Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Astarion lets his eyes droop and tries not to shiver, half-strung up and wholly wrung out as he is. The kennels are cold—frigid really, with the slow march of winter rolling in.

It’s dark too, and he feels it creep in from the corners. Suffocating. The flames had sputtered out after who-knows-how-long. His shoulders ache with the strain of being held up by an arm, and the lash welts on his hips and thighs sting intermittently. He’s thankful that as an undead he doesn’t need to breathe. The fractured (broken? Probably broken) ribs hurt the most, black and blue against the pallor of his skin. His face is probably the same.

He doesn’t even remember why he’s down here again. Doesn’t bring himself to care. He’d done as was asked, did what he was told. He’d played the part of his Master’s pretty pet and he’d still been thrown down here. Knelt and groveled and bared his belly and yet—

Cazador’s whims were as cruel as they were unpredictable. Perhaps he just missed Astarion’s screams.

It doesn’t help he’s starving. He’s barely getting by with half a putrid rodent, and that was yesterday.

Even as he tries, Astarion can’t quite hold back the sting behind his eyelids. The stale mix of congealed blood and bile in the back of his throat makes it stick, nevermind how ragged it must be after screaming so much. Godsdammit he’s better than this. There’s no use crying about it. His face already hurts enough as it is, his chest.

Tears are useless. Begging, pleading—it’s all useless.

Prayers. Useless.

They can’t hear you, boy. His Master had taunted once. Astarion hadn’t meant to call out, but he did. In hindsight, he can’t even remember to who, it just hurt too badly. Do you think they’ll deliver you? A lowly little worm? Pathetic.

The gods don’t care. He reminds himself. You’re worth nothing in their eyes. Especially in their eyes.

Memories are funny. He can hardly remember his old life, hardly remember his family, or his friends, or what he used to look like—but he can remember his education. Smatterings of the law, of lectures. He can picture in his mind a very small-still innocent version of himself learning his ABCs, his deities. He’s prayed to every god he can remember, supplementing his efforts every time he can get his hands on a book or eavesdrop on the mutterings between monks and clerics during those precious few moments he has to himself while on a hunt.

You’d think after all these years he’d have found one to hear him out.

…

It’s stupid to try.

He takes a breath he doesn’t need. Holds it. Exhales.

His arm is going numb. Can barely feel where the manacle is likely digging and ripping into the skin of a wrist.

Stupid.

Useless.

Holding onto the hope only hurts him the longer he tries.

In the name of…of anyone. Anyone who can hear me.

He can recite it all he wants. Articulate the words and pour his heart into it—

Please.

Just stop.

Please.

They don't care.

Help me.

He doesn’t have the energy for a more fitting prayer. And still, the kennels’ deafening quiet echoes back at him.

Useless.

....

…

..

.

And then all at once he drops gracelessly to the ground, the chain breaking with a clatter. It startles him out of his own head so violently that his legs buckle onto the floor.

Godey’s back. Or Cazador. He didn’t hear them come in, so he’ll be punished twice as severely for not acknowledging them.

Instinctively he goes into a grovel, head bowing low and focusing on the way the shadows dance on the cobbled stone floor in the firelight instead of his own rising panic.

Wait. Light?

Astarion blinks, the breath leaving him in a rush. He looks up.

Feet like burning coals. Greaves. A chiton like he’s seen some statues wear in deep reds and black. Honest to gods bones—on the guard of a sword, on a belt and over a shoulder. Are those the skulls of a hound? He'd call them kitschy if they weren't staring at him.

He deigns to drag his eyes up further. The stranger (handsome, crowned with laurels as bright as his heel, flickering imperceptibly like a halo of candle-fire) takes a step back in shock, the puddles of moisture on the floor hissing and fizzling out into steam with his movement.

Wide red eyes meet a mismatched pair of red and green, equally as surprised. The room suddenly feels too big and too small all at once.

His tongue is thick in his mouth. Throat sticky with surprise and fear and reverence. He trembles like a feeble rat on the ground, his mind whirling.

Impossible.

Impossible.

“Blood and darkness.” The god breathes out. His voice is kind—warm. “I don’t suppose you’re the one asking for me?”

Chapter Text

The god’s name is Zagreus. He calls himself the god of nothing—or something—citing a lack of domain, though his parents and the rest of his kin do have their own, thank you very much.

A fledgling god. How quaint. Astarion suspects some waffling regarding the domain bit, but he’s not going to pry. (Yet.)

There are more pressing issues at the moment—like the literal deity standing before him.

Astarion has to not laugh like a crazy person. Well, he tries. He does in the end and it just makes his sides ache something fierce and the god winces for him with an expression that says he knows what that feels like. Just his luck to be in the presence of the only god who wants to help him, and it’s a god of nothing?

Beggars can’t be choosers. At least Zagreus is regarding him with—you know, he doesn’t care. A god is a god and one is giving him the time of day, he might as well take full advantage of the opportunity.

“Oh mighty god—” He croaks out with his forehead kissing the floor as best he can given the state of his body. Astarion starts with a half-cobbled together speech (prayer?) full of bullshit words, flowery prose, and the desperation that would make a devout woman cry—but then those warm hands come to rest on his shoulders and he’s eased up into a sitting position, one easier on his ribs.

Zagreus drapes a ratty blanket over his shoulders. His expression is deeply empathetic.

Astarion realizes he’s still shaking like a fool.

“We can skip the formalities.” The kind god says. Zagreus. He has to remember. “Why don’t you start from the beginning?”

Astarion awakens to the cold of the floor, a foot in his already mangled ribcage, and Godey’s bony hand in his hair, yanking him upright. The manacle is carelessly removed from his wrist, divesting him of some skin and adding to the already numerous injuries on him. Godey berates him all the while, the insults so familiar it rolls off of him like water on a duck’s back.

He’s half walked, half dragged and then tossed into a tub of freezing water. At least it’s not the kennels, they probably have no use for him at the moment.

(Petras is being shoved in there in his place. Idiot probably did something stupid. Serves him right.)

“Wash up, boy.” The skeleton barks, tossing Astarion a bucket. For someone with no eyes, Godey has uncanny aim. The thing knocks against Astarion’s temple and makes him see stars, and he has to fight the urge to snarl back. His clothes are tossed in his general direction a moment later.

Then he’s left alone to lick his wounds.

Astarion ponders last…whatever time it was. The prayer. The god. How he’d spilled his guts metaphorically all over the ground like it was spring cleaning for the multitudes of skeletons in his closet for the god to listen and balk at, his face first morphing from shock and sorrow to fury.

Save me from my Master. Free me, and I’ll worship you for the rest of my undying days.

The god had looked at him with a measure of horror and grief that Astarion would have thought impossible for the divine.

It felt like a dream. He doesn’t know what to do with that information. It’s certainly how some gods work—something straight out of a child’s fairytale; perhaps a lunatic’s wildest fantasy. He knows for a fact patrons do. Fey. Devils. A whole host of entities eager and willing to worm their way into an unsuspecting simpleton’s head for an unfair bargain.

Your liberation for your soul! Twenty-percent discount if you pay upfront. Ha.

A sliver of the shock and wonder remains, grublike and squirming around in his head. It didn’t feel like a dream. The realization is as icy as the water he’s bathing in, turning murky with the blood he sloughs from his skin and hair.

A god visited him. A god revealed himself to him. A god was willing to hear his plight. Or maybe he’s not really a god. It doesn’t really matter.

Zagreus, he reminds himself. His name is Zagreus.

Astarion only half remembers what happened after; his memory may say otherwise but it really did feel like a figment of his cracked psyche. One moment he was talking to Zagreus, the next—

All I remember is blood. Why?

He chalks it up to his hunger. For the rest of his bath, until he dresses and all the way back limping to the spawn dormitory, Astarion mulls it over in his head, wracking his mind for the answers and coming up blank. Did the god tire of him? Was he coming back? Was Astarion just flat out going crazy?

In the name of Zagreus.

In the name of Zagreus.

Yes, he’s most definitely going crazy.

He doesn’t tell anyone. Of course not, he’s smarter than that. Zagreus (if real) is his god and he’s not sharing, hells no. Best case scenario, there will be at least six more people begging for divine scraps. Worst case scenario—someone will snitch and Cazador will have his hide for breaking the rules. He keeps his knowledge (or delusion) to himself and goes about his routine as usual.

Hunt. Lure. Reward (rats). Hunt. Lure. Torture. Tend to his injuries. Listen to Violet bully Yousen. Cazador singing Leon’s praises again. Attend another ball, be a pretty trinket. Torment. The blade, a lash, nails and picks and everything else.

Over and over.

All the while, the words rattle about in the recesses of Astarion’s mind, startlingly clear despite the neverending hunger, Cazador’s cruel laughter, the hands on his body or the knives in his skin. A week passes, then a month. Then three. Astarion goes back and forth from the dorms to the kennels to the streets more times he can count, and every time he’s down there, beaten bloody, the temptation to say it teeters on the tip of his tongue.

In the name of Zagreus.

Not now. But it doesn’t hurt to try again.

On his next hunt, Astarion finds a little time to make a small shrine. He has the rest of the night to finish the job, what’s five minutes?

The shrine is a handful of weedy flowers, with a too-small pomegranate he plucked from an unsuspecting passerby. Top it off with a little stolen incense and a lone candle from the last time he was out and it’s perfect. He tucks it all in an alcove between two abandoned buildings. A little hole in the wall like it’s his own personal grotto.

The smell of sandalwood wafts around him as he kneels in that dead-end alleyway, hands clasped like a good devotee.

“In the name of Zagreus,” He says, swallowing down the nervous waver in his voice. “I humbly request your guidance. Or presence. Or just a damned sign—”

He waits.

And waits.

Prays a little harder, muttering under his breath, and waits some more. Thirty minutes go by and he’s just about ready to stand up from his aching knees, frustrated, and leave to call it a bust before the air wobbles wrongly and suddenly he’s not alone in the alleyway anymore.

“I was wondering when you’d call for me again.”

Astarion jumps to his feet, whirling to the source of the voice. Zagreus stands just a few feet off to the side, looking the same save for his weapon. In place of the wicked red blade from last time is a blue-green-grey two-pronged spear, delicate white ferns curling up just shy of the blades. He looks a little haggard and sounds slightly out of breath—like he’d run all his way here.

Zagreus smiles at him. It reminds Astarion of a large-too friendly dog, extra slobber.

“What took you so long?” Astarion manages to eke out, his tone petulant, awfully bold of him to say point-blank at someone who could skewer him before he can blink. Deities don’t usually take kindly to disrespect. Zagreus smiles sheepishly at him in lieu of the staking Astarion expected, and unsticks the slightly damp bangs from his face, the movement making the flames of his crown lick up into the night air.

“Do you mean between last time and now, or—”

“What do you think!?”

Astarion’s jaw clamps shut so hard that he nicks the inside of his cheek with a fang as he hurriedly tamps down his ire. Shit, he hadn’t meant to yell like that. Ah, he’s going to die. Struck down by a god, not really a bad way to go.

He's about to backpedal, maybe beg for forgiveness; instead, he freezes when the god settles him with this look.

Zagreus only tilts his head at him, his brow furrowing thoughtfully—though from the angle Astarion is looking up at him (Zagreus, as a deity should, is a lot taller than he is) Zagreus’ expression appears rather grim in the half-dark of the evening. He glances at the paltry altar Astarion’s scrounged up and his eyes soften somewhat. Takes in Astarion in all his entirety and his face relaxes even more.

Astarion’s never felt so exposed.

“You look much better than last time.” Zagreus comments softly.

Astarion scoffs before he can catch it. “Of course I do. Why wouldn’t I? This,” He gestures to himself. “Is high maintenance. I wouldn't be caught dead looking like that out on the streets.”

Most of the swagger has left Astarion’s voice, but there’s enough that it makes Zagreus chuckle.

“I don’t mean it like that. It’s good to see you’re well.” Zagreus tells him in that too-earnest voice just threatening to tear down his defenses. Astarion has to suppress the urge to wipe his clammy hands against his doublet, the alleyway feeling that much warmer.

Faced with him again (clearly not a figment of Astarion’s despair), Astarion’s run out of things to say—which is a miracle since Cazador himself considers him to be a never-ending font of bullshit.

Zagreus, thankfully, takes the initiative. The god clears his throat, shifting slightly on his feet. “I take it you have questions? I’ll try to answer them as best I can. I have my own, if you’ll humor me.”

“You have questions? About what.” Astarion asks, incredulous. Didn’t he tell Zagreus his entire sordid life history already? Besides, gods are...All powerful. All knowing. Omnipotent. But Zagreus nods, eyes bright and eager to know.

“I do. You want me to help you free yourself, yes?” Zagreus asks, and it takes all of Astarion’s willpower to not make a running start for the light at the end of the proverbial tunnel.

Chapter Text

Astarion has to accept that his life is full of strangeness. Like now, as he has a decidedly informal and unceremonious conversation with a deity. Not exactly the holy commune he had pictured in his mind.

“You mentioned last time you’re something called a ‘vampire’. Care to explain that?” Zagreus asks, looking genuinely curious. He and Astarion have taken seats on the ground opposite each other, backs against the walls of the alleyway as they speak in hushed tones, with Zagreus already working on the pomegranate Astarion had left for him on the shabby altar.

Astarion’s brows furrow. “Vampire spawn. A vampire is a creature of the night that feeds on blood. Sanguine tastes and all that.” He says with a little flourish, before slouching again. “I…happen to have very few of the pros, and just about all of the cons.” He corrects. “You’re not familiar?”

“Not to my knowledge, no.” Zagreus says, cracking the pomegranate open with practiced ease and offering Astarion a section. Astarion takes it, even if it won’t do anything for his long-dead tastebuds or long-dormant digestive system. “I’m familiar with the dead and some living creatures. Mostly dead. Shades. Wretches. Bloodless. Splitters—to name a few.” Zagreus dictates. None of those creatures’ names ring a bell to Astarion.

“And the living?” Astarion prods.

“Fish and humans. And vermin.” Zagreus replies, nose wrinkling with the last one.

Astarion huffs out a laugh. Unbelievable.

“Lucky for you, I am neither living nor dead.” He says, watching Zagreus’ face morph into confusion at the concept. “Vampires are undead.”

“Undead? Meaning…? You’re not supposed to be alive? Or are you supposed to be dead? I don’t quite follow.”

“It’s more complicated than that, darling.” Astarion snorts, lifting a pomegranate seed up to his lips and mimicking Zagreus in a little attempt at solidarity. He makes a face as the thing pops between his molars, tasting sour and rancid.

Eugh. Real food continues to find ways to make his stomach turn. Fruits were his least favorite in that regard.

The corner of Zagreus’ mouth twitches slightly upward. “It’s a little tart. But how did you know I like poms?”

“Lucky guess. And ’tart’ is an understatement.” Astarion says, cringing as he passes the segment back to Zagreus. “Regardless, I’ve told you about it last time. How my Master turned me.”

Zagreus’ expression darkens. “You have. Cazador, was it? The one who put you in that dungeon?”

“The kennels, yes. Cazador, who has me on a tight leash as much as I hate to say it. I can’t leave given our…connection as Master and spawn. He would know. Even if I did, the sun will turn me to ash before I even manage to step foot out of the city limits with how long it will take to leave, and/or my siblings will bring me back on his command. I'm a dead man, regardless. Figuratively or literally.” Astarion mutters, grimacing. “Which is why I'm asking for your help. Can…can you do it? Can you—” Astarion swallows thickly, paranoid that someone will overhear their conversation despite it being deep into the evening and in a secluded area, their voices low and hushed. “You can get me out of this, correct? You’re a god. You're more than capable.”

Their eyes meet and Zagreus is the first to tear his gaze away, thinking. “I appreciate the vote of confidence, but given everything," Zagreus pauses before acquiescing. "It’s more complicated than that, mate.” He picks at the pomegranate seeds as he speaks, while Astarion frowns at his words being thrown back at him. “But I can tell you this—I’m rather good at escaping. Pretty handy in a fight as well, if I do say so myself.”

(Astarion wonders if he's just being humble.)

“What about killing?”

“That’s par for the course.”

Ominous words said casually, but that’s good. At least he knows Zagreus is capable of such thing. Ergo, he can help Astarion achieve that as well. But a god running from something? That's interesting. And concerning.

“And what, pray tell, does a god need to escape from?”

“My father.”

“Ah.”

A beat of silence passes between them. “Listen,” Zagreus says. “I’ll help you. That’s a promise. We just have to…I can't believe I'm saying this but—work out things out. I think. Though I’ll be the first to admit I’m not usually one to plan.”

Astarion slumps against the wall, gesturing in a frustrated manner. (That makes two of them.) “I—Gods, what I don’t understand is why you can’t just—” Astarion snaps his fingers. “—and make it happen.”

Zagreus chuckles weakly, shaking his head. “If it were, I would. It’s hard enough already to reach you when you call.”

Astarion’s eyes narrow. Right, right…something, something fledgling god. At least that's his running theory. Perhaps that explains the delay. But still.

“Then how? What’s the plan?”

“You tell me.” Zagreus replies. “This is your territory. You’re more familiar with your master than I am. You—” Zagreus winces suddenly, like he’s had a very bad headache, the half-finished fruit in his hands tumbling onto the ground.

Astarion feels his stomach drop. “What?” He asks, alarmed. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s nothing.” Zagreus grunts, standing unsteadily on his feet where the flames seem to sputter. “This—Tight deadline. Just—” Zagreus sways, and Astarion reaches out to steady him with a hand on either shoulder. He’s heavy.

“Just what?” Astarion hisses, failing to understand, watching Zagreus grow increasingly pale and limp. “Zagreus!”

The god slumps in his hold, and Astarion is half-carrying him now. Zagreus groans, voice low, his grip on the black leather of Astarion’s doublet weakening. “Astarion. Next time—"

“There better be a next time!” Astarion yelps as he lowers himself and Zagreus back onto the ground, where the god’s weight lays heavy against his lap. “Zagreus? Zagreus!”

Zagreus tries to smile at him but his face goes slack, his eyes still open. The last breath leaves his lungs, and the flames licking at his heels die out.

Dead. Just like that.

Astarion is cradling the rapidly cooling body of a god, cycling through his emotions before settling on hysteria—

But not before the strangest thing happens.

He smells it before he sees it. Blood rises from the cracks in the pavement, like a wine dark sea—rising to meet Zagreus’ body. The god’s corpse seems to be swallowed up in it—slipping then sinking below the current and swept away from Astarion’s hold.

The blood recedes just as fast as it comes, and Astarion is left kneeling in an alleyway, candle on the altar snuffed out, half-eaten pomegranate on the ground, covered sleeves up and waist down in gore.

Zagreus just died. Went and fucking keeled over in his arms. Left Astarion looking and smelling like he waded through a butcher’s shop. It takes a while for his mind to catch up with what just happened.

There was a lot of blood. There is a lot of blood. Curiously, it’s red. Sticky and thick, exactly like a regular person’s and not the golden ichor he'd come to expect—

And in that moment, drenched in blood, Astarion realizes he still has to hunt. He can’t go out like this. He can’t return to the palace like this either.

Shit.

Chapter Text

Astarion manages a way out of the mess of his own making, but only by the skin of his teeth. And perhaps luck. Maybe it's exceptionally good fortune—the divine kind—an extension of his run-in with Zagreus.

His clothes are for the most part ruined, the white and brown sleeves of his ensemble irrevocably stained, with the blood having also seeped into the underside of his black leather doublet. His pants, though made of a dark material, are awash in the gore as well, and he’s sure there’s blood in his boots judging by the unpleasant dampness he’s feeling. But he'd managed to play up the bloody mess like a poor, defenseless victim of a burglary gone wrong with a few well played crocodile tears and stumbling about pretending to be injured—choosing to approach a plucky young man and his companion who he had overheard from the shadows speaking about their excitement of seeing the world for the first time.

His panic about Zagreus dying surely helped sell it—after all, he can’t fake the shaking.

It was humiliating, sure—but the two fresh faced adventurers who’d ‘found’ him all weepy and terrified were deeply moved, inviting him back to their room at the inn to ‘recuperate.’ Neither had even tried to ask more out of him than an explanation and even then they were more than willing to believe his tall-tale.

A rarity for sure.

At least he's washed the blood off. Impromptu bath aside, Astarion doesn't know what he would have done should he have returned to the palace drenched like that. He can't think of a single excuse that wouldn't land him on the torture rack or in isolation. He almost feels a little bad for these two golden-hearted, simple-minded fellows and the fate that awaits them—especially when they lend him a fresh linen shirt and pants (scratchy, but serviceable), as well as an extra pair of shoes.

“We’re sorry about your clothes.” One says, offering Astarion a cup of tea from the tavern downstairs. Astarion didn’t catch or care to ask again for their names—it hardly ever mattered in the long run. “Baldur’s Gate's not a city to be out and about at night. You should really be more careful!”

Astarion nods, agreeing, upping the ante on his false naïveté on what he could probably call the easiest job in his entire career as Cazador's personal honeypot—pretending to be some sheltered noble and not one of the reasons why the city is so dangerous.

“I hate to trouble you both,” He says, as meek as he can manage, eyeing his pile of ruined clothing they’d put in a bucket. “I’d rather not brave the streets alone again. Could you both help me back to my family’s manor?”

Cazador at least is impressed that he’s brought back not just one, but two people. Astarion’s initial relief is short lived when it’s offset by the displeasure at his sudden change in outfit, given that Cazador saw Astarion off earlier that night.

“You look like a pauper.” He sneers. “What happened to your clothes, boy?”

Ah, damn. Well, it’s not like he hoped he wouldn’t get caught.

“An accident, Master.” Astarion replies, making sure to keep his back straight and eyes downcast as he says it. “I was…clumsy. Careless.” It’s not entirely a lie, but it’s better than saying what really happened. It’s a bad idea to run his mouth now.

Cazador scoffs. “More careless than clumsy, I'm sure. You've always been. And to think I let you keep such nice things. Ungrateful brat.”

Astarion bites his tongue, praying that his Master is in no mood to correct him for his mishap tonight. That outfit was one of the two nice ones that he’d owned, nevermind that Petras had an identical set. At least he still had the blue and magenta doublet that he liked so much, even if the embroidery was starting to fray again.

Thankfully Cazador waves him off, disinterested. It makes Astarion deflate a little in relief. “Go! You are dismissed.” He says as he tosses a live hare at Astarion’s feet. Astarion, who has to make a show of scrambling for the small creature, lest it get away, much to Cazador’s amusement. It’s a little bigger than the sickly rats he usually gets by on, so he counts this as a victory.

Still, he can’t quite shake the emotions from the night’s events.

Even with the creature’s blood fresh on his tongue, the tart-rot taste of the pomegranate seed from earlier lingers in his mouth, just as much as Zagreus does in his mind.

Zagreus.

Next time. He’d promised. Astarion can’t help but worry. Gods were supposed to be made of sturdier stuff, and yet…

“Brother?”

He’s stirred from his reverie by the sound of Aurelia’s voice. He's back in their room, the tiefling standing a foot away from him, holding one of her blouses in her hands. The cuff is fraying, and she must want to borrow Astarion’s needle and thread. Or ask him to fix it. Either way.

“Give me that.” He says, almost out of habit. Aurelia takes a seat on his bunk beside him, watching quietly as he fusses with the needle and thread he keeps tucked in-between his mattress and bedframe to begin repairing her shirtsleeve.

It’s a rare moment of peace in the spawn dormitory. They’re the only two awake aside from Dalyria, who’s quietly reading and penning footnotes in the margins of her book. Yousen is asleep in the next bunk over having been put through his paces entertaining the palace's guests earlier in the day, jester's paint still smeared on his brow. Leon is more than likely in the favored spawn room with his daughter. Petras is definitely in the kennels again—having landed himself there after bringing home an extra combative sorcerer who singed one of the Master’s favorite paintings, as pretty as she was dangerous.

Violet is…somewhere. Knowing her at this time of night, she’s either up to mischief or out preening in the gardens. Maybe inconveniencing the servants.

Aurelia’s tail sort of half-curls around him as he sews, more out of familiarity and habit than anything. “What happened to your clothes?” She asks, eyes flickering across the too-big linen shirt.

“An accident.” Astarion lies, grimacing slightly as he turns the sleeve inside out to inspect his handiwork. “You know what messy work luring people back here can be.”

Aurelia hums, her hair falling in waves around her face, unbound from the braids she likes to wear so much. “That’s a pity.”

“Pity indeed.” Astarion huffs, stitching carefully to hide the seams. “Not entirely, I suppose. I’d hate to match with Petras again. Can you imagine?”

Aurelia breathes out a small laugh. The spade of her tail twitches in time with her amusement. “The Master wouldn’t allow it.”

Cazador did prefer them in their own outfits, given an overarching theme. There was even a separate wardrobe tucked away for them in the event of a ball or soiree. If they were especially good, Cazador would gift one to them. The last one Astarion received was likely decades ago.

“Although, I did wear it better than him. Just to set the record straight.” Astarion smirks, handing Aurelia her repaired blouse who smiles at him in thanks.

Dalyria sighs a little from her corner. “Careful, Astarion.” She says, glancing up from her book. “Don’t let Petras hear you say that.”

“Why? It’s the truth.” Astarion kicks off his shoes, settling further onto the bed and leaning against his arms. “And it’s not like he can hear me say it at the moment. Honestly, how he managed to charm that sorceress with that tragic face of his is beyond me.”

Dalyria frowns at him worryingly before going back to skim her footnotes. “I’d rather you not pick a fight with him so frequently. You know how the Master got the last time it happened. And all over something you both could have talked out.”

“And I would rather he shut his trap. We can’t have everything, Dal.” He sniffs.

There was little room for wants in the life of a vampire spawn. No agency either. Privacy. Freedom. Opinions. You take only what you’re given, with a bow and everlasting gratitude, all yes Master, of course Master, whatever you say Master. Revise that and sprinkle in a healthy dose of veneration and you almost have a doctrine to live by. Though Astarion shudders to think of a god as cruel as Cazador.

...

What was he thinking about again? Right, Zagreus. Zagreus, who's personality thus far is a complete 180° from Cazador's. As far as gods went, Zagreus was entirely too strange to Astarion. Too trusting and too kind and he's not completely sure if the earnestness is real from the two and a half conversations they'd had. Astarion can't help but wonder where Zagreus even came from, given that he's never heard of a deity of that name among the hundreds he must have prayed to in the near-two centuries he's been stuck here, and Zagreus sounds like he has little clue about the ins-and-outs of worldy living in general.

Theory one. Astarion mulls in his head. Zagreus is a young, unknown god. One looking to spread his influence.

It makes little sense. Zagreus should have chosen someone with more reach—anyone other than someone like Astarion, who had less rank than the vermin of the streets.

Theory two. Forgotten god. It would certainly make sense. Deities come and go, and Zagreus could have re-emerged from hiding. Maybe from the Spellplague? Or a similar event? That, and he did say he was running from his father, whoever that could be. But it ran into the same roadblock as Theory One, in which anyone else would make for a better representative in the building of a religion.

Theory three. A foreign god. Now there was an idea. It made perfect sense to as to why Zagreus seemed clueless. Astarion has to wonder how foreign a foreign god would be. Perhaps from the far east? Further than that?

Further than Faerûn? Toril? Ah, now that just makes his head hurt. Nevermind.

Theory four. Zagreus isn't a god at all. Astarion is unsure if he should even entertain that line of thought.

A part of him wants to take it back—maybe he's making a mistake. This might backfire on him more than he expects it to given the inevitability of him trying to hide his worship from his Master, and he might as well be unknowingly trading one cruel hand for another.

He glances around the room. The earlier conversation had sputtered out and left the rest of the spawn in a comfortable quiet. Dal is back to reading, and Aurelia is combing her hair out by one of the dorm’s shared dressers. It’s with a little twist of anxiety does Astarion realize that if he wants to see Zagreus again, he’s going to have to be more careful about it. And more productive. How long was that conversation even? A few minutes? Ten at most?

And most importantly: How does one go about to plotting their Master’s demise?

Godsdammit. He laments. I thought divine intervention would make this easier, not more difficult.

Chapter Text

“Achilles sir, what do you think would happen if someone drank from the River Styx?”

“That’s an interesting question. Why the sudden curiosity?”

“I suppose I’ve had several dozen mouthfuls of the stuff already, but I don’t feel any different. What happens if a human drinks from it?”

“I…I’m not sure, lad. Perhaps it would make them invulnerable, in the same way it did for me in my youth after my mother dipped me in its waters as a babe. Though drinking it—that’s an entirely different story. I don't think I recommend it.”

Zagreus considers it. Maybe he'll go with Plan B, then.

“I am not watching anyone, least of all that creature of yours. Go find someone else to do it!”

“Astarion, please.”

“Leon, do I look like I want to play nanny?”

Astarion’s displeasure is palpable, given he’s nursing his wounds from yet another one of Cazador’s aptly named ‘bonding’ sessions with him. It’s been a little more than two weeks since his bloody encounter with Zagreus and he’d been biding his time trying to find a moment alone to contact the god again.

And just as he was about to get it given that Godey had grown as bored of re-opening his wounds as a reanimated skeleton could get—enter Leon.

“I’m only asking because the Master is taking Aurelia out with me. I’m not leaving Victoria alone in our room without someone to watch her for the night.” Leon pleads, mussing his hair in agitation.

“Then why me?” Astarion winces, pulling his shirt over his head, grimacing when the movement agitates his injuries.

“I think it’s rather obvious.” Leon sighs. Petras or Yousen would make frankly lousy babysitters. Violet would certainly traumatize the girl for fun, and Leon didn’t quite like the look Dalyria was giving his daughter—more like a science project than anything—despite her excellent bedside manner as an ex-physician. “Look, at the moment I only trust you to do it. And the Master was amenable so long as you stay put until dawn.”

“You are aware your little hellion only listens to you, yes?”

“Astarion, she’s two. But I promise you she’s sleeping through the night. You just have to put her down for bed.”

Astarion is quiet for the moment, pondering Leon’s request. It would be nice to get out of the kennels a little sooner.

“What’s in it for me then?” Astarion grunts, waving Leon off when the younger spawn offers his hand to help him up on his feet. “I am not doing this out of the charity of my heart.”

Leon thinks.

“I’ll ask the servants to draw you a hot bath.” He says without hesitation.

Damn. He can’t say no to that.

“…Fine. Just as long as she won’t cause trouble.” Astarion acquiesces. A bath sounds heavenly after his three-day stint in the kennels. “But I better have that bath first.”

“So.”

“Mmn.”

Astarion sits cross-legged and cross-armed on Leon’s bed in the favored-spawn room, locked in a silent stalemate with a toddler. Victoria looks up at him with big, brown doe eyes, face half-hidden behind the owlbear plush she’s clutching.

“Are you going to be a good little creature and go to sleep?” Astarion asks over-sweetly, arching a brow. He must look quite the mess. The bath was as exquisite as he’d thought, though it only managed to refresh him a little and wash off the grime despite him soaking in the hot water for as long as he could. He was still very much black and blue—with an especially nasty one on his cheekbone where Cazador’s backhand caught him in surprise.

Leon had only been gone for an hour and a half at most thus far. So much for an easy night.

“We can do this all evening.” Astarion deadpans, glowering at the little girl. “Your father left me with very specific instructions for you to go to sleep.” He repeats, miming the process of laying down and resting his head.

Victoria giggles at him, but shakes her head. Ugh, children.

“…Alright, what do you want?”

Victoria hops down from her bed and toddles over to a sidetable where she picks up a brush. She then proceeds to hop up on her father’s bed with some difficulty and hand the brush to Astarion, turning her back to him. “B'uhs.” She says, in that small, squeaking voice small children have.

“Darling, I think you mean brush. Brush.”

“B'uhs!”

Oh, fine.

“Your father should really have you work on your pronunciation, darling.” He mutters.

This must be one of Leon’s nightly routines with her. Then again—how was Astarion to know? The man hadn’t left him any instructions other than ‘watch over her’, so he didn’t know what else to expect.

Astarion takes the hairbrush and works his way up Victoria’s head, starting at the ends of her light brown hair. She seems to be having fun with it while she hums to herself, the notes arranged in such a way that would only make sense to a child.

Astarion sets the brush down after a few minutes of combing and detangling. There, her hair is nice and silky. “We’re done brushing.” He says to her. “Will you go to sleep now?”

“Mhmm.” She nods. “Yes yes.”

At least she doesn’t scream and throw tantrums like other children. Props to Leon then.

“Good.” Astarion hums. “Now, run along. Into bed now, Victoria.”

“Vicky!”

“Very well, Vicky.”

Victoria hops into bed like she’s been instructed, laying on her side and pulling her blanket over herself. Astarion is a little impressed that Leon’s made her out to be so self-sufficient at such a young age. He fixes the blanket, smoothing out the corners. “Alright—”

“Sto’yee!”

“What?” Astarion asks, shaking his head. Victoria points to a fairytale book on a dresser.

“No. No time for stories. It’s sleeping time, Vicky. Not storytime.”

“No!”

Astarion scrubs a hand over his face—the uninjured side. “Fine. Then—Once upon a time, there were two very brave adventurers. One day, they arrived in a big, bad city and helped a very handsome stranger on the street, who thanked them by bringing them to his father to have over for supper.”

Victoria settles into bed, looking expectantly up at him to continue.

“And over supper they were had. They were the supper, so they died. The end.” He finishes sarcastically, fussing with her blanket and smoothing the edges out. “There. You have your story. Now go to sleep.”

Victoria frowns at him, her brow furrowing as she cuddles her owlbear. “Died…?”

Astarion rolls his eyes. “Yes, died. As in dead. Not living. And little children like yourself will also be very much dead if you don’t sleep enough. So, if you would: Go. To. Sleep.” He threatens lightly. “Your father will be very unhappy if he finds out you didn’t go to sleep like a good little dear, wouldn’t he?”

Victoria pouts at him, before turning over with a disappointed huff, pulling the blanket over her head.

Let her sulk. Astarion thinks, moving to return to his seat on Leon’s side of the room. Children have the attention span of a goldfish. She’ll learn to get over it.

...

..

.

An hour after having put Victoria to bed and halfway through the children’s storybook Astarion is thumbing through—there seems to be what feels like a knocking on his head.

It’s not at all physical. More a…transcendent one. Something he feels in his person than on his body.

Astarion? It seems to ask.

Oh hells.

Zagreus?

Astarion jumps when an orb of red light blinks into existence in the corner, nearly dropping the book in his hands. It glows and pulses, shimmering in the space like a pressure point, light dripping from an unknown source above it. At the heart of it is a symbol in a deeper red—two prongs emerging from the intersection of a rhombus, like the spear Astarion remembers Zagreus wielding the last time he saw him—situated on top of fiery laurel leaves.

It calls to him.

Astarion glances over towards the lump where he assumes Victoria is sleeping under. He makes his choice. Quietly, he moves towards it, kneels, and reaches out.

It blinks once, flashing gold and then iridescent with a soft chime. When Astarion opens his eyes, a slightly distorted miniature image of Zagreus stands before him.

“Testing—hello? Can you see me? Oh, Astarion!”

“Shush!” Astarion hisses, moving a little closer to hide Zagreus as best he can, as if that would muffle the sound. He checks over his shoulder. Luckily Victoria is still asleep.

“Oh, damn.” Zagreus breathes. “Is this a bad time? You’re not in danger, are you?”

“No—not really, just. Yes, I’m safe. It’s fine. A little warning, next time?” He huffs.

“Sorry.” Zagreus smiles sheepishly. “I was eager to get this thing working. Master Chaos suggested I practice and it’s my first time using these…communing…things. Whatever they’re called.” The god says, gesturing vaguely. His projection glimmers as he moves. “I had a little free time today at home. Thought I’d give it a shot.”

Astarion arches a brow at him. “Is this how it normally works among your kin?”

“It is, but I’m normally on the receiving end of one of these.” Zagreus smiles.

There’s a sweet, haunting melody echoing just beyond Zagreus’ voice, as well what sounds like the bustle of wherever it is Zagreus considers his home. Astarion can hear vague whispery chatter, the distant clinking of silverware, and the faint boom of a commanding voice. It sounds busy, wherever he is.

Astarion cups his hands around the glowing orb, slouching over it as if that would bring Zagreus closer to him and hide their meeting from any possible prying eyes. Zagreus’ likeness wobbles precariously, his very small projection reaching out to touch Astarion’s face—something that makes Astarion nearly recoil in surprise, but not quite.

(Isn’t it terrible that he wishes it weren’t a projection? Anyway.)

“You look…well, you’ve seen better. What happened to ‘I won’t get caught looking like this in public?’” He asks. Though Zagreus’ tone and smile is light, there’s genuine concern lingering in his voice.

Astarion resists the urge to smile a tad wider than he should. Ow, his cheek. “Much like you, I happen to be home as well.”

“Oh? What are you up to?”

“I am…” Astarion glances over to Victoria, who seems to be asleep. “...Watching my brother’s daughter.”

“Oh, a niece?” Zagreus says brightly, then quickly dials down on his volume and speaking in a softer whisper. “A niece? You didn’t say you had family, Astarion.”

“It wasn’t relevant.” Astarion deflects. “Three…sisters. Three brothers. And a niece.”

“Big family? That’s nice. I can relate.” Zagreus says, almost wistful. “Though, I was the only child for a very long while, so you can guess how lonely it became at times. There was father, of course. Nyx. Friends. My mentor, Achilles. My mother only returned some years ago. I met everyone else in person after. But I do have a sister now!”

Astarion files away the names and information carefully. A sister? Huh. Though with Zagreus’ effervescent personality, Astarion guesses he’d make a splendid older brother. It’s clear from his tone that he’s close with most of his godly family and thinks highly of them.

“You sound like you have quite the family tree.” Astarion smiles, somewhat endeared by the gentle enthusiasm. He cups his chin in his hand as they converse, keeping the other beneath the orb. “Is that why I hear so much going on behind you?”

Zagreus turns as if Astarion would be able to see beyond the projection. Oh, isn’t that darling? “There’s never really a quiet day in the House. Father is taking audience at the moment, and the contractors are busy remodeling Cerberus’ latest attempt at artwork in the East Wing.”

“Sounds like quite the upgrade.”

“An expensive upgrade.” Zagreus chuckles. “Speaking of upgrades, I have a gift for you. Hold out your hands."

Oh? Oh? So soon? Astarion can’t help the swell of giddy excitement in his gut. A gift from a god? Now that’s more like it.

A blood red crystal drops in Astarion’s outstretched palms, seemingly from thin air. Pointed, cut to the shape of a diamond, and polished to a shine. It gleams faintly with an inner light, only about the length of his palm.

“Oh.” Astarion says, turning it over in his hand and trying to not sound too disappointed. “How…precious. A trinket, just for me? Zagreus, darling—you shouldn’t have.”

The god chuckles. “It’s called a bloodstone. That one was fashioned from out of one of my old spares! Go ahead and try closing your fist around it.”

Astarion ignores the detail about the fact that this might as well be a god’s hand-me-down and does as instructed. The gemstone morphs—flashing and shaping itself into a wicked blood-red dagger of the same material.

“Now you’re just trying to win me over.” Astarion grins broadly, despite his face’s protesting. He turns the dagger in his hand, getting a feel for it. Just the right weight, heft, and size. “A man after my own heart. How did you know?”

“Lucky guess.” Zagreus jokes. “I thought you might want something inconspicuous to keep on you. And don't worry about losing it either—it'll find its way back to you on its own.”

“If we’re talking wants, I can give you an entire laundry list’s worth of wants. Perhaps I’ll petition them the next time I send you a prayer.” Astarion wisecracks, smiling even more when it makes Zagreus laugh. The dagger de-summons in his grasp when he re-opens his palm, returning to its crystalline form. Beautiful.

“I’ll keep that in mind, Astarion. In fact, send as many as you like. I do love a good list. Keeps me busy.” The projection flickers faintly, and Astarion refocuses his gaze on Zagreus.

“Ah, that’s my cue. We’ll try this again soon, I hope. Bye, Astarion—take care of yourself.” Zagreus says, before pausing. “And I promise to check-in first next time. See you later.”

“You better. Goodbye Zag—”

The orb winks out of existence before he can finish. Astarion smiles to himself, turning the crystal over in his hands. Progress! He’s getting somewhere, he knows it.

Astarion stands and turns to return to reading, only faltering in step when he looks up.

Victoria is awake. And it looks like she has been for some time. She’s looking in the direction where Zagreus was, eyes bright and mouth parted in a wondrous expression. “Zag-re-us.” She repeats in a perfect demonstration of her R’s, practically vibrating with excitement.

Gods damn it.

“Zag-re-us.”

“No, Victoria. Vicky—whatever! This stays between us, do you hear me?” Astarion berates quietly, walking over to her bedside and kneeling to be eye-level with her.

She reaches for the bloodstone. Astarion snatches his hand back, but not before she looks like she’s about to cry. Oh, bother.

He gives her the crystal. Her hands are too small to fully close around it, so she just holds it up to the light. “Zag-re-us.” She repeats.

“No, Vicky. No Zagreus. Zagreus is…playing hide and seek. He’s not supposed to be found, okay?”

“Hide?” She repeats. “Oh.”

“Yes, oh.” Astarion sighs. “Look—” He mimes sealing his lips and locking it, throwing away the key. “Zagreus. Secret. If he’s found—” Astarion blanks. If anyone found out about Zagreus, Astarion is a dead man. “He will die. And so will I.”

Victoria gasps, her tiny hand flying to her mouth. It smacks comically against her face, and she clumsily mimics Astarion’s movement of keeping a secret.

Relief floods him. He drops his head against the mattress, suppressing the urge to yell into it, hoping that his little threat of mortality is enough to make the girl shut up about it. Or she'll forget. Memory of a goldfish. He settles on looking at Victoria, who’s back to looking at the bloodstone, entranced.

“May I have that back?”

“No. S’shiny.”

Astarion groans. Drops his head again. “You’re on thin ice. Five more minutes with it, then go to sleep.”

“Mhm’kay.”

Chapter Text

“Zagreus.”

“Oh, hey Meg.”

“We need to talk.”

Uh oh. Zagreus pauses at the window of his escape. Astarion is calling.

“Just where have you been going to lately?”

“Pardon? What do you mean?”

“You’re gone hours at a time—entire days even. Your runs don’t usually take nearly as long and even then you don’t disappear into thin air. None of us can find you when you do. What’s going on?”

...Hours?

“It’s nothing serious Meg, I promise.”

“Nothing serious? We’re all worried. Me, Than, even Mel. The Queen is worried. It’s unlike you, Zag. I’m not here to tell you where you should and shouldn’t be—that’s your business. But at least warn us before you do.”

“Right. Sorry, Meg. And thank you.”

“Tch. Watch yourself out there, Zag.”

Something doesn’t make sense. He has to talk to Chaos about this. And soon.

Astarion’s week had gone from good, to bad, to shitty and then slightly decent within the short span of a few days. He wonders if it’s because Leon put in a good word for him—not that he needed it, but it’s appreciated (he won’t admit it.) A day after watching Victoria, Cazador had taken ahold of his face and jostled his head side to side with an ominously affectionate tone.

“It’s good to see you stepping up to care for the family, child. About time you started thinking of more than yourself, hm? Don’t forget to thank your brother profusely now.”

He gets out of the kennels a little earlier. Cazador lets him kneel at his feet and lay his head on his lap as he works at his desk. Cazador lets him stand to his left sometimes with Leon opposite him while he receives guests. Cazador hurts him a little less, even if his hand is still rough and his tone demeaning.

He’s still eating rats. Whatever. It’s not like Astarion expected that much of an upgrade.

Leon approaches him a little more freely now—usually with Victoria in tow. Victoria, who much to his horror, hasn’t forgotten. Because as much as Leon (and by extension, Aurelia, as his daughter’s only other regular sitter) are delighted by her new mannerisms, it’s just a reminder of what she witnessed that night.

“I cannot believe you taught my daughter how to blow kisses.” Leon tells him early one evening after Victoria had slipped out of their room and bumped into Astarion in the hallway on his way out. He picked her up and she smiled at Astarion before ‘blowing a kiss’ at him.

It looks more like her wiping her hand over her mouth and tossing it—those same clumsy movements that he’d taught her about keeping secrets.

“As far as role models go—she at least has good taste.” Astarion sniffs, passing her back to her father and hoping she continues to stay quiet.

Leon smiles broadly, lifting Victoria higher and brushing her hair out of her face. “Are you going out tonight?”

“Hm? Oh, yes. It’s my turn.” Astarion replies, glancing down at himself. He’d repaired the frays in his doublet with the last bit of gold thread he had. It looked brand new if you didn’t squint. And if it was dark. “I think I’ll try my hand ‘round the Blushing Mermaid this time.”

“I won’t keep you any longer.” Leon says, stepping out of his way. Victoria waves at him, and Astarion waves back. “Good hunting, brother.”

Astarion doesn’t head to the tavern immediately. Oh no. He’s going to give Zagreus that laundry list of wishes like he’d asked.

Same setup as last time. Candles and incense. Potpourri, since there were little choice of flowers in the dead of winter after a bout of heavy snowfall. No fruit either, so Astarion offers a bottle of honey mead. He sets it up in a different place—an abandoned building close to his usual haunt. One by one, he takes out the items from a crate he’d hidden in the corner, laying it out on top over a scrap of velvet he’d stolen off a clothesline.

He kneels, clasping his hands to pray.

In the name of Zagreus.

I don’t suppose you can hear me right now? Do gods hear all of this or only get the gist of what people pray for?

Regardless. Thank you again. You were right, the gift of your bloodstone is reassuring in my pocket. I haven’t had the chance to use it yet, but I guarantee it will one day taste blood as you’d intended.

Onto other things.

My…niece. She’s taken a liking to you. Or perhaps just to your name. You’ll be glad to know you’ve helped her speak clearer, though I must admit she’s a precocious child and always has been. Despite being so young, she’s agreed to keep this secret between us for now.

You promised to help me escape Cazador’s clutches. I…I know we’re still figuring this out, so to speak. Just…let’s talk more, next time. Work out the specifics. I would rather not be in his clutches any longer.

You also promised to hear me out. Things I want. Desires. I’ll have you know I’m a terribly greedy bastard. But you are also a very giving god. Let’s see…

Astarion thinks, cycling through the list he’s made up in his head. He’d gotten creative with his wishes lately, sweeping them in the back of his mind and saving them for this moment.

A magic mirror, to see his reflection. Nice clothes. Silk sheets. A soft bed. Bottles upon bottles and pints upon pints of blood—an entire stock of it, so he’ll never go hungry again. Perfumed oils, herb-and-citrus soaps. Jewels. Riches.

Astarion is about to think of more when the atmosphere changes and makes his skin prickle. He looks behind himself.

“Astarion.” Zagreus smiles, striding over to greet him.

Astarion smiles back, standing as well. “My, look who the cat dragged in.”

“What’s a cat?”

“Nevermind.” Astarion says, shaking his head. “To what do I owe the visit? Is this going to happen every time I pray to you? Not that I’m complaining.”

Zagreus chuckles, running his hand through his hair boyishly. Astarion thinks that the god only gets more and more handsome each time he sees him.

Hm. He hopes Zagreus didn’t feel him think that. But if he did, then it’s the truth. Zagreus is very good looking—with the face and body of, well, a god.

“Not really, no. I just so happened to be in the neighborhood and well…I hear you, when you pray. I didn’t want to leave you hanging.” Zagreus says, gesturing to Astarion so they can sit on the ground and talk. A casual conversation with his god, how charming. It never gets any less novel.

“Is that why you smell singed?”

“Hm?” Zagreus blinks his mismatched eyes, glancing down at his clothes that are slightly charred at the edges. “Ah, yes. Remember how I mentioned it takes time to get here? I never really can tell how long it is before I find my way to you. This time, I happened to be in Asphodel.”

Astarion puts his chin in his hand, and against his initial instinct he encourages the conversation along, instead of taking the opportunity to rush into planning Cazador’s demise. “Tell me about it.”

“Hm. Asphodel. Where to start?” Zagreus asks, leaning against a wall. “It’s big. Constantly on fire at the moment, though we’ve managed to salvage some areas as of late. The river overflowed many years back and well. You get the picture.”

Astarion leans forward a little. It’s nice hearing Zagreus talk. Is that strange of him to say? “Is that a good or bad thing? I can’t tell if you’re pulling my leg and saying it’s the river that caused that.”

Zagreus chuckles. “It did. Phlegethon is a river of fire.”

“Phlegethon?” Astarion asks. “That sounds familiar. I’m sure I’ve read that in a book somewhere.”

“Oh?” Zagreus perks up.

Astarion grins wolfishly. “Unless you’re fey, then I doubt it’s the same Phlegethon. I don’t think it’s even a river, whatever it was I read about.”

Astarion watches Zagreus mouth ‘fey’ with confusion, with the same expression that he has when Astarion mentioned vampires and cats. He must be more sheltered than Astarion realized.

“And here I thought there’d be more similarities.” Zagreus says, shrugging.

“How so?”

“Your name, for starters.”

“Truly?”

Zagreus smiles at him. “It is. To be truthful, I was surprised when you first introduced yourself. I actually think your name quite suits you.”

“Darling, you cannot leave me hanging like this. What does my name mean to you?” Astarion asks, tilting his head. “Something handsome? Alluring?”

“Little Star.” Zagreus enunciates carefully, laughing gently when Astarion recoils.

“Little—what kind of meaning is that? Little Star. Ugh” It’s no better than the Elven etymology.

“If it’s any consolation, your name isn’t dissimilar to that of a warrior whom I respect very much.” Zagreus nods.

“Is he at least handsome?” Astarion laments.

Zagreus clicks his tongue. “Erm. Define handsome? Asterius is half bull.”

Astarion lets his head fall into his hands theatrically with a groan. “Why did I even bother?”

It’s worth it though—Zagreus’ laugh is wonderful to hear.

“Before I forget. I got your message.” Zagreus says, patting down his chiton and looking for something. Astarion’s face lights up in interest. “I was meaning to give this to you, regardless. I’ll see what I can do about the others—aha!”

Zagreus pulls out a bottle. An empty one. They both stare at it.

“Well damn.” Zagreus curses, tilting it about. “Not surprised. I had a hunch but—”

“But what?” Astarion asks, eyeing the empty bottle before his mouth quirks into a smile. “Were you trying to gift me blood?”

“I was but. Hm.” Zagreus frowns, holding the rounded decanter and glaring at it as if it’ll spontaneously re-fill. “This complicates some things.”

“The thought counts, darling. I’m flattered.” Astarion smiles, shaking his head, a little disappointed himself. “A shame. For you to go exert all that effort bleeding something or someone dry just to feed me.”

“What?” Zagreus asks, shock flittering over his face. “Oh, no—I didn’t hurt anyone to get this. I just went to the river and filled it.”

“Excuse me?”

“I went to the river and got you blood. Tried to, at least.”

Is Zagreus saying…

“There’s a river of blood in your realm?!” Astarion tries to yell, but it comes out more a loud whisper. A river of blood. A river of blood! Astarion would swim in it all his days. “Gods. What I would give to see it.” He whimpers, the thought aggravating his hunger.

“Maybe if I get this travel issue sorted out, I could show you around someday? I think you’ll like it.” Zagreus says as he puts the bottle away.

“Like it? Darling, I would love it. I’d be the happiest vampire in the world.” He sighs, wincing when the reminder makes his hunger claw at his innards like a wild beast. Zagreus fixes him with a concerned gaze.

“Are you particularly hungry now? I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Astarion reassures. “It’s in the nature of a vampire. We’re always hungry.”

“You can still have blood, if you’d like.”

Astarion stills. He glances up in surprise at Zagreus. “You’re not saying—”

“I’m offering.” Zagreus says simply. “It’d be pretty lousy of me to dangle a buffet in your face and leave you starving. And it’s not like I won’t bounce back from it. So. Take as much as you like.”

Astarion opens his mouth. Closes it. He can feel the saliva pooling behind his teeth.

The blood of a god.

He considers it for a long moment. Cazador has his rules—Astarion is sure he’s breaking more than one by doing this.

But Zagreus is offering. And he’s so hungry.

Astarion gets up on his knees. Shuffles a little closer. If he had a heartbeat, it’d be beating out of his chest at the moment.

Zagreus holds out his hands, steadying Astarion’s ravenous sway with a hand on his hip. The touch is innocent, but it makes Astarion’s belly swoop nonetheless. Zagreus has big hands, and they’re warm even through the layers Astarion has on.

“How does this go?” Zagreus asks, face tilted up to Astarion. “Do I nick myself? Is there a bowl we can use?”

Astarion shakes his head. “Typically, we drink from the source. It’s what the fangs are for. Though if there’s another method you prefer, we can try that.”

“Ah.” Zagreus breathes out. “Well, don’t let me stop you then if that’s the most convenient for you. So you, ah, bite?”

Astarion swears he sees Zagreus’ pupils dilate a touch. Fuck.

“Yes, I’ll bite.” Astarion swallows thickly. “Wrist is one option. The crook of your arm. Your…”

Astarion eyes Zagreus’ neck, already exposed given the way he’s dressed. “Your neck.”

Zagreus’ lips part half in surprise and half in—

Astarion shakes his head. No. Zagreus only offered to feed him. Nothing more.

“Do I just—”

“Tilt your head to that side—”

“Oh, let me—"

They pause. Astarion is practically in Zagreus’ lap now, with how close they’ve gotten. Zagreus’s hand hasn’t moved much on Astarion’s hip, though by being closer it’s curved a smidge towards the small of his back.

Fuck.

Fuck. He’s really going to do this.

He tilts Zagreus’ head to the side, cradling the god’s face with a hand on his jaw with the other braced on his bare shoulder. His skin is warm. Astarion guesses his blood runs hotter.

He lowers his head, swallowing thickly. Zagreus has gone still in anticipation, his breathing steady and soft.

“Ready?” Astarion asks.

“Ready.” Zagreus confirms.

Zagreus smells like ash and sulfur, but also like sweat and fruit and honey. Would he taste like pomegranates? Astarion takes a breath.

And bites.

His teeth sink in easily into Zagreus’ neck, quickly finding the artery. Blood—sweet blood—fills his mouth. Zagreus flinches, but only slightly, his hand twitching on Astarion’s side.

Astarion takes his first pull. Zagreus moans.

Oh gods.

Between the noises Zagreus is making and the sweet-hot-rich taste of a god’s lifeblood on his tongue, Astarion is on cloud nine. He drinks and drinks and drinks, mind dizzy with the rush, as his belly fills and fills with as much blood as he can take and Zagreus can give.

Which is a lot. Because Zagreus is a neverending font of blood.

Almost.

Astarion doesn’t register that he’s drunk almost all of Zagreus’ blood until he feels a weak pat on his hip. He pulls back with a start, realizing he’s gone too far when Zagreus has gone as chilly as him—pale and dazed as he slumps against the wall, throat bloodied.

“Gods,” He croaks, hand pressing uselessly to the bite wounds. “Shit. Fuck. Zagreus, I didn’t—”

“It’s…ugh. It’s fine, Astarion.” Zagreus says, his smile feeble. “Was that—are you…?”

Ah, shit. Shit, shit, shit. Zagreus is dying and this time it’s his fault. “I am. Thank you. It was more than enough. I—you’re dying. I’m so—”

Zagreus, forgiving as ever, only blinks sleepily at him. It would be cute if he wasn’t on death’s door. Zagreus takes Astarion’s hand in his. “It’s alright. I promise. I was going to go, anyway. Glad to…glad to have been of use.”

Zagreus is swept away like last time, but at least Astarion is mindful enough to step out of the way of the bloody tide. He doesn’t, however, let go of Zagreus’ hand until the very end.

Then he’s alone again.

Astarion leans against the wall, trying to catch his breath. Sluggishly, he puts away his prayer materials.

His clothing is tight around his belly—a belly which wasn’t there before. Being fed on scraps keeps him slim in that department, so for once his clothes feel tight after such a feast. He leans back against the wall, hand over his stomach as he breathes through the aching fullness, eyeing the puddles of blood drying and congealing on the floor in front of him.

He should really get going. But he can’t think straight with all this blood in him. Normally, blood makes him feel alive. Energetic. Vivacious.

Now? He simply feels warm and content, like a helpless lamb or a kitten that’s overfull with cream.

Would it be so bad to maybe…rest a while? Close his eyes, allow himself some time to digest?

Against his better judgement, Astarion lets eyes flutter closed.

Chapter Text

“Than.”

“Hm?”

The sheets rustle. Zagreus sits up, picking his clothes up off the floor and pulling them back on.

“Have you ever heard of someone neither dead nor alive? Someone undead?”

“…”

“Weird question?”

“…Not really, no. And yes. Generally though there is only life and death. Anything in between would be against the laws of nature. Walking that boundary is unnatural. Why?”

“…”

“Zagreus.”

“What sort of creature would be considered undead then? Can humans become undead? What happens to them? How does it live? How do you even kill one?”

“…I am starting to grow concerned with where this is going.”

“I, ah—Look, just. Nevermind. It’s alright, thank you anyw—”

A call itches in the back of his mind. It’s urgent. Panicked, even.

"...Zag?"

“I…I have to go, Than.”

“Zagreus wait—”

He hears it again. Distress. Fear. Pain. It’s a little bit like that first time, but much, much worse.

He runs.

“Zagreus!”

Elves don’t sleep.

Usually.

But unconsciousness doesn’t really let you choose, even if Astarion in particular tries to keep it to a minimum.

But this time, his dreams are the very least free of Cazador.

He floats for a long time, dragged along by the current. Or is he in a boat? Perhaps it’s a boat, since he can see above the waves.

The water continues to change—from that of a starry one of endless night, to the crisp blue of the spring surrounded by greenery, to deep sapphire hues enshrouded with snow. It becomes that of one cutting through a temple, vermin at it’s edges bleeding plague vapors; then the foggy white of a heavenly realm, dotted with white flowers and a parade of forgetful spirits.

He sees a river of fire, and wonders if his mind is making things up from his earlier conversation with Zagreus. The bones of a long-dead serpent swim through the magma—one with more heads he can count—and he tries to not stare at it as the fire becomes blood, landscape shifting into tall columns of dark stone reaching up on either side of him, alight with green fire. The spirits of the damned reach out from their eternal prisons in an appeal for their freedom.

The irony isn’t lost on him.

Someone is picking him up. He can’t fight it—not really. Strong hands pull him out of the murk, settle him in a chair. He thinks he can see a great hall inlaid with gemstones. He thinks he sees Zagreus’ face in the dark, but the telltale flicker from his laurels aren’t present. And two red eyes. That's strange. One is supposed to be green.

Worn hands cup his face. A thumb gently sweeps under his eye, and he leans into it.

Astarion.

Astarion, you have to wake up.

Wake up!

Astarion blinks, stirring from his trance. He finds his body is still sluggish—slow with the blood weighing him down. There’s a rushing in his ears that’s not unlike a pounding heartbeat, though in his mind it sounds more like the subtle roar of a river.

That’s odd. Blood shouldn’t make him feel so lethargic—especially so long after a feed. Why is he still full? What time is it, anyway? He shakes his head, trying to clear the fog. Distinctly, the thoughts come slowly—as if he’s underwater.

Something wet pours over Astarion’s head. The cold registers enough that it makes him jump, then the sticky-sweet fragrance of honey mead fills his nose. His throat fails him when he tries to talk. His tongue is pinned down and heavy beneath a weight.

The bottle smashes into his temple a breath later just as his eyes try to focus. It breaks in the process and sends glass against the side of his face, cutting into the skin of his cheek and brow and making him yelp. Sparks dance across Astarion’s line of vision, and the rushing river morphs into a sharp, agonizing ring in his left ear as the pain radiates across his skull.

“Good. You’re awake. How was your rest?”

No matter how fucked his hearing is at the moment or will ever become, that’s a voice he recognizes anywhere.

Adrenaline spikes through his body. His chest heaves. Honeyed mead trickles down the side of his face, mingling with blood as Astarion’s eyes frantically scan his surroundings.

No. No, no, no—!

He spots the crate he’d used to store his prayer materials in. The incense in its holding pot, burnt to cinders. The candles to the left, already melted down into waxy puddles. Potpourri in the glass container it came in—but it’s put together all wrong. Not at all like he arranged it. It’s not even laid out on the velvet he’d used. Instead, he’d been stripped of his shirt and doublet and they served as the altar’s cloth.

And even then—he remembers putting everything away. In the hideout he’d chosen. Where he had fallen asleep.

Not here.

Just beyond the crate, facing him, Cazador takes a seat in his own chair, face impassive. Astarion only realizes he himself is seated when the cold iron bites into his wrists and ankles, keeping him in place.

“Pleasant dreams, boy?” His Master asks, letting the broken neck of the bottle clatter out of his hands and onto the kennels’ stone floor. “It’s good to see you were simply…taking a moment for yourself. And here I thought you had tried to stray from me again. I wonder—what was it that made you so tired, hm? Did you have an eventful evening?”

Cazador plants his foot on the edge of the crate. Tips the whole thing over. The glass and clay and dried flowers scatter onto the floor, and the remainder of the candle winks out. Astarion tries to reply, but the bit in his mouth prevents him from doing so. Distressed, he makes a sound.

Zagreus. He calls in his head. If there was ever a time I needed you—

Cazador smiles, standing. Astarion’s thoughts fall short. He rounds the clutter and moves to step in front of Astarion, taking his jaw in-between his fingers. “Shh, shh, shhh. It’s quite alright now. I’m sure you have an explanation, yes? We were all quite worried when you hadn’t returned with my meal past midnight, so I sent your siblings out looking for you. I’m not cross with you, child. Rather, I am going to take off the gag, and you will confess to me all the interesting things you’ve done tonight. Perhaps, then, I’ll consider mercy.”

Compelled. He’s being compelled. The Master-spawn bond tickles his mind and the anger rises in him, unbidden, greater than the fear and compulsion.

The emotion wells up so suddenly. Astarion’s always known he’s had somewhat of a rebellious streak against Cazador, but not like this.

(“You are a weak, foolish boy. A disgrace!”

“I’ll show you!”)

Cazador undoes the leather. Takes out the bit as he smiles sickly-sweet down at him.

Astarion’s first (regrettably impulsive) action is to spit in his Master’s face.

He receives a backhand for his trouble. It boxes against his ear, and the vertigo worsens.

Cazador’s hand darts out to close around his neck, pinning him in place against the chair headrest. His expression is thunderous.

“A morsel of blood, and this is how you act? Do not forget who owns you, boy!”

“Fuck you!”

A blow to his gut makes him double over as much as he can, given his bound state. Nausea lurches to sit precariously behind his tongue. Astarion barely manages to swallow down the contents of his stomach.

Cazador grabs at his face again, but none too gently this time. “You pathetic little worm. You’re lucky I have yet to tire of teaching you. Do you know how many rules you’ve broken tonight? Can’t you count for me, dear boy?”

All of them. Astarion has to think. As much as he tries not to shake, he does. His hands clench into fists as Cazador’s fingers dig into his throat, nails biting into his skin.

Cazador sneers at his willful silence. Astarion glares back, heaving.

“Very well.” He says, shoving the bit back into place roughly and locking the gag fastenings before taking his seat once more. Godey shuffles out from the dark behind Cazador, a heavy club in his hand. “I suppose I will have to beat it back into you. Godey?”

Cazador gestures. Astarion braces himself as best he can.

For a creature without a face, Godey sure wears malice well.

“First, thou shalt not drink of the blood of thinking creatures. And yet here you are, fat as a pig. Whose blood is that, I wonder? My, they must have been delicious for you to have dozed off so quickly. And so deeply. Surely they were a friend—and a generous one at that.”

Godey swings. The flat of the club bashes into Astarion’s gut, and his stomach contents make themselves known, spilling out from between his mouth and the bit, smattering on his skin, and the material of his pants and onto the floor. Astarion doesn’t even have time to scream as Godey goes in for a second for good measure, and the pain blossoms readily with an odd pop, making him gag and cough as he vomits. Some of the blood escapes up, into, and out of his nose, only adding to the mess of his face.

Astarion still has some fight left in him—miraculously. He glares at Cazador. Snarls, really.

Cazador looks on, almost bored. “This is why I feed you the way I do.” He sighs. “Look at you. Practically feral. The hunger keeps you in check.”

No. Astarion thinks. You just want me weak.

“Second,” Cazador hums, barely blinking as Godey brings the club down onto Astarion’s hand. “Thou shalt obey me in all things. I’m sure you know where you went wrong here. Do you not know I set your curfew in that manner because I care? Why I had your siblings seek you out in the dark and bring you home to me? I am simply exercising concern over your lack of restraint.”

His ribs are next. They seem to be keen on beating him to a bloody pulp. Astarion’s entire left side breaks under the force, and he has to twist to accommodate the pain.

Astarion feels his resolve crumbling with every blow. Zagreus, he thinks again—begs, really. He’d been heard the first three times, why not now?

Then again, how long did he have to pray and plead before Zagreus appeared in those instances? Astarion will feel the most unfortunate kind of lucky if he can manage to stay awake and coherent for the next few minutes.

“Third, thou shalt not leave my side unless directed. As a good father does, I tried to call for you, Astarion. I really did—though, perhaps you were simply too caught up in your little…” Cazador wrinkles his nose at Astarion’s prayer materials. “…hobby. I applaud your effort. However, must I remind you that I am the only one you shall worship for all your days? You kneel only for me, my poor wayward lamb.”

Godey aims for his knee. Astarion howls raggedly when the blow connects—he’s sure the bone goes concave. Or shatters. Regardless, he won’t walk on that leg anytime soon. A sob heaves behind his teeth, saliva and blood dribbling down his chin, intermingling with tears.

“Fourth, thou shalt know that thou art mine.” Godey’s club meets his jaw next. Astarion’s head is knocked to the side so violently that it gives him whiplash, and the agony makes him cry out—his eyes stinging hot with tears. The pain radiates across his face, and he feels it in his teeth. His vision wavers. Spots dance in front of his eyes.

Cazador stands, waving Godey off. The skeleton backs away, making room. Cazador doesn’t even bother to unlock the gag anymore. He just rips it off Astarion’s aching face, the hard bit clacking against Astarion’s teeth.

Zagreus—

“Now, are you ready to explain to me just who you were conspiring with?”

Astarion coughs and hacks as he’s allowed relief. Even through the pain and blur of tears, barks out a hoarse laugh, though it comes out weak and wavering from where he’s doubled over. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“Oh, I do.” Cazador croons. He removes his hand from where he’d hidden it behind his back, raising the bloodstone up into the light. “I simply would love to know just who gifted you this handsome gem.”

The bloodstone.

Panic rises further into Astarion’s chest. He’d had that in his pocket, it must have fallen out when…when…

“Wonderful of Leon to have spotted it when he carried you home. What a precious gift this is…” Cazador coos, closing his fist around it.

The blade manifests, jagged and ugly in Cazador’s hand.

“…rather formidable as well. You know, Astarion. If you would just tell me their name—perhaps I’ll invite them over. Was it a cleric, teaching you the ways of their worship? Promising you a way out? Perhaps a wizard then, for them to have been able to create such a weapon? I would love to have a second, you know. Maybe a third?”

Cazador’s hand shoots out to grip Astarion’s broken jaw. It makes him cry out and wail pathetically. Cazador squeezes, if only to milk out a little more pain.

Zagreus.

“Well, child? I’m waiting.” Cazador flip the blade about idly, tilting his head at Astarion.

Zagreus.

“No? Are you really so keen on keeping them a secret? Or do you not want to admit that they’ve abandoned you like everyone else in your life, after you brazenly sunk your teeth into them?”

Zagreus! Godsdammit—please.

Why isn’t he here? What’s taking him so long?

The sob wrenches free before he can stifle it. Everything hurts. Everything hurts.

Cazador tuts softly, his grip easing on Astarion’s jaw. Almost lovingly, he strokes Astarion’s tears, smearing it about. “My poor boy. At least now you know I’m the only one who loves you. I am your only constant. You will continue to return to me, no?”

The blood-red blade flashes in the low light.

It sinks into the bruised-fruit-like purpling skin of Astarion’s middle. It sinks into his stomach, past muscle and viscera, puncturing him completely through—before embedding into the hard wood of the chair.

Astarion doesn’t register the pain until, for good measure, Cazador twists it.

Distantly, he’s aware he’s screaming. He screams himself ragged for gods-knows-how-long until it dies into sobs. Cazador cradles his head all the while, like a parent would comforting their little one, stroking fingers through his curls.

“Have you learned your lesson, child?” Cazador murmurs, tugging particularly harshly on his hair to make Astarion look up at him. “If you just admit your faults, boy, I’ll make all of this go away. That’s a promise.”

Zagreus. Astarion thinks weakly. His face feels swollen. It is swollen, all things considered. His throat and nose clogged up with tears and clots. Body numb and throbbing in all directions, his lap wet with blood.

“What was that, child? Speak up.”

“…greus…”

“You know I hate it when you mumble.”

“…Zagreus…”

Cazador smiles triumphantly. “Good boy. See? Was that so ha—”

“ZAGREUS!”

“I’m here!”

The air doesn’t wobble. It shakes, almost violently—a sundering of the heavens. A metaphoric parting of the fucking clouds in its most violent rendition of divine intervention.

Astarion is only vaguely aware that Cazador lets him go. Only vaguely, because the difference of the pain of being held in that manner and just the general agony he’s feeling is miniscule. The chair, however, tips over and he crashes to the ground sideways, the world akimbo as he tries to pry his eyes open to see what’s going on.

Carnage, for sure. He can hear it. Cazador cursing and yelling. The sound of bashing and smashing, of bones skittering across the floor. Bats.

The sound of the river returns in his ears and privately he wonders if this is what Zagreus feels as he’s dying.

Astarion flinches when hands touch him again—but now these are much, much gentler than earlier. Fluttering, almost. Unsure.

“Astarion? Astarion, can you hear me? Gods you…”

When he manages to squint his eyes open, he’s met with Zagreus’ grief-striken mismatched gaze.

“Took you long enough.” Astarion croaks, watching and trying not to collapse into even more of a ragged mess than he already is as Zagreus pries the chair apart with his bare hands, breaking Astarion free.

Too bad Astarion doesn’t have very much strength at the moment to appreciate that. He flops onto the floor, keen to simply watch as Zagreus hurriedly shrugs himself out of the outer-red layer of his chiton, ripping it into strips with a cut from the bladed edge of the shield he’s carrying.

Zagreus wraps him quickly and carefully, tight around his middle—when did he take out the dagger? Ah, it must have reverted. Zagreus is slipping the gem back into Astarion’s pocket.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I should have gotten here sooner.”

Astarion recalls Zagreus saying he couldn’t control the length of time for him to get here. To ‘find’ him, insinuating that the path to Astarion is downright labyrinthian. And yet it sounds like he’s blaming himself.

His hands are as steady as Astarion had imagined them to be when Zagreus fastens the makeshift bandages around his most grievous wound. But he can tell by the slight tremor how shaken up the god is at the sight of him.

“I’m going to hurt him.” Zagreus promises darkly, a contrast to the gentle propping up of Astarion against a column, his hand cradling the latter’s head. “He’s going to die today if I have any say about it. Objections?”

Too damn polite, even when Astarion is a foot in the grave (Ha.)

“Is that even a question? Get in line.” Astarion coughs. “What—what happened to the plan?”

(Or lack thereof.)

“I can’t believe I’m saying this but—damn the plan. I’m better off making things up as I go. And so are you, if my memory serves correct.” Zagreus pauses, debating whether or not if he should lift Astarion. “I’m sorry. You were right, we should have done this from the beginning.”

“Stop apologizing.” Astarion snaps. He feels bad about it half-a-second later, but can you blame him? He’s been beaten six ways to the next tenday. “He—Cazador escaped?” He manages to wheedle out.

“Turned into bats and flew away. Any idea where he went?” Zagreus asks, glancing at the wide-open exit.

Astarion tries to prop himself up. “How long do you have?”

“…Ten. Maybe fifteen minutes.” Zagreus admits, arm held up for Astarion to push onto, hovering in case he topples over.

Astarion nods. With his less-broken hand, he takes the bloodstone out from his pocket and grips it—the telltale hilt of the dagger forming in his palm. “Help me up.” He grunts, swinging an arm over the god’s shoulders and ignoring the pain it wracks through him.

“Let’s go find my Master.”

Chapter Text

Is Cazador adept at making a fast exit? Yes.

Is he subtle about it? Absolutely not.

They leave the kennels just as soon as Astarion picks up a signet ring with the Szarr seal among Godey’s bony remains. Could be important, could also be useless. Better safe than sorry. Then in the fashion Zagreus is used to—the god follows the path of most resistance. In this case, it’s the hallway chock full of feral monsters that Aegis can sink its blades into.

Astarion is impressed. Earlier, he would have questioned what the hell a shield could do against the horde—but Zagreus throws it and it cuts through the majority of the beasts with ease, paving a way for them to push forward.

The shield even returns to him. Not magnetic, but also too precise to be good fortune or extreme skill. He’s sensing a pattern among Zagreus’ choice of weapons.

The casual conversation as they battle their way through is also jarring. Zagreus is horrifically good at this—Astarion is almost tempted to ask if this is his day job or something, especially with the god's blasé tone about it all. Like a walk in the park and not life or death.

“And these are also vampire spawn?” Zagreus asks, deftly lifting Astarion out of the way and bashing one into the wall, leaving an indent and a bloody, brainy mess.

“Feral spawn, there’s a difference—these are too far gone and rabid. I hardly look like that now do I?” Astarion grunts, shanking one in the throat and beheading it with a flick of a wrist. The bloodstone blade cuts through the ghasts like a hot knife through butter—it’s so satisfying.

Zagreus bulldozes through most of them, Astarion picks off the stragglers.

“No, of course not.” Thwack, smash, whap, pow. A spawn is disemboweled. Another tossed out a window to its demise. Three more are run over. Zagreus' hold on him rarely wavers through it all. “You’re certainly more handsome than that.”

…Handsome. Astarion will unpack that one later.

He throws the bloodstone dagger, and it embeds into the eye socket of one of the creatures who topples over. “Beautiful throw.” Zagreus whistles, impressed when Astarion calls the stone back and re-summons it in its blade form.

They make it to the door to Cazador’s chambers in record time.

“Eugh. Rats.” Zagreus comments on the decorative filigree as Astarion guesses (correctly) in slotting the ring into the hollow of the door. Astarion can’t help but laugh at Zagreus’ reaction. “You and me both, darling. You and me both.”

They walk through Cazador’s chambers, following a trail of blood (Zagreus did say he injured Cazador. The carpet may camouflage the evidence but the smell is easy enough to follow). It’s as much as Astarion expected—a room, rooms, adjoining one another. A sort of hall. The elevator? Not quite. It leads them down to a secret level he hadn’t even been aware of the entire time he was here—was there really a basement level to the palace? And an expansive one at that.

It’s silent. Eerily so—only the step-shuffle sound of their footsteps echo in the chamber as they descend further. It's a dungeon of some sort. Or a crypt. Astarion swears he hears crying in the depths, but he pushes that though to the back of his mind for now as they inch closer.

There’s a large dais in the middle of the chamber, surrounded by a steep drop and many hanging cages suspended in the air. Around that, seven smaller daises, as well as geometric half-wall structures separating each one. In the very center, a coffin.

Before it—Cazador. Waiting for them.

“Bravo,” He drawls as they approach, clapping sarcastically. From where Astarion is standing (read: slumping against Zagreus), there’s a deep gash marring Cazador’s face from cheek to chin in a diagonal across—one that fills him with petty glee at the sight of it. Cazador had always been vain, so the wound must be extra aggravating.

“It looks like you’ve finally found someone to stand with you, Astarion. Impressive. Zagreus, was it?”

“That’s me.” Zagreus says, shield poised with Astarion half hidden behind him.

“Charmed.” Cazador grimaces, wiping the blood sluggishly dripping from his cheek. “Though I cannot say I’ve ever heard of a god like you. What depths did you crawl out of, hm? ‘Tis only fitting you choose my Astarion. A pathetic, nameless godling, for a pathetic, nameless rat. Look at him, cowering behind you. I wonder what he promised you. His body, perhaps?”

Zagreus recoils, nose wrinkling in disgust at the notion of that type of exchange.

It occurs to Astarion that aside from the bare bones minimum, he hasn't mentioned that aspect of his enslavement yet. Still, he's thankful Zagreus has not prodded or pried into it. And judging from his reaction, it feels like he won't.

“Mate, is he always like this?” Zagreus mutters to Astarion.

Astarion shrugs, getting into the best of a fighting stance he can muster. “He’s always been a right bastard.”

“Silence!” Cazador bellows. “You think you can truly defeat me? The Immortal Cazador Szarr—"

“Gods!” Zagreus interrupts, annoyance written all over his face. “Just shut up already. You’re worse than Theseus! And I though he liked the sound of his own voice. You’re much worse.”

Astarion has no idea who this 'Theseus' is either, and it looks like he won't explain anytime soon. Zagreus does glance back at Astarion though, and the little shit has the audacity to wink at him.

A surprised laugh huffs out of him. Zagreus really is a god—that’s a level of confidence only the divine can achieve. How brazen of you. Cheeky fucker.

Pissed, Cazador snarls. The butt of his staff slams twice into the ground like a judge calling for order. “Is that name supposed to mean anything to me, godling?”

“To you, I suppose not. But like with Theseus—I’ll enjoy beating you up just as much.”

“I’d like to see you try.” Cazador seethes.

“Gladly.” Zagreus mutters, rolling his shoulders. “Let’s dance.”

Astarion is offered front row seats to a once-in-a-lifetime battle. Evidently, the little show in the hall on the way here was a warmup—because though Cazador summons underlings to the fight, Astarion so far had to only stay behind Zagreus and out of harm’s way—picking at the stragglers that slip past the god’s reach.

Cazador continues to summon bats. Skeletons too—those feral and misshapen spawn, and other creatures of the night. None have yet touched Astarion.

There’s something otherworldly with the way Zagreus fights. A collaboration of a dozen different styles, wrapped up in a handsome, fiery bow. Astarion chalks it up to the weapons he's seen Zagreus carry. He's sure he's some sort of weaponmaster back home. It also reminds him of something else. Of something from a long time ago, where Astarion had once read in a book of an immortal and sacred elemental bird whose form was as much flame as it was flesh—a champion of both goodness and destruction.

Watching Zagreus fight now—with the way the fire kicks up around his form when he dodges seamlessly, standing toe-to-toe with Cazador—it’s the closest thing Astarion will ever get to the legendary phoenix.

Best part about it? Zagreus is making excellent time with barely a scratch. It’s driving Cazador crazy.

“You will not ruin the empire which I have built! I will not allow it!”

“Are you finished yet? I’m getting really tired of you, mate. It’s called an inner monologue for a reason!”

Zagreus dashes, throwing his arms wide as he does, shoving two werewolves into the darkness below with the flat of his shield. He follows that up by covering Astarion’s blindspot with a well-aimed throw of his shield, taking out a skeleton and three bats and scattering their remains on the floor. Astarion grapples with a ghast, having been caught surprised, but manages to feed it his blade and cleave it mouth to stomach with a few harsh tugs.

Cazador is starting to look worse for wear, already bleeding from two places—increasingly incensed and frustrated at Zagreus’ uncanny ability to dodge his spells and growing exhausted with having to summon so many lackeys to aid him.

That is, until he realizes he’s been focusing on the wrong thing when Astarion enters his field of vision.

Astarion is about to duck behind a wall when his feet stick—ominous red runes gluing him to the floor and rendering him immobile. Cazador’s henchmen close in on Zagreus, while Cazador sets his sights on him.

“Let’s see how you fare without your beloved godling to protect you, boy.”

Lightning crackles at Cazador’s fingertips. Astarion has a split second reaction time before it hits.

“Astarion!”

It doesn’t.

Zagreus shields him, breaking free of the crowd, and Zagreus takes the brunt of the spell—the electricity conducting into Aegis and into him.

Zagreus makes an anguished noise as the voltage ravages him from the inside out.

Astarion’s anxiety rockets when he smells charred meat. Static crackles across Zagreus’ skin and hair, his muscles twitching, spasming, as smoke rises from his form, still braced and shielding him from harm’s way. “Shit.” Astarion croaks, gritting his teeth as he manages to pull one foot free from the compulsion. “Zagreus?”

“Ugh.” Zagreus grunts, shaking himself out of his stupor. For a moment there, Astarion thought he was a goner. “I’m not done yet.”

Thank the gods.

“I am sure you aren’t.” Cazador croons, his expression manic. “But I’ve found your weakness, godling. You are just as feeble as every other man and woman Astarion has lured into his bed—”

Oh he’s had it.

Astarion’s other foot breaks free from Cazador’s magic, and he steps out from behind Zagreus to throw the dagger, aiming for Cazador. His bad knee buckles last minute and it changes the trajectory of his throw—but it still manages to fly and embed itself into a shoulder—enough of a painful distraction that it allows Zagreus to spring back into action in diminishing the number of fighters on the field.

There’s a worrying recklessness in Zagreus’ movements now. Astarion knows they’re running out of time.

If Cazador wants a target, he’ll get a target.

Cazador’s angry bellow is music to his ears. The vampire lord attempts to remove the offending weapon, but Astarion summons it back into his hand. “You are tampering with forces far greater than your comprehension, you wretch!”

Astarion steps out from the shadows, half limping into the open. “And you have ruled over me for far too long! All you did was take from me. No more!”

“You…ungrateful little brat! I gave you everything! Everything of yours you attribute to me. No matter. I made you and I can unmake you—!”

Astarion only barely manages to jump out of the way of lightning thrown in his direction, crashing painfully into the ground and scrambling to stand. Which means, Cazador is focused on him and not—!

One of Aegis’ three points impales Cazador from behind. Zagreus, bleeding and battered behind him, twists his arm and cuts—from sternum to waist, nearly bisecting the vampire lord in half.

Instead of falling, like Astarion expected him to—Cazador turns into a fine red mist and retreats into his coffin.

Zagreus on the other hand is the one crumbling to his hands and knees onto the floor. Blood trickles freely from his head and a large, open wound in his side, torn open by clawed fingers.

No.

“Damn it—!”

 Cazador you coward.

Astarion limps first towards Zagreus, but the god pushes him away. “No. I’ll be fine.”

“Zagreus—”

“I said I’m fine!” He barks back, coughing. Zagreus’ smile is bloody, it's weak, but reassuring. “Go—you’ve got this.”

Blood begins to rise and pool around Zagreus. Astarion tears his eyes away.

Resolute, Astarion makes a beeline for the coffin. Shoving it open puts strain on his already mangled body, but he pushes the lid aside and grabs Cazador from within, unceremoniously throwing him onto the ground.

“You.”

“Me.” Cazador laughs—cackles, really, coughing wheezily when Astarion plants a foot on on his chest and bears down, even if it makes his bad leg tremble something fierce where it’s supporting him—just barely. “Are you proud of yourself, boy? Finally content?”

Astarion flips the dagger in his hand. “I will be, when you take your last breath.”

Cazador hacks beneath Astarion’s foot. His soon to be ex-master is in bad shape. “A pity. You were meant for greater things, Astarion. My crowning jewel. A shame you will never see the glory of it. You are more than just some…weakling god’s blind sheep. They’re not like us. With me, you will flourish. He’ll sooner toss you away when he grows bored of you, just you wait. Better a cruelty that is familiar than one that is not.”

“Shut. Up.” Astarion spits. “Shut the fuck up. I am tired of your games. Tired of your tricks. I have fucking had it with you and the utter bullshit you put me through in the last two-hundred years! This ends tonight, Cazador. Do you hear me? I am going to live my own life—free of you.”

“You’ll never be free of me, child.” Cazador chuckles darkly, limp and bleeding when Astarion picks him up by the collar, innards spilling out from the mortal wound Zagreus dealt him. “I am a part of you, as much as you are a part of me. I will haunt you, even in death.”

Astarion clicks his tongue.

“Suppose you’ll have to die first then.”

The dagger sinks into Cazador’s jaw mid laugh. Then it sinks into his throat. It slices perfectly smooth—over and over and over and over and over—

Again and again. Until Astarion tires.

Astarion loses count of how many times he pulls the blade back and plunges it once more into Cazador. At some point, Cazador slips from his hands, head lolling to one side and holding on by virtue of a few intact muscles, chest and face cut to ribbons, a hole in his chest where his heart would have been. Decimated.

Astarion continues to deface the corpse until the pain from the effort grows too great for him to bear—until he topples to the ground and runs out of adrenaline and the agony of his present wounds make themselves known once more.

Astarion is left kneeling before his once master, a sea of blood pooling around him; covered forearms up and waist down in gore. Zagreus is gone, swept away back to his realm.

Cazador is dead. And Astarion, for the first time in waking memory, is truly and honestly free.

He lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Then another. Astarion’s chest rattles and his shoulders shake with a hoarse, soft cry.

The tension in his chest is unbearable, but the burden lifts from him like a long-overdue miasma.

He lets it go.

He cries.

It’s over.

He’s free.

…

..

.

Astarion manages to pick himself up—not sure how long it’s been since the end, but long enough that the blood is congealed and cold; and long enough that he needs to get a move on before he himself perishes in this crypt.

He can’t stay down here forever.

It feels like he’s going through the motions of it—dragging himself up. Dragging Cazador’s corpse out as well—he can’t trust the bastard, even in death. He plans to toss the corpse under the sun. Watch him bake and cinder and crisp before his eyes.

That’s for later. For now—one step at a time.

Astarion limps as best he can, a battered, broken, liberated man—dagger in hand and body grasped in the other. He’s distantly aware he’s leaving a trail of blood, but it doesn’t matter anymore whose it is. Cazador's guts could drag along on the stone for all he cares.

He takes the elevator up. Hauls Cazador's corpse through his room and quarters. Pushes the grand door open and throws the body out into the foyer first before he steps through.

His leg buckles as he exits, and Astarion falls painfully to his knees.

Exhausted. He’s exhausted.

A river rushes in his ears.

The last thing he sees before he slips into the blissful, inky darkness is a figure rushing towards him.

And then.

And then.

Peace.

Chapter Text

“A mistake? There’s been a mistake?”

An error, on my part. Forgive me, Son of Hades.

“All’s forgiven, Master Chaos. Though, um. May I ask what it was, exactly?”

A temporal mishap. I do not control time in its entirety; hence it is difficult and unpredictable to direct, especially in these circumstances. Do not fret, however. I have made amends. It should pass as how I intended now.

“And by that you mean…?”

Rest assured, Son of Hades. You will have more than enough of it. Now go. He is calling for you.

Astarion wakes with a start. His entire body aches, especially around his midsection, and he can barely feel half of his face. Or maybe even the whole of the left side of his body. He tries to get up, but almost as soon as he tries, someone is easing him back down to bed.

“Don’t move, Astarion. Easy—I’ll go get Dal.” It’s Leon, looking worse for wear and guilty as hell. His hair, normally smoothed back and well combed, is tied into a low and fraying ponytail.

Dal? Dalyria? What does she have to do with—

Nausea rises in his throat. Leon has about two seconds to jump back before Astarion leans over the side of the bed and vomits blood all over the carpet.

“Ah sh—” Astarion can hear Leon shuffling about, then a press of a cloth to his chin. Astarion takes it clumsily, mind still bleary. “Stay. Stay there. I’ll be right back.” Leon says, not quite to him, because of course he’s not going anywhere. He can’t even if he wanted to.

As Astarion dry heaves and coughs, trying to re-open his crusty eyes better, there’s a shuffle of movement behind him. A tiny hand pats him between his shoulder blades. “There, there.” Says a small voice.

Ah. Victoria then. What a good child.

The door reopens and there’s a bustle of movement around him as he’s sat up and assessed. Leon is waving a hand to banish the mess he’s made and Dalyria lifting the blanket; undoing the buttons to his too-large clothing to examine the stitches—stitches?

There’s a neat row of freshly done stitches where Cazador had stabbed and nearly gutted him open. Dalyria prods the site lightly, trying to be gentle with his bruises, and Astarion weakly bats her hands away (Oh, look at that—his hand is splinted). She frowns.

“Astarion, I need to see how you’re healing.”

“I’m healing just fine.”

Dalyria glowers at him. It’s a far cry from the worried, anxious expression she usually wears and more of what he expected from a Physician General with decades under her belt. It’s like trying to fight a wall.

Astarion yields and settles back into the bed as Dalyria examines him. It’s only now he realizes that he's not in the spawn-dorms nor the favored-room—and the bed is much more luxurious than he’s used to, propped on so many soft pillows that it’s ridiculous. Someone even cleaned and re-dressed him, because this is not his shirt and he’s got no trousers on, and he doesn’t feel so gore-sticky and disgusting anymore. He cranes his head a little too fast that it makes his concussed-self dizzy, much to Dal’s displeasure, as he takes in stock of where he is.

A guest room then. Though the interior is in disarray—haphazard, with a large basin of water in the corner and a smaller one on a table. He notices several bloodied bandages and rags, sticks and wooden boards like the one holding his leg together, as well as the torn-up pieces of Zagreus’ red chiton beside it. His thoughts go to wondering if anyone other than Victoria has found out yet—but it’s interrupted when the door opens again and Aurelia walks in, looking just as haggard as the other two spawn in the room.

“Oh, thank the gods.” She breathes, walking over and taking a spot by Victoria, lifting the girl onto her lap as she takes a seat beside Astarion on the bed. “Brother, you’re awake.”

“I would rather be unconscious.” He rasps, wincing when Leon has to manhandle his aching body for Dalyria to bandage him—probably to prevent his innards from falling out or chest caving in. Again.

“Aurelia has every right to be worried.” Leon remarks, glancing at him. “We all were. Astarion, what did you do?”

Astarion scoffs—more coughs—shrugging. “What didn’t I do? Cazador is dead.”

(He tries to not linger too long on the fact that they condemned him to this miserable fate, though it was par for the course.)

His siblings shift uneasily. “That’s not—” Leon starts, but Dalyria cuts him off.

“We’re well aware.” She says, her expression pinched. She finishes wrappring his midsection and Leon lets him settle back onto the bed. “You dragged his body out in the hallway.”

“Is it still there?” Astarion glances between them in disbelief and malicious amusement. He’s imagining the palace staff’s reactions to the development.

“We,” Aurelia starts, eyes flitting between the room’s occupants. “We covered it with a blanket. The Master’s body is…unsettling to look at.”

“That’s more than he deserves. And here I thought you’d all be jumping for joy and dancing on his corpse.” He coughs.

More uneasy silence, but a glance over to Leon and the slight twitch to the corner of his mouth confirms it. The man can’t turn his head in—shame? Remorse? —fast enough. Astarion breathes out. “So, it’s over. Where are the others?”

“Out, at the moment.” Aurelia says, readjusting her hold on Victoria. “Trying to find food. The kitchens are out of animals.”

“I’ve dismissed the staff.” Leon explains, seating himself on Astarion’s other side. Victoria’s taken it on herself to try and wipe Astarion’s face, dabbing her tiny handkerchief and not really doing anything, thinking that he has paint or makeup on his skin and not a stark rainbow of bruises on his jaw.

“All of them?” Astarion asks stiffly, wondering why the hell Leon would do that.

Leon nods. “We thought it was best, given the state of…well, everything.”

An empty manor, seven masterless spawn, and a small child. Ah, what a headache.

“What about Godey then? Dufay?”

“Gone and gone! For different reasons.” Declares a new voice, the door kicked in as everyone jumps. Violet enters the room with a flourish, wearing one of Cazador’s nice robes and even nicer jewelry—something she pilfered from his room. She has Godey’s empty skull still in its’ helmet under her arm like a trophy and a large, squawking chicken by the wings in the other—which she promptly tosses at Astarion. “A gift, for my new favorite brother! You’re most welcome.” She sing-songs too loudly, planting herself by the foot of the bed.

Victoria screeches into Astarion’s ear when the bird goes wide, soaring at them in a flurry of feathers and distressed squawks. Leon manages to catch the animal and set it aside, exasperated. “You’re certainly back early.”

Petras and Yousen walk in moments later—Petras, who has feathers in his hair and is scowling at Violet. “It was Violet’s idea.”

“If it weren’t for me we wouldn’t have an entire cartload of poultry downstairs. Live poultry.”

“And if it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t have had to wrangle birds on the street!”

Yousen takes a seat by the door, crossing his arms. “She stabbed a merchant.”

“I did no such thing! He came onto me. I was defending myself.” She says, preening. “Besides, I don’t see Petras complaining. How was your first taste of a thinking creature?” She smarms, turning to the spawn in question as he shakes down out of his hair. “You couldn’t resist, could you?”

“The Master is dead and I can do what I want so fuck off. It was a waste of perfectly good blood.”

“You killed someone?”

“Petras!”

“Violet started it!”

“Will everyone SHUT THE FUCK UP?!” Astarion manages to yell, instantly regretting it when it agitates his side and makes pain shoot through his ribs and stomach. Fuck.

The room settles into quiet, save for Victoria’s soft whimpers where Aurelia is holding her with her hands over the girl’s ears. Petras leans against the wall opposite to the bed, pouting. Violet smiles like she’s done nothing wrong.

Astarion heaves, biting back the nausea as Dal makes eases him back from curling in on himself, her hand splinting against his injured side—to which she has to use two hands for with the extent of the damage. “Will someone explain to me fully, in sequence, what the hells happened while I was unconscious?”

Silence.

“Before or—”

“All of it.”

“…The Master was wondering why you were taking so long, so he sent us after you.” Dalyria says, her expression apologetic. “And we did. Find you, that is. He took you to the kennels shortly thereafter. You were…sleeping at the entire time, and none of us could wake you.”

Aurelia is the next to speak. “We…aren’t sure what happened after, but we heard the commotion. After everything went quiet, I saw you drag the Master’s body out into the hall. And then you collapsed. I called Dal to help you and went to get Leon. We patched you up.”

“And because you left the body in the hall, we dismissed the servants. If word got out…” Leon adds apprehensively.

“It will, eventually. But continue.” Astarion grunts, gesturing for Leon.

“I had Yousen, Petras, and Violet obtain extra provisions for us. And you were unconscious for…about a day.” Leon says. “That’s it.”

“I’m shocked none of you left.” Astarion mutters, glancing between the six of them. “There’s nothing stopping you now.”

“Why would we leave?” Dalyria asks. “You’re injured.”

Oh.

Oh.

How sentimental.

(Or maybe its regret.)

“You stayed for me?” Astarion manages to half-smile wryly. “Why, I’m touched.”

Petras scoffs. “Not all of us wanted to.”

“Petras you could at least be more thankful.” Dalyria scolds. “Astarion managed what none of us could. It’s the least we could do to help him get better.”

Petras at least has the decency to look chastised.

“Speaking of—” Aurelia says, letting Victoria squirm out of her arms so the girl can move closer and settle her doll by Astarion’s head in her heartfelt attempt to comfort him. “Astarion…How did you do it? You…you were never able to before. And none of us have either. What happened?”

“Isn’t the answer obvious?” Violet asks, examining her nails. “It has to be all the good blood he had. Our Astarion’s always been a bit of a rule-breaker.” For that remark, Astarion glares at her. Leave it to Violet to trivialize the whole thing.

“That doesn’t explain it entirely.” Leon supplies. “The Master—you know he had a hold over us. Somehow...” Leon turns to Astarion. “...You managed to break out of it.”

Oh.

Right, he did. Violet’s words were starting to hold water. What if it was the blood? He remembers the fight—remembers pulling free.

Then again, he’s also not going to mention Zagreus’ involvement unless absolutely necessary.

“That’s not all.” Dalyria continues, pulling the blanket back over Astarion up to his waist. “While we were tending to you—you were half conscious. You were calling out for someone in your stupor. Who is 'Za—"

“Zagreus!” Victoria chirps excitedly, finishing for Dalyria before she realizes what she’d just said out loud. She places a hand over her mouth with a small and guilty “Oops.”

Ah, damn. He spoke too soon.

Everyone stares at the little girl.

Slowly, Leon turns to him.

“That’s—"

“Yes, Astarion. Who is ‘Zagreus’ and why does my daughter know that name?” Leon questions, brow furrowed in the way only a parent could. If looks could kill…

Astarion opens his mouth to reply and diffuse the situation, but Victoria beats him to the punch—smacking her hand over his mouth and making him flinch. “Shh! No Zag. See-cret.”

Leon bristles.

“Vicky, dear—it’s a little too late for that.” He says weakly, shooing her fingers away from his face.

The little girl looks around the room with an understanding look, particularly at her father, mouth parted with a small “Ohh.” She digs about in her pocket and produces the bloodstone, gently placing it in Astarion’s palm. “Is yours.”

“You didn’t have to, but thank you anyway.” Astarion smiles. It must have fallen out of his hand—and Victoria remembered enough about it to hold onto it for him.

“Astarion.” Leon demands again, reaching over the bed to pluck Victoria from his side and hold her away from him, even as she protests. “Who. Is. Zagreus?”

Astarion instantly recognizes Leon’s rising anger. He’s always been protective—even overprotective—of Victoria. Gone is his penitent look at the thought of a compromise in Victoria’s safety. “If you’ll give me a moment to explain before jumping to conclusions—"

“I have every right to! You involved my daughter in this?! Do you have any idea—”

The air in the room shifts. Lurches, even. Astarion has felt Zagreus enter the world four times now. It's such a familiar feeling now that he doesn't even startle when it happens—a palpable ripple as the air pressure changes, pushed back by a disquieting force that (admittedly still) makes his hackles rise and teeth grind. From the looks on everyone else’s faces, they must feel it too.

Before anyone can react, like a burst of sun, Zagreus emerges from an empty corner in a shower of sparks and fire, trailing laurel leaves and embers enough to scorch the carpet and singe the curtains. To Astarion, it's a relief he looks hale and hearty again—with a fresh red chiton in place. To everyone else—it’s more of a scare given how they jump and scramble to their feet; giving the god a wide, wary berth. Well, everyone but Astarion, who 1. Cannot be bothered to move, and 2. Cannot move regardless.

“Asta—oh.” Zagreus blinks, glancing about the room as he stands to his full height (at least half a head taller than the tallest of them). “Um. I’m back. And this is awkward. Bad time?”

"I think I remember telling you to 'knock'—"

“Zagreus!” Victoria squeals, laughing like the god had done a party trick and not turned everyone’s worldview head over heels. Leon glances at Astarion, horrified.

Godsdammit.

Astarion groans, wishing the bed would swallow him whole. He’s not equipped to deal with this right now—someone sedate him, please.

Chapter Text

The tension in the room is so thick that you can cut it with a knife. The six spawn are in various states of heightened alert, with Petras practically pressed against the door and Violet having vaulted over the bed in the scramble to stand next to Aurelia, holding Godey’s head like she’s ready to hurl it should the situation go south. Aurelia, who in turn has an arm thrown out in front of Astarion as if it’ll protect him.

Victoria’s squeaking laughter cuts through it, with her squirming out of a shellshocked Leon’s grasp and running up to Zagreus, who catches and lifts her before she can step on his blazing feet.

“Zagreus!” She cheers. “Zagreus! Zagreus!”

“Oh, hello.” Zagreus says, his attention shifting towards her and seating her in his arms. “And who might you be? Astarion’s niece, I take it?”

Leon and Astarion’s eyes meet, with the former’s swimming with questions.

“Vicky!”

“It’s nice to meet you, Vicky. You’re very good at speaking. Your uncle mentioned how smart you are—you’re an even faster learner than—well, that’s an entirely different situation. But still. You’ll learn more words just yet! Expand your vocabulary.”

“Vo-ca-bu-rary!”

“That’s it!”

Leon is glancing nervously at Astarion, then back at his daughter held in the arms of a deity.

"Your timing is impeccable, darling." Astarion comments.

"And here I thought I was running late. Master Chaos had to fix a few things." Zagreus laughs, allowing Victoria to grab and play with his not-actually-flaming laurels, noticing the way Leon is stiff with his arms out, ready to take a hold of her should he deem it time to give her back.

"Who is Master Chaos?"

Someone smacks him lightly on the arm. "Hush, Petras!"

Astarion clears his throat. Gestures minutely towards Leon. Zagreus gets the hint and approaches him. “She's yours, I take it?” He asks. Leon bumps into the side table, nearly spilling a pitcher of water onto Astarion and the bed.

“I—” Leon falters under the weight of the stare of a god. He nods lamely. “She is. I'm her father.”

“As much as I miss having a little one who reminds me of my baby sister around, I’m actually here to see Astarion—so here.” Zagreus tries passing her back, but not before Victoria yanks his laurels out of his hair and smacks him in the face with it.

If only they could see their faces. Ha! They look petrified.

Zagreus, you cut an intimidating figure. He thinks. But I know now you won’t hurt a fly.

Zagreus simply chuckles, allowing her to wear it like a headband. “Oh, yes. You look very lovely, Vicky. But I’m going to need that back now, alright? May I? What if I traded you for it?”

“Hmmm…” Victoria says, considering the offer. “…Ohkay.” Victoria says, handing Zagreus back his laurels. Zagreus in turn produces the purple ribbon Astarion recalls seeing on the empty rounded decanter he had brought with him before, slipping it around Victoria’s wrist and tying it into a bow. "There we are."

Her father, on the other hand, still looks like he’s going to have a stroke. Or is actively having one.

“You’re a god.” Aurelia murmurs, in shock, watching this unfold. She has her free hand trembling over her mouth, and she’s slowly sinking into a kneel. “An actual, living, breathing god.”

Zagreus notices, and waves to deter her. “I happen to be—but please, erm, no need for that. Truly. You must be Astarion’s siblings, I take it? Hello to all of you then. It’s nice to meet you, formally.” Zagreus pauses, glancing over everyone. Some of them shrink back visibly. He's rambling? It's cute. He sounds embarrassed. Astarion is sure he'll have a use for that tidbit later. “I didn’t know humans came in so many interesting colors?”

Silence.

“Human?” Astarion scoffs, affronted. “You thought I was human this whole time?”

“I—yes? Are you—I thought you just had interesting features, is all. I mean no offense—maybe I should have been more broad...Mortals, then?”

“Darling, most of us are neither human nor mortal.”

Violet muffles a peal of delighted laughter behind her fingers. Astarion shoots her a dirty look.

“…My mistake. Seems there’s more for me to learn then.” Zagreus hums, shifting his weight on the other foot.

An awkward silence descends upon the room. None of the spawn seem keen on breaking it until Petras speaks up.

“You’re the one who destroyed the main hall.” Petras accuses, voice wavering.

“I…suppose I did. My father always did say I was good at breaking things.” Zagreus says, clearing his throat, hands on his hips. He glances at Astarion. “Ahem. Was it that bad?”

“I couldn’t care less. You can burn the whole place down for all I care.”

Zagreus chuckles. “Duly noted.”

Tentative questions bubble among the spawn. Zagreus answers each patiently.

"You're the one helping Astarion?"

"I am."

"You're the one he met up with! The one he bit!"

"That is also me." Zagreus nods.

“Are you open to taking more worshippers?” Violet asks sweetly, batting her lashes at Zagreus.

“Uh,” Zagreus says, taken aback. He glances at Astarion again, almost as if to ask for permission, unsure how to proceed.

Okay, he’s drawing the line there.

“Everyone, out.” Astarion grunts, trying and failing to sit up. “I need to—I’m going to commune. With my god. So out.”

When they don’t budge, Astarion rolls his eyes so hard he can see the inside of his own head.

“Go!”

His siblings shuffle out promptly, with Leon and Aurelia shooing everyone from the room. Yousen retrieves the fowl and brings it with him. Victoria waves goodbye at Zagreus behind Leon’s shoulder with a sunny smile, and Zagreus waves back.

The door clicks shut.

Finally.

Zagreus takes a seat beside Astarion, one leg folded under the other. He tilts a palm up, opening his hand, and Astarion finds himself slipping his less-injured fingers into his grasp like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“They seem nice.”

“You say that now.” Astarion groans.

Zagreus chuckles. The room feels warm—cozy, really. And that’s when Astarion notices.

Zagreus is still here.

“Something’s different.” Astarion murmurs, peering up at him.

“What do you mean?”

“For starters—you’re not dying. Yet. It’s been, what, ten minutes?”

“Oh,” Zagreus says. “That. It’s been sorted. I can linger a while longer, don’t you worry.”

The divine work in mysterious ways, so Astarion doesn’t question it. He doesn’t want to think too hard; his brain’s been rattled about enough as it is. “That’s a relief.” He sighs. “Darling, I’d hate to see you go so soon.”

“The feeling is mutual.” Zagreus smiles. “You know—something’s different about you too.”

“There is?”

Zagreus observes him quietly, taking in his appearance.

“If this is another jab at my rugged good looks, with current emphasis on rugged, then my dearest Zagreus, I am well-aware—”

“It’s not that.” Zagreus says. He lets go of Astarion’s hand briefly to rest it atop Astarion’s sternum, shy of the bandages, where a slow beat thrums, once every ten seconds.

Astarion hadn’t noticed that until Zagreus pointed it out.

“Aha.” Zagreus smiles. “That explains the color in your cheeks.”

“That doesn’t mean anything. Don't mistake the bruises for blush, now. Purple and yellow aren't my colors.” Astarion counters, grinning, though he makes no move to shrug off the contact. In fact—the warmth feels nice over his injuries. “Vampires…We tend to regain a select number of bodily functions after a feed. And you fed me. A lot. If Cazador hadn’t attempted to carve my stomach out of my body, I would assume I would still be full right now.”

“Right, so you’re saying I gave you indigestion?”

Astarion’s snickering turns into a laugh, full and true, even if hurts—even if he has to motion to hold his side for it ache less. Zagreus does it for him, his palm encompassing the breadth of Astarion’s side near-completely.

It’s so easy to simply be around Zagreus. Especially now.

Zagreus’ eyes crinkle. (Just who is supposed to be adoring who here?)

“I regret not getting here sooner, still.” Zagreus confesses quietly, thumb stroking the bandaged skin. “From what you told me I knew he was cruel, but not enough to beat you that close to death.” Zagreus shakes his head. Astarion grimaces, suspecting another apology when he knows Zagreus shouldn’t have to.

“I'll admit I’m…angry with you. Was angry.” Astarion confesses. “I think. I don’t know—I—You have no idea how…I thought you weren't coming.”

Astarion shakes his head, trying to banish the memory. He still feels raw from everything. Like an exposed nerve—vulnerable to the elements. It’s going to take a while before everything feels normal.

“You have every right to think that. I don't blame you.” Zagreus murmurs.

“I am aware, as you’ve made it abundantly clear but I don’t want to be. So. Maybe I’m not. Stop giving me that kicked puppy look.”

Zagreus turns his head. Not what Astarion meant.

“Zagreus.”

He looks back at him. Astarion’s stiff fingers take a hold of Zagreus’ own battle-worn hands.

“Thank you.”

“What for?”

“What for? For saving me, you dolt. You single-handedly freed me from my bastard of a master. Of course, I’m grateful. I’d be an ass if I weren’t—so thank you. From the bottom of my, temporarily beating, heart.”

“I—well, you’re welcome. But I shouldn’t take all of the credit. You fought too. You’re the one who killed him. He’s dead, right?”

“Well, yes of course he is—but you did the bulk of the work.”

“No I didn’t.” Zagreus says quietly, allowing Astarion to tug him a smidge closer. “You did. If you didn’t call out that first time—I wouldn’t be here. It was you, Astarion. Not me.”

Emotion flutters inside his chest, an undercurrent to the pain. He feels it well up in the base of his throat, and Astarion decides it’s a foreign feeling that he doesn’t like and will deal with later.

“Don’t give me that.” He huffs.

“But it’s true.”

“Then don’t downplay your contribution in all this.”

“Hm. Alright, that I can do.”

Silence. Zagreus’ thumb strokes over the back of Astarion’s hand. He feels better already. There’s a rustle of noise outside that they both pretend to not hear.

They both break into smiles.

“I’m glad you’re okay.”

“…Me too.”

Astarion ponders the strange trajectory of his life. It’s been a long road, and there’s an even longer one ahead.

(He doesn’t feel as alone anymore.)

“…Astarion? You’re staring.”

“Hm? Oh, I’m thinking. You’re not seriously considering Violet’s offer, are you?”

“What? Of course not. Well, I don’t think so. I’d hate to spread myself thin when I have a lot to make up to you still.”

“As my god?”

“…Dunno.”

What?

“What do you mean you ‘don’t know’? I’m…I’ve been faithful. I prayed to you! And I still plan to! Do you still not count me among your devotees?”

“Not exactly? I get the whole worship thing but…”

“But what…? What am I to you then?”

“…A friend?”

A friend. Astarion hasn’t had a friend in over the last two centuries. Hundreds upon thousands of lovers, and not a single friend. Not until now. A god wants to be his friend. More importantly, Zagreus wants to be his friend.

Wait—

“…Am I being excommunicated? Are you kicking me out of—of Zagreusism?  Zagreanism? What do you even call your worship?” Astarion asks, incredulous, voice faltering beneath the odd development.

“Oh, ew. Don’t ever say those again. They sound terrible.” Zagreus chuckles. “I don’t know myself. Not a planner, remember? Zero idea how organized religion works. Or cults. Humans—mortals—they’re usually the one to come up with it. I’m just…unused to this whole…thing. That’s always been the sort of field my cousins and uncles are better at.”

Astarion squints. Is he saying…

“Am…Am I the first?” It's too broad a statement and can go whichever way, but Astarion is too surprised to try and revise it. They both know what he means, at least.

“Admittedly?” Zagreus looks down, almost demure. What an ass. He has no right to look so sweet. “Yes. I wasn’t kidding when I said I was the god of nothing. People don’t exactly know who I am.”

Astarion knows a fib when he sees one. He’s injured, not stupid.

“Liar.” He accuses. “I don’t believe you. You have to be the god of something. Fool me once and all that bullshit.”

The metaphor doesn't fly completely over Zagreus’ head, so his mouth quirks. “Well. Us gods don’t usually get to pick. You can say our domains are integral to who we are.”

“So what are you the god of?”

“It’s a little on the nose, in hindsight.”

Astarion tilts his head to face Zagreus better. His cheek squishes against Victoria’s owlbear teddy. “How so?”

Zagreus takes a breath. Lightly, he squeezes Astarion’s hand. “My name is Zagreus." He re-introduces quietly. "I am Firstborn to Hades, God of the Dead; and Persephone, Goddess of Verdure. And I...just so happen to be the God of Blood.”

The god of…

…Blood.

Blood!

Astarion has to stifle his laugh—he’s going to bust his stitches otherwise and Dal is going to have to glower and lecture at him again as she sews him back up. Him, a vampire, the first and only of the god of blood’s believers. Or maybe Zagreus’ insistence on him being his friend and not a faithful holds precedence. It doesn’t change the fact that the god who’d reached out to him in all his years as an enslaved spawn was the god of the very thing keeping him alive and functioning in un-death.

"I—you—" Astarion tries to swallow the giggle, but his shoulders continue to shake from it. "Ha—You're serious? Really?"

Zagreus grins like it's like some inside joke. "Deathly."

It's ironic. It's idiotic. It's brilliant.

Inadvertently, instinctively, he brings their clasped hands up to his face. Astarion means to bring it up to a cheek, but instead his smile is broad where it presses against Zagreus’ knuckles.

Zagreus' expression in that moment is warm. It's beatific.

“Well, if you’re not my god and I’m not your faithful—what happens now?”

“Now? As your friend, if you'll have me—I’m going to stay as long as I damn well please before the Styx cuts my visit short. But only if you want to. You look like you need the company.”

“It’s better than that of my siblings’.”

“Big and dysfunctional family. I know how that feels. Say, have I told you of the time when…”

Astarion makes himself comfortable as Zagreus segues into a tale. They still haven’t let go of each other, hands clasped over top Astarion’s chest.

This is nice. He can get used to this.

Chapter Text

“Zagreus.”

“Mhmm?”

Zagreus had been telling stories for maybe the last thirty minutes, with Astarion drifting in and out of consciousness as he did, surprised each time he blinked his eyes open and saw Zagreus still there. Can you blame him though? There was a soft, almost soothing quality to his voice that made Astarion’s eyes heavy. That, or the sudden drowsy spell was brought upon by his need to heal. Or maybe even the cold making him sluggish. Regardless, even though he liked listening to Zagreus—it would feel like a disservice to not be totally present.

“As wonderful as your stories are—” Astarion murmurs, blinking slowly. Zagreus had so far spoken of a cousin Dionysus, a cousin Artemis, and a family dog named Cerberus who Astarion is sure he’s mentioned before. “—I would hate to be a passive audience.”

Zagreus’ eyes sweep across Astarion’s face, realizing. “Hm. You do look rather tired. I should—”

Zagreus moves to stand, but Astarion holds fast—squeezing Zagreus’ hand as he does. “No! No, I, ah—I would still…appreciate the company. Will you stay?”

Astarion has a feeling Zagreus will linger about for a while longer. Call him selfish but he’s not letting him out of his sights. Especially not around his siblings. That and, well—he just likes having him around. Is that such a crime?

“Oh.” Zagreus mutters. “Sure, then. Why not?”

Zagreus, like the generous fellow he is, draws a quilt up further Astarion’s body to fend off the chill from the foot of the bed over top the blanket. The thick material is practical, but Astarion finds himself curling more (as best he can) around the warmth Zagreus is radiating from the point of his hand and forearm where it’s draped over his chest.

It’s a little having like your own personal bonfire.

“Gods you’re warm.” He mutters, body already tilted slightly facing Zagreus—to which Zagreus responds by taking yet another several pillows from nearby and bolstering Astarion’s other side with them.

“I’ve been told I run hot.” Zagreus chuckles. There’s a quip on Astarion’s tongue but he’s too lazy to say it.

It’s snowing actively outside. Astarion can hear it—the wind and frost blowing through Baldur’s Gate, making chill creep through the corners of the palace and threatening to seep into his bones.

Astarion shivers. Zagreus pauses, his thumb growing still where it’s ghosting over pale knuckles.

“Astarion?”

“Mh?”

“Do you mind if I join you?”

Astarion’s mind blanks as it runs into a wall, thoughts screeching to a halt. He cracks his eyes open to look at Zagreus quizzically. The question throws him off guard and instinctively he’s half expecting a leering expression like he’s used to from decades of experience, but no—Zagreus is looking down at him innocently with something like concern and well-meaning intent.

“In bed? Why darling, I’m flattered. But I don’t have the energy for that right now.” He teases, lips twitching into a roguish grin when he realizes what Zagreus is offering, sliding in the extra innuendo just to see Zagreus’ reaction. Do gods blush?

As expected the god flushes (Oh, yes they do.), chuckling lightly. “No, no—not like that. I mean, you look cold and well—”

“I’m teasing, dear.” Astarion sighs, eyes fluttering as he smiles. “Go right ahead. This bed’s big enough for both of us.”

He’s not turning down a free heated blanket now, is he?

The sheets rustle and there’s a sound not unlike bones rattling as Zagreus removes his pauldron. He has to let go of Astarion’s hand to climb into bed and Astarion mourns the loss until that one point of heat is replaced by an entire line of it—Zagreus laying on his side to accommodate him carefully, arm curled above his head and the other draped over his blanketed middle.

Much better than he expected. So much warmer too. To simply call it toasty would be a crime. Ah, bliss.

Astarion dozes, still propped up. Still holding onto Zagreus. But this time, he’s half-tucked into a god’s embrace, face tilted towards Zagreus’ collarbone—cozier than he’s ever been in recent memory. The warmth seeps readily through the silk and down comforter, sinking Astarion in drowsy heat.

“How did I not think of this before?” Astarion laments, his words slurring as he dips into a trance.

Zagreus breathes out a soft laugh. “Comfortable?”

“Very.” Astarion mutters, voice low and almost unintelligible. “…You’re doing fine. Don’t be so tense. I’m not going to break.”

To prove a point, he keeps Zagreus' arm in place with his own. There, now there's no getting away.

“...Ha. You're right.” Zagreus chuckles, relaxing. He moves closer without jostling Astarion, his arm a now more of a solid presence curled over and around Astarion’s shoulders (Heated and weighted blanket? Perfection.) If he weren’t an elf, Astarion would have long fallen asleep like this.

It’s now, on the cusp of that fuzzy space where waking meets trance, does Astarion realize how much he lucked out with Zagreus. Handsome, strong, powerful—kind too. Giving. Gentle. Witty. Warm, in both a metaphorical and literal sense. Affectionate? Gods—It’s an odd thought, drifting out from the furthest reach of his mind. He especially shouldn’t really be thinking amorous things of a deity he’d been worshipping—moreso after the fact that Zagreus had declared him a friend. (And nothing more? Could it really nothing more?)

Don’t think too hard about it. Astarion reasons to himself. Zagreus cares. It’s enough.

(He swears he can feel Zagreus' cheek pressed against his brow.)

…Okay maybe he has a crush. Maybe he’s a tiny bit infatuated with Zagreus. But it’s like trying to love the sun as a vampire—he knows it won’t happen. Gods and mortals (immortal as he may be) don’t mix very well. It’s like oil and water.

Still. It’s fun to imagine. A harmless, somewhat daft, fantasy. Zagreus’ thumb still hasn’t stopped its back-and-forth movement on Astarion’s arm, radiating with a quiet, frank sort of tenderness. He’s content for now.

And even if the impossible never happens—so long as Zagreus continues to humor moments like these—Astarion will happily remain a dear friend.

.

..

...

...

After about an hour outside trying to make herself busy, with extra ribbing from the rest of her siblings, Dalyria acquiesces and cracks open the door to the room Astarion is recovering in to retrieve the dirty bandages and basin of water. (Obviously not to speak with the visiting deity, of course not.)

She falters by the door, wide eyed at the sight of the god in bed with her brother, who’s trancing deeply curled up against him. Zagreus is gazing at him with an expression that just screams—

The god looks up. Dalyria freezes with the door half-open.

Zagreus notices her, and she stiffens some more. He pauses, a question in his eyes, before she helplessly gestures to the mess of bandages on the table. His mouth parts in a soft ‘oh’ and he nods, raising a finger to his lips in a bid for her to be quiet so as not to wake Astarion.

She nods. Gathers everything just as silently—the basin will have to wait. Slips out the door, shuts it as quietly as she can.

Dalyria rests her back against the frame, processing what she saw.

Violet bounds over to her, eyes sparkling. “Well?”

Dalyria shoves the mess of bandages towards her, much to her distaste. “Astarion needs his rest, do not disturb him.”

Chapter Text

“I can stand perfectly fine! I don’t need a crutch, Dal.”

Astarion leans onto the dresser to get his foot into the other pant leg. Dalyria fixes him with a baleful look, eyeing his attempt like she wants to say Are you sure?

“I know for a fact that even as vampires, bones on average take longer to heal than the rest of our body and you have a shattered patella.” She lectures, unimpressed, handing him the cane and readjusting his stance on it. “You will use a crutch—else if that doesn’t reform properly and you end up with a limp I swear to the gods I will cut your leg open to fix it myself.”

Astarion rolls his eyes. Damn it. Since when did Dal grow a spine?

“Tch. Fine. But does it have to be so ugly?” Ugly is an understatement. On such short notice, he’s using one of Cazador’s decorative canes. The gaudy jeweled ones that are for more fit than function, unless that function was smashing the heavy handles into their heads. The world’s most morbid hand-me downs.

“It’s either that or stuck in bed, brother.”

Astarion waves her off, hobbling away to the main foyer to wait for Zagreus. He passes by the ugly stain Cazador’s corpse left on the carpet. It had bloated in the time it was left there, seeping rotted blood into the floor, before they had thrown it outside to watch it burn up in the light of the day.

Endlessly satisfying, if you asked him.

Astarion rounds the corner, not-so-surprised to see Aurelia curled up in one of the loveseats by the fireplace, sketching something in charcoal. It’s been a tenday and then some since Cazador’s demise, and since then an odd sense of peace settled over the empty manor, with them free to go wherever they pleased without fear of repercussions. Two days since Zagreus’ last call—which, to be fair to the god, Astarion could have prayed anytime to reach out for a chat but Astarion slept through most of yesterday and couldn’t manage more beyond a faint ‘We’re doing fine’.

Today however, he and the other spawn had raid the palace (again) down on the itinerary—until they stripped the walls bare of any and all valuables.

(Raid, demolish, then burn down, preferably in that order before they try and salvage what they can for lives of their own. Astarion was content with setting it ablaze, but the others had more practical suggestions for the leftover properties. Plus, Cazador’s coin had to be stashed here somewhere.

Which is a plus. Astarion couldn’t say no to that.)

He takes a seat next to her, his knee acting up. (Still refusing to admit Dalyria is right.)

Aurelia greets him with a pleasant smile, much more relaxed now. She still has braids in her hair out of habit and familiarity, but the rest of it flows freely around her face now that Cazador isn’t here to remind her that it makes her look like some unfortunate urchin.

“Astarion.”

“Aurelia.”

She’s sketching something, sweeping the stick against the parchment and smudging it just so. Aurelia was always the most artistic of them—allowed to keep a journal for art in the same way Leon was allowed instruments or Violet her songs and opera booklets, so long as they were ‘good’. From the side profile, he can tell who it is. He raises a brow at her attempt at Zagreus.

She leans on his shoulder. He finds he doesn’t mind. “Do you think he’ll like it?”

He examines the sketch.

“His nose is crooked.”

“It is?”

She squints at the paper. “It’s not.”

“It most certainly is.”

“His nose is not crooked.”

The air shifts. “Whose nose is crooked?”

Zagreus grins as he steps into reality, brushing tiny white flowers and blades of grass from himself. Like Astarion warned him to, he’s better dressed for the weather—a sleeved tunic under his usual chiton, which is longer today than Astarion remembers it to be. Zagreus has yet to teach Astarion the differences between what is which article of dress from where he’s from, considering that to Astarion it just looks like various swaths of cloth draped and worn differently.

Aurelia hops onto her feet the moment she realizes he’s arrived. Astarion is slower to stand, taking the sketch and holding it up to Zagreus for a comparison. “Yours.”

Zagreus gently squeezes Aurelia’s forearm and Astarion’s bicep in greeting with a soft hello as he peers at the paper. “It’s not so bad. You even managed to get my good side.”

“Truly?”

If Aurelia’s eyes could sparkle, they would.

“In any case, I’d love to see it finished. Keep working on it.” Zagreus encourages, handing her back the journal.

Astarion watches as Aurelia goes with a giddy smile and polite excuse, skip in her step at the praise, off to tell the others that Zagreus is here and they can continue with plundering the palace of its valuables.

Zagreus has a supportive hand on the small of Astarion’s back as he watches the tiefling disappear around a corner. “You didn’t have to wait for me, you know.”

“We won’t take so much of your time.” Astarion reassures, leaning on him as he steadies himself. “Well, I might. But I digress—We’ve managed to comb through most of the manor. All that’s left now is…”

Astarion gives Zagreus a knowing look. A moment of understanding passes over the god’s expression.

“…The underground?”

“Some of Cazador’s quarters and that place, yes. I…thought it would be best if you were there with us.”

“I see.” Zagreus nods. Astarion steps closer, relishing the warmth radiating off of him. Zagreus’ hand loops around his waist casually, and Astarion finds he doesn’t mind. “And how are you doing?”

“Me? I’m wonderful darling, thank you very much.”

Zagreus is pulling something out from inside his robes with his free hand. “I’m glad. And before I forget, I have something for you.”

Another gift. A bubbling sense of joy flutters behind his ribs.

In an echo of their first meeting, Zagreus fastens large, rectangular piece of woolen fabric around Astarion. It’s almost like a blanket, and just as warm. A deep red, with a faint pattern of stripes along the edge, secured to him with a simple bone and gold brooch—something like the long, thin bone of a small animal with a golden sprig twining around it.

“This is a chlamys.” Zagreus says as he fixes the folds and fusses with the cloth—fitted like a cloak around Astarion’s shoulders down to his knees. He checks the look of the fibula on Astarion to see if it’s pinned correctly. “I thought you might like one. You said it was only going to get colder, so…”

“I did.” Astarion smiles, brushing his hands over the fine material and over the jewelry. “My, aren’t you thoughtful?”

“It’s not silk, but we’ll get to that. I’ve been experimenting to see what I can and can’t bring here, most things seem to obviously be fair g—”

“Zagreus,” Astarion reassures, catching the god in the middle of his rambling. Warm hands still over his arms. “It’s a wonderful gift. I adore it. Thank you.”

Zagreus only smiles at him, boyish and fond.

Neither of them realize they’re standing so close to the other until someone clears their throat from across the foyer. Astarion startles; Zagreus doesn’t. They both turn to see the others staring (some with shit eating grins on their faces, the assholes) with Leon gesturing with an amused smile towards Cazador’s quarters, and Victoria waving brightly. How long were they standing there?

Zagreus, bless him, plays it casual with a hand up in greeting before turning to Astarion (who’s violently suppressing a blush).

“After you, mate.”

They get to ransacking. Honestly, they’ve already cleared out half of it. Violet had a head start on the closet and vanity, tossing clothes that she didn’t like into a ‘sell’ pile while hoarding the ones that she did. They found the wardrobe that contained their clothing, and distributed it among themselves for whatever purpose they may have (Astarion, personally, was going to keep a few of them. After extensive alterations, of course). Each of them has also taken a share of the jewelry, if only to pawn off, and they’d already dismantled Cazador’s bedframe to use as firewood for the hell of it.

It left the office, which was mostly untouched.

Still. Being back in here put Astarion on edge, if he had to be honest.

Astarion rifles through the documents there, sifting through agreements and letters between lords, invites, correspondences, and the like.

Among the documents, there are journals. Astarion picks up the first.

“What does it say?” Zagreus asks, over his shoulder.

“5454.” Astarion skims the rest of the pages after the smudged tally. It’s all names, side by side, in columns of three—all done in Cazador’s spidery hand. Most have been crushed out, one at the very end hasn’t been. “Who is Galia?”

Petras turns from the other end of the room, where he and Violet are rummaging through shelves. There’s a measure of confusion on his face. “That’s…the girl I last brought back.”

(Zagreus’ look of concern makes his innards twist anxiously.)

Astarion grimaces. The night before Cazador died, then. Cazador’s final meal.

“So it’s a ledger.” Astarion frowns. A ledger of every person they’d caught on a hunt, every person they’d doomed to their death. Thousands of them, over the last few hundred years.

“A ledger?” Zagreus asks. “Of five thousand people?”

“The five thousand Cazador fed on.” Astarion explains after a beat. “The five thousand we delivered to him.”

“Did he really?” Violet says from across the room, tossing a shawl of fur she dislikes towards Petras who catches the brunt of it with his face. “How tacky. Why even bother if he was just going to feed from them?” She comments, lackadaisical.

Zagreus has gone quiet beside him, leaning against a cabinet with his arms crossed.

Astarion knows that this may as well be the first time Zagreus is seeing evidence of one of the many things they’d been forced to do under Cazador. Talking about it is one thing—but proof?

He braves a glance at Zagreus’ expression. It’s pensive—his brow is furrowed and expression shadowed. Conflicted, even. His stern gaze is trained at the desk, his eyes wandering across the papers and in an attempt to comprehend the foreign script and the idea that Astarion had led people to their deaths.

Zagreus notices Astarion’s staring. His eyes go soft around the corners in concern, his expression immediately losing its edge. Astarion can see the questions in his eyes, but Zagreus at least looks like he’s willing to wait until Astarion is willing to share.

Not now.

Of course.

Astarion goes back to reading, setting the ledger down for the diary.

The diary contains more information, mostly on them. Astarion’s stomach twists as he skims through the pages, reading through Cazador’s detailing of their habits, movements, and tortures. Several in more detail than others, and then some.

Many are of him. There are entire entries dedicated to Astarion—the things he’d done wrong. The corrections Cazador had dealt. Mistake after mistake, in vivid narration and outlined in prose. The days when Astarion had no fight in him and submitted, when he was little more than a puppet and plaything, used and abused and toyed with—

I will haunt you, even in death.

Astarion doesn’t realize he’s white-knuckling the papers until Zagreus’ fingers brush against them.

“Astarion?”

“I’m—” Astarion flips to the earlier pages, trying to shake the emotion. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

“I’m fine, Zagreus. Thank you.”

“No offense mate, but you’re really not. We should take a breather, maybe continue this anoth—”

“I am fine!” Astarion bites out, suddenly impatient, loud enough that the others pause in what they’re doing to watch. Astarion dislikes raising his voice at Zagreus most of all, because it feels like he’s undoing the progress that they’d both worked so hard on to be friends. He shakes off Zagreus’ concerned hand on his shoulder, focusing his gaze elsewhere other than what he knows is a hurt expression.

“I’m not as fragile as you think, Zagreus. Just leave it. It’s not like he can hurt me anymore, anyway.” He mutters, low enough that the others don’t catch it as they return to their tasks.

Zagreus is unconvinced, but he drops it.

Astarion is about to shut the journal when a diagram of runes catches his eye.

It’s…not in Thorass. It’s not any Elven script either. There are sharp letters written in a circular diagram, and the footnotes in the corners are in the same language. Infernal, perhaps? Something about it is painfully familiar and he’s about to call Aurelia over from where she's skimming through bookshelves to translate when a soft cry cuts through the silence. Victoria toddles out from the direction of the elevator, sobbing, running to her father in distress.

Everyone turns at the sound, Leon especially. Victoria practically crashes into his legs in fright.

“Vicky?” He asks softly, picking her up into her arms and rubbing her back. “What’s wrong? I thought I told you to stay close.”

She’s crying, inconsolable, unable to articulate what spooked her. Leon’s wiping her face with a sleeve, trying to get her to calm down in vain.

Astarion pockets Cazador’s journal. This can wait.

“What happened?” Zagreus asks, bounding over.

“I don’t know. She wandered off and now—” Leon murmurs, rocking his daughter. Victoria continues to hiccup and shrink in his arms. Even as Leon tries to get an explanation out of her, taking a seat in a nearby chair and trying to calm her down in vain. Not even Zagreus can get her to lift her face out of her father’s shoulder.

Aurelia is about to try her hand at consoling the girl when Yousen speaks up.

“—Wait.”

Everyone turns to the gnome, who’s standing by the elevator. He holds up a hand, and the group quiets. “Did you hear that?”

“Hear what?” Petras asks.

Quiet again.

And then—

Distantly,

A scream.

Victoria whimpers and burrows further in her father’s arms. Leon has gone ashen.

“Did I—”

“Was that—”

Astarion stills, shushing everyone. He listens closer and there it is again. A scream, wailing, and then silence. It’s the voice of a woman, echoing in the depths of the palace faintly.

Help me!

He and Zagreus share a look, as if asking the other did you see anything down there last time? I sure didn’t.

Astarion was so sure it was empty. After the fight it was quiet—deathly quiet almost. There was nothing down there except corpses and—

“Astarion,” Zagreus asks, voice barely a whisper. “Just where did those five thousand people go?”

The collective realization seems to drop the room’s temperature a few degrees, the spawn looking among themselves with rising horror as Zagreus’ implication settles in their heads like the murk at the bottom of a lake.

Leon stays behind, on account of Victoria and his absolute refusal to bring her down there.

So while Leon takes her back to their room, that leaves them with a party of seven—six vampire spawn and one god. More than enough to be able to investigate the Szarr palace underground and stage an impromptu rescue detail.

“This was here the entire time?” Petras gawks, glancing nervously at the sinister architecture.

Astarion glowers at him from the front, where he and Violet are leading the group, the latter having summoned several motes of light that float just above their heads. He shares a glance with Zagreus, who’s flanking the party as they descend into the dark.

“What did you think I meant by an underground?” Astarion bites back.

“A basement maybe? This isn’t what people normally think of when you say that!”

Basement. Cazador might as well have built these dungeons beneath the entire district. It makes the kennels look like nothing in comparison.

Astarion only realizes now that he and Zagreus, in their prior rush to reach Cazador the last time they were down here, had missed several rooms and passageways. The stairs leading down the central structure are stained with blood, sure, but there’s the issue of…well—

There are more stairs. Veering to the left and right, down into the dark. Ones they failed to notice. And what he thought were decorative walls in passing were actually cages.

Empty cages, but cages nonetheless. Perhaps temporary holding cells for ‘meals’ Cazador deigned to take on a different day, or even for those he didn’t drain completely? The deeper levels must have the bodies then. But it makes little sense to Astarion why the place didn’t stink of death and rot when Cazador had a victim every night of the week, and instead smelled like dust and damp.

The scream echoes through the stony hallways again and everyone but Zagreus jerks in surprise. It’s coming from behind them, in a chamber they missed. Even if this was Cazador’s dumping ground, someone was still alive down here.

Astarion shudders to think who it might be, or if there's more than one, though he can take a guess.

“This way.” He murmurs, hobbling as fast as he can towards the sound.

Violet is reaching for the door before anyone can, grumbling when she can’t find a handle or seal. “It’s locked. Brother dearest, don’t you happen to have a key?”

“Oh, of course.” Astarion says, dripping sarcasm as he pats down his pockets. “I happen to have it right here—of course I don’t have a key!”

Violet pouts at him. "Snippy."

“What now?” Aurelia asks. The group shares a look.

Zagreus steps in front of the door, knocking on the stone in several places. “I’ll take a crack at it. Step back everyone.”

The spawn give Zagreus a wide berth. Where he is barehanded one moment, in the next he’s wielding a pair of wicked gauntlets—a steel grey, with golden clawed-tips, inlaid with precious stones in deep, vivid shades of magenta. They look comically large at first, as big as any of their heads, but then Zagreus gets into position and—

“Malphon,” Zagreus says, kissing one fist. “Don’t fail me now.”

Taking a crack at it was literal then—the fists make a dent in the stone faster than any of them can blink. A crater, really. Astarion suddenly feels sorry for whatever monsters fell at the hands of those gauntlets when the next strike crumbles the thick stone door like it was cheap clay.

“Holy shit.” Petras breathes out.

“Holy shit indeed.” Violet agrees, grinning at Zagreus with glittering eyes.

Steam rises from the gauntlets, and the rock glows hot from the sheer force Zagreus swung at it with. The god shakes debris from his hair as they de-materialize, stepping over the rubble. “Ladies and gentlemen.” He motions. One by one, they step into the room.

It’s a large chamber, with another room in the far back, the door to that still shut. What catches Astarion’s attention, however, are the three sarcophagi off to the side, mirror to the other three opposite it, with one barely cracked open—pale fingers grasping at the stone as whoever inside whimpers and sobs softly.

“Zagreus.” Astarion says, nodding towards it.

“On it,” Zagreus nods back.

It doesn’t take much for Zagreus to shove the lid open and Astarion’s not at all surprised with how easy he makes it look given his frequent shows of strength. What does surprise him, however, is the coffin’s occupant launching themselves at Zagreus. He has the bloodstone dagger readied in his hand the moment he sees the blur of movement, but Zagreus motions for the spawn to relax and stand down.

There’s a girl in his arms—a young lady, human, maybe in her early twenties. Her blonde hair is filthy and greasy, her clothes torn, and she has a pair of half-healed scabbing punctures on her throat as she sobs thank-you’s into Zagreus’ shoulder like it’s the last thing she’ll ever do.

She continues to cry incoherently as Zagreus sets her down onto the floor, only pausing to scream when she spots Petras, whose expression twists in recognition.

“You’re—”

“No—! Get aw—Get away! You, please, I just—I just, please no, let me go home, I want to go home, please—"

Astarion sees a flash of fang when she opens her mouth to sob, and understands what this room is for. Almost.

Zagreus bodily blocks her view of Petras, and Astarion crouches with some difficulty to her level. “Easy, you’re alright.” Zagreus soothes. “Could you tell us your name? How you got here?”

“Gal-Galia.” She hiccups, trembling like a leaf in a storm. From hunger, from stress. It’s the name from the ledger. “I don’t—I—He—He brought me here!” She cries, pointing accusingly at Petras who seems to wilt. “It was, we—the tavern. And then—and then…”

Astarion wrinkles his nose. She stinks of filth and unwash from however long she was in there, and to be stuck in a coffin for any longer than never has likely taken a toll on her psyche if his own experience was anything to go by. If she was Cazador’s last meal, then she was at least down here, awake in the dark, for at least a week.

But why is she a spawn? She’s not particularly attractive like the rest of them. Plain and mousy; a peasant girl. One of Petras’ easier demographics given how easily some of them fell for his boy-next-door strategy. That, and Astarion knew Cazador chose only the finest and most forgettable faces—which she wasn’t with that large birthmark on her face. She'd be easily recognized on the street, and Astarion knows that there must be at least one person looking for her.

“Calm down.” Astarion says, frowning at her when she flinches away from him, wide red eyes wet with tears.

“Please don’t hurt me.”

“Nobody is going to hurt you.” Astarion says, stern in the way he’d been when the other spawn joined the family and he had to play responsible older sibling. “Isn’t that right, Petras?” Astarion asks, fixing him with a glare.

“Wh—Why me?” Petras sputters, before Aurelia elbows him. (“Of course you!”)

“Well?”

“I—ugh, yes. Nobody is going to hurt you. Fucking—” Petras crosses his arms, put out, taking a seat on the other (hopefully empty) coffin. Pointedly, he seems to not want to look at her.

Galia sniffles, shakily wiping her face, shell-shocked. “Lord Szarr—”

“—Bit you. Obviously.” Astarion confirms, eyeing the wounds.

“And h-he locked me in there. I thought I would die. Everything hurt.” She whimpers.

“You did, dear.”

“W-What?”

The girl seems to be on the verge of a panic again, chest heaving for air even if she realistically no longer requires. “What—What do you mean?”

“You died. You were turned. You’re a spawn. A vampire. Like the rest of us.” Astarion says frankly, gestures to his own neck, then to the others. Zagreus seems to sense her rising fear, frowning at him. “Astarion, she’s terrified.”

“She’ll have to get over it!” He snaps. Zagreus meets his scowl head on with his own. “Look—” He turns back to the girl. “Cazador is dead, we’re all free. You’re luckier than the rest of us in that regard.”

That seems to calm her down a fraction, even if she continues to weep.

“I want to go home.”

“Easier said than done.”

“I want to go home!”

“You—!” Astarion pinches the bridge of his nose. Inhales then exhales once. Clearly, she’s not in the right mind to converse. “Dal, would you be a dear and take her upstairs and get her settled? Check her over?”

Dalyria, who’d been watching the exchange silently over the past several minutes as it unfolded, nods. If she sensed a patronizing tone from him, she's completely ignored it in favor of helping the terrified young woman. “Galia, was it? Come on, we’ll get you cleaned up. Yousen?”

"Right."

Dalyria and Yousen's approach only makes her cling to Zagreus more, making herself as small as possible. Astarion would have had her stand himself if not for Zagreus gently raising her onto her feet with him. “You don’t have to worry about a thing,” He tells her, gingerly petting her hand so she lets go of his chiton. “They’re good people. Up you go.”

Trembling, the girl extracts herself from Zagreus’ arms with some encouragement. She refuses to look at Petras as much as Petras refuses to look at her, staring only at the floor with a distant gaze, but at least she’s accepting Dalyria and Yousen’s help as they lead her out and back upstairs.

And then there were five.

When the three retreating forms disappear back into the dark and Zagreus checking the other sarcophagi for unwilling occupants, Astarion groans—half in an attempt to straighten himself from the floor, half in exasperation. The existence of a new spawn complicates things. What the hell was Cazador set on doing with another one of them?

“Did you know about this?” He questions Petras. An impulse, and it comes out more confrontational than he wants it to be.

Petras bristles.

“And why the hell would I know about this?” Petras demands, waving angrily. “It’s not like the m—Cazador ran his mouth about what he thought about dinner every night, did he?”

“Dinner—” Zagreus starts, but Astarion interrupts in lieu for arguing with Petras.

“What, so I am to believe we were going to have a new sister join us, just like that? One you brought back no less?” Astarion barks back. "Perhaps your empty head forgotten already?"

“You’re the one who saw him last. You’re the favorite—if anyone knew him best and knew about whatever the hell he was planning, it would be you. Or were you fucked stupid one too many ti—”

Astarion lunges for Petras, cane forgotten, in favor for tousling on the ground.

“You’re one to talk, you piece of shit!”

“As if I’m wrong? So what, now you have a god on your side you think you’re better than us!?”

“Shut the fuck up!”

They roll around on the ground, trading blows, until hands grab him and Astarion is bodily lifted away from Petras, with Aurelia getting in between them both with an admonishing glare. “Enough, the both of you!”

Zagreus is holding him against his chest, arms keeping him in place even if Astarion’s nails dig into his skin. “Astarion, mate, just let it go.”

“Let it go? Let it go!?” Astarion cranes his neck, fixing the god with a venomous look. He shakes himself out of Zagreus’ grasp and jerks away when he tries to steady Astarion when the vampire's knee buckles wrong and he's forced to lean heavily on the adjacent coffin. “Do not for a second think you can dictate my feelings on the matter, Zagreus.”

Zagreus narrows his eyes at him. Astarion turns away, glaring daggers at Petras—Petras, who’s sporting a bloody lip and a sneer.

Astarion brushes himself off, the anger still simmering on the surface. “We’re done here. We found the girl. End of story.” He glances about. “Where the hell is Violet?”

The door to the next room, once closed, has been opened. Astarion grumbles, walking as fast as he can manage to get his snooping sister-spawn so they can get the hell out of here. “Violet! We’re leaving. Unless you want to be stuck down here, I suggest you stop sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong.”

She’s standing in front of a raised dais, waist height, in front of a skull seated on a pillow with an unfolded scroll in her hands. She fails to acknowledge him the first time and—wait. Violet isn’t usually so still. For all her bluster and vanity, she’s usually more animated, ready with a flouncy quip at a moment’s notice to snark back at her siblings.

“Violet?” Astarion tries again, voice still hard.

She turns to him slowly, jerkily, face unusually pale—paler than she normally is. The look on her face is new. Violet looks like she’s seen a ghost, and her voice shakes like she has. “Astarion…”

Astarion strides over and takes a hold of the scroll that she’s clutching. He’s half aware that the others have filed into this room as well, with Aurelia taking his left.

What in the hells...?

The parchment is old. Aged. Yellowed with time but carefully kept. Astarion glances at the skull. The remains of another vampire? Regardless, he refocuses his attention back onto the text, where there is a number of rituals listed throughout it. “Perfect slaughter…” Astarion reads aloud, a crease worrying between his brows. “Liturgy of the dead, Sacrament of the Damned…”

Violet points out the bottom of the scroll and Astarion feels his stomach give way.

The Rite of Profane Ascension.

Walk in the sun, it reads. Suffer not from hunger, grow in power. All a vampire’s greatest dream but—

Deliver unto the Lord of Hellfire seven-thousand souls, each bearing an infernal mark, and you shall be free of your chains.

Astarion scrambles to take out Cazador’s journal from inside his vest. He flips it to the earlier page.

“Aurelia, can you read this?” He says, voice an angry quiver, as he points to the diagram. No wonder it had been so familiar. It’s the piece of shit ‘poetry’ Cazador had carved into their skin.

“I—” Aurelia falters, her face blanching the longer she skims through the Infernal text. “It’s in pieces.” She stammers. “It’s—It’s part of a bigger text?”

Astarion all but slams the journal shut. Gods damn it. “Of course it is, because the rest of it is on our backs.” Astarion suddenly regrets giving Cazador such a quick death. The man deserved a more torturous end. Still, things were falling into place, and Astarion hated how everything was starting to make sense.

You will not ruin the empire which I have built!

You were meant for greater things.

My crowning jewel.

A shame you will never see the glory of it.

“Wait—the rite says it needs seven thousand souls.” Aurelia points out. “There’s only seven of us. Unless—”

Five-thousand fifty-four names. Theirs included.

The parchment crumples in Astarion’s hands, his nails poking holes into the paper. He has to see. He has to see for himself. It’s a horrifying notion and it can’t possibly be true, but all evidence points to otherwise.

He’s turning and marching out of the room and back into the main hallway, ignoring the voices calling out his name, when Zagreus catches him by the shoulder. “What?” He spits. “What could you possibly want now?”

In the back of his mind, he’s aware he shouldn’t be so angry at Zagreus. Nothing here is the god’s fault, so why take his anger out on him?

“Your cane.” Zagreus says, voice flat and tone clipped. Astarion takes it just as the others catch up.

“…Let’s go.”

It’s worse. Gods, it’s worse than he ever expected it to be.

What did Astarion imagine? A handful of spawn. Maybe Cazador had only started collecting his victims recently. The hope that he’d find people down there who’d only been imprisoned a fortnight, a month. But no. The further they descend into the dark, guided only by a few measly motes of light and Zagreus’ personal radiance, the more the dread grows.

Then, the stink. The voices. Moaning and crying in the gloom. Astarion loses count of how many stairs he’s taken, lost track of how many times his knee aches in protest. The architecture gives way to pure bedrock, the bare minimum, just smooth stone and cavernous depths leading out into the Underdark, and hundreds of cages each easily as large as a ballroom. How many are crammed in a single one, he wonders? If there are thousands here?

Their presence has the spawn skittering back into the dark, flinching away from the light. They’ve been forgotten down here. Just lambs awaiting slaughter, Astarion thinks with a nauseating grimace.

What does that make the seven of them, then?

Aurelia gets too close to one of the cages as she peers inside. A hand darts out to grab at her—it snags on her blouse and turns a sleeve into ribbons as she stumbles back into Petras for him to catch, hands over her mouth in horror.

Beady red eyes stare at them from the murk. Hungry. Astarion has to think that most, if not all, of the spawn down here are long gone, little more than husks and ghouls, better off as cadavers. Minds lost to starvation and madness and neglect.

Until, he hears one speak.

“You.”

Astarion whirls. Half-lit by the meager glow of Violet’s magic is a face Astarion never expected to see again and much less recognize. Why should he? It’s been decades. Centuries, even.

There’s a skeletal looking man at the bars, his once fine clothes hanging off of him like dress on a coatrack. His cheeks are sunken, his eyes hollow. Lips cracked and split, teeth broken and chipped in places. When he speaks, his voice is hoarse and thin, unused after years and years imprisoned. Astarion remembers it to be a melodious timbre. He has to wrack his mind for a name.

“I know you.”

No.

Astarion tries not to look at him, his eyes scanning over the other prisoners visible to him, more now that Zagreus lingers behind him, the orange glow of his fire casting shadows like a miniature sun. Others are clothed, others naked. The ones who’s backs he can see are carved up, the very same scarring that he bears just in a different iteration. He recognizes many of them, all he thought to be long dead. Some he’d last seen over a century ago.

“Astarion—”

The ghoul catches his eye again. The long, filthy hair covers his face, but Astarion knows.

“Sebastian?”

“So you remember.”

Astarion’s throat tightens. He doesn't look to his siblings, who deal with their own demons. He cannot look at Zagreus, out of fear of what the god may be thinking.

“Of course I do.” He responds, voice soft and haunted. “Of course I remember you.”

“And I remember you. How could I forget? You were my first.” Sebastian laments, expression sallow and longing. “You were so sweet with me.”

It had been a balmy summer night, the streets lined with festivities. He’d spotted Sebastian lingering by a tavern's outdoor seating, watching his friends dance and make merry outside with the rest of the patrons. Astarion had gone up to him. They’d talked. It was a lovely conversation—genuine in a way many hadn’t been, lasting more than a few hours after they'd both lost track of time. Astarion invited him to dance. Sebastian’s first. Then, they’d retired to a room so Sebastian could experience the rest of his firsts with someone he trusted enough to have them with. A pretty face and whirlwind romance like in the novels.

“Sebastian—”

The man’s expression twists at the sound of his name, making a grab for Astarion. “How could you?! You lied to me! You did this!”

“I—” Astarion stumbles back in time, colliding into Zagreus as he does, watching as the fight drains out of Sebastian as the spawn falls to his knees, sobbing and banging on the thick bars.

The noise isn’t lost on the others in this expansive prison. Astarion backs away, half-limping, half-dragged by Zagreus as half-feral and starved spawn rush for the bars, screaming and howling—some obscenities, others begging to be let out, many more nothing but screaming wordlessly. It echoes in the dark like his worst nightmare made flesh. It's hellish.

“Astarion,” Zagreus whispers, having taken him and the others away from the cacophony as best he can, in a small alcove by the stairs. Like he'd seen this display before, nothing but bleak despair and darkness for as far as the eye can see. How in the hells is he so unfazed? “Astarion, breathe. Easy, you’re alright.”

Zagreus is handling him like a small, scared creature and it aggravates Astarion. Like he's some animal backed into a corner. He doesn’t want to admit it but it does feel like that—how can it not when you’re faced with the last two centuries’ worth of sins, thrown in your face?

Astarion thinks he spotted children. Gods. He wants to throw up.

The others seem as scared shitless as he is, with Violet outright refusing to look with her hands over her ears; Aurelia seated on the floor with both hands over her mouth, still as a stone; and Petras staring at nothing in particular, his mind far away.

“Astarion,” Zagreus tries again. "Talk to me."

There are too many voices pulling him in a thousand different directions.

“Well what do you expect me to say?!” Astarion hisses, frantic, the words spilling out before he can manage to think of a better line of thought. How he wishes he didn’t have a pulse in the moment, because right now his heart feels like it’s going to beat out of his chest.

"I'm not expecting anything. Just talk to me."

“Talk? What's there to talk about? These people? The people I snatched off the street and—Gods, I—we—we did this. Every single soul down here, one of us had a hand in." Astarion stumbles, alternating between fight and flight. The god's touch on his arm is supposed to be soothing, but it makes Astarion bristle. "I’m not the wounded party, Zagreus! Stop treating me like I’m one!”

“You’re right, you’re not. But you’re also not to entirely blame here.” Zagreus says, voice firm. “Astarion—”

Astarion scoffs, a delirious note in his voice. He's having a panic attack, he probably is. He'd be mortified later to realize he had it in front of his siblings, with hundreds of others in hearing range. “Of course you don’t blame me. You’ve only ever seen the good Astarion. Poor, defenseless Astarion. The victim, the damsel, your penitent devotee! You’ve never seen this—” Astarion gestures to the gloom in the vague direction of the cages. “The fruits of our labor! The monster, the murderer—”

“Astarion stop—”

“Cazador’s favorite whore, beholden to thousands of lovers—!”

“Astarion—”

“Maybe Cazador was right, and you were just blinded by my pretty face—”

“Astarion!”

Astarion’s jaw clacks shut. His chest heaves. Zagreus' grip on his shoulders is firm, but not painful. Grounding.

“…You’re right. I’m sorry—”

Apologies. Again with the apologies!

“What? And what the hell are you apologizing for? No. No! you do not get to take the high road on this one—” Astarion says, fisting his hands in Zagreus’ clothes. “Yell, scream, get angry with me! Stop being so patient, gods damn it. I thought gods punished their believers for their misdeeds? What are you waiting for? Two centuries worth of misdeeds, right in front of you!"

Zagreus continues to watch him, gaze unwavering and understanding.

Astarion feels himself droop weakly against the stone. "...You’re too kind. Why? I don’t deserve it.” His fingers slacken. “…None of us do.”

When Zagreus glances to the three spawn off to the side, none of them meet his eyes.

“What do you even want with us, Zagreus?” Astarion whispers. “With me? You’ve nothing to gain.”

“What I want isn’t important right now. What do you want?” Zagreus prompts. "What do you want to do?"

Astarion swallows thickly. What does he want to do? Running is one option. Forgetting this ever happened. They should have turned back, spared themselves the horror and pain of whatever mess Cazador had down here. They had their own lives to live. Astarion doesn’t want Cazador’s ghost haunting him now when things seem to have finally turned for the better.

“...Let’s go back.” Petras speaks up, his words trembling even if he tries to not make them sound it. “I’m not spending another minute down here.”

“And leave these people?” Aurelia blurts, shaken out of her stupor. “Petras, they—they’re like us. We can’t leave them down here.”

“Are you insane?” Violet laughs, half hysteric. “My sweet sister, there’s thousands of them! You want to let thousands of unchecked vampires free into the good green graces of the Sword Coast?”

“I have to agree with Aurelia.” Zagreus says, over the din of Astarion’s whirling thoughts and his bickering siblings. “It’s wrong to keep them down here. None of them deserve this fate.”

Four pairs of eyes flicker to Astarion, and it weighs him down more than the aura of hopelessness in these dungeons.

To leave them is cruel. To kill them is a mercy. But eight against a thousand, much less five—even if one is a god—it’s impossible. The alternative means a potential unseen number of people dead at the hands of hungry spawn. Baldur’s Gate is a city of thousands, and despite the name people do still live down in the Underdark.

Still. He had a hand in this.

These people did nothing wrong.

...

Damn it.

Damn it all, Zagreus is rubbing off on him.

“Let them out.” Astarion whispers.

Zagreus’ reassuring squeeze of his shoulder is not overlooked.

“Let them out. We were partly responsible. Free them.” Astarion says, a little more resolute in his decision, even if making it feels like an out of body experience. "It's the least we can do."

Petras slumps against the wall. Violet's eyes are flickering between them like she’s considering it. Aurelia merely breathes a sigh of relief, busy worrying the button on the collar of her blouse

“…And how do we do that?” Petras asks. “Nothing down here has a handle or switch.”

“Easily remedied.” Zagreus says, letting go of Astarion and procuring the twin fists once more. He's walking over to the first pair of cells with Astarion trailing behind after a moment's hesitation.

Zagreus puts on his best winning smile when he approaches the first cage, squaring his shoulders. “If I can have everyone stand back, this might get messy. I don’t want to accidentally hit anyone.”

“You’re going to free us?”

The spawn are suddenly clamoring, a murmur of excitement and desperation spreading through the crowd like a current.

“We’re going to be let out?”

“Free us!”

“Get us out of here!”

An uproar of pleas rise from the cells, spreading like wildfire as the cries reach a fever pitch. The first group of spawn obediently stand back, crowding into the back of the cell as Zagreus finds a weak spot in the metal.

“And what of Lord Szarr?” Sebastian again, opposite to the cell Zagreus is examining, his eyes boring into Astarion’s as he clutches the bars.

Astarion considers it. It would be right to disclose to them the truth. “Dead and gone. I—We—made sure of it. Dead enough that he no longer has power over us, or the ability to hurt us.”

“Any more than he already has.” Sebastian murmurs.

Zagreus bashes a hole wide enough to serve as a doorway into the first cage with the gauntlets after a few tries, the thunderous noise reverberating throughout the dungeon and silencing its occupants. A few spawn move to filter out, but they’re beaten to the punch by others.

Others who immediately see Astarion and see red, ripe with the chance for revenge.

Shit.

Astarion jumps out of the way, brandishing the cane like a makeshift weapon and rummaging through his pockets for the dagger. His siblings startle, watching as half a dozen, then a dozen, and then more spawn push their way through, nearly frothing at the mouth and bleeding resentment. One very nearly gets close enough to bite him before Zagreus yanks them by the neck and tosses them.

That spawn goes flying. So do several others, but not without consequences.

Zagreus places himself square in the bottleneck as Astarion scrambles to place distance between himself and the wave of angry vampires. The god manages to block the majority of the hostile spawn from them, shoving them back in most cases, outright socking (and likely killing) others—getting bitten and scratched up and having his flesh carved up in the process. The vampire spawn with their wits about them hang back, watching the display of fire and fist with some horror.

Astarion counts maybe two dozen bodies on the ground before the tide of vengeful prisoners recede. “Okay,” Zagreus says, shaking blood and viscera off of the gauntlets, breathing heavily through his injuries. “Anybody else want to try any funny business?”

His chiton is ripped and there are gashes left and right—the smell of Zagreus’ blood cloyingly thick and sumptuous even over the rot of the undead.

This was a bad idea.

“Zagreus—”

“I’m fine.” Zagreus rebukes, a mirror of Astarion’s earlier words. He turns back to the freed spawn with a steely air. “Well?”

Fear wins over hunger, and none approach.

“Astarion,” Zagreus says again, an eye on the crowd. “Where will they go?”

Astarion blinks. Right. They have to go somewhere. “Take the tunnels into the Underdark.” He tells them. It’s their only option. Flooding the city with vampires was the last thing anyone wanted.

“You heard the man.” Zagreus nods. Several make a break for the tunnels without having been told twice, while others help their fallen comrades and shuffle out of there.

“And what about us?” Someone says from within the next cell.

“Please, let us out!”

“Just a moment.” Zagreus grunts, wincing slightly. “Aurelia?”

The tiefling staggers to attention. “Y-yes?”

“Take Astarion and the others and go back upstairs.”

Oh hell no.

“The hells you mean ‘go back upstairs?!’” Astarion demands. “Zagreus, they’re going to tear you to shreds—”

“Not if they want to out.” The god says, confident in his reason, tilting his head to glance to the nearest still-occupied cell. Sebastian meets the god's eyes without hesitation. “They’re only going to go after you if you stay. I’d feel better if you were safe.”

Damn Zagreus and his bleeding heart. Damn him and his altruism. His bravado. The devotion he shows Astarion that hasn't been reciprocated in the capacity that he deserves.

“You are going to die.”

“Not anything I haven’t bounced back from, hey?”

“There’s hundreds of cages!”

“One at a time, then.”

“Zagreus—”

“Astarion.” Zagreus uses that tone that begs no argument. It’s firm, it’s final. Astarion hates it, because they still have unfinished business and he’s been crappy to Zagreus all evening through no fault of his own.

Damn it all. It doesn’t sit right with him to leave Zagreus down here, much less have him clean up this mess for them. Once upon a time, Astarion would have loved for the gods to snap their fingers make everything right. Here and now though? It leaves a bad taste in his mouth.

“…Fine." Astarion acqiuesces. "But we’re not finished.”

“Of course we’re not. When are we ever?” Zagreus smiles, all soft and fond and only for him. “Now go on. I’ll see you tomorrow. That's a promise.”

Zagreus has never broken a promise to him.

When they reach the stairs, Astarion pauses. Hesitates. Petras and Violet are steps ahead, and only Aurelia has her arm looped around his to support him, trying also to tug him along.

Tomorrow.

As they leave, Astarion takes one last glance at Zagreus at the bottom of the landing, flickering like the last bit of votive candlelight within a sanctuary altar.

Chapter Text

“How do I even start? Do you think he’ll be angry with me?”

“UHhhggnrrhnhgggg…..”

Zagreus considers it. Charon tips his head, purple smoke wafting out between his teeth. Tartarus stretches out beyond them both, as dim and gloomy as it always is and crawling with the dead. As much as he hates to say it, he loathes having been preoccupied the past several days.

“You’re right, you’re right. Maybe I should, better late than never. Thanks mate, I needed that. I’ll get going.”

“Hmghrrrrrnnnn….”

“I am not moping.”

“Are you sure?”

Astarion crosses his arms, seated out on the balcony of a rickety safehouse in the Lower City. Leon’s home, actually. Almost three years abandoned but thankfully empty and lacking squatters, easily tidied with a few spells and elbow grease.

Leon leans by the doorway, eyeing him. “You’re worse than Victoria when she has a fit.”

Astarion rolls his eyes. “Why thank you for comparing me to your infant daughter on the matter.”

Leon shakes his head. Astarion would rather not have this conversation—lectured by Leon of all people! He can handle his own feelings, thank you—but what can he do? It’s been four days. Three days since they’d decided it was time to pack up and leave, two since Dalyria and Petras separated from the group, and one since Violet just fucked off somewhere.

It’s three hours until midnight to Day Five With No Zagreus In Sight. It’s the first time Zagreus has broken a promise. It makes Astarion antsy—so antsy that Leon had offered to take his mind off of it. They’d gone back to the palace just to set it ablaze, a fitting end to that hellhole.

Now if only Astarion could get the demons off his back.

They can still see the smoke and embers from a distance from where he’s sitting. The city watch is still trying to put the fire out even this late into the night.

“…Aurelia told me about your quarrel.” Leon says, and it makes Astarion cross his arms under the chlamys. Perhaps he does look like a toddler with a tantrum, and not like a god's favored follower friend-whatever-Zagreus-thinks-of-him.

“And? Have you come to hear it from the source or have you come to give me your two coppers about it?”

“Relationships are hard, Astarion. I can empathize—"

Astarion recoils. Pauses. “...Excuse me? Relationship? Why does everyone think that? First Violet, then Dal. Now you. Don’t tell me the others…”

“Well, are you or aren’t you?”

“We are not.” (Are they?)

Leon shrugs. “Then forgive me then for reading too much into the undertones. You should see the way he looks at you.”

“I have a pair of perfectly functioning eyes.”

“Sure.”

Astarion turns to answer Leon with an Of course I do at the ready, only to find that he’s gone. Slipped away to leave Astarion with his thoughts. And really—fine, Astarion can admit to himself he’s moping. Pouting, even. Dismayed and stubborn, having not so much as lit incense for Zagreus after he realized the god wasn’t coming when two days had passed without so much as a response back to his prayers. Not even a call!

Astarion leans a little heavier against his seat. The evening's chill seeps through the wool, just barely. He’s aware that Zagreus is…he’s just like that. It’s his character. He’s brusquely eager, endearingly so. Like a big dog. But he also gets tender around Astarion, touchy but soft-handed, with a smile that warms him from the inside out.

Zagreus has been a source of nothing but pleasant memories so far, save for the peril and damning the most obvious consequences that their meeting’s brought about. Astarion for one had only recently stopped hobbling about like an old man, back on his feet with the nimbleness he's accustomed to.

Astarion resigned himself to minding his own business at first. That’ll show him. He’d thought. But playing hard to get doesn’t work like that with deities. For all he knows, Zagreus could have dropped him for more important, godly things. (And Cazador would have been right).

If that’s the case, then when all of this is over, Astarion’s on his own. Leon and Victoria will find a way to reintegrate into Baldurian society. Aurelia and Yousen vowed to follow Dalyria and Petras down into the Underdark to manage the released spawn. Violet had mentioned something about her family, or inheritance, or whatever she’d been so much in a hurry to find wherever she’d gone.

And that leaves Astarion to his own devices.

Alone.

The obvious answer would be to go to the Underdark. Build a life there. Help the people he’d put there in the first place. It’s the only option for a sun-sensitive vampire, it’s his penance towards his victims, and it’s full of danger and politicking and intrigue like he’d wanted for himself once upon a time when he still had a heartbeat.

Still. He’s stubborn. Stubbornness is what got him through the last two centuries and damn it, he wants a life of his own.

Let me be selfish for once. He thinks. I want to be able to want. At least let me talk to him one more time.

Grumbling to himself as he decides to wait a little more, Astarion takes a swig of wine (eugh, vinegar) just as he feels that telltale shift in reality.

For a second he's relieved, but something's wrong somehow.

This one feels more chaotic. Clumsy, if he didn’t know any better. Nothing like the bombastic entrance Zagreus favors.

Astarion stands, whirling, closing his hand around the bloodstone and brandishing the dagger at the intruder, only to come face to face with—

There’s a girl.

A little one.

A messy head of blonde hair, with mismatched green and red eyes. A crown of flaming laurels on her head, more orange than red, matching her marigold tunic.

She’s as deathly pale as him, skin a near silvery-grey, and when she smiles it’s with mischief and relief, like a cat that's got the cream.

“Finally.” She groans. “Is your name Astarion?”

He lowers the dagger. Eyes her up and down as she hops foot to foot, floorboards singed and crackling under her flaming feet. “…Yes. Who’s asking?”

She puffs up her cheeks, unamused. It’s not very threatening. “Boys are so stupid. Can’t you see the resemblance?”

Zagreus mentioned a sister. Astarion would have thought she'd be grown. What the fuck has he gotten himself into?

The incredulity must be blatanly written on his face because she tugs at his arm with inhuman strength when he takes too long to reply, making him stumble forward—as uncoordinated as his thoughts. “Come on vrykolakas. My brother’s been dying to see you!”

She yanks him towards her, and the world tips on itself. From the dark of the night to an endless sort of darkness Astarion isn’t accustomed to. He can only hold onto the tiny hand grabbing at him as the ground disappears under his feet, pulled from one world into the next as he gasps for air he doesn’t need.

He’s not too sure if the weightless feeling comes with the territory, or if it’s because he’s passed out.