Chapter Text
There’s a light that flickers on and off in the corner. It’s the only source of light, but the too bright fluorescent makes Astarion squint with every waver of its shine. He twists his body away from the intruding light.
It’s been several days, he thinks, since he woke up here. He hasn’t seen anyone or anything in all his time here. Just this blank decrepit room with a lone light that twitches every so often. At one point he’d counted it to see how long it took between flinches of light. The longest it’d lasted was three minutes and fifty-six seconds. Besides the light, the room is bare save for the outline of a table and chair covered by a white sheet in the opposite corner of him. Dust floats in the air, a reminder of his isolation. The room feels dirty, unkempt, despite the scarce decoration.
The air is stuffy and the light drones after a while, the low buzzing agitating his ears as he curls up in the filthy tank that’s served as his prison.
The tank is small, much too small for him and he’s had to curl his tail around himself if he wants any sort of relief. It’s a small comfort though, his back still burns with every move—he’s not quite sure what happened.
Fragments and snippets fill his head, a steel net cutting into him, ripping and tearing his fins, a beach, hot and dry, suffocating-then eyes, burning into him as there’s a voice that asks if he wants to be saved. Then searing white-hot pain, agony and… nothing.
Every move brings waves of pain and nausea but there’s nowhere to go, the tank is too crowded and the water too heavy. He can’t move through it easily, it’s suffocating and he struggles to filter it through his gills. His tail sits uncomfortably, wedged against walls where it aches and throbs.
The tank is putrid and filthy too, covered in lake algae that sprawls across the glass and swims in the lukewarm water that’s too low. It’s slimy against his scales as he settles on the rock that juts out of the water’s surface.
The light flickers again. Twice in succession before the low buzz fills the air.
His ears twitch, their long points pulling back against his skull and he twists himself away from the light, opting to stare at the wall the tank is set against. It doesn’t stop the dull sound from irritating his ears, but it makes it a bit more bearable. Swimming in the tank is difficult, the murky water slithers around him, dirty and algae infested, wrapping around his fins, back, tail like seaweed. It’s like going against the tides as he circles this cage, so small he’s almost eating his tail as he turns.
The light flickers once, twice, four more times in rapid fire before there’s a popping sound and the light goes out completely. And then he’s alone in the dark, with only silence as company.
The sound of footsteps nearing rouse Astarion from his fitful rest. Everything is sore, like he’d pushed himself too far, exerted himself until he was raw and exhausted. There’s a deep pulsing pain in his lungs every time he takes in water from his gills.
He thinks it’s only been a few hours since the light went out and he was able to force himself to rest. A groan rumbles in his throat as he tries to stretch his limbs. His back screams the moment it’s disturbed and he’s quick to shutter back in pain, white hot agony festering across his back. He curls his tail as much as the tank will allow.
The footsteps near and Astarion can make out the form of a man—surface dweller—as he approaches the tank. He vaguely recognizes the man from the beach: tall, slim, with pointy ears and slicked back black hair and piercing eyes. Even in the low-light, he can make out the red in his dark eyes. He’s wearing some kind of dark suit that contrasts his pale skin. He knew surface-dwellers wore excessive layers, but he’s never seen one look so well fitted, the cloth wrapping around his form snugly, in layers of black and red with hints of gold.
“You poor thing, all alone in the dark.” his voice is smooth, slimy like an eel’s and Astarion’s gills flare in apprehension. “When did the light go out? I’ll have Godey fix that, not to worry.” There’s a pause and the man fumbles in his jacket for something. He pulls out some device and after a second there’s a blinding light, brighter than the lighthouses near the bays.
Hissing, Astarion flinches from the light and turns, groaning when the movement sends spirals of hot spasms through his back.
The light becomes less oppressive when the man turns it from the tank. Astarion falters for a moment, not sure what to do. He doesn’t know where he is, he’s injured, and he doesn’t know what this surface dweller could want. But, if he’s to face an unknown threat, it’s better to bear his fangs than his back. So, he turns and stares down the man.
The man is staring back at him, eyes ringed red, like an angler's light, luring him in. He bristles back. “Fascinating,” the man says.
Astarion doesn’t take his eyes off the man as he watches him. The man says nothing more, just flicks his eyes around Astarion’s form, it’s all rather uncomfortable. He feels so exposed here, there are no coral reefs to hide behind or caves to sneak in. It’s just this tank of murky water and a lone rock to accompany him..
“You’re a magnificent specimen. I’m sure your exoticness will pave the way to my continued fortune,” the man says, bringing his hand up to the glass.
Astarion blinks. What does that mean? I just want to go home… He knows better than to trust surface dwellers, knows not to fall for their tricks. But…
“Want… to go home…” Astarion speaks softly, letting the language sift through his teeth as he speaks the words softly.
The man blinks, and a smile like a piranha’s splits his face. “So, it wasn’t my imagination then. You truly can speak. Does this mean you can understand me as well?”
Against his better judgment, Astarion nods his head. Communication with land dwellers is not expressly forbidden, but the dangers are well known. No merfolk with half a brain would willingly corroborate with a surface dweller… unless there was no other choice.
And really, what choice did Astarion have right now?
The man has turned his attention from Astarion to the device with the blinding light. He brings it up to his head and is speaking, but not to Astarion. The merman cocks his head, trying to decipher what the man is saying, but he’s speaking rapidly, half sentences and clipped words that Astarion’s mind can’t process.
Eventually, the man removes the device from his face and turns off the blinding light. A tenseness in Astarion’s shoulders releases at that. The dark is easier, more comforting. The man doesn’t speak, his mouth is in a grim line as he gives Astarion a piercing look and turns back to the door.
Once he’s gone, Astarion slumps. He lets himself sink to the bottom of the tank and wrap his tail around himself. He tries to move his back as little as possible, a dull throb pounding with every intake of water his gills get. He has to temper his breathing carefully, the water is too much, it fills and expands and bloats the scales around his arms, torso and neck until they’re uncomfortable.
He’s never left the Sword Coast. There’s much to see, but he’s stayed primarily in the Sea of Swords all his life. Saltwater all his life; this is not that. This tank—the water in this tank isn’t right. It’s wrong and filling, too filling, viscous and cloying. It’s nauseating, he feels ill as he lays down on the bottom of the tank.
It’s not much later when Astarion hears footsteps again. Groggy and disoriented, Astarion lifts his head as the door opens and two figures walk up to him. Despite the ache in his limbs, he pushes himself up and watches as the figures approach. The room is dark, but a dim light spills out from beyond the door.
One is the man from before. The other is a man of similar height, with brown eyes that hold a mischievous glint in them. As the second man walks forward there's the distinct smell of sulfur, like the volcanic vents that are scattered by southern islands, mixed with something sweet. Astarion wrinkles his nose at that, but keeps his eyes watching as they come close.
The second man walks right up the tank's border and taps on the glass. It reverberates through the water and Astarion flinches back at the pressure created. His hands go to his ears and he lets out a hiss, baring his fangs and whipping his tail in agitation.
“My, my, you captured such a feisty creature, Lord Szarr,” the man says, giving a grin at Astarion’s reaction. “Look at those teeth, I’d be mindful of that, if I were you.”
“I’ve no reason to fear it. It’s secure in this tank, afterall. A solid inch of acrylic glass reinforced on both the top and bottom separates this beast from you and me,” the man—Lord Szarr—replies.
“You say that, but you would do well to not underestimate a creature such as this, lest you end up its prey.” There’s another tap on the glass, more forceful this time and Astarion flails his tail, stumbling back from the reverberations. His dorsal fin knocks against the back end of the tank and sends a thrill of pain racing through his back. A whimpered cry escapes his lips as he tries to find somewhere to go, to hide, lick his wounds in safety.
But there is nowhere.
The tank is empty. And he is trapped in it.
And so he thrashes his tail, gills heaving as he clutches his ears to stop the drumming pain from drowning him. The water is thick as he inhales it, and it makes his head spin. His limbs quake at the exertion and slowly he falls back down to the tank’s floor, eyes drooping, and face scrunched in a perpetual snarl as the two surface dwellers stare at him.
The man is watching him, following his movements in droll curiosity. “You know, Szarr, I am happy you reached out to me about your… recent endeavors in the mythical. Many men, or elves in your case, have idle fantasies of discovering a creature of such allure, but when faced with the reality of what that would require, they fall short. You are not like that.”
“Of course, Raphael. Do not mistake me for the lowlifes’ you are used to dealing with.” Szarr says.
Raphael nods his head in agreement, smiling. “Indeed, you are not.” His gaze never leaves Astarion, boring into him with unnerving scrutiny. “And what a breathtaking specimen you’ve procured. Even the mangled state of its back can’t taint its beauty.”
Szarr narrows his eyes. “It is magnificent. But do not forget our deal, Raphael.”
Raphael turns away from Astarion then, “I would never. You know I always make good on my deals.”
They continue to speak, but the words start to jumble, the surface language choppy and harsh. He can’t make sense of it and so his mind drifts.
He’s hunting closer to shore than usual, having left his shiver some leagues behind for this hunt. It should be fine, it's not uncommon for them to split—food is not so easily come by in a group. He's sure he smelled blood here, the iron tech strong against the saltwater. The current shifts, a stutter in the water is all the warning he gets.
Something sharp tearing at his back, closing around him, ripping into flesh and scale. Heavy, so heavy. It’s cut into his gills and he can’t breathe. Sinking, his tail won’t move. A strong wave crashes and pushes him farther out, still entangled in the netting. He thinks it’s netting, but it’s much stronger than rope, more bite to it as it digs in his shoulder blades.
He’s being dragged, the barbed net clawing at him as he’s dragged into shallower and shallower water. And then there’s sand and rocks. The water recedes until it just barely catches his tail and oh gods, he can’t breathe. The air is full of salt and seaweed, but it's devoid of the water to filter it. His gills expand and contract rapidly as he gasps. Pain fills him as the scent of blood floods his senses. His pupils dilate and his gums ache at the smell.
He doesn’t know how long he’s on the beach. But his breathing is shallow and his tail no longer flops. Water no longer reaches him; the tide is out, leaving him to dry out in the hot sun. The netting pulls at his back, scrapes against his dorsal; it's too heavy to drag himself out or twist himself through. He's stuck completely entangled within its contracting web. His eyes drag down, not wanting to stay open. The sun has sunken low behind him, the sky is purple with splotches of blue and pink and yellow scattered about; too bright, too warm, it hurts his eyes.
There’s a man. A surface dweller. And this is it. This is how he dies.
The man speaks to him, or at him, or about him. He can't tell. But there are words. Maybe even a question, but Astarion doesn't know. There's a rushing in his ears that won't ebb, it just drowns him in a torrent of white noise. His hands won’t move, just the barest twitch as he tries to claw himself forward, rasping out, “Help me…” before his vision fades.
Astarion’s focus is going blurry as the two talk. His head swims in waves of pain and nausea, a storm that’s battering him against the reef of his mind. And in between the crashing in his brain, his back pounds in pain.
Szarr and Raphael exchange a few more words. Sentences that slip though Astarion’s grasp as he struggles to make sense of the language and tones and nuances. Surface dweller speech is complicated and it’s too much to even attempt to understand right now.
He groans in pain, wishing to fall asleep. HIs eyelids pulled down, but he resisted, as tired as he was, he refused to let sleep take him with those strangers nearby.
After a considerably awful few moments, the two men turn their attention back on him. Their mouths move and he’s sure words come out, but he can’t make sense of it. He blinks his eyes owlishly at them, cocks his head, and frowns at them. The pain is still present, but the tides of agony have pulled back and he’s coherent again.
Their words become more clear as he focuses. “...creature…. capacity… learn…. …. and speak it. It’s already shown me it is capable of speaking so I went ahead and had speakers installed in its tank.” Szarr turns to him, his eyes a ring of fire as he speaks authoritatively, “speak, creature. Show my guest your intelligence.”
Astarion looks between the two, apprehension growing in his stomach as they wait expectantly. It was one thing to speak when he was dying. But right now, the thought fills him with unease. He doesn’t like it. The way they look, the way they talk, it’s as though he’s some novelty to them. He might be trapped here right now, but he doesn’t need to comply with their silly desires.
He growls instead—the spine of his dorsal rising and spreading in anger. An obvious threat, but Szarr doesn’t balk or back away, instead he sneers, his eyes slanting as he steps closer.
“You dare make a mockery of me. I know you can speak.” Szarr moves his hand as if to bang on the glass again.
The flinch is automatic and Szarr smiles lackadaisical when he does. It angers Astarion even more when he sees the curious gaze of Raphael linger on him.
“You know, there is so very little known about this creature, even in myth they are rare. Nothing like dragons, which have an extensive fossil record; a creature half fish, half man, evading our world all this time. I wonder what you could learn from this one.”
There’s a look between the two. Something unsettling falls between them as Astarion watches in silence.
“Of course, it’s only speculation.” Raphael puts his hands up in surrender. “This creature is quite the beauty. I would love to be kept up to date with your research on it. Quite a stunning one you’ve found, it puts their legendary temptation to shame.”
Raphael, eyeing his reactions, gives him a peculiar look.
“Oh, now that is interesting… Look at it, watching us back. One has to wonder what it's thinking right now.”
“I am unconcerned with the thoughts—” Szarr is cut off by a hand as Raphael looks at Astarion expectantly.
Astarion doesn’t know how he should be reacting. Surely he should play along with their little fantasy of him, be docile, but Astarion is too rattled for civility. He’s tired, in pain, and the nausea hasn’t left. He’s sure it’s the water, or maybe he’s hungry, he had been hunting when he was caught in the netting so it’s been too long without food now. So, instead, he growls, his tail thrashing against the water angrily.
Raphael sighs, disappointed. “Ah, just a feral—”
He’s stopped by Astarion slamming his claws against the glass. The glass shrieks as he scrapes his claws over it, baring teeth and slamming his tail. He keeps scraping, again and again, until he can see tiny little scratches on the glass. He smirks.
Szarr bangs harshly against the glass and it rattles Astarion greatly, but he pushes through and bangs his head against the glass. This is stupid, he knows, he knows , but he’s tired, hurt and it’s so small in this tank. Suddenly, he just wants out and he’s banging against the glass again, scraping his claws over and over until the scent of blood wafts into his senses.
His eyes dilate, red irises almost completely eclipsed by black. His movements become more frantic and his gills strain from the water he’s taking in. He hisses, bangs his head against the glass again and it hurts. It hurts. The two men watch him silently, blurring finally as his scraping lessens and he falls against the side of the tank, slowly losing his senses.
It’s all too much. His head pounds as waves crash in, his eye pulse from the strain and his gills ache as he pants. His claws feel numb, a throb that’s so far away pulses through them, through his arms, down his back, even his caudal fin feels bruised. He tenses, not willing to fall unconscious with the two surface dwellers here.
Not safe. Not safe… Not… The world blurs. Darkness overwhelms him.
He doesn’t so much as pass out as he does drift in and out of consciousness. Szarr and Raphael are talking, looking at him—leering, but he can’t make it out. There’s an ache that’s spread all throughout him and the only thing he can do is lie down and ride out the pain as it crashes through his system.
Eventually, he hears them start to walk away. He turns his head slightly, groaning at the movement. They’re walking away, leaving and when they close the door, Astarion is engulfed once more in darkness.
Immediately he’s scanning the room. It’s still bare, only a table and chair with the sheet over it across from him. He takes to edging closer to the tank’s end and looks down. The tank he’s in is quite large, small for something his size, but big for the table he’s on. As he presses up against the side, he sees the floor below, maybe three feet from the tank’s bottom to the floor—distance is hard to tell in the dark, even with eyes accustomed to it.
If he leverages himself against the edge of the tank enough he could—
He won't.
He doesn’t want to stay here, but—
He can’t.
He hates this tank, and its slimy water that he's pretty sure is making him sick. It could be so easy, if he just—
He shouldn't.
Nerve lost, he slinks back to the center of the tank and curls up, exhaustion wrapping around him like a net.
It's uncomfortable and tense, but still he tries to relax enough to close his eyes and sleep.
It doesn't work. He lasts like that for maybe a minute before he’s up, pacing the tank again, exhaustion be damned. It’s not safe here, he shouldn’t be here. He wants to go home, needs it. His siblings, awful as they could be, would be looking for him. Gods, he hadn’t meant to drift so close to the land, he knew better than any of his siblings the dangers of the surface dwellers.
And here he was, trapped. The tank felt smaller than ever as his tail hit a corner when he turned.
Dal would fret the most. Worry about what could have happened, probably catastrophize it even, always making bigger deals than she ought to out of things. Aurelia wouldn’t panic, she’s much too composed for that, but she would worry in quiet, forgo her own hunts and run herself ragged, as though that would help anyone. Petras, well, in all honesty, Astarion couldn’t care less what Petras would do, the dullard was probably making jokes and taking nothing serious, as always.
Strange, then, how the mere thought of them catches in his throat. It’s just this hazardous water, he convinces himself.
Not paying attention, he bangs his tail against another corner and startles. He heaves in a breath, the water gross as it clings to his gills. He backs up until his dorsal fin nudges against something—another corner— and he twirls so fast his tail thumps against the tank’s edge—again.
Astarion pants in quick succession as his back flares in pain, a stinging tight pain that encompasses his entire back and tingles through his spine. The injury flares, ebbs away then pulses back.
He whimpers.
He’s not sure how long he stays in the dark, panting through the pain as it slowly dissolves. But it feels like hours. Astarion is grateful for the solitude, and the dark, but the cramped tank feels like it’s getting smaller and smaller as time goes on.
He’s never had a problem with small spaces before, he remembers swimming through closed off caves and between crevices that are much slimmer than this, but this is different. It’s… tighter. There is no give, no turning tail and returning to the open sea or pushing through until he finds an opening that leads to some backwater cave where the moon shines through at night and he’s free. Free . This is constricting and.. And wrong. His tail is bent at an odd angle and it hurts, the longer it stays like that the more it pains him and he can’t stretch his arms out, they bang against the glass and it won’t give and he can’t move and the water is bad, it’s too much, too fresh, it filters in where it shouldn’t and he should stop taking in so much water but he can’t stop the panting now even though the pain in his back has moved to a tightness in his chest.
The first few hits don’t give anything. Just serve to send needles through his already bloodied claws. But then, after the third strike, he sees the tank give, not much, less than an inch, but it’s enough to give Astarion hope.
If it moves a little then he can rock it forward more and more and… he sets out pushing back and forth against the tank. Rhythmic, methodical, slowly he gains traction, the water crashing in a miniature storm as he pushes against the tank once more. He’s gained momentum and with one final push, the tank tips over, the water reinforcing its fall as it sloshes over the edge.
The crash is loud, the glass clatters against the ground, cracks but doesn’t break. Astarion grunts as he’s body slammed against the ground, the water flowing over him. Blearily, he opens his eyes, dazed and blurry he sees the top of the tank. A rudimentary cover of black plastic and cheap alloys. It takes a bit of effort, but Astarion pulls himself forward and pushes at the cover. His claws aren’t as dexterous as human fingers, but he’s able to fumble with the latches and push the cover forward.
Water crashes forward, a small wave over him as it pools on the hard ground. Once the water has run out, Astarion realizes the flaw in his plan. He may not need to be submerged in water at all times, but he’ll dry out much too fast with no water to take in. The cold hard wind bites at his gills, already chasing away the moisture on his scales. Pitifully, his tail flops in the pool of water that surrounds him.
Before he can think of a next step, his ears twitch and he picks up the sound of footsteps nearing. His shoulders tense and his face twists into a fearful snarl as the door opens. Above him stands Szarr, his eyes a hypnotic glare that sends shivers down Astarions spine.
He hisses, something feral and untethered as Szarr approaches.
“What the—'' his eyes float between the tank and Astarion’s splayed out form, “what do you think you’re doing? First you disrespect me in front of a guest and now look at you, trying to get yourself killed, you ungrateful thing.”
Szarr takes a step forward and Astarion bares his fangs, sinking back against the puddle of water. His gills flare.
“I’ll have none of that from you. I went through all this effort to save you, I won’t have you sully that with your antics.” His voice drips irritation, but Astarion recognizes the gleam in his eyes, it’s the same look a predator has before they go in for the kill.
Astarion tenses, a growl low in his throat as Szarr approaches him. Szarr reaches his hand out, much too quick, much too close and without a thought Astarion lunges forward, biting fangs deep into his forearm.
Szarr jerks and tries to bring his arm back, but Astarion holds steady, sinking his jaw deeper. Digs his claws deep into the tender flesh of Szarr. He screams, yanking his arm, and Astarion along with it.
There’s a hand in his hair now, tugging painfully, but when Astarion refuses to release his hold, the hand leaves. A jagged smile curls under his teeth as he rips deeper into Szarr. It won’t be much longer till the limb goes limp and he’ll be able to let go—then he can figure out how to escape. He’ll drag himself to the sea if he must. Anything to get out.
The arm in his mouth goes slack and he releases his grip. The moment he does the other hand grabs his head, gripping the curls painfully and smashes his face into the ground. There's a sharp crack. Astarion tries to grab the hand in his hair, sink claws into that too, but the hand moves his head up again and swiftly brings it back down into the ground, again and again. There's blood now, messy and thick, wafting lazily in the pools of water as his eyes roll. His claws go limp and the smell of iron fills his nostrils.
Before he falls unconscious, he hears Szarr mutter, “It looks like I’ll have to train you before you can be of any use.”
Astarion wonders what that means, and as darkness pulls at him once more, he fears it can’t be anything good.
The next time Astarion wakes, it’s with grogginess and a slow pulsing headache. There’s a flood of sensations that overwhelm him: the dull scratchy ache all throughout his back, a soreness in his chest, the ever present nausea from the water that feels like mucus along his skin, hunger thrashing minutely in his stomach—a building ache, and a throb emanating from his claws. There’s new feelings too, not painful, but… when he tries to breathe through his gills there’s resistance, something a little too snug around his neck. He tries to frown, but there’s resistance from that as well, something rough biting against the scales on his face, behind his jaw.
He furrows his brow and brings up a claw to inspect his neck. His claw meets the cold touch of steel. A smooth ring of metal that cinches uncomfortably, his gills widen in panic and he’s pulling at the thing.
What is this thing?
The stubs of his claws bite out in pain, but he pays no mind as he pulls at the wretched thing. It doesn’t budge, even as he rises in his panic, tail flailing and neck straining at the pull. Frustrated with his inability to remove the device from his neck, he moves onto whatever is covering his face.
Webbed claws trace the outlines of what appears to be some sort of cage over his face. It’s metallic over his jaw, a mesh of steel that crisscrosses over his chin, but binds to what he thinks must be leather at the edges and cuts into his skin unpleasantly. It covers from his jawline up to his nose and as he traces the edges, he finds it wraps all around his skull, though he can’t pinpoint a latch or buckle to loosen it.
It’s much too constricting and he tries to yank that off too, but much like the steel brace around his neck the leather holds tightly and won’t budge, even as he whips his head back and forth. He pants at the exertion, but doesn’t quit. Jerks his head and claws at the contraption.
“I see you’re making acquaintance with your new accessories.” The steeled voice of Szarr pulls him from his growing panic.
Astarion whips his head toward the noise, eyes widening when he sees Szarr sitting in a chair across from him. There’s a harsh light on—new and brighter than the dim thing it had replaced—that casts Szarr in a pallid tone.
Szarr is eyeing him and Astarion stares back, hatred burning in his eyes. Despite the cage around his face, he manages to snarl. He smirks too, because Szarr’s right arm is completely immobilized, set in a sling and unmoving.
Quirking his brow, Szarr looks from Astarion to his arm. “You’ve noticed what your little bite did to me,” he says casually.
Astarion gives him a haughty growl.
Szarr chuckles deeply, calmly. It unsettles Astarion, his dorsal fin flaring out.
“You think you’re clever, don’t you. But I’ve since taken precautions to prevent a repeat.” Astarion’s face twitches as the contraption on his face digs into skin. “My arm will heal, and you will learn discipline.”
Another growl rumbles low in Astarion’s throat; his jugular vibrates against the steel around his neck. His head is swimming with nausea and pain, but even so, he lunges forward, fangs bared.
He’s stopped before he can reach the glass by a sharp pain. He yelps as electricity races through his veins, the pain emanating from his neck. It’s over quickly as it starts, but the pain lingers.
“With your ethereal beauty, it’s easy to forget you’re an untamed thing. I think some training is in order to help you act civilly. Wouldn’t you agree?” Szarr holds some small device in his hand. Astarion can’t make out the details, his eyes fuzzy at the edges from the shock, but he can make out a few buttons and a dial on the device.
He grimaces when he tries to move his neck and frowns. His tail jerks in jagged twitchy movements, the electrical current hasn’t quite faded yet. It’s happened a few times where he's gotten a little too close to an electric eel and their sting always stuck around well after the eel had quit its’ assault. This is similar, and yet, he thinks it’s much much worse.
“Now, first things first. When I ask something of you, I expect you to listen. You are alive thanks to me. I saved you from that wretched beach. I have been benevolent towards you, with shelter and safety. All I ask is that you obey me. You are mine , do you understand?”
Astarion bristles. Shakes his head and tries to back away. Again, a current of hot electricity splices through veins like the razor teeth of a shark through tender meat. It lasts only a moment, but Astarion has backed into a corner, pressed his back against the wall, flinches from the fire that bites at his back and hopelessly paws at the brace on his neck—startles back when it burns at the touch.
Szarr has moved from the chair and walked to the tank by the time Astarion comes back to his senses. His eyes bore into him like a brand. “You try my patience. But, not to worry, we have time to learn. When I ask you a question, you will answer me, do you understand?”
Astarion just stares at him, haggard breaths coming out as his gills burn.
Szarr holds up the device, hand moving to one of the notches, hovering but not pressing. “I expect an answer. Do you understand?”
With wide eyes, Astarion blanches slightly. His claws clench and he swallows something fierce, fear boiling in the pit of his stomach, mixing with the hunger until its a beast of its own that bangs against his insides. But whatever defiance he feels wilts in favor of self preservation and he nods his head.
“Good. Though, I know you can speak, creature, I would like to hear your voice.”
Astarion stays silent. That… complying to his demands for now he can do, but he will not submit fully. His voice is all he has right now, the only card he holds really, and, more than that, he doesn’t want to speak to this man, this surface dweller.
“Disappointing. No matter, I’m sure you’ll learn.” Szarr’s hand moves the dial back on the device and presses a button.
Astarion tenses before the shock comes this time. But it’s lesser this time, a dull thrum that’s more unpleasant than painful. It compounds in the water, building in tension as it continues and doesn’t stop.
Astarion furrows his brows. His claws start to twitch from the miniature electrical currents that run rivulets up and down his arm, down his back and through his tail. The unpleasantness is growing more painful as the shocks continue to mount, wave after wave hitting him relentlessly. Breathing is a chore as the core of the shocks comes from his neck, sparking heat directly into his gills.
His eyes widen as he lets out a low whimper.
Szarr slowly moves the dial up and the shocks grow in pain.
The current pulses in waves. His neck burns from the steel and breathing becomes less possible as the shocks continue to rack his body.
It’s starting to become unbearable and his tail thrashes erratically. Unbidden, his claws move to the brace—collar, it’s a collar—and tug, not heeding the metal that burns at the touch. He’s jerky in his movements, a keening whine rising in his throat as the pain continues.
It doesn’t stop.
The electricity continues to grow, heavy and thick in his veins.
He’s slammed back into the ground, flopping around as though he was beached again, and he can’t stop the cry of pain that leaves his lips from the agony of it. It’s everywhere, tightening around his limbs and constricting, clawing at his veins like a livewire.
“Sto—” he whimpers out through a haze of pain, huffing from exertion. The contraption on his face burns into his jaw, the metal around it flaring white hot, but its set in a way that he can still move his mouth—it’s clear its purpose is only to prevent him from biting. “Stop! Stop, please stop.” He hates how pathetic his voice sounds, but the pain stampedes over him and he convulses and suddenly it matters little to him how pathetic he sounds so long as it stops.
The pain doesn’t stop, but the current of electrical jolts do.
“There’s that lovely voice of yours.”
Astarion coughs and sputters as the phantom currents shock through his system. He can’t quite move his limbs yet, they’re too shaky and he’s using all his strength just to stay conscious. “ Fuck you ,” he manages to snarl out.
“That won’t do. We’ll have to teach you manners. A concept I’m sure you’re unfamiliar with. Do not worry, you’ll learn.” Szarr waves the device in front of Astarion.
Astarion shrinks at the motion.
Szarr eyes him, before moving back to sit in the chair, poised and composed. “How is it that you can understand me?”
When Astarion doesn’t answer immediately, Szarr wags the device and says, “do not test me, beast. Tell me how you came to learn the language. Have you consorted with people before?”
His nod is accompanied by a glare.
The shock is quick, but no less painful. His body trembles as white burns across his blurring vision. “Verbal responses; no more of this primitive communication. Now, when did you consort with people, creature ?”
Astarion glances up at the edge of the tank where the top is reinforced. There’s a small black thing built in, he’s seen one before, a bigger one—something meant to amplify the sound in the water and transfer it to land where it could be heard clearly, unimpeded by the water. It’s so Szarr can hear him when he speaks. How… quaint.
That kind of device was how he learned the first time around. Though the circumstances then were much more mutual than now.
He’s brought back to his present predicament by a rapid pounding on the glass. It sends him back, growling, hands going up to his ears to block the sound. When he opens his eyes, they meet Szarr’s piercing gaze.
“Fuck off,” he snarls out.
As his body contorts in pain from the shocks, he almost thinks it's worth it for the perturbed look on Szarr’s face.
The novelty of it does wear off though, as the electricity runs through his system, looping back through his claws and twisting in his tail.
“You have quite the mouth on you. And yet, perhaps it is beyond your intelligence to hold such a conversation with me as of yet. No matter, a craven creature such as yourself has no need for full sentences. I’ll require very little from you so long as you are able to obey my commands,” Szarr says.
Astarion rolls his eyes. This Szarr person talks a lot and despite the indignation he feels at being called stupid, if it means he doesn’t need to interact with the man, he can play the part.
“Of course, you’ll need a name. I wonder, creature, do you have one? Or is such a concept lost on you?”
That gets to him. Just a bit. Of course he has a name. He growls low. He knows he shouldn’t cave when this man is clearly trying to rile him up, but then, being called creature or beast sits uncomfortably in his gut. And the thought of this man potentially giving him a name is enough to make him speak up: “My name is Astarion.”
“Astarion,” his name rolls off Szarr’s tongue like acid. “Such a name won’t do. It’s too… sophisticated for something as dull as you. No, you’ll need something tamer; a complicit name for a complicit beast.” A smile carves at his face. “Ah, but you will be a star won’t you? A creature never before seen, thought to be a myth, made real by me.”
Astarion recoils, bristling at the implications. “My name is Astarion,” he growls.
“And I’ve graciously modified it to fit your new role. A poor pitiful beast, rescued and cared for by me… yes I do believe that will do. My little star. My Star, all mine .”