Chapter Text
The pain is excruciating. The burning of his scars is so intense that the sensation of having them carved into his skin and muscle pales in comparison. At the time, it was some of the worst physical pain he’d ever felt, alongside the gnawing hunger, but if there’s one thing Astarion has learned from Cazador it’s that there’s always worse pain to come.
Unlike the others, Astarion never believed Cazador would use this ritual to free them all and bestow new powers upon them. He’d been preparing to suffer since his master first began to speak of his plans.
Dalyria’s return means it’s almost over. Cazador will complete his ritual, now that he has her. It was a stupid decision on her part, to come back, and he’d tell her that if he were capable of letting out words that weren’t screams. He’s not angry with her that he’ll die now, as he catches a glimpse of her being thrown across the room to be trapped by her own seal on the floor, because death was the only way he’d ever be released from this. No, instead Astarion is furious that she’s given Cazador access to such power and splendour, as her final act. It’s clear he’s the only one who will ascend, using his own spawn as the fuel.
Then something impossible happens, which is that the strangers Dalyria arrived with are fighting for her against Cazador. Astarion can’t see what’s occurring and it grates on him. The magic from the sigil on the floor forces him into position, his head tilted back and every muscle stretched where he floats above the ground. He can hear the battle, Cazador’s taunts, yet he can’t follow what’s happening.
Astarion is so frustrated that this gang of fools are delaying the inevitable, causing him to feel like he is being burned and flayed for even longer, that he fails to consider the possibility they might win. It’s too absurd to picture. The burning intensifies and there’s a ringing in his ears so loud that he can’t tell what’s happening. He’s being torn apart and turned to ash by the sun all at once and it must surely be the end now. It isn’t. He drops to the floor.
The other spawn in the circle seem to have been released too, collapsed onto the ground in personal heaps. Despite the pain, he is the first to push himself to his feet. He has to see for himself because he cannot believe it if he doesn’t. Astarion staggers forward, stumbling to the side to get a view around Cazador’s coffin which blocks his view of what’s in front of it, and there is Cazador’s corpse. Unseeing. Empty.
“Is… is it over?” he finds himself asking, finally moving his gaze to Dalyria. She’s on her knees in front of the corpse, shirtless with her face and chest splattered with his blood, but she looks calm when she turns her face to address him.
“Yes.” Dalyria rises to her feet as she speaks, “He’s gone.”
Killed by someone else’s hand, rather than his own. Astarion wants to scream.
His gaze flickers to the small group behind Dalyria, feeling utterly exposed and clinging to his composure. There’s a human directly behind her, who steps forward to place a hand on her shoulder in a soothing gesture. Based on how they’re dressed, Astarion supposes they must be a sorcerer. Fighting at a range comes with the perk that they have very little blood on them, making the dark-haired human look out of place in the aftermath of the fight. Behind the pair, Astarion spares a glance for the Selûnite cleric and rather muscular and imposing tiefling they’ve brought with them, but it’s clear the human is in charge just from the way they stand and command attention.
“Are your little troupe intending to kill the rest of us? Seems a shame to do that and make an exception for you, when I’m much prettier, Dal” he joked, his voice admirably steady considering how he was shaking.
Only as he speaks the words does he realize he actually doesn’t want to die. With Cazador gone, he wants to survive out of pure spite if nothing else. Perishing the moment his master was gone would be like proving Cazador right, that Astarion is nothing without him.
“We came to stop this foul ritual, not to do any of you harm. We know he controlled you all, that you can’t be held accountable for what he made you do,” the human says.
As they insist on their good intentions, Dalyria picks up Cazador’s staff from the floor and gestures with it in a familiar movement.
“All of you are free to go, as well as the thousands held in this gods-forsaken chapel,” the sorcerer continues, and true enough they do not stop Dalyria from twirling the staff to release the locking spell. Even with his senses dulled from hunger and injury, Astarion can feel the way the ground vibrates as the barriers around the distant rooms in the ruined chapel dissipate. Sebastian is in one of those rooms.
Astarion doesn’t need to breathe. He still feels the panic constrict his throat as if he can’t get enough air, like he’s suffocating.
“I’m supposed to believe you came here out of the goodness of your hearts, expecting no payment? No. Everyone wants something,” Astarion insists.
Some of their other ‘siblings’ approach, staring almost in awe at the corpse at their feet. If he’d been the one to end him, he’d have mangled the corpse and stabbed it many times, so Cazador didn’t have such a restful appearance that he could have been sleeping. He can tell some of the others fear it’s a trick. There has to be a catch, of course there does, because if people can be so altruistic then why in the hells did no-one help him in the last 200 years? Why now?
“Tav came here to help me, Astarion, and so did my other companions. I wanted us all to be free of him.” Dalyria sounds so sincere that Astarion wants to be sick. All that would come up would be the remains of the putrid rat-blood he’d last been forced to choke down nearly a ten-day ago.
“There are easier and cheaper ways to get someone to fuck you, dear,” He says directly to Tav, “She’s charging much more than most of the elven prostitutes in Baldurs Gate, with the price of completing such a task.”
The appalled look on Tav’s face at his words provides only a hollow satisfaction.
“Charming family you have,” the Selûnite deadpans.
“Would it kill you to say thank you?” Petras snarks at him as he reaches Dalyria’s side, having made his way through the bodies littered around the platform. He enveloped Dalyria in his arms and she clings to him, much to the relief of her friends. That must have been closer to the kind of family reunion they were hoping for.
“I’ll leave the offers of thanks to you. You always were better at grovelling,” he spits back. Petras bristles and almost fights back, until Dalyria touches his face and draws his attention back.
“Gods, it’s so good to see you,” Petras tells her. “For a while I thought you were dead, caught by the sun on the way back to the manor, until we heard stories about you travelling with a group of adventurers out in the daylight!”
Aurelia, Yousen and Violet gather in to listen, to push for information from the companions that Dalyria has found herself living amongst, and Astarion takes that as his cue to leave. There are more questions he longs to ask, but he doesn’t know if he’d like the answers. Best to get out before the catch reveals itself.
The human sorcerer, Tav, looks like they want to say something else to Astarion in particular. Perhaps because he was Cazador’s favourite, always privy to more than the others, and Dalyria told them to go to Astarion for any information. He doesn’t want to find out.
Astarion takes a step towards the exit, waiting for someone to stop him, then another, and finds himself on the stairs to exit the chamber without having been halted. He hears the tiefling with ruby-toned skin say his name, distantly, but when he glances back she is excitedly gesturing and speaking with the other spawn and paying him no attention. Tav’s gaze lingers on him and he feels singed by it, so he runs.
He passes the open cells filled with the other spawn that Cazador had taunted him with when he dragged them all down for the ritual, filled with people he’d seduced and brought back for his master, and he does not pause to talk to them. The presence of the Gur is a surprise, though they are not difficult to stealth past with their attention so well-captured by those in the cells, and he knows just where to go once he gets out of Cazador’s grand estate. It will only be minutes before it is dark enough for him to safely venture outside.
Astarion makes his way to one place guaranteed to take him in. Somewhere he can do the one thing he’s good for, by seducing anything with a pulse; Sharess’ Caress.