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Astarion felt the caresses of the gentle evening breeze as it rose up through the cobbled walls and rushed past him. He was leaning against the battlement, elbows resting on the tops of smooth stones, slotting into a position that was familiar to him. The breeze carried with its airy hands everything it had gathered from the belly of Baldur’s Gate itself. The whiffs of seawater from the docks, the intoxicating aroma of the booze of The Blushing Mermaid, and the smoke-filled roasts of the Elfsong Tavern. He inhaled, drinking the city in.
Shadowheart, Gale, and Wyll each offered Astarion their company on this distressing night. No doubt they knew it would weigh on him the hardest. Astarion appreciated the gesture, but he politely declined. He had been lonely for most of his life, and yet he found that he had seldom actually been alone. The busyness of life had always caught him by the throat, and otherwise, his siblings or, more recently, his companions had always been right around the corner. Now it was the spawns he ‘lorded’ over; having to manage an entire congregation of bloodthirsty spawns was no simple task. He hardly had time for himself, and it was only thanks to sweet Aurelia that he could be dismissed from his duty for the next few nights.
As Astarion gazed from the rampart walls to the bustling paths illuminated by torchlights below, he could almost see his own figure. Of course, he was thinner and brisk-paced, with a wild look in his eyes that one could not quite place. Many nights he had spent in this exact spot he was looking from now, in the lower city rampart before the back entrance of Szarr Palace, searching. His dark vision pierced through the night like a spear cut through water and landed upon laughing families and lonesome stragglers. Blessed by his elvish ancestry, he was never troubled by the dark even before his ill-fated transformation, but two hundred years as a night stalker had permanently altered the way he saw things in more ways than mere physicality. He used to see people, individuals. Annoying and frustrating as they could be, he longed to be surrounded with their company. Each of them a separate tune plucked from a lute, some more pleasant than others, but each intriguingly composed all the same. He was that social-butterfly type who could waltz into a ballroom full of strangers and leave with a dozen newly formed connections he could leverage to propel himself upwards. One way or another, he had become a magistrate, and that was supposed to only be the start of his social climb.
That was the most of what Astarion could recall from those bygone days. For the past two hundred years, he had given little thought to the comfortable existence he led during those first 39 years of his life, more concerned with day-to-day survival. Naturally, all those memories blurred together and dulled like a rusted blade.
Whatever it was that he saw when he stared into the night life of Baldur’s Gate, he saw them now in groups. Yes, even the enchanting voice of an Elfsong songstress lost its luster the hundredth time around. These plebeians were merely archetypes with generic motivations and predictable outcomes. Beneath him to the right, dressed in a simple vest with his arms folded, was the guarded family man. Astarion did not usually aim for those; there was far too much to lose. Yes, he could be persuaded to a certain extent, perhaps after a grueling day of work. Astarion could coax the man out of his corner at a tavern—there was always this feeling of discontent in their mundane lives that existed to be exploited by a charlatan with a silver tongue—but the risks far outweighed the gains. The partygoers seem apathetic at first sight. They haven’t got a thought in their head other than cheap pleasure. Yet Astarion found their lust for life was almost comparable to a vampire’s thirst and therefore were not easily taken. Astarion felt it firsthand when a woman whom he had gotten heavily intoxicated to the point she could barely stand had been able to resist his preternatural grip as he dragged her to Cazador. He had gone back with marks on his face, empty hands, and a shaken spirit. Szarr pulled some strings to stop the rumor of a pouncing vampire scuttling around Baldur’s Gate—albeit a careless and amateurish one—and Astarion had spent the next tenday in the kennels with Godey.
To some extent, all of these people shared one trait. They were all needed, a part of the orbit of life itself connecting one individual to the next. When they went, someone would feel the loss of their presence and would seek it again. And it was a symbiotic relationship because they needed the world too, needed to feel the twists and turns of fate as it spun them around. It was the dance of life, and Astarion, being a vampire, was denied it.
It took a special someone for Astarion to victimize.
Someone so desperate for a sliver of connection that they would fall into the wretched claws of a spawn such as himself.
Someone who stood on the sides. Who could talk and scream and claw and bite, and yet the world would remain silent.
Someone who wouldn’t be missed. Who wouldn’t miss the world either
Astarion liked to play the role of the charmer—a homme fatale that lured people in with an inviting glance and muttered sweet nothings till they willingly submitted themselves to his will. It was an elusive idea, something straight out of a fantasy. It granted him power and agency. Things he had long been deprived of by Cazador.
In reality, more often or not, his victims chose him. That first night, when Astarion gazed into those sweet, somber eyes and saw an impossible reflection of himself, he knew he had found the one.
Of course, he was not the one. Only one of many to come.
And now Sebastian was out there in the underdark. Hungry, much like himself. Yes, they were all much like himself. They shared his loneliness, his anguish, and, as he learned recently, his victimhood as well. They had always been him, his targets. Every night, when he crept along city walls, he had always been looking for himself.
And now he was their sworn liege. It was an odd feeling to be revered by a mark.
Astarion blinked as the smoke stung at his eyes. Sentimentalities—he could never have afforded them before.
A few months ago, this cityscape took on a new meaning for him. All it took was one tadpole, a mind flayer protector, a captive prince, and most importantly, a group of unlikely misfits, and he arrived back at Baldur’s Gate. Except this time, he saw it in its full glory—with the light of the sun.
And when he walked upon those well-beaten paths, the boundaries of his domain, he saw not himself—the tired man who so desperately wanted to be put out of his misery—but his love, who walked before him. Confident and decisive.
A white dragonborn with scales that basked in the sun’s sheen. Astarion was sure that if it were not for the Emperor, the light reflected from his companion’s scales would be enough to wither him until he was nothing more than a pile of dust, carried away to wherever the breeze would bring him.
It was at those moments during the journey that the Dark Urge would stop and turn around, as though he felt Astarion’s gaze fixed on the back of his head. He was always curiously perceptive in this manner, and Astarion both found that trait annoying and endearing.
“What thoughts are passing through that mind of yours, Astarion?”
“Dark, macabre ones, darling,” he mused, and it would not be a lie.
The Dark Urge would let out a gruff not entirely dissimilar from a chuckle. “You and I both. Focus, love; a long day is ahead of us.”
And even as Astarion leaned against the battlement, shrouded in darkness like he had been for hundreds of years, that single image made the thought of never experiencing the daybreak again bearable.
It was not a perfect ending by any means. If it were not for the Dark Urge, his wisdom, and his humanity despite his deathly associates and blood-stained ancestry, Astarion would probably be seated on a throne not unlike Cazador’s, sipping expensive wine from a silver goblet. He would host elaborate outings in the day and lavish banquets in the night. Every hour would be filled to the brim with pleasure, so much it would drown out all the centuries of pain. He would be hailed as a god, and he might as well be one. His path would be paved with roses, and all would love him, for there was no other choice.
“Witness the birth of the Vampire Ascendant!” Cazador had so confidently claimed, his dark staff sending ripples through the ground as he said so. It would only be right, now that he joined fates with all the insignificant, decaying mortals he thought himself superior to, that Astarion, as his progeny, should fulfill his destiny.
“You can’t be proud of this.” The Dark Urge said, in a reassuring tone that Astarion had always wanted to hear. And suddenly the fervor of having the power of 7,000 souls at his fingertips was replaced by red-hot tears that welled in his eyes.
“Where were you?! Through all the pain, through all those years of solitude?!” He had wanted to scream, “What right do you have to speak of ‘pride’ when for all my life I have forgone it, letting it crumble at the base of Cazador’s boot just so I could suck the a limp rat dry and live another worthless hour?"
The words choked at the base of his throat. And as much as it pained him, Astarion knew then that those sweet dreams of sitting upon Cazador’s throne as he did were only ever going to be a dream.
And yes, he hadn’t been proud the moment he decided to let it all go. He had never felt pride in having to do the things he did. And he shouldn’t now, knowing the things that he once did. The blood, which stained his pale hands, was wholly different from the sweet blood he savored from his fallen enemies. It was foul and tainted, unlike the ones who had shed it.
Yet somehow, in a twisted, narcissistic manner, Astarion was… Proud, or at least at peace with himself. Perhaps that was all he wanted. Peace for himself—he just never knew it was possible, so he shoved it all aside for a foolish pursuit of power.
In the same way that he did now, he once stood with the Dark Urge by his side. Astarion had no intention of trancing that night they slew Cazador, his hands still trembling when The Dark Urge clasped them in his worn and scaled ones. On the rampart they talked for hours, drunk on nothing but the Baldurian air. Astarion shared more of his… History. The things he thought he had stowed away for the rest of his years, confined to the dark enclaves of his mind. He cried for the second time that day as the Dark Urge listened in silence. It was unusual; he never allowed himself to feel these memories so deeply. When they came up in his mind, which was not often, they were always loosely examined, then tossed aside like an unimportant piece of paperwork. And yet now it was as though he was finally forced to read every line so as to acknowledge all the horrible things that had happened to him and all the life he’d never get back.
The Dark Urge, though a patient listener, also shared tidbits of his past as he could gather them. For Astarion it was hard to believe that the same person who delighted in the execution of thousands could be the very one who’d change himself. He was frightened at times, for parts of that same evil were still present within the Dark Urge’, guiding his hand. He had almost killed Astarion once. But then again, it was even harder to believe that he himself could have ever led so many to a fate worse than death. It was comforting then that The Dark Urge matched his level of ruin and surpassed it in many ways. They were two kindred souls, bound by blood but also by their pact: to separate themselves from a heritage of suffering.
And it was all coming true.
***
Astarion saw him that night, though he told no one else. When the white specks poked through the foliage surrounding the reunion party, he knew it instantly, and his heart quickened with both fear and also… Longing.
It had been months since The Dark Urge had vanished off the face of Toril, as he vowed he would that day they saved Baldur’s Gate and the rest of the world along with it.
And Astarion had known that would be the last time he would see him. For the person he truly was, and not that husk that crept through the night, much as Astarion did before.
He should have told someone he knew. Astarion was confident in the abilities of his fellow companions, but Bhaal’s forsaken were a force to be reckoned with in battle. Yet he was just so delighted at the prospect of seeing him again. He had ached for so long that this tiny glance itself sent his mind into a frenzy.
Astarion remained calm; he simply observed the dragonborn as he weaved through the bushes and trees. There was an inkling of hope within him that the curse had not transformed him, not entirely.
Yet the murderous glance he was met with proved him wrong. The intensity of those blood-red eyes alone could bore holes within him. He had found his target. Astarion was sure that like any predator, he would pounce.
But the Dark Urge had not. Their gazes had locked for a few more seconds, and that was it. The Dark Urge whipped his head around, an awfully mechanical gesture, and dove back into the night. Astarion had stayed vigilant the entire rest of the reunion party, and he tranced even lighter than he usually did, but the Dark Urge did not return.
That added kindling to the little ember of hope he harbored, but Astarion was not sure.
He descended down the steps of Wyrm’s Rock Prison. In his cell, The Dark Urge sat unnaturally still, as though he were a statue and not a person. His eyes were closed lightly. The moonlight shone in from a little barred window above, illuminating the entirety of The Dark Urge’s bloodied body.
If he could ignore the bars and the damp brick walls, Astarion could pretend that he had found The Dark Urge at his tent, trying to recall the little bits and bobs he had of his life before the Nautiloid. After engraving the image into his memories, he decided to announce his presence.
“My mad love, you’re as dashing as ever.” He said, voice cracking on "love." It was in line with what he would say to the Dark Urge on any normal day. Except it was not any normal day. It was to be his final day, and their final hour together.
The reaction was instant. The dragonborn’s eyelids opened wide and snapped to the closest humanoid nearby—that being, Astarion. There was the sharp noise of metal banging against metal as he thrashed around violently, a pained groan coming from his maw.
Astarion smiled softly. “You look like you want a piece of me cleaved clean off the shoulders. Well, I wouldn’t blame you. I know a thing or two about necks and their irresistible allure.”
The Dark Urge would’ve chuckled and told him to fuck off before he actually sliced a dagger across his neck, at which Astarion would say something like, "To die by his love would be a pleasure," and they would laugh it off.
The Dark Urge, as he is now, did not laugh. He only growled, teeth bared and hands pushing against his restraints. Streaks of blood ran down his wrists.
Astarion pondered in silence, their vermillion eyes fixed on each other—one pair filled with reckless, unbridled fervor and the other with silent contemplation. He sighed.
“What would you think if you saw yourself like this? A shell of your former self. Would you despise me for not putting you out of your misery earlier? You would, I think. Surely, I should have killed you the moment the brain was destroyed, and I should have killed you when you showed up at the reunion party. I should kill you now, drive a dagger through your beating heart so the anguish would subside once and for all, shouldn’t I?”
More grunts of anger. Astarion wondered if the compulsion was physically painful to him. He recalled his days as a newborn spawn, how he could barely get ahold of himself in the presence of thinking creatures. Every second he resisted felt like a pounding headache. He was thrown into the kennels after a servant was found torn to shreds, yet without a single drop of his blood missing, per Cazador’s command.
“I… Well. One way or another. This will be your last torturous night, by my hands or another's. I should leave soon; you’re pulling so hard, and your beautiful scales keep getting ruined by all these restraints.”
The Dark Urge shook once more, then heaved, clearly growing tired.
Astarion racked his mind for something hopeful, something that might bring relief to the inkling of the Dark Urge’s soul, which remained intact.
“The flaming fist tracked down your father’s temple… With Wyll’s guidance, of course. I wish I could have been there to see her die. Your 'slaughter kin,' I mean. She seems to have grown rather distraught now that the dead three's plan has gone to ruin and did not even put up that much of a fight.” The news about the eradication of Bhaal’s cult had broken ten days ago, much to the delight of the Baldurians. Ravenguard hadn’t announced the discovery of the temple until after it was dealt with so as to not create even more stress for a recovering city. There were probably celebrations going on right now as he spoke.
“If only the Fists were more competent, then perhaps this whole crisis wouldn’t have happened… What would they ever do without the likes of us heroes? " Astarion mused.
The Dark Urge’s eyes were averted. Perhaps he was doing this intentionally to lessen the urge's intensity. Astarion could not know for sure, yet the idea was comforting.
“Your execution will mark the end of Bhaal’s reign of the undercity, love. No more killings, no more bloodshed. At least for a good while.” He continued.
No response came from the Dark Urge.
“Yes, the god of murder persists, as most immortal deities do, unfortunately. But we won’t let it happen again. Things are changing around here; we’re fighting for it. I would hate to make an empty promise, but I’ll do all that I can…” He stopped. “I’m really not cut out for this, am I? What do you say to your ex, whom you’re still in love with, that has gone mad with bloodlust and is about to be executed at dawn for the betterment of Baldur’s Gate?”
The Dark Urge’s head lolled to the side; it was as though he were in a lost trance. Astarion almost wanted to unlock the cell door and shake some sense into him. As if it were only a bad dream, one they would joke about once he’d awaken.
He sat down cross-legged. Astarion did not want to leave yet, but what could he do? The gods were silent, and there were no solutions to be found.
He smoothed out the frown that had begun forming on his face. “This is really stupid of me. After 200 years of servitude I ought to be enjoying myself at some bar. Getting so drunk I can’t even remember my name. In fact, I want a bottle of the strongest liquor right this moment so I can forget about you until it’s all over tomorrow.”
Astarion stared at the Dark Urge again. He wondered if he could glimpse his own image through that crimson mirror. It was a futile thought, but he always thought that there was a special, almost mystical charm to them that kept him mesmerized. “Being with you has really changed me, hasn’t it? I’ve grown all soft… And squishy. I let all of them die. All thousand-and-something of them. Every night. I had no care in the world. It turns out that they were not dead but quite the opposite, but I thought otherwise. I only wanted to survive, then. But you? Well, I guess I will have to let you die now, won't I?”
“I’m a leader now, can you believe it? Astarion, lying and conniving Astarion, caring for 7,000 spawns. If you had told me that was where I would end up at the start of this whole mess, I would berate you for your unsuccessful attempt at humoring me… It is true, though. And it is no easy work, keeping them all in check. I wonder if you could have given me a hand. After all, you led an entire temple of murderers. It would have been chaotic.”
He paused for a second. “You could’ve taken me with you. I… I don’t know… I could’ve planned some route for you to go all dagger-happy under the noses of the fist, or any other policing body in the Sword Coast. We could’ve done it all together… I have an obligation… Of sorts to the spawns, but I don’t truly ‘care’ for them… At least not in the same way… What I'm saying is, you didn’t have to do it all alone.”
Astarion looked up to see those pitiful crimson eyes that had long lost their glint. “Did you come back to slaughter all of Baldur’s Gate? Or did you just want to die? Perhaps you knew they would chain you and stop you… I can’t say I don’t understand you; there were many times that I thought the same.”
“My piteous, sickeningly virtuous love,” Astarion scoffed, "how did someone like you ever stomach being in the role of a death god's chosen? Seems to me you’d rather kill yourself a thousand times over than take a single life in his name.”
He laid a finger on the bar, feeling the cooling metal against his skin. He imagined he was running his hand through the dragonborn’s sleek scales instead. “You are the best of us, you know? And this is the end you get. How funny.”
Astarion leaned as close as he possibly could to the Dark Urge, so that his forehead rested against the metal bars. “I… love you, and I don’t think I will ever be able to forget you. No matter how many wine bottles I down. No matter how many years lie ahead. No matter how many souls I meet down the beaten path. You have ruined love for me, and I should never feel it again.”
He felt his eyes sting. It was a sensation now familiar to him, and he made no attempt to stop it.
“And… Thank you, my sweet. For all that you have done for me. Thank you for not murdering me that day you found me on the beach, though you were very justified to do so. And for not allowing my own hubris to master me that night.” He said with a pained smile. He blinked as tears rolled down his cheeks. One for every tear in his heart.
Then, in a whisper, “I only wish I could do the same for you.”
At last, the Dark Urge lifted his head. Even in his madness, he was a perceptive one.
There was a flicker, Astarion thought, a sign of recognition. An image of the man he once knew and loved so dearly—the feeling alone could reverse his undeath and breathe life into him once more. Astarion’s breath hitched at the sight.
It was short-lived. Those eyes reverted to a deep scowl as the Dark Urge flung his body towards Astarion, pulling against the restraints. He was muttering unintelligibly, and his maw opened in a desperate attempt to bridge the distance. Astarion responded instinctually by standing up and taking a few steps back.
And then he smiled once more. There was no warmth within it, only a deep, aching pain that would never be soothed.
“Yes, darling, I shall see you in hell.”
At this he turned on his heel and walked briskly. Past the guard who gave him a mournful nod and up the steps of Wyrm’s Rock Prison. He only slowed once he could no longer hear The Dark Urge’s crazed mumblings, the dewy midnight air greeting him like an old friend.
***
“So this is really it? Isn’t it?” Shadowheart said, wincing as she lifted her head to look upon the bound Dark Urge at the top of the platform. The gallows stood right before the gate from Wyrm’s Rock Fortress to the Lower City so that its corpses would hopefully sour the mood of anyone intending to commit crime. It was usually employed for petty criminals.
Astarion nodded; he was at a loss for words.
The sky loomed over them with a vibrant purplish hue. It had been a few hours since he had left the prison, and it seemed that any second the timid sun would rise above the roofs of Baldur’s Gate and shine upon it once again.
“And you,” she said as she turned to look at Astarion, her emerald eyes softening. “You did not get a wink of sleep, did you?”
“...I had to see him before the end,” he said.
There was no possibility of trancing after his meeting with the Dark Urge, so Astarion did the next best thing. He headed on to the Elfsong Tavern, sat on the bar stool, and drank. He was a seasoned alcoholic by now; Cazador drilled it into all his spawn so they could match the eagerness of the guests during the parties so as to not embarrass him but without the inebriation, yet there must have been something wrong with the liquor or him, as he struggled to not retch after a second glass. He had stopped after then and simply stared at a corner of the room until the sky lightened enough for him to notice.
Shadowheart gave him a knowing look and then reached out for his hand. Her skin was warm against his, and it was the pleasant reassurance that he so desperately craved.
“It is a pity that this somber event occurs on such a brilliant day.” Gale joined in, his hair tousled, likely running the last mile here.
"Oh, Gale, it is so great to see you again." Shadowheart brightened at another familiar face in the crowd. There were thousands gathered at the plaza to witness such a high-profile execution.
“Yes. It has been long overdue. I admit I was caught up in schoolwork. Grading them, I mean, I am a bit too old to be in school myself. Apologies, I suppose it is not the most appropriate subject matter to be discussing right now. Astarion… Are you… Forgive me. Are you well?”
“As well as I can be.” Astarion let out a dry laugh. His eyes were still fixed upon the Dark Urge. He was slumped over, and his eyes had a glassy finish to them. His arms were bound with rope at his back, and two fists stood to his left and right, hoisting him up. A sedative, probably. Ulder Ravenguard wanted it to be a public execution to usher in a new era for Baldur’s Gate, but seeing the Urge at its full effect would surely instill terror within the public.
The Dark Urge was docile now, unnaturally so. Somehow it was even more strange a sight than when he was nothing more than a rabid animal.
“Is anyone else coming?” Shadowheart asked to fill the silence.
“Well, Wyll is giving the speech. Other than that, I think not. Lae’zel is still battling in the astral realm, as is Minthara in the Underdark. To that, I bid them the best of luck. Thaniel’s realm has been closed off for a while, so Halsin is probably not in attendance… I cannot say I want to be here either. Of course I’d like to send my dear friend off… But what a gruesome send-off it is…”
Shadowheart nodded somberly, “An execution as well as a celebration of new beginnings… A mixture of love and loss. Shar’s believers would find it poignant.”
Astarion did not speak a word, and the conversation phased out. The crowd around them clambered on with rumors of the Bhaalspawn and other insignificant chatter. There was this excitement that flowed through them that Astarion almost wished he shared. He wanted this to be another execution that he could muse over. Once, he delighted in these public displays of violence. He longed to see others humiliated in the same way he had.
Now all the prattle and dramatics meant nothing to him. They were overshadowed by a barrage of dread that only thickened as the minutes passed by. He held on to Shadowheart tightly as though she were the only pillar left before the downpour of nausea would fall.
Finally, his attention was drawn elsewhere as Wyll Ravenguard approached the center of the gallows. He was fitted in a stunning doublet with fabric buttons and a design threaded with gold. His steps were resonant and slow, the image of a dignified lord.
“Dear citizens of Baldur’s Gate." His voice rang with clarity, and the audience grew silent. Wyll was truly a grand duke in the making. “Today we gather for the execution of a Bhaalspawn, the last of his kind as we know it. I am sure that many of you have already heard of the Flaming Fist’s triumph over the newly discovered Temple of Bhaal, where our valiant protectors have been able to vanquish Bhaal’s cult and purge his influence on Baldur’s Gate. We could not have achieved that if not for the brave fists who staked their lives to combat evil. To the Fists and everyone else who played a part in this mission, thank you all for your sustained efforts as Baldurians!”
Wyll glanced over at his friends as he spoke the last sentence, and the crowd erupted in cheers. There were chants of “To Baldur’s Gate!” or “Flaming Fist!” among the sea of roars. Wyll waited until the clapping subsided before he continued.
"Now, although this news arrived as relief to our city, which has been plagued with a series of killings in the past months, I, as the son of Grand Duke Ulder Ravenguard, leader of the Flaming Fist, would like to apologize for the prolonged inaction on this matter. More lives could have been saved if Bhaal’s plot were to be discovered earlier. Internal investigation to hold parties responsible is ongoing, and it seems that even the Flaming Fist was victim to unchecked corruption. Again, on behalf of the Flaming Fist, we sincerely apologize and vow to do better in the future.” He paused. And this time he had not needed to wait for the crowd, as it was silent with grief.
“Now that the matter is addressed, let us proceed with the execution. This man, known as The Dark Urge, is to be hanged for his role at the center of Bhaal’s plot and a string of unlawful murders he unleashed in the lower city before his capture a month ago. He is a Bhaalspawn, much like Grand Duke Adrian before him, descended from the God of Murder himself. However, unlike His excellency, he has proven to be under his influence indefinitely, a blade and a thrall.”
The words seemed to have no effect on the Dark Urge, whose eyes were lost in a land far, far away. Astarion cursed under his breath as gasps and vile words sounded around him. Shadowheart’s grip grew tighter.
“However, despite it all, the Dark Urge was an invaluable member in the party that saved Baldur’s Gate from the dead three’s clutches. Yes, he is one of our cities' saviors.” Wyll paused again, and this time the outrage broke out within the crowd. Of course, rumors had spread of the Saviors of Baldur’s Gate party having a white dragonborn within its ranks, but they remained unconfirmed, and most quickly dismissed the matter. Baldur’s Gate already had so many saviors to give its thanks that it did not really care for the existence of another one.
“Knowledge of it was kept confidential, as he disappeared soon after the defeat of the Netherbrain and had wanted nothing to do with Baldur’s Gate. However, I, as one of his companions and his friend, cannot allow him to die without his deeds being known. I cannot allow his legacy to be of a god's thrall, because the Dark Urge was much more than only a victim of Bhaal.”
“I confess I have only known him for a short while, but during our time together I knew him as a kind and courageous man. Yes, he harbored a violent, dangerous urge, but he was a man battling against his nature. He defied his godfather and carved out a path of his own. Although he knew his time was coming after disobeying Bhaal, he did the most good that he could. I fought side by side with him as we brought down the Netherbrain now. And for that I commend him, as you should all commend him, for all that he has done for Baldur’s Gate.”
“Yet fate is a tricky thing. Toying with the will of gods leads to dastardly consequences. Soon after the Netherbrain was defeated, he became the husk that he is now. Blinded by bloodlust and unable to decide for himself. Because of that, two families were slaughtered in the lower city. He is not the man that he used to be.”
Astarion felt his eyes prick as Wyll spoke. He never thought that some rehearsed words from the overly heroic man would invoke emotion within him, but clearly today was an exception.
So, as we gather here today. Let it not be an execution but a release of his entrapment under Bhaal. Let us remember the man he chose to be, not the monster he is forced to become. "Wyll paused for a long moment, as though he were letting out a breath of relief. “Thank you.”
The reaction of the crowd was divided. Some resumed their incessant clapping while others stood pensively, unclear of what to think and feel about the onslaught of befuddling information they just received. A killer and a savior, doomed to death but also raised on a pedestal. The Dark Urge’s existence danced around these two extremes as though their boundaries were merely an afterthought.
Yes, he had saved Baldur’s Gate. For that, the Dark Urge would pay the price of his life.
As the sun reared its banal head, the Fists brought forth the Dark Urge and fitted his within the noose of the gallows. Astarion closed his eyes as the executioner brought down the lever connected to a trapdoor. All was silent except for a faint groan and a strain within the ropes.
When he opened his eyes again, Astarion found that his vision was blurred.
At the base of the platform, Astarion stood beholding the view of a limp Dark Urge. He hung like a martyr as the light of the sun rendered him into a pale flame that both transfixed and staggered Astarion. The refractions of light within Astarion’s tearful eyes only made The Dark Urge seem even more mythical, like an angel that was to grow wings at any moment and soar through the skies.
The sun would rise. It would rise again, and again, and again. And it was a sight that Astarion would never have the opportunity to fully cherish.
His head lolled. The Dark Urge’s eyes remained unfixed, as they would remain, as though lost in a faraway dream. Yet there was no pain in those ruby eyes that gleamed like jewels now. Only long overdue peace as the world around Astarion fell into a standstill.