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It had all happened so quickly. Astarion had known that they should be watching out for his siblings, for Cazador—but it was one thing to know in theory, and another entirely to be woken in the middle of the night by Aurelia and Leon trying to drag him back to Cazador’s mansion. It was a good thing that he was both loud and not alone—they’d managed to drag him as far as the common sitting area, but Aurelia was clearly unprepared to be struck in the shoulder by a bolt of magic—Rylafein’s magic, a flash of red and a burst of black-green.
“Hands off.” It was a low, threatening, almost animal snarl—and there was something in Ryla’s eyes, something Astarion had only seen the like of once before. It certainly wasn’t as bad as the night where Rylafein’s Bhaal-born bloody Urge had set itself to killing Astarion, but it was the closest he had seen Ryla come to that thing , before or since.
Astarion wondered if he’d been woken from one of his frequent nightmares. If he was closer to Bhaal’s monster, right now, because he’d been dragged out of one of the visions of slaughter that haunted him. That were, according to him, the reason he couldn’t trance normally.
They had also been the reason that he and Astarion had never shared a tent, when they were…. entangled. Why even when they camped in the dangerous wilds, he’d always slept a ways away from the others, lest he wake them.
Pure speculation, Astarion knew, but the nightmares had been more frequent as they approached Baldur’s Gate. There was little reason to suspect they’d gotten less so.
It was ridiculous that he felt so concerned about this. He had made the decision for himself that even though his nice, simple plan had failed in a way he had never anticipated—he hadn’t even considered that falling for Rylafein would be possible—and even though he knew, deep down, what he really wanted, it had been…better. To cut things off. Let Ryla think it had always stayed what it started as. Extricate himself, before it became more serious than either of them was prepared to deal with.
Cazador would kill him. No matter how powerful Ryla was, no matter what blood ran in his veins, and no matter what Astarion did—deep down in his core, he knew. Cazador would stop at nothing to destroy someone that gave Astarion happiness. That gave him ideas about being free.
Perhaps, once Cazador was dead and Astarion was the Vampire Ascendant, he might try again.
Regardless, it seemed Aurelia and Leon recognized the feral edge in Ryla’s eyes, just like Astarion did. Perhaps they didn’t know what he was— who he was, Bhaal’s perfect creation, creator of the Absolute—but they could recognize danger when they saw it, and it made the grip on his arms loosen. Enough for him to jerk out of it, and move to Ryla’s side, which all in all immediately made everything feel much safer.
He’d blustered, with Petras and Dal, but the thought of being dragged back to Cazador…
The stuff of actual nightmares.
He watched Ryla tense, full body, close his eyes, and let out a distinctly shuddery breath. When they opened again, they were back to normal—still the intimidating red of one of Lolth’s Drow, but without the feral, maniacal edge.
“What,” Ryla said, in the tone of someone who was very much not going to tolerate anything but a direct answer, “are you doing here.”
“We’ve come to return Astarion to the Master,” Aurelia said. “He needs all of us for the ritual.”
“We will live again,” Leon said, and bless him, he sounded so very sure of himself.
“The rite,” Aurelia said. “The master needs him. He must attend.”
Ah yes. The ritual. So Cazador truly was ready, just as Petras and Dalyria had blabbed.
“Oh, I’m well aware of what the master needs,” Astarion said, and he knew his voice was dripping with sarcasm, “but don’t we deserve better?”
“Better?” Aurelia looked confused.
This was it. An opportunity. If he could convince them to listen to him, to walk willingly to their deaths….
He needed the power of the Vampire Ascendant. For himself, yes, so that he never had to fear anything again. But also for Rylafein—so Astarion could be strong enough to seek what he actually wanted. So he could offer something more than his meager self.
“After all these centuries of torment,” Astarion said, “I know what you all want. More than power, more than to walk in the sun. You want to see him dead.”
He puffed himself up, proudly.
“The Rite of Profane Ascension will be mine, and he will not see a scrap of its glory. I will complete the ritual as the Ascendant, and then I will kill him.” Something flickered across Rylafein’s face. Astarion wasn’t sure exactly what it was—because it almost looked like distress, but that didn’t make any sense. “This is your chance. Stand with me. Name me your new master. We will get our revenge, and you will live again.”
There it was, again. That—something, which really was starting to look more and more like undeniable distress, in Ryla’s eyes and his face.
“Have you no heart, Astarion?” Ryla said, and there was something agonizing in the way Ryla said his name. “You’re asking them to die for you in this ritual.”
Sometimes, it really did shock Astarion, how much compassion Ryla was capable of. An Oathbreaker, a warlock who served an Archdevil, Bhaal’s perfect creation—and yet he looked at Astarion’s siblings and refused to see that the price of their lives was worth the power the ritual would grant.
One of the many contradictions in him that made Astarion want things. Things that he could not be allowed to have.
“Don’t do this, Rylafein,” he said, softly. “I can’t be what you see in me.”
“Yes, you can, ” Ryla protested.
“ Die?” Aurelia cut in, before Astarion could argue. “Whatsoever are you speaking of? We are going to cheat undeath!”
“Don’t be fools,” Rylafein said. “You’re slaughter-lambs, all. Cazador needs your souls.”
Part of Astarion couldn’t believe it. The other part remembered Ryla’s opposition, his questions, the way he absolutely refused to engage with the promise of the ritual.
Damn it all.
“The master doesn’t need to lie to us,” Aurelia, the idiot, said. “He controls us fully. Why would he go through the trouble…”
“Because it’s more cruel— shit ,” Leon realized, because he actually had a brain in his head. “We’re doomed. What do you need, how can we—”
It didn’t matter.
Cazador’s power came for them.
A bright red glow filled their eyes, and in a moment, more of his siblings had emerged from the darkness.
Violet launched herself at Astarion from her hiding place. He had a moment to recognize what was happening—and it was a moment too long, because suddenly, he was getting shoved out of the way, and another body interposed itself between him and Violet’s claws.
Ryla was not wearing armor, just his nightclothes—and vampire claws ripped straight through them, and bit into his shoulder, slashing it open.
But he was, it seemed, armed. A dagger appeared in his hand, and he drove it into Violet’s chest, and there was a burst of purple-black fire—the strange change in his smites ever since Rylafein accepted the Oathbreaker Knight's offer of power.
Violet staggered back, and disappeared.
“Fuck,” Ryla gasped, briefly, pressing a hand to the wound—but it was only for a moment, because the door to the common area slammed open again, and there was Jaheira—with her own scimitars on her back and Ryla’s in hand.
“You left your door open,” she told Ryla, in the tone of a scolding parent, “and you forgot these.” She tossed them to him, and he caught them with ease—a demonstration of skill that Astarion had to admire.
“You’re the best, Jaheira,” Ryla said, and then he was off like a shot.
With Jaheira joined in the fight—and soon, the rest of their companions, roused by the sounds of battle—it wasn’t exactly difficult to drive off his siblings. None of the other spawn could be said to have much battle experience, certainly not in comparison to a full group of adventurers. One by one, they vanished back to Cazador, and Astarion hoped they carried the message that he was not alone.
That, apparently, he had companions who would stand by him. He’d known, to some degree, that he’d managed to integrate himself well into the group—that they liked him, to some degree or another—but it was one thing to know that, and quite another to have them actually draw arms on his behalf.
“Well,” Ryla said, once the smoke had cleared, as it were, “it seems Cazador’s made his position clear.”
“And I think we’ve made ours equally clear in response,” Gale said, sounding quite proud of himself. Astarion wished he could make himself say something—anything at all—but in the face of honest dedication to his safety, words failed him.
“We can no longer let this hang over us, I think,” Jaheira said. “Better to take the fight to Cazador.”
“In the morning,” Ryla said, but his tone was of agreement. “No point tangling with a vampire lord in the middle of the night. Go back to bed, we all need rest before we fight.”
The others started to file out, but Ryla lingered, like he wanted to make sure of something. For his part, Astarion moved towards the door back to his room, but as soon as he crossed Ryla’s field of vision, Ryla frowned.
“Wait,” he said, and he moved closer.
At some point or another, one of them must have managed to hit him, but Astarion had barely noticed, truth be told. Not until Ryla was frowning up at him and putting a hand on his face, and the warmth of his magic flowed in to close the stinging injury. It flowed beyond that, too, chasing away the pain in his shoulder from having it wrenched while he struggled against Leon and Aurelia, and even burning away a little of the lingering exhaustion from being startled out of his trance.
Ryla was always so gentle, laying on hands. It felt like a tender caress. Like the type of thing Astarion was not supposed to have from him. Not anymore. Not after imperiously informing him that what they had was only ever transactional, and he was no longer interested in paying the price for Ryla’s protection.
Ryla was supposed to be angry with him, damn it all. But as always, Ryla refused to make sense.
And the claw marks on his shoulder were still bleeding, sluggishly, a splash of red against blue skin.
“You’re bleeding,” Astarion said, and he knew he had to sound a little absent, a little puzzled. Why was Ryla checking him first, spending so much of his power to lay on hands, when only one of them was actually injured?
“Am I?” Ryla said, as if he’d genuinely forgotten. Maybe he had, Astarion wasn’t sure. Certainly, Ryla could get very wrapped up in the adrenaline of a fight.
He put a hand to his shoulder, brought it away bloody, and sighed, then put it back, and the soft blue glow of his magic suffused the injury, closing it quickly.
“There. Hardly anything worth getting worked up about,” he said. There was a brief pause, and then—“you don’t really intend to do it, do you? Sacrifice all of them, just for that awful ritual?”
“Why shouldn’t I?” Astarion asked. ‘I need to,’ he meant. “All that power—imagine what I could do with it. What we could do with it.”
“You don’t need it,” Ryla said, firmly. “It’s not worth the cost. And considering whose ritual it is, there’s no telling what else Mephistopheles might ask of you.”
“Says the man contracted to Levistus,” Astarion pointed out.
“A contract I signed for the power to steal from Mephistopheles, which, as you might recall, is the reason we’re in this mess, so maybe I know a thing or two about grasping for power you shouldn’t be grasping for,” Ryla shot back.
“Perhaps,” Astarion said, “but this is different.” It has to be different.
“As you say,” Ryla said, and he sighed. “You really have no sympathy for them? Even though they share your plight?”
“Why should I?” Astarion asked. “No one ever helped me, no one ever said a kind thing to me.” No one except the Drow standing in front of him, and the irony was not lost on him. A Drow, made to be Bhaal’s perfect killer, and he had been the first taste of kidness Astarion had experienced in two long, miserable centuries. “All of them would gladly let me die to take this power.”
“But you can be better than that, now,” Ryla said. Then, he sighed, and shook his head. “Get some rest.”
Astarion hesitated, for a moment.Took a long, thoughtful look at Ryla, as if staring long enough might make whatever was going on in his head make any more sense.
“You look confused,” Ryla said, deadpan.
“You got yourself seriously injured protecting me,” Astarion replied. “If Violet had been aiming a little higher, she might have ripped your throat out. I think, after everything that happened between us, it is a little puzzling that you would go to such lengths.”
“I didn’t stop caring about you just because you broke up with me, Astarion,” Ryla said. He said it flatly, like that wasn’t supposed to be something that left Astarion feeling like he was the one that had his shoulder ripped open by Violet’s claws, and the accompanying blood loss related dizziness was coming for him. “Yes, it hurt. But it’s my own fault, for being an idiot and wanting…” He paused. Sighed. “Wanting. Period. And I’m not so petty that I’d send you back to Cazador for the crime of breaking my heart.”
Astarion’s heart sank. He was so stupid.
“I….didn’t realize that what we had meant that much to you,” Astarion admitted. He hadn’t, really. He’d thought—well. He’d thought incorrectly, clearly.
“Because I never told you. And it doesn’t matter, anyway. I know you don’t feel the same way, and I won’t ask for anything from you that isn’t freely given.” Ryla stood up, and turned away from him. “I’m going back to bed. We’ll clean this mess up in the morning, and then we’ll deal with Cazador.”
Rylafein was not there in the morning.
It wouldn’t have made Astarion anxious, under most circumstances. Frankly, he’d have assumed Ryla intended to meet with Gortash—to secure assistance for them from the Archduke, perhaps, or just to enjoy his company, or both. It was almost funny, the degree of obvious affection that Gortash had for Rylafein—and all things considered, Astarion could think of little else that would help them as much. Their leader-of-sorts having the Archduke of Baldur’s Gate at his beck and call was brilliant.
And anyway, once he was the Vampire Ascendant, once Cazador was dead and he was free and powerful, he and Ryla could work things out, one way or the other, if Ryla still wanted to try. A large if, Astarion knew, but maybe he could make Ryla understand.
The day stretched on, though, and Ryla never returned. That, Astarion found unusual. Unusual and somewhat anxiety-inducing; he didn’t think it was unreasonable of him to prefer to have Ryla present if they were going to infiltrate Cazador’s mansion. Astarion was not too proud to admit that he wasn’t exactly a planner, but Ryla was— and on top of that, he was a powerful ally to have.
(And, alright, Astarion would just feel better with Ryla present. An insane thing to say about the Scion of Bhaal who had once broken into the Hells to steal the Crown of Karsus and placed it on the head of an Elder Brain, but there they were.)
Perhaps it was rude of him, to violate Rylafein’s privacy, but Astarion felt very certain that he had a good reason. And if it turned out that he was just being dramatic and worrying for nothing,h e would apologize later. But the locks on the Elfsong’s room doors were almost alarmingly easy to pick, and the door came open easily.
Ryla, given his own private space, seemed determined to take it up. The room was a mess, but it was the mess of a person living in it; papers scattered all over the provided desk, various artifacts collected over their adventures laying on the dresser and bedside table, clothes casually tossed on the floor and piled in a corner. It was as if Rylafein was determined to prove that there was a person here, that he existed and was alive.
One particular piece of paper caught his eye, though; the bed was mostly empty, except for a single folded sheet.
Astarion frowned, and moved over, picking it up.
Need to speak in person. Important information. - EG
The handwriting was…messy. Casual. Not what Astarion would have expected from Enver Gortash, at all—and it didn’t match the letters they’d found in that poor murdered bastard Peartree’s house, where the man’s handwriting was practiced and careful and elegant. Similar enough that Astarion was fairly certain it was actually from him, but without the… flair he seemed to put in for other people.
Presenting a particular picture, all the time—Astarion supposed he knew what that was like. And it was almost charming to see the facade turned off, here, in a note to someone Gortash very clearly trusted.
He folded the note again and set it back on the bed. Whatever Rylafein was doing, he was likely acting on the Archduke’s information—presuming the meeting had even occurred, which Astarion could admit was a large presumption. Any number of things could have kept Rylafein from making it. But it was a lead, either way, and if Rylafein had never made it to Gortash, that would be…
Well. It would be something. But worrying about that was for later. For now, Astarion needed to speak to Enver Gortash.
Getting into Wyrm’s Rock was easy. Frankly, if Astarion didn’t know better, he’d have thought Gortash was expecting him; granted, the security measures in place were more for dealing with Orin and her band of doppelgangers than a vampire with a reliable supply of invisibility potions, but still. He got to the penthouse, slipped through the entrance area, and made his way to Gortash’s tucked away little office on the second floor. He waited, tucked away himself, until he was certain Gortash was both inside and alone—no need for someone else to make this complicated—and slipped in silently.
The Archduke seemed absorbed in something at his desk. Like this, Astarion really could see what Ryla saw in him—he was handsome, in a messy sort of way, and Astarion had certainly already seen how charming he could be. Perhaps it was no surprise that before, when the two of them had worked together, Rylafein had fallen for him.
“You really could stand to work on your security,” Astarion deadpanned, which made Gortash jerk his head up and reach for something hidden under a stack of papers—a knife, if Astarion had to guess. He put his hands up in surrender, but couldn’t help a slightly amused grin. “I’m not here to kill you, I promise. I just want to have a conversation.”
“Is that so,” Gortash said, and he didn’t sound entirely convinced. He looked Astarion over, and the recognition seemed to click after a moment. “Ah. The vampire spawn. Astarion, yes?”
“Rylafein told you that, I assume,” Astarion said. It made sense—he’d mentioned getting Gortash’s help with Cazador, and explaining how they knew that Cazador Szarr was a vampire lord and why killing him mattered probably required it.
“He did,” Gortash replied. He sat back, looking just slightly more relaxed, and let go of whatever weapon he was hiding, then gestured for Astarion to also take a seat, which he did, draping himself as lazily as possible. No need to show that he was concerned. “So, what exactly can I help you with that required you to break into my office?”
“I found your note to Rylafein,” Astarion said, “requesting an in-person conversation. He hasn’t returned to the Elfsong, and we haven’t heard anything from him all day. I was hoping that you might deign to reveal what was so secret that you needed to tell him face to face.”
Gortash actually looked concerned.
“Before, it was not so unusual to not hear from him for days at a time. But I imagine the circumstances are quite different, now.” He shook his head. “I wanted to speak to him about Cazador Szarr.”
Cazador. Of course. Astarion felt cold, suddenly, like the temperature of the room had dropped all at once.
“You’re aware he’s watching you,” Gortash continued.
“He sent my…. siblings to attempt to kidnap me back to him, last night,” Astarion said.
“Ryla told me, yes.” Gortash nodded. “What I told him was that it was almost certainly no coincidence. Last night, there was a party at Cazador’s estate. No one who entered, left.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I expected Rylafein to return to the rest of you with that information. Apparently, that was foolish of me.”
Astarion almost couldn’t believe what he was putting together, but there seemed to be only one conclusion.
“Thank you,” he said, and he stood up, “but I need to go.” Gortash nodded, and he gave Astarion a long, evaluating look.
“I’d like to offer you assistance, but given my position, it’s difficult to authorize a raid on a noble’s home with little to no evidence. However. ” He reached into a desk drawer, and produced an object that looked like a grenade. “The tadpole protects you from the effects of the sun, yes? But Cazador is still vulnerable?”
“He should be, yes,” Astsrion said. Gortash nodded, and rolled the grenade towards him. Astarion scooped it up, turning it over in his hands. It looked, on the face, like an ordinary smokepowder grenade, but it felt…warm.
Odd.
“My own design,” Gortash said. “Strictly still a prototype; I was hoping to have more time to refine it, but under the circumstances…field testing it will have to be.”
“What exactly does it do?” Astarion asked.
“It will produce a bright flash—a miniature sun—that should linger for about thirty seconds after it explodes. I started working on it after Rylafein told me about Cazador. I hadn’t previously considered vampires a threat I needed to be concerned with—no offense—“
“None taken,”
“—but upon learning there was a vampire lord in my city, it seemed somewhat more urgent.”
Astarion tucked the grenade away.
“Thank you,” he said.
“The least I can offer,” Gortash waved off his thanks. “Just make sure Rylafein is alright.”
“I will,” Astarion promised.
He tried to be as nonchalant as possible on his way out, but once he hit the streets of the Lower City, he broke into a run.
The setting sun painted the city streets in reds and oranges.
They were running out of time.
“You’re wasting your time. The others will show up—I’m not so deluded as to think they won’t—but Astarion isn’t fool enough to come running into such an obvious trap to recover someone he doesn’t care about.”
“Fascinating, how wrongly you seem to have judged your value in his eyes.”
“I’m not wrong. You’ll see.”
Astarion pushed open the doors to their wing at the Elfsong just in time to see Violet appear, seemingly out of mist.
That was new.
Her eyes glowed red, and in her hands were a familiar pair of scimitars.
She turned to look directly at Astarion, ignoring the others—who were clearly waiting for him, and just as clearly startled to see her.
“The master has sent me to inform you that he has your Drow. If you wish for his safe return, you will come to the Palace, and submit yourself to the ritual, tonight. If you do not, he will be turned and used in your place.”
Violet vanished, as quickly as she’d come. Belm and the Justiciar’s scimitar clattered to the ground.
Astarion’s knees collapsed out from under him, too.
“I can’t fucking believe he went to Cazador’s mansion alone,” Karlach said. “No, wait, I absolutely can fucking believe it, it’s ridiculous and stupid, of course Ryla would.”
“Be that as it may,” Jaheira said, “we obviously cannot leave him there.”
The others were talking, over each other, all at once. Astarion felt…dizzy. Hazy, almost. It felt like a horrible nightmare, the realization that his inference had been correct. That Rylafein had taken Gortash’s information, and gone after Cazador alone. Had walked into that monster’s lair, by himself, with no backup.
Astarion couldn’t imagine what he’d thought to accomplish. Surely he hadn’t expected to kill Cazador by himself, no matter his talents for violence. Perhaps he’d thought to simply scout things out, and had gotten unlucky—or cocky, perhaps, Astarion couldn’t be sure which.
“Astarion,” Wyll’s voice cut through his dizzy haze, and he jerked his head towards the warlock. “You know Cazador’s manor best. If we’re going to recover Rylafein, we’ll need what you know.”
Astarion’s heart sank. Wyll was right.
Jaheira’s hand was on his shoulder.
“Come on, pup. Up we go,” she said, and he let her pull him into a standing position, and half-haul him over to the table at the center of the room. Gale appeared, with a roll of blank parchment and a pen, and he rolled it out.
“Draw us a layout of the interior,” he said. “As best you can.”
“It won’t help,” Astarion said. “There are too many places in the manor where we weren’t allowed. But I think I know where the entrance to his secret chapel is.” Despite himself, he picked up the pen and began sketching—messily, but well enough. The entrance, the hall, Cazador’s ballroom, and the place where his private quarters were. “Here,” Astarion drew a circle around those quarters, “is where Cazador works. We were never allowed in here, and the entrance to his defiled chapel must be within.”
“So how do we get there?” Karlach asked.
He took a deep breath. Their whole little group was looking to him— he wondered, briefly, if Ryla felt this combination of sinking nervousness and intense overwhelm, when they looked to him for help.
“We can’t all go,” Astarion said. “Cazador might not have asked me to come alone, but I would rather not draw too much attention to us.” He took a deep breath. Let it out. “Gale. Minthara. Shadowheart. I’ll need you three to come with me. The rest of you will stay here—Ryla might escape, and he’ll need someone to meet him.”
“Understood,” Jaheira said.
“We’ll hold down the home front,” Karlach agreed. Wyll simply nodded, and Lae’zel huffed, looking more than a little disappointed—though surely she could see the tactical sense.
He sketched a little further—the back entrance, from the Lower City.
“We can sneak in through here. There’s a back door near the central wall; convenient, for bringing back victims from the taverns here. There shouldn’t be much in the way of guards—some charmed innocents, maybe, but nothing we can’t essentially walk past. I should be able to get us through any locked doors, and then it’s just a matter of getting through Cazador’s enchanted door—either with the appropriate password or by magically forcing our way.” He nodded to Gale, who nodded right back. “After that, we’ll find whatever way Cazador uses to get to his chapel, go down there, kill him, and rescue Ryla.”
It all sounded so simple, laid out like that.
“Good. We have a plan, then,” Minthara said. “We will take our fight to Cazador, and make him regret his yearning for power.”
Astarion desperately wanted it to be that simple.
It was as Astarion had predicted, getting through to the back entrance of the palace—just some charmed guards who only needed a little verbal nudging in the right direction to let them past.
It was much less as he’d predicted when they stepped into the palace itself.
Perhaps he should have expected it. Rylafein was Bhaalspawn, after all, and certainly given to violence. But he wasn’t entirely prepared to step into the entrance and see a corpse, charred by the unholy fires of Rylafein’s smites. There was a trail of them, leading to the great black doors to Cazador’s ballroom—servants who had tried to stop Rylafein from getting where he wanted to be, apparently.
The faces were familiar. It was eerie, knowing that these lunatics who had thrown themselves at Cazador’s feet were dead. That he would never hear their mockery or their pleading again, that he would never deal with the obnoxious simpering of obsessive idiots who had no idea the kind of curse they were bringing down on themselves.
It felt strange, being back. Wrong. Especially with the palace rendered so silent. Astarion half-expected Cazador to appear behind him and correct his posture, or to hear Petras’s idiotic whining, or to find Leon’s little girl tucked behind a statue because someone had yelled at her for no reason again.
But not today.
Today, the place was silent as the crypt it ought to be.
The black doors were wide open. Behind them—more carnage. Rylafein had apparently carved through a small pack of werewolves all by himself, which Astarion had to admit was quite an impressive feat, even for a man who commanded the kind of combined skills that Rylafein did. Smites and eldritch blasts and fireballs had made corpses of Cazador’s guards, leaving nothing but bodies in his wake, and it was almost charming, how thoroughly he’d wrecked things.
There were other corpses, too, untouched by Ryla’s magic—the remains of the guests at the party that Gorrahs had spoken of, Astarion supposed. Some had probably been taken to be fed on, but the rest had been slaughtered like…not even like cattle. Exterminated, like pests that needed to be removed.
“He really carved through this place,” Shadowheart said, and she almost sounded admiring.
“And likely burned much of his power to do it,” Minthara said, and she sounded much less so. “It seems he let anger and haste get the better of him. Foolish, when he had to know that the real fight was yet to come.”
Privately, Astarion agreed. Verbally, he was loathe to agree with such an unkind assessment of Rylafein—but it was fair. He certainly could be impulsive, prone to big displays of magic when something much smaller would do.
“I just wish he’d trusted us to come with him,” Gale said, and he sounded genuinely frustrated. “Surely he must have known he didn’t have to do this alone.”
“Which is why I will be quite curious to hear his explanation for why he did so,” Minthara said, in the way of someone who was very certain that she would be receiving one, whether Ryla wanted to provide it or not.
Some part of Astarion rankled at that, wanted to protect Ryla from Minthara’s hypothetical interrogation, but it wasn't even happening , and Ryla certainly didn’t need anyone’s protection. Rescuing, apparently. Backup, obviously. But on even footing, Astarion trusted that he could handle himself.
He reached down to brush a thumb over Belm’s hilt, where it rested at his hip. Ryla’s scimitars sat in holsters next to his own shortswords, a preparation for what would undoubtedly be a dangerous fight against Cazador. If Ryla could fight, Astarion suspected they would need him, and he also suspected that Ryla would want to.
“Before you can ask him, we have to find him,” Astarion said. “Come on, Cazador’s private office is this way.”
There was an elevator there—one Astarion had never seen before. And below…
“I can’t believe this was all under my feet for two centuries,” he said, voice soft and amazed. He wanted to explore it all, pick it apart—but there wasn’t time. Not when Cazador had Ryla captive. Not when he hadn’t bothered to give a clear timeline, not when he could get bored at any time—
If he’d so much as started carving Astarion’s part of his contract into Rylafein…..
Astarion was going to kill him. He was going to kill him painfully . He’d already intended to, for two hundred years of his own suffering. To add Rylafein’s on top, when Rylafein was only even involved because of Astarion—
Whatever he could do to Cazador would not be near enough.
There was something eerie, about walking through these halls, finding doors that should be locked left wide open. Cazador clearly hadn’t bothered shutting things after Ryla came through—and why would he, really. He hardly needed secrets or security. Not when he was on the cusp of becoming the Vampire Ascendant.
It struck Astarion, then, that he’d barely thought of the ritual since they’d arrived here. The ritual he had felt so certain he needed, the power he’d wanted to claim at any cost.
But if that cost was Ryla— if Cazador had already done something to bind him to the ritual—
It seemed that there was, in fact, a price Astarion was not willing to pay. And that price was a pretty Drow with a smile that lit up his whole face, and a deadpan sense of humor, and who happened to be the perfectly crafted son of Bhaal.
Damn it all.
“Astarion,” Shadowheart said, “are you alright?”
He hadn’t realized he’d stopped walking.
“Yes,” he said, automatically, “I’m fine.” She looked…he wasn’t sure. Skeptical, maybe, like she didn’t quite believe him.
“Alright,” she said, “then lead on.”
“Yes, of course.”
He was not prepared for what was through the next set of doors.
They were shut, but unlocked, when he and the others arrived, and opened with a push, and for a moment, he thought the room was empty—and then Shadowheart gasped, and he looked towards the walls, and realized that on either side were cells.
Cells full of people.
“Gods,” he said, softly. His eyes swept over the faces visible behind the bars, as he slowly took a step towards one of the cells.
They locked on a familiar pair.
It had been a hundred and seventy years since he had laid eyes on Sebastian, but he had never forgotten that face. He was blithe about it, sometimes—had to be; the enormity of the number of lives he’d ended sometimes felt like more than he—or anyone—was meant to comprehend. But there were some—some who had stuck out.
Sebastian was one of them.
And there, on his face—Astarion recognized the marking carved into it. He’d seen it when Ryla drew out the scars on his back (remembered Ryla’s thoughtful little pout, the way his face wrinkled when hee as deep in thought, how his whole face had lit up when he’d hit on the answer and gasped out “it’s not a poem, Astarion, it’s a contract! ” ; he’d been proud of himself for recognizing it.)
The realization sank into his bones, all at once.
Not just seven spawn to placate the devil.
Seven spawn, and gods only knew how many more souls, bound in blood and scars, all to be sent directly to Mephistopheles.
But they were still alive. Which meant that Ryla was still alive. Cazador hadn’t started the ritual.
“Sebastian,” the name tumbled from his lips unbidden, and he watched the man jerk, like he was startled to hear it. He stared, for a moment, shocked, and then he lunged forward, and even though he knew the cell door was between them, Astarion still jolted back.
“You! You did this, you brought me here, you— ” He took a breath, and it looked…difficult. Like he had to force himself to calm down. “What are you doing down here?”
“We’re here to stop Cazador,” Astarion said, and it was true enough.
“The Drow…who came through before. He said the same thing. Said he would free us. Is he with you?” Sebastian asked.
Of course Rylafein had promised that. How Bhaal’s perfect killer had ended up with such a soft heart was beyond Astarion.
“He is,” Astarion said. “We came here looking for him.”
“He never left the ritual chamber,” Sebastian said. “Went in and never came out.” He looked Astarion in the eyes, searching for…something. “How long?” He asked, after a long moment.
Astarion did not need clarification.
“....One hundred and seventy years. You were one of my first.”
He heard Shadowheart gasp behind him, like she couldn’t even comprehend what she was hearing.
“My family…my friends….they’re all gone,” Sebastian said. “You…took them from me.”
“I did,” Astarion acknowledged.
He’d done it under Cazador’s orders, yes. Had not exactly had a wide variety of choices available to him, all things considered. But he had still chosen Sebastian. Shy and sweet. Never been kissed. New to desire, and far too trusting, and far too easy. He had chosen every victim himself, no matter how much he had hated it.
Ryla had gotten so angry, when Ulma accused Astarion of living a life of violence and sin—had bared his teeth and snapped at her that if she wanted to make accusations, she ought to throw them at the son of Bhaal who had chosen to be a monster—but Ulma hadn't been entirely wrong.
Astarion had thought he was killing them, the poor people he brought to Cazador. That had been bad enough. But this….this was so, so much worse.
How many had he condemned over the years, to an existence even more miserable than his own?
Before, Astarion wasn’t sure he’d have thought of it. Hells, coming here under other circumstances, he wasn’t sure he’d have cared. The problem was, he had been forced to confront the reality of caring about someone, and having them placed in danger of being in this very situation.
If he and Rylafein had crossed paths, in Baldur’s Gate, before the Absolute…
Perhaps he would have died on the blades of Bhaal’s Chosen. But perhaps he might have brought Ryla here, might have fucked him in the guest bedroom instead of that forest clearing, might have let him get taken by Cazador.
Might have unknowingly had him turned into one of these starving wretches.
“Are you going to help your friend? The Drow? Are you going to get us out of here?” Sebastian asked.
“Yes,” Astarion said. “We’re going to kill Cazador, and we’re going to get you all out of here.” And whatever came next would come next.
It almost wasn’t surprising, to find the Gur children in the other cell. Of course his most recent sin—one he’d genuinely forgotten, in all the chaos of being kidnapped by mind flayers—would come back to haunt him. Of course he’d been wrong, and Cazador hadn’t killed the children he’d made Astarion take. No, here they were, undead and unwell. More innocents Ryla had promised to save.
The entrance to Cazador’s chapel was very dramatic, and he’d made it even moreso. A grand stage, for his grand ritual—a theater in the round, missing only the audience. At the center of it, there was Cazador’s sarcophagus—and there, next to it, chained up and stripped half-bare, hair out of its usual bun and a metal bar strapped in his mouth as a gag, was Ryla.
Astarion lurched forward, but Minthara caught his arm.
“Caution,” she hissed. “Rylafein is not served by you charging in to get the both of you—and the rest of us—killed.”
Astarion wanted to jerk his arm free of her, wanted to storm down the stairs and confront Cazador. But she was right. Cazador was facing away from them, probably monologuing to the audience he did have—a motley collection of werewolves and ghouls, that damned skeleton Chatterteeth, Astarion’s siblings already bound to the ritual—and Ryla, who, even at a distance, Astarion could tell was struggling against his bonds.
“Right,” he said, and he took a tense breath. “I have invisibility potions. The three of you, drink—and slip down to get in position. I’ll distract Cazador. Shadowheart, get into position to help me fight Cazador. Minthara, take out the skeleton—it’s some sort of wizard, and we don’t need to deal with that. Gale, hang back so that you can cast from afar.”
It was….a plan. Astarion wouldn’t have called it a solid one, but it was a plan that existed, and with the invisibility potions distributed, he took a moment—not a long one, but a moment—to prepare.
He was no longer under Cazador’s control. He was his own person. And he was going to save Rylafein, and tell that idiot that he loved him, and he would take whatever came of it, good or bad.
The walk down the stairs felt eternal, even knowing that, despite being unable to see his allies, he wasn’t alone. He trusted that they were positioning themselves as planned. Strangely enough, he trusted the grenade Gortash had given him—it was a weight against his back, where he’d tucked it away, and if nothing else, he know that Gortash was sincere in his desire to not see Ryla come to harm.
He was not facing Cazador alone. He had to remember that. He could do this.
“Cazador,” Astarion said, and Cazador turned, and smiled in a way that made hate flare up in Astarion’s heart. Ryla turned his head, too, and his eyes widened—genuine shock, like he couldn’t believe Astarion was actually there.
“Who stands before us?” Cazador asked, all imperiousness and drama, and Astarion hated it. “Is it truly our prodigal son?” His eyes trailed up and down Astarion, evaluating, and he sneered. “Do not slouch before me, boy! Have you no respect for yourself?”
Astarion hated that he straightened, automatically, with no input. He hated even more that he stayed that way.
“Look at you,” Cazador continued, “crawling back after abandoning your family. You should be begging our forgiveness.”
“I’m not going to beg for anything,” Astarion said, “not from you. I’m here to get Rylafein back, and to kill you. That’s it.”
Cazador’s expression shifted, to something more amused.
“Ah yes, Rylafein.” He moved over to Ryla, and even through the gag, Ryla’s threatening growl was audible. “It’s quite amusing,” Cazador said, and he reached down, twisting his fingers in Ryla’s hair, and Astarion wanted to rip them out of it. “Your pet Bhaalspawn was so very certain you wouldn’t come to rescue him. Assured me of it, really. Told me I was holding nothing of value to you, certainly nothing that could convince you to do something as foolish as delivering yourself to me. And yet, here you are.”
Something cold settled in Astarion’s chest. Apparently, he had done his job of convincing Ryla that he felt nothing for him—and done it well.
So why in all the Hells had Ryla gone scouting Cazador’s manor? Alone? Why put himself at such obvious risk for someone he was convinced wouldn’t even care enough to rescue him? Why couldn’t Rylafein just be selfish, and make sense?
“Here I am,” Astarion said, “now let him go. He has nothing to do with this.”
“No,” Cazador said, airily, “I don’t think I will. I think he should watch, while I make myself into the Vampire Ascendant, and truly understand the price of his stupidity.” He smiled, in the smug, imperious way of his. Now, seeing it again after so long away, it made Astarion even angrier than it normally did. “And when I am done, I will make him my spawn, and he will serve as a fine replacement for you.”
“Fuck you,” Astarion snarled, “and fuck everything you’ve ever done to me, get your hands off him .”
He didn’t think, just moved—swung his fist at Cazador.
And found, to his horror, that he was stopped in his tracks.
“You truly forgot my power. You truly thought our bond as creator and creation was all that stopped you from killing me.” He had thought so, damn it all. Stupid, stupid, stupid. “You are weak, my child,” Cazador taunted. “You are a small, pathetic little boy who never amounted to anything. And you could not even save the one most precious to you.”
How in all the hells could Cazador know that?
“But today,” Cazador monologued, and Astarion, really, really wished that one of the people he’d brought with him would do something, “you will finally do something worthwhile. You will burn, and I…will ascend.”
He waved the staff, and Astarion was flung across the chapel, forced into position over a ritual circle, and the scars on his back burned .
“Stop him! And get me out of this!” He gasped, struggling against the magic that held him in place.
Cazador whipped around, looking for whoever Astarion was calling out to—just in time for “Arde!” and “Ire et dolor!” to echo through the chapel, and a massive burst of flames to explode around Cazador, while Shadowheart appeared in the middle of Cazador’s ghouls, surrounded by radiant spirits. At the same moment, Minthara appeared in front of Astarion, looking less than pleased; she yanked him out of the ritual circle, and Astarion immediately felt like he could breathe again, the burning pain in his back gone in an instant.
“Go to Rylafein,” she said. “We’ll keep them off you.” Astarion nodded, sharply, and wrapped a hand around the amulet he’d been carrying since they found it in the temple where the goblins had made their nest. A quick Misty Step, and he was at Ryla’s side, while Minthara darted over to engage Cazador.
Rylafein was a mess. Bruised, battered, a slowly bleeding cut on his cheek that looked far too precise to have been from a fight. Some of it, surely, was indeed the result of him going toe to toe with Cazador’s minions—but there were enough injuries that looked deliberate for Astarion to be certain that Cazador had inflicted them after Ryla was already bound.
Gods, he hated that bastard.
He would have to be quick. The buckle for the gag was easy enough, and when it came out, there was blood on it—sharp edges that had cut into Ryla’s cheeks.
“Why are you here?” Ryla’s voice was raw, like it hurt him to speak—Astarion guessed that Cazador hadn’t bothered to give him food or water, and frankly, knowing Ryla, he had likely screamed himself hoarse swearing and threatening before he’d been gagged. He wondered if the Urge had slipped through, if Cazador had seen any of the beast that lurked within.
He hoped so, and he hoped that whatever Ryla threatened, it had been colorful, violent, and evocative. He hoped that Cazador had been afraid.
“To save you, obviously,” Astarion said, and he tried to make it sound light, easy, simple. As if he hadn’t charged into the lion’s den with no plan and only those of their friends who had willingly volunteered, just to make sure that Ryla didn’t suffer the same miserable curse he was bound to.
He produced his lockpicks, and started working open the cuffs—simple, fortunately. One after the other, the restraints clicked, and fell open, and Ryla winced. There were raw, red marks on his wrists—he’d struggled, hard.
“But that’s stupid,” Ryla croaked. “You didn’t need to—you should have stayed away. Coming here—Cazador almost took you. Almost killed you, I—I would have been fine, you should have….you should have stayed safe.”
As if that was even an option. As if there was a single chance Astarion could imagine leaving Ryla behind, trading his own safety for the pretty Bhaalspawn that has no idea how deeply he’d worked his way into Astarion’s heart.
(Had no idea because Astarion had lied to him, driven him away. He’d thought it would protect both of them. Instead, here was Ryla, risking so much for him and suffering for it.)
“He said he would use you instead,” Astarion said, voice soft. “I couldn’t let that happen.” He pressed a healing potion into Ryla’s hands, and helped pull him up.
“Are those my scimitars?” Ryla asked, throwing back the potion and gesturing to Astarion’s waist.
“Cazador sent them as proof that he had you,” Astsrion said. Ryla nodded, and reached over, drawing them from where Astarion had sheathed them, and Astarion felt an electric thrill run up his spine. It wasn’t the time, he knew—but it was hard not to admire Rylafein in battle. The way he grinned, reckless and eager. The way, despite whatever he had endured at Cazador’s hands, he moved with a grace and fluidity that bespoke years of practice that not even Orin’s best efforts could erase.
It felt right, to fall in at Rylafein’s side and go for Cazador together.
“You are going to pay, ” Asterion snarled, reaching into the pouch where he’d tucked Gortash’s grenade, “for everything you’ve done to me!”
“I have known you for two centuries,” Cazador shot, “have I not suffered enough?”
“Shut up, ” Rylafein snarled, and then, “torrē!” A column of radiant, divine fire erupted around Cazador, and the sound of pain he made was, if Astarion was honest, incredibly satisfying.
He bounced the grenade in his hand.
“The Archduke sends his regards,” Astarion said, and he hurled the grenade at Cazador’s feet. As promised, it exploded—bursting into a miniature sun that made Cazador howl in agony.
There were no words between them—he and Ryla leapt in at the same time, weapons drawn. Cazador struggled, but in the light of Gortash’s little sun, most of his tricks were out of reach—and when he tried to flee, he was met by scimitars and swords. Every time Ryla’s blades hit him, they were accompanied by the radiant thunderclap of a smite, and it was clear that they had him on the defensive.
Rylafein ducked under a wild swing from Cazador staff, and slammed the hilt of his scimitar into Cazador’s wrist, hard enough to make him drop it.
Astarion seized the opening—ducked and wove in, and drove his short sword, the wicked, jagged blade they’d bought in the Girh crèche, into Cazador’s chest.
He burst into mist, which streamed towards his coffin. Astarion snarled, and whirled towards it, but Ryla grabbed his shoulder.
“Cleanup first. Then we finish him,” Ryla said.
It was a reasonable suggestion, Astarion knew. He rankled against it anyway. Giving Cazador even a moment’s respite of healing sleep felt wrong— but there were still a few stragglers who seemed determined to fight on.
At some point, while they were carving through the last few ghouls and bats, the little sun went out—but it had more than served its purpose. Astarion resolved to talk to Gortash again—to thank him, and let him know his invention had worked flawlessly.
Finally, the last of Cazador’s minions were dead on the ground, and all that was left was Cazador himself.
He stormed over to the sarcophagus, and threw off the lid. There, inside, was Cazador, looking entirely too peaceful; that simply wouldn’t do.
“Wake up,” Astarion snarled, hurling his body out of the coffin. There was a metallic clatter— and Astarion recognized the very dagger Cazador had once used to carve the runes for his part of the Ascension contract into his back.
Well. That felt appropriate.
He bent, and scooped it up, and moved towards Cazador.
“And what do you intend to do, my boy?” Cazador asked, his tone taunting. “Usurp the ritual for yourself? You cannot,” he said, and there was an edge of mocking sing-song to his voice. Astarion wanted to cut out his tongue, but it would be a waste of time, when he wasn’t going to survive this. “You, and all the bearers of the scars, are bound to the ritual. I made you to be consumed.”
“I am so much more than what you made me,” Astsrion snarled.
Maybe he could do it. Maybe he couldn’t aside his feelings, seize the power he knew he needed. His eyes cut to Rylafein, still battered and bruised despite Shadowheart’s healing—Cazador would certainly deserve to be sacrificed, for all he’d done.
His hand shook around the dagger. He would need help, of course—
His eyes met Rylafein’s, and he hesitated.
Rylafein had promised to free them. Had argued against the ritual every step of the way.
“Rylafein,” he started, and he wasn’t sure what he was asking for. Help, maybe. But he didn’t know if the help he wanted was with performing the ritual, or with stopping himself from doing it
“Astarion,” Rylafein said, and there was something so… soft in his voice, in his eyes, “you don’t have to do this. You’re better than him.” He reached out—hesitated, for a moment—and then gently rested his hand on Astarion’s arm—barely any pressure at all, just enough for Astarion to inescapably know that he was right there, beside him. “I want you to live a life you’re proud of. You can’t be proud of this.”
He couldn’t. Ryla was right. The person that Rylafein made him want to be could not coexist with the person who sacrificed seven thousand innocent souls for his own power.
“You’re right,” he said. “I can be better than him.” He stepped forward, and Ryla let go and took a step back. “But I’m not above enjoying this.”
It was—a rush. Two centuries of rage, and pain, and torment, and hatred —everything Astarion had kept bottled up, everything he’d shunted away, everything he’d buried just to keep surviving another day—it felt like all of it exploded out of him, taking Cazador’s own knife to his chest.
He did not count the number of times the knife sank into Cazador’s flesh. It didn’t matter. It wasn’t about proportional retribution. It wasn’t about some counted number of slights. It was about making Cazador suffer even the slightest fraction of what he’d dealt out—to Astarion, to the rest of his siblings, to Ryla.
And when it was over, when Cazador lay dead in a spreading puddle of blood on the floor of his precious chapel, where he must have thought, not an hour before, that he would end the day Ascendant—
Astarion felt a sob rip from his chest, and another, and he wept.
Cazador was dead. He would never have to fear him again. And yet.
He was still a vampire. Would only have however long it took them to defeat the Absolute to be in the sun again. Whoever he had been before—the Astarion Ancunin who had been a magistrate in Baldur’s Gate—was still lost to him. Family, friends, lovers, any of it—gone, stolen from him. Along with so much else that he could never get back.
He’d expected killing Cazador to feel triumphant.
Instead, it just felt…hollow.
He knew that with Cazador dead, the others would be freed from the ritual. That he would have to do—something. About them, about the spawn in the cells, about—all of it.
So he took a deep breath, one that shuddered through him, and he picked up Cazador’s staff. It had been the key to the ritual—it was probably the key to all of it.
He leaned on it more than he would have liked to, when he forced himself to stand.
It was something of a blur, after that. He’d promised—more importantly, to him, right then, Ryla had promised—to free the spawn, so he did, and suggested they take the tunnels into the Underdark.
(He heard Ryla snort, and mutter something about how they couldn’t possibly make things worse down there, and he would have laughed, under other circumstances.)
They were met, when they left, by the Gur, and for a moment Astarion genuinely thought Ryla might kill Ulma where she stood, but telling them that their children were among the released spawn defused that little situation easily enough.
“You did the right thing, you know,” Ryla said, softly, as they headed for the elevator.
“I’m glad you’re so certain,” Astarion replied, and he knew he sounded strained, “because I’m not.”
“Then I’ll just have to be sure for both of us,” Ryla said, and when Astarion looked over at him, he was smiling—in a way that Astarion had seen him smile only a rare few times before. Something so soft, so fond, it made Astarion’s chest hurt.
He would have to tell Ryla the truth, as soon as he could manage it. He had let his fear of Cazador steal so much from them that they could have had—but this might be the one thing he could get back.
“Right now, I just want to get out of here,” he admitted. “This place reeks of death, and I want to feel alive again.”
Ryla nodded, and he was silent the rest of the way back.
It was a blessing, of sorts, that when they got back to the Elfsong, when Ryla finished letting Jaheira and Shadowheart fuss over him, he’d nearly fallen asleep in his seat, and had needed to be shooed off to bed by one particularly maternal Druid.
The night stretched on, and the others slowly filtered into their rooms, but Astarion didn’t feel tired. Or, rather, he did—but in a way where he knew that sleep would not actually come, no matter how hard he tried. Instead, he found himself staring into the fire, trying to order his thoughts.
“It was brave of you, to reject such power,” Minthara said, from behind him. Astarion might have jolted, but he was beginning to get used to being snuck up on. Far too many of their companions walked far too quietly.
Of all the people to compliment him on his choices, she was the last one he’d expected.
“I’d have thought you would tell me I was a fool for it,” he deadpanned.
“You are,” Minthara said, “but a brave fool, nonetheless.”
“I think I’d rather be a fool than whatever that ritual would have made of me,” Astarion confessed. “Power is nice and all, but I don’t think I’d want to sell my soul for it.”
“Hm. Wiser than I had given you credit for,” Minthara admitted.
Astarion felt neither wise nor brave, if he was honest.
“I appreciate that,” he said, genuinely.
“You chose to retain your self in the face of great temptation,” Minthara said. “It is to be commended, loathe as I am to admit such. We could have made great use of the Vampire Ascendant’s powers. But you will have to do, as you are.”
“Thank you,” Astarion said, “I think.”
Minthara shrugged, and turned away.
“I hope this is not a choice you will come to regret,” she said.
“Oh, trust me,” Astarion replied, “it won’t be.”
It was the first time he had felt certain of anything, since he’d killed Cazador.
“Good,” Minthara said, and then she disappeared back into the hallway.
He must have drifted, for a while, because the next voice did genuinely startle him.
“Astarion?”
He jolted upright, to find Ryla leaning over him, looking concerned.
“Are you alright? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you fall asleep, before,” Ryla said, frowning, and he reached out to gently press a hand to Astarion’s forehead, as if the very prospect of a vampire being ill wasn’t sort of hilarious.
“I’m fine,” Astarion said, and then he exhaled. “Physically. Just…exhausted.”
“After all that, I’m not surprised,” Ryla acknowledged.
“Says the one who was held prisoner by a mad vampire lord,” Astarion said.
“Yes, well. I tried to sleep, but….” He sighed. “Nightmares. The longer we’re in the city, the worse they get. Father desperately wants Orin and I to fight, but I’m not going after her until I’m certain we’re prepared. She’s incredibly dangerous.”
“And yet you went after Cazador, alone, without telling anyone where you were going—Rylafein, he could have killed you,” Astarion said. Ryla wilted, looking guilty.
“I know. It was…stupid. But Enver told me about the party, about all of it—and I—it seemed like such a perfect opportunity. I thought—maybe I could trick him, convince him that I would deliver you to him, so the way would be clear and we could come back without meeting any more resistance. Which seemed like a genius idea at the time, but…he saw through me. Or maybe he’d been watching us more closely than I realized. But he seemed. Ah. Well aware that there was no chance I was going to betray you.”
It was almost sweet, in a way. And a little pathetic, really— Cazador had recognized Rylafein’s affections for him, so really, what was Astarion’s excuse for not noticing? For not realizing that he wasn’t the only one who’d gotten in far too deep?
“That was a terrible plan,” Astarion said. “Not to say I would have come up with anything better, but it was terrible.”
“I know that now, ” Rylafein whined. “Which means it’s even more important to me to be more careful, going forward—we still have to deal with the Sharrans, and with that stupid fucking wizard who wants Aylin, and with Orin— “ he rubbed his forehead, and in that moment, Aatsrion caught a glimpse of all the exhaustion that Rylafein worked so hard to hide. “I hate this fucking city.”
“That’s my home you’re talking about,” Astsrion said, mock-offended.
“Mine too,” Rylafein shot back, but there was a playfulness in his voice that Astarion had missed so very much, “but that doesn’t make it less of a miserable shithole.”
“Just because you’re right,” Astsrion said airily, and Ryla cracked a genuine, actual smile. There was an edge of tiredness to it, but it was still a smile, and it really did light up his whole face.
Astarion felt his heart clench. He couldn’t keep doing this—couldn’t keep pretending there wasn’t a raw, open wound between them. Not least when he could, he hoped, fix it.
Besides, he had an idea.
“Rylafein,” Astarion said, and he stood up, “there’s something I’d like to show you. Would you be willing to go on a walk with me?”
Ryla blinked, and tilted his head to the side, the way he did when he was thinking about something.
“Sure,” he said, after a moment. “Lead on.”
The Lower City graveyard was silent. Perhaps that wasn’t a surprise, given the hour of the night; there was no reason for anyone else to be here.
“Hot,” Rylafien said, wryly, and Astarion rolled his eyes.
“You couldn’t wait ten seconds before being an absolute freak?” He was aiming for playful, but he knew it came out far, far too fond to land as a joke.
“Never,” Rylafein replied, airily. “Why are we here, though, really?”
Astarion’s eyes moved to the gravestone he’d come here for. He knelt by it, and brushed dirt and vines away to reveal the faded carvings. Astarion Ancunin, 1261-1300.
“Oh,” Rylafien said, softly, as he came to kneel beside Astarion.
“Cazador let them bury me,” Astarion said, softly.
He had not told this story in two centuries. It felt right to tell it now.
“When I woke up, I had to claw my way through six feet of dirt. And when I came out of the ground, hacking up dirt and congealed blood…Cazador was waiting.” He closed his eyes, and shuddered. “And from that moment on, I belonged to him.”
“You were never his,” Rylafein said, softly. “Everything he took, he took by force.”
“But he did take it,” Astarion said, and he felt his voice crack. “For two centuries, he took and took—and I…gave in. I let myself become what he wanted me to be. But now he’s gone, and I have…my whole future ahead of me.”
“Yes, you do,” Rylafein said. “Do you know…what you want?”
“You,” Astsrion said, and he turned to look at Ryla, who looked like Astsrion had just said something utterly incomprehensible. “I want…you.”
“What?” Ryla asked, and Astsrion couldn’t look at him anymore, not when he needed to be able to say this.
“You must understand, Rylafein—when we first met, I had…a nice, simple plan. Seduce you, sleep with you, manipulate your emotions so you would never turn on me. It was…easy. Two hundred years of charming people for… him, all the habits and lessons I’d learned—and all you had to do was fall for it. And all I had to do…” Astarion had to pause, for a moment, to glance back at Ryla, to see—confusion. Hurt, maybe, Astarion wasn’t sure. “All I had to do was not fall for you. And that, Rylafein, is where my nice, simple plan…fell apart.”
“I don’t understand,” Ryla said, and his voice was small, and a little shaky, like he couldn’t dare to believe what he was hearing. “You said—before—“
“I lied,” Astarion confessed. “Because I was afraid. Of what Cazador might do, if he found out how much you meant to me. And I—I am so, incredibly sorry. I know…that you might not be willing to forgive me, and would understand. But I realized—when he took you, when I thought I had lost you forever—that was the worst thing I could imagine. That you might be gone forever. That I might never have the chance to tell you how I truly feel.”
“Astarion,” Ryla’s voice trembled.
“I love you,” Astarion said, and he watched Ryla’s eyes fill with tears. “I have for…longer than I want to admit. But I couldn’t bring myself to tell you. I was too much of a coward—even though you’d proven, over and over, that I could trust you. You defended me from that awful blood merchant, risked your life to persuade the orthon to kill himself to fulfill my deal with Raphael—and I repaid you with cruelty.”
“Astarion, all of that, I didn’t do it so you would—“
“I know,” Astarion said. “You did it because you are so much better than even you think you are. And I…” His eyes drifted to the grave. “I’ve been dead in the ground for too long. I want to try living again. With everything that entails. And that means…not letting myself be ruled by fear, because if I do that—I might as well just crawl back in that grave. So—I love you. I want to be with you. If you’ll have me, after all I’ve done.”
“You mean it?” Ryla asked. He’d started crying, Astarion realized, and it was almost instinctual, to bring his hand up and wipe away the tears.
“I mean it,” Astarion said. He gently gripped Ryla’s chin, and bent to bring their lips together. Ryla’s arms came up and around his neck, and he leaned into the kiss—it was messy, and wet, and a little salty, and painfully imperfect, but Rylafein was kissing him back, and as far as Astarion was concerned, that was all that mattered.
When they separated, Ryla didn’t go far; he pressed their foreheads together, and even though he was still crying, there was a smile on his face.
“I love you too,” he said. “I never stopped. I—I thought—it made sense to me, why you wanted to break things off. Being with me—it’s a risk. You have Cazador, and he’s dead, but I have Orin, and the Urge, and I can’t promise you anything like safety.“
“I know,” Astarion said. “But I’m not afraid. Not of you, not of your darkness, and not of our future. If you want to have one with me, that is.”
“I do,” Ryla said, and Astarion kissed him again, for the sheer joy of being allowed to do so.
“And your Archduke won’t mind sharing?” Astarion asked, lightly.
“We…talked about it, actually,” Ryla admitted. “About how I had feelings for you, but I thought you didn’t—anyway, it. No. He won’t mind.”
“Good,” Astarion said. “I have to admit: I sort of like him. That little sun grenade was his work, you know.”
“Don’t tell Karlach,” Ryla said, wryly, “she’s upset enough that I wanted to…rekindle things, with him.”
“My lips are sealed, darling,” Astarion said, and he leaned in for another kiss, silencing Ryla’s giddy laughter.
He hadn’t been able to choose who he wanted to be with for two centuries. Hadn’t even been sure that was something he wanted to be able to do. But with Rylafein in his arms, so pliant and eager—it was hard not to think about what else they could be doing. About how—it hadn’t been entirely awful, sleeping together before, and how he’d sort of come to miss Ryla’s presence in his bed after they’d stopped doing that.
When he pulled back from the kiss, he ran a thumb over Ryla’s cheek, taking a moment to enjoy how nice it felt—to be there, with him. To be starting over, again, in this same place, where he’d once crawled out of the dirt and been forced to bow to his new master.
Where now, he was choosing for himself, for the first time in two centuries.
“You know,” Astarion confessed, “for a long time, sex—any kind of intimacy—was something I…performed, to lure targets for Cazador. And I wasn’t sure…if that was ever something I would want for myself. ”
“If it’s not, we don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do,” Ryla said, and he was so soft, so gentle. “I’m happy to be with you in whatever way you want, Astarion.”
“But that’s just it,” Astarion said. “I think…I do want that. With you. Maybe if we were having this conversation before Cazador was dead—maybe if we’d had it when we should have, if I hadn’t been an idiot—I’d want to take things slower? But he is gone, and I want to make my own life. Away from him. And I want to take back as much of what he stole from me as I can.”
“If that’s what you really want,” Ryla said, “I….” He glanced around, and seemed to realize where they were. “I just—I have to ask— here?” Astarion raised his eyebrows, and Ryla shook his head. “Not that I’m complaining, I’d just sort of assumed I’d be the biggest freak in this relationshi—oh,” he gasped, as Astarion shifted forward and pushed him over, pinning him to the ground. “Oh, okay. Here. Yes.”
“You are…ridiculous,” Astarion said, fondly.
Rylafein really was lovely, and perhaps especially so like this—lit by moonlight, smiling up at him with such warm, trusting raw affection.
….If he had to spend the rest of his life like this, it might not be so terrible to not be able to go in the sun. Not if he wasn’t alone.
“And apparently you like that about me,” Ryla teased, and Astarion huffed.
“I do, yes,” he said, and he meant it. There were lots of things about Ryla that he was unendingly fond of, and the contradictions in his personality tipped the list, if Astarion was honest.
His hand traveled downward, undoing the buttons on Ryla’s pants. They wouldn’t be able to stay long—Astarion was thoroughly conscious of where they were, and the idea of being caught wasn’t exactly appealing. But they would have many, many more nights, where they had far more time.
“…You know, I like it when you’re catty,” Ryla said, “but…I especially like it when you’re genuine. You can be really sweet when you want to be, Astarion.”
“Don’t tell anyone else that,” Astarion said, and Ryla rolled his eyes, fondly. “I do have a reputation to maintain.”
“Our little secret, then,” Ryla said, and he looked like he wanted to say something else, but he was cut off by a squeak—Astarion sat back, and tugged his pants down, and Ryla moved to help get them and his underwear off.
They really didn’t have time for foreplay—but on the other hand, Rylafein was spread out before him, flushed from his cheeks to his shoulders, and Astarion wanted so badly to take his time taking him apart.
The other times they’d slept together, it had been different—a game of survival. Not the worst version Astarion had played, certainly, and Rylafein had never been unpleasant, the way some of the other people he’d had to throw himself at were, but—
It had been complicated. This, finally, didn’t have to be.
He slung one of Ryla’s legs over his shoulder, and pressed a kiss to Ryla’s inner thigh. Briefly, he scraped his teeth over the sensitive skin there, and Ryla whined, hips jerking forward.
“Oh, fuck, Astarion, that—“ Ryla stopped, and Astarion glanced up to see that he was flushed dark, with a hand over his mouth.
“I don’t think I want to bite you tonight, darling,” Astarion confessed, “but another time, perhaps.”
“Uh huh,” Ryla said, and his voice was just a little higher pitched than normal. “Yeah, another time, please. ”
It really was a tempting possibility, and Astarion could feel Ryla’s pulse quickening under his lips, but there was something else laid out before him that he was eager to taste.
From the first touch of his tongue against Ryla’s cunt, he could taste Ryla’s arousal—a little bitter, and warm, and a flavor he was eager for more of. Ryla whined above him, and he felt hands twist in his hair—not hard enough to hurt, but enough to feel more than a little insistent.
He fucked his tongue into Ryla’s cunt, licking inside him and taking a long moment to enjoy the sensation—the taste, the smell, the heat of Ryla’s thighs next to his ears. Then, he pulled back a little, moving to swirl his tongue around Ryla’s clit and pull it into his mouth briefly.
Ryla moaned, unabashed, and Astarion very briefly took a moment to hope that there was no one on a late night walk nearby—because there would be no mistaking that sound, and Astarion absolutely did not want to be interrupted by some offended busybody.
He lavished his tongue over Ryla’s cunt and his clit, moving between them until he felt Ryla’s whole body trembling.
“Astarion, I’m so close, please—“ Ryla gasped, and Astarion considered, for a moment—and then pulled back, which made Ryla whine desperately. “Astarion, ” he gasped, but his grip on Astarion’s hair went slack, and he let him pull away. “ Please.”
“Asking so nicely,” Astarion teased, and Ryla pouted up at him, “and making such cute faces at me.”
“And yet you stopped,” Ryla pouted, and Astarion couldn’t help himself—he laughed, as he bent to kiss that pout away, hands moving to undo and push down his own pants. He didn’t bother removing them completely, but it was enough to let his cock spring free, and while his tongue tangled with Ryla’s, he gripped Ryla’s hips and lined them up, sliding into his hot, ready cunt in one easy motion. Ryla’s hips jerked, and he clearly had been as close as he said, because Astarion felt him come, cunt squeezing around Astarion’s cock and back arching underneath him.
“Better?” Astarion asked, and he knew he had to look very pleased with himself.
“Shut up and fuck me,” Ryla said, breathlessly, in a way that was trying very hard to sound annoyed and not exactly succeeding. Astarion laughed, but he did—hips rolling to fuck into Ryla, who met him eagerly, arms slinging around Astarion’s shoulders and legs coming up to hook around his waist.
Astarion certainly knew sex could be enjoyable—but he hadn’t really expected what a difference it would make. He thought novels that talked about how special it was with someone you loved were probably just making things up; poetic, prosaic flair that had nothing to do with reality.
He had been wrong.
The sensations, perhaps, were the same, but there was something indescribably different about this moment. About being entangled with Rylafein, specifically; about the freedom; perhaps even about the setting. About being back here, at his own grave, where he’d crawled out of the ground and into Cazador’s service, and taking this piece of his life back. About being here with Rylafein, who was so vital and alive—and who probably understood him better than anyone else he’d ever known.
Two people, with pasts soaked in blood and death, whose lives had been set on courses out of their control by the direct intervention of someone else—Cazador, Bhaal—and who only now had the chance to reclaim their freedom.
Of course it had been Rylafein, for him, in the end. Who else could it ever have been?
He was beautiful, flushed purple and illuminated by moonlight, mouth hanging open and desperate sounds of pleasure tumbling from his lips. If Astarion could have frozen this moment forever, he would have gladly done it, preserving it in amber—but there would be more moments. More breathless entanglements. More…of all of this.
He could feel a tightening in his stomach, a twist of heat and anticipation, and he hissed between his teeth.
“Ryla, I—” He cut himself off with a low moan, and Ryla nodded.
“Me too,” he gasped, and he leaned up to catch Astarion’s lips in a kiss, tongues tangling together sloppily. Astarion picked up his pace, and when his climax crashed over him, he moaned desperately into the kiss. He pulled back for a moment to catch his breath—and to take in the sight of Ryla, flushed and trembling on the precipice.
“Astarion, Astarion, please,” Ryla whined, and Astarion balanced himself on one hand, moving the other one between them to stroke Ryla’s clit—and when he pinched it between two fingers, rolling the nub between them, Ryla cried out and came, nails digging into Astarion’s shoulders and sending a thrill down his spine.
It hurt, yes. Gloriously, because he was here and alive to feel it.
Ryla’s hand moved from around his shoulders to cup his face, and he leaned up to press their foreheads together, as his legs came away from around Astarion’s waist. A long moment of peaceful silence stretched between them—Astarion could think of a million things he wanted to say, but none of the words felt necessary.
Well, perhaps some were.
“I love you,” he said, because he hadn’t said it enough, because he wanted to say it over and over and over again, forever.
“I love you too,” Ryla said, and the way he smiled made Astarion’s chest ache.
He got to have this. Something real, for the two of them.
He let the moment linger, but the reality of the situation hovered, just on the periphery.
“We should head back,” he said, “before anyone else wakes up. Here or back at the Elfsong.”
“Mm,” Ryla sighed, flopping back onto the dirt below him, “probably, yes.” Still, even as Astarion stood up to readjust his clothes, Ryla stayed there, staring up at him. Astarion quirked his eyebrows, and Ryla shook his head. “You’re just…ridiculously beautiful,” he said.
“You’re sweet,” Astarion said lightly, reaching up to fluff his curls, like this was any other compliment—but it coming from Ryla? That was definitely different.
He watched as Ryla stood, and took a moment to frown and brush off his legs before he pulled his clothes back on.
“Sex outdoors always sounds so much more appealing until you have to deal with the outdoors part,” he grumbled, and Astarion couldn’t help but laugh.
“I’ll have you in a bed, properly, next time, darling,” he said.
“I’m holding you to that,” Ryla replied. He reached up, and undid his bun the rest of the way—at some point during their encounter, it had come loose, and his hair fell over his shoulders and down his back. Astarion was always startled for a moment by how long it was—the bun was thick, but seeing Ryla’s hair cascade nearly to his waist was always a little arresting, whenever he took it down. It was fixed back up quickly enough, this time, a little to Astarion’s dismay—but he suspected he’d be seeing it loose significantly more often, all things considered.
Or, he would if he actually reached for what he wanted.
“Speaking of beds,” he said, idly, “would you like to share mine, tonight? When we get back? Not necessarily for another round—though I don’t think that’s entirely off the table—” he let himself leer, just a little, “but…to sleep together, in the most literal sense.”
Something flickered in Ryla’s eyes that Astarion couldn’t identify. Surprise? Something else? It was there and gone after just a moment, to be replaced with a smile that lit up his whole face.
“I would like that very much, yes.”
Ryla slept.
This wasn’t entirely a revelation for Astarion, but it was sort of distracting. He knew that Ryla struggled with trances, considering the chaotic state of his memoires—Astarion had, in the past, had some trouble with it himself—but it was still sort of a surprise that he slept, like a human.
It was also adorable, the way he’d tucked himself up against Astarion’s side once they’d climbed in bed together. Astarion knew he needed to rest himself, but there was plenty of time—morning would come soon enough, but he had a while longer, and if they stayed in bed a little past their usual wake-up, then the rest of the group would just have to deal with that, Astarion decided.
He ran his fingers through Ryla’s hair, letting the pastel purple and teal locks flow between them, and felt—content.
Safe.
To think, he’d almost lost this to his own stupidity.
If it was up to Astarion, he would never risk losing this again.