zel's training has helped with them a bit, but they're still ever present.
They eventually encounter a troop of githyanki knights who, to his shock, Lae'zel lies to under questioning. He didn't expect that from her of all people. Perhaps he's taught her something, as well. Whatever her reasoning, it keeps them from being flayed, so he resists the urge to tease her about it.
They reach the zaith'isk Lae'zel had been talking about from the moment they'd met her. It nearly kills her. Astarion manages to talk her into leaving it before it does any permanent damage. He then lies to the doctor about the tadpole clearly being dead, which she somehow believes. He wants to leave right then, but Lae'zel insists that the doctor - or ghustil, as she called her - must have tampered with the zaith'isk and that they must report her as a traitor to the Inquisitor.
Astarion doesn't see the point - it had failed, and he would very much like to leave the crèche full of murderous githyanki, thank you - but Lae'zel clearly would not take no for an answer, so off they go.
They meet the - what did Lae'zel call it? A Kith'rak? - who's searching for the artifact their little group just so happened to have. It does not take long for her to realize they have it, and when they do not give it up, she of course attacks.
They all make it out of that particular fight alive, somehow, but none of them unscathed. Githyanki had their reputation for a reason. They burn through most of their healing potions and Shadowheart's spells in the aftermath as they all try to recover.
Astarion wants nothing more than to rest at this point, and most of the party seems to agree, but Lae'zel insists they must keep going. She uses the shard they obtained from the Kith'rak's body to open the barrier, and someone, who Astarion assumes to be the Inquisitor, tells them to come and speak with him. Angering both Lae'zel and the Inquisitor seems like a marvelously stupid idea, so they follow Lae'zel as she leads the way.
Once more they are asked to give up the artifact and once more they are drawn into a fight when they refuse. Wonderful. Astarion just loves spending all his time fighting highly trained githyanki warriors. Their group certainly has a talent for pissing powerful people off.
Astarion stays back in the shadows, sticking with a bow rather than his preferred daggers. He slinks about in the darkness, catching them off guard whenever he can with a well-placed arrow. It is the only chance he stands against them in a fight.
He manages to land a killing blow on one of them, unable to help the surge of pride he feels at it as he nocks his arrow again. Perhaps they stand a chance, after all. He aims again, putting all his focus into the hit.
He realizes far too late another shadow is now on the ground next to his. Shit. They all know Misty Step. He turns to his attacker, eyes blown wide, dropping his bow in favor of reaching for his daggers.
There is no time for him to react. The Inquisitor's blade meets his neck. Turning to face him was a mistake, as it allows the sword to slice through his trachea. He clutches at the wound, gasping for air he didn't need.
It burned. The sword is silver, he realizes, a weakness the tadpole apparently had not gotten rid of. His vision blurs with pain as loses his balance, falling to one knee. Still, he grabs one of his daggers. He could still make it out in one piece if he's fast enough.
He manages to get a dagger in hand when the Inquisitor brings down his blade again, this time to the exposed back of his neck. He is distantly aware, for the briefest of moments, that his head has been severed from his body. He has but a second to recognize this before his consciousness leaves him entirely.
When he wakes, he rubs at his neck. No sign of injury anywhere. Well, except for the bite marks, but that was a given. The skeleton is good at what he does, Astarion would give him that, even if he isn't entirely sure why he decided to follow their little group around in the first place.
Lae'zel is standing over him, a pained expression on her face that he didn't know she was capable of. It feels wrong. He pushes himself to his feet, hoping she'd do something other than stare. It's making him highly uncomfortable.
"You know, darling, it's incredibly rude to stare," he says lightly. "Not that I can blame you." She does not take the bait. He didn't expect her to.
She hesitates for a moment, looking uncharacteristically uncomfortable. "I am…sorry, Astarion," she says, and he whips his head up to look at her so fast he half expects it to fly off his neck again. "It was my job to prepare you for combat, and not only have I failed to do that adequately, I led you to an Inquisitor in spite of this failure." She seems as though saying this causes her physical pain. "It is my fault you were so grievously injured. I have failed as a leader."
He stares at her stupidly for a moment, baffled, before recovering. "Lae'zel, darling, wasn't he supposed to be one of your people's strongest warriors? I highly doubt any amount of training could've prepared me for that," he scoffs. "But you know, I did manage to survive the - Kith'rak, was it? I wouldn't have been able to manage even that without your training." He is loath to admit it, but he needs Lae'zel to stop being so…so weird. He isn't sure how to react to it.
She looks at him for a moment, considering, before nodding. "I suppose that's true enough. Still, I should not have put us in such a situation in the first place."
"Well, I'm sure there will be plenty of dangerous situations in the future you can help us avoid. We do seem to have quite the talent for putting ourselves in danger, after all." He sighs dramatically at that. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm positively starved, so I'd best be on my way. My blood's not going to replace itself." She nods as he stalks off into the woods.
He had intended to actually hunt, but now that he's alone with his thoughts, the events of the day are fully sinking in. He can feel his hands shaking and his breathing growing more rapid. How stupid. He didn't even need to breathe. Why couldn't he control it now?
He continues to gasp for air in spite of his attempts to slow down or even stop his breathing. What the hells is wrong with him? He sinks down to the ground, back against a tree, as his hands claw at his neck. He squeezes his eyes shut. His neck is still in one piece. There are no wounds. His head is still attached. He's fine.
Why, then, can he still feel the burn of silver in his neck, the blood pouring through his fingers?
They make it to the Shadow-Cursed Lands, somehow. Astarion isn't sure if that's a good thing.
He misses the sun, he finds. He knew his time in it was limited and he had wanted to enjoy it for as long as he could. The Shadow-Cursed Lands took that from him, leaving him colder than he ever thought possible.
Things are slightly better when they reach the Last Light Inn, in that he isn't quite as cold anymore. But even the Selûnite cleric's barrier can't block out the Shadow Curse's cold bite completely. Astarion might actually lose it completely if he has to stay here much longer.
Of course, with their little group's luck being what it is, their small bit of respite does not last long. A cultist - Marcus, Astarion thinks his name might be - comes for Isobel and their party is once again scrambling for their weapons, ready to come to her defense.
Marcus wastes no time. Shadowheart does. She clearly hates the thought of coming to a Selûnite's defense, and so does not ready any sort of attack despite being the closest to Isobel. Marcus does not miss this, immediately rushing toward the two of them.
If Isobel falls, everyone in the inn will fall victim to the Shadow Curse, bar those of them who Isobel blessed. They will no doubt attack them immediately Astarion finds he does not want to fight even more people then he already has to. He grits his teeth, dashing forward with his dagger and strikes.
Marcus cries out in pain as the dagger pierces his arm. He turns toward Astarion, casting a spell - Vampiric Shout, Astarion thinks - which immediately causes his companions to cry out in pain. It does not affect Astarion in the slightest, which gains him Marcus' full attention - if he didn't already have it when he stabbed the man. He had never wanted an invisibility potion more than he did right then.
He finds himself in a sort of deadly dance with Marcus, ducking and dodging every swing of the man's greatclub. But Marcus is quick, and Astarion does not have a chance to strike, too busy dodging his every attack.
Astarion is not able to keep it up for long. He is much more experienced now then he was when first stepped off the Nautiloid, but he is also starving. There are no animals to hunt in the Shadow-Cursed Lands, and like hells is he going to try and bite one of the others. His position in the group is already precarious at best; though he knows he's less of a liability than before, he is still undoubtedly their group's weakest link. Besides, it's not like he isn't already intimately familiar with hunger. He can fight hungry. He'd always managed before and he'd do it again.
Marcus was not a variable he'd foreseen. Astarion slows even as his mind screams at his body to pick up the pace, and suddenly feels something heavy hit his head, knocking him to the ground.
Astarion holds a dagger in front of himself protectively as Marcus stands over him. He does not have time to move before Marcus raises the weapon, bringing it down against his skull with a sharp crack.
He doesn't remember losing consciousness, but next thing he knows, Shadowheart is above him, the glow of a Revivify spell on her hands. She looks upset. Over him? Surely not. Shadowheart has remained aloof toward all of them in the time they'd spent together.
He tries to stand, but she immediately pushes him back down. "Don't move," she snaps. "You won't get very far like this. Let me heal you first." It's phrased like a request, but her tone makes it clear that it's a demand. Astarion complies.
She finishes, and as he stands, he notices with no small amount of surprise that his wounds are healed completely. She has a limited amount of spells she can use before having to rest and so usually distributes healing among them evenly, leaving them with minor wounds to tend to with healing potions and rest. But Astarion doesn't even have a scratch on him.
He turns to her, eyebrow raised. He opens his mouth to speak, but she beats him to it. "Don't give me that look," she says sternly, crossing her arms over her chest. She maintains her severe expression for a moment before sighing, arms dropping to her side.
"Look, don't make a big deal out of it or anything, alright?" she finally says. "The only reason you got hurt was because I hesitated. I should've known better. I do know better." She clenches her fists so hard Astarion is half afraid they're going to fall off. "It's the least I can do to make up for it."
"Really?" He furrows his brow, cocking his head to the side slightly. "I wouldn't have thought that'd matter. Don't Sharrans have a tendency to kill Selûnites?"
She's shaking slightly, and Astarion wonders if he overstepped somewhere without realizing it. "…We do." She swallows thickly, refusing to look up as she walks off, leaving Astarion on his own.
Isobel comes to check on him not long after, worried after she saw him fall like that. It hurts to look at her. He can only see Marcus bringing down his greatclub when he does. He smiles politely, carefully not showing his fangs even though she probably knows he's undead already, and makes up some excuse to leave.
His head hurts, even after Shadowheart took care to heal all his wounds. He thinks he can feel his skull splintering once more. He is certain he keeps seeing dark wings out of the corner of his eyes, but when he turns, nothing is there.
He does not trance that night, too afraid his aching skull will shatter to pieces if he allows himself any rest.
They somehow make it to Baldur's Gate in one piece. Astarion still isn't quite sure how they managed it. But they were here, and now they could deal with Cazador.
It takes some time before they actually manage to find Cazador, of course. Everyone's personal demons seemed to be waiting for them at Baldur's Gate, not just Astarion's, and so they end up sidetracked. It's only when Astarion's lovely siblings try to kidnap him that their little group decides Cazador is a priority and needs to be dealt with immediately.
He's still a little surprised that they want to help him. Part of him still thinks it's only because there's a vampire lord in Baldur's Gate trying to become the most powerful vampire in existence and has nothing to do with him. He's starting to realize, though, that for some godsforsaken reason, these fools actually care about him.
How strange.
They make their way into his palace. Astarion hates every minute of it. He thinks he'd rather like to burn the place to the ground when all is said and done. Karlach would probably be amenable.
Before they reach his old master, Astarion is faced with every person he has ever killed, along with everyone his siblings have. Sebastian is the hardest for him to face. It shakes him more than he'd like to admit. He wonders if stealing the ritual from Cazador is truly the best idea.
He has to, he reminds himself. It is the only way he will ever be safe. The only way he will never be hurt, never be killed again. He can finally feel at peace.
They walk in and Astarion immediately feels himself bristle. He knows, of course, that Cazador is taunting him because he knows how Astarion will react. The knowledge does not stop him in the face of rage. He throws a punch with two hundred years of force behind it.
And immediately finds himself in the air, shirt and armor gone.
He thinks, bitterly, that Cazador was right. That he is impulsive and reckless and stupid. That all the pain he's dealt with is a result of his own foolishness. He is going to die again, and his companions (friends?) will not be able to bring him back. His soul will be damned to the hells and Cazador will have won.
Gale is in front of him suddenly, the sensation of the Weave in the air around him - a telltale sign of a spell being cast. He says something that Astarion doesn't hear and pulls him free before firing off a spell at an approaching werewolf.
Astarion cannot quite comprehend what he's seeing. Gale's dealing with his werewolf, Lae'zel and Karlach are taking on the skeletons with a ferocity he'd never seen from them - which is saying something with those two - Wyll is casting Eldritch Blasts at the bats faster than Cazador can summon them, and Shadowheart is focusing on a Daylight spell, weakening his sire.
They were all at his defense. He didn't die because of them, and they are giving their all to ensure he stays that way. Something strange twists in his chest.
He grips his dagger and races towards Cazador while he's busy with Shadowheart.
It does not take long for the others to join him, having dealt with Cazador's lackeys. Cazador is overwhelmed, unable to react, and they bring him to his knees.
Astarion pulls him out of his coffin, throwing him to the ground. "No, no. No healing sleep for you. Wake up!" Pure venom coats his every word. He tightens his grip on his dagger.
He could do it. He could pull off the ritual. All he'd have to do was carve the runes into Cazador's back and he'd never have to be afraid again.
He hesitates.
Thoughts of his friends - and he thinks he really can call them that now - fill his head against his will. He thinks of each time he died with one of them involved, no matter how indirect. He thinks of them against Cazador, fighting with a fervor he's never seen, each of them ensuring they do not fail him again.
He thinks, perhaps, he does not need the ritual if he has them.
He makes his decision.
He lunges forward, plunging his dagger into Cazador's chest over and over again. He thinks he might be screaming. He isn't sure.
He kneels before his sire's body and cries. He can't remember the last time he's cried. It felt too easy, the man who had tormented him for two hundred years dying just like that. But the motionless corpse in front of him is undeniable.
He can feel his friends' presence behind him. They leave him plenty of space. They do not try to come close or touch him, which he is grateful for, but they are there all the same. It's…strangely reassuring. He can't remember the last time he actually felt reassured. It helps him come back from his breakdown, anchoring him to reality once more.
He pushes himself to his feet, grabbing Cazador's staff. Karlach is the first to move closer and, when he does not protest, the rest follow suit. He was at first unsure of what to do, but with their presence, he feels bolstered, strengthened. He frees the spawn, all seven thousand of them, and entrusts them to his siblings.
No one says a word, but he feels like they approve of his choice. Wyll silently removes his cloak, covering Astarion with it in lieu of his missing shirt even though Astarion is no doubt getting blood on it. Karlach squeezes his shoulder, the warmth grounding him.
He is tired but alive, battered but free. Truly free, in a way he had only thought himself to be before. He is, despite everything, no longer afraid. He, against all reason, thinks he might be able to trust again. His companions had earned it. He'd been hurt many times in their presence before, when they were all practically strangers. But here, where it mattered, they refused to let it happen again. They had given their all to help him face his old master, even knowing how dangerous he was. Yes, he is certain "friends" is the right word for them.