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Chapter Text

“Did she know there were harpies about when she sent her friend here?” He Who Was asks with a hint of actual curiosity in his voice. He’s sitting on a wide rock with his bare feet dangling in the cool river waters. We’d decided to take a picnic to the beach where once a fearsome flock of harpies held sway, and of course we had to tell the story in full for the newcomer.

“I asked her about it actually,” Shadowheart replies, and I smile at the way she turns to face He Who Was and give him her full attention. We’re all dressed lightly, soaking up the heat reflected from the sun baked rock. When I’d first seen He Who Was peel his shirt off to leave him in nothing but rolled up loose pants, I was concerned his pale skin would burn, but he’d assured me he’d seek cover if the pain went from novel irritation to torture, and Shadowheart had offered to salve any hurts, saying she’d “never heard anyone look forward to getting a sunburn”.

“Now that Shadowheart is no longer hoarding secrets for the Lady of Loss, she gossips like a fishwife,” Astarion notes quietly to me, propping himself up on his elbows as we recline on a blanket nearby. “I find it delightful. I always knew I’d like her better when she embraced being just as morally flexible as I am,” he continues, and I snort at his description.

“Not like either of you had much chance to discover your true natures,” I chide, nudging him companionably, reveling in a tiny shiver when my bare shoulder touches his. It’s our second day enjoying the hospitality of the Emerald Grove, and it still feels like a dream to have him at my side, to exchange glances, to smile and laugh and spend an evening in each other’s arms. I’d feared the past would taint our days, that memories of our struggles would cloud it all, but it’s been the opposite, at least thus far.

I look around at the four of us, sense Pech perched on the cliffside above us still stewing in frustration at being forbidden to interrupt, and I’m suddenly giddy with hope that we might really have survived this, not just in body, but in mind, with our capacity to thrive and love intact, if battered. That we’re even alive and free to gather on a bright sunny day feels like a miracle. I consider crediting Withers, and decide instead to offer no immortal prayers. We did it ourselves, helping each other, and I don’t plan to stop helping, not ever. It feels too right.

“You’re doing it again,” Astarion whispers, and I laugh as a blush colors my cheeks. “I’ll allow it. Your determined face is incredibly attractive,” he adds.

“What did she say?” He Who Was finally asks, and I can tell by Shadowheart’s grin that she enjoys teasing him this way, insinuating that she knows something but refusing to offer information unprompted. I wonder if it’s just a penchant for mischief or some lingering remnant of her Sharran training.

“She said if he’d just stayed off the beach, they’d never have seen him,” she shrugs.

“I find children confusing,” He Who Was says, frowning. “Are they fearless or merely stupid?”

“Considering most of them are frightened of you, I wouldn’t call them stupid,” I add.

“More curious and inexperienced, I’d say,” Shadowheart laughs. “We can’t all spring from the Shadowfell knowing all there is to know.”

Rather than take offense, He Who Was simply kicks his feet in the running water. “They are new to me,” he admits. “I simply do not understand them. I do not wish to insult your kind…”

“Insult them all you wish,” Astarion interjects. “Better they suffer a wound from your wit than from tooth and claw.”

“There are plenty of ways to warn a child without insulting their intelligence,” I say reprovingly. “Explaining the danger to them in words they understand, for one.” I thought my comments would earn a retort from the arrogant elf but he grows quiet instead, his expression looking decidedly guilty. I don’t push him to speak on it further, though. We’re having far too nice an outing for me to want to ruin it by pontificating on the art of child rearing, especially since I have little experience with it myself.

“We can only explain so much,” Shadowheart agrees. “Whether they heed our warnings or not is entirely up to them.”

“Were the children warned away from the beach?” He Who Was asks. “Did they know such dangerous creatures as harpies lurked within the confines of this grove?”

“I don’t know,” she sighs. “They knew there was a nest, but whether they knew it remained occupied, I’m not sure. I am glad we discovered the scheme in time to save the little boy, though.”

“I think we all are,” I say, and Astarion shrugs in begrudging agreement. “Even Lae’zel, eventually.”

“Truth be known, I don’t know how much time Lae’zel had spent around children before we found ourselves surrounded,” Shadowheart laughs. “And now she’s saddled with one of her own!”

“Of all of us, I’d have thought her the least likely to end up with a little one,” I grin. “She says he’s doing well, though, and I’ll take her at her word.”

The conversation dies off as the midday heat soaks into our bones. We laze away the time napping, eating, sunbathing, and laughing. Shadowheart offers to teach He Who Was to swim but he waves her off, preferring to wade in the shallows.

“I’m glad the bird is quiet,” Astarion confides to me when the sun is lowering itself to kiss the horizon.

“As am I,” I whisper. When first we’d returned to the Grove, Pech had shrieked his displeasure over having a vampire in our midst and it had taken far too long to cajole and order him into silence. I’d asked He Who Was to explain the raven’s rage and he’d only shrugged and said the Shadowfell has its share of vampires and no one likes them much. I sensed there was more to the tale but left it at that, grateful for the reprieve from Pech’s raucous clatter.

“It doesn’t like me,” he says flatly.

“He doesn’t like anyone,” I explain. “Unfortunately, I’m stuck with him. At least he obeys.”

“And if it should happen to accidentally explode?” he asks innocently.

“He’ll come right back,” I laugh. “I asked a similar question, though I put it far less colorfully.”

“Well, I shan’t strain your little arrangement for my own amusement,” Astarion sighs. His mood has seemed chaotic today. He’s been quieter than usual and his smiles fade too quickly. I’m able to study his expression for far too long before he even notices, and it takes a moment for his eyes to fully focus on my smile. My gaze lowers to his lips and I lean toward him, my hand moving to his taut abdomen to rest lightly there. I can feel the muscles of his stomach tense and I remove my hand and stand up.

“I’m of a mind to catch our dinner,” I proclaim. I offer Astarion my hand and wait patiently as he considers it with lashes lowered to hide his eyes.

“Well, according to Minsc, fish ought to be a vampire’s preferred prey given that they’re ‘all neck’,” Astarion says, ignoring my hand but rising to his feet to accompany me. I retrieve the blanket and drape it around my shoulders with a dramatic flourish.

“We’ll see you at the fire once the sun has set,” I promise. “Maybe you could help He Who Was learn to be less intimidating to the children we meet,” I ask Shadowheart. “Maybe lightening the color palate of his clothing could help?”

“I’ll take a stab at it,” she smiles brightly.

“I will parry any such attempt,” he responds, but he doesn’t stand or make any move to leave so I shrug and lead the other reluctant elf through the Circle and the green glow cast by Silvanus’ idol and down a sloping path to a smaller strip of sand. I indicate a flat boulder and he perches on it, crossing his legs. I wade a short distance into the surf and decide to play the clown, punching at the water until it splashes up at me, shaking my braids to scatter droplets like a wet dog.

“Ormn made this look so easy!” I exclaim, resting my hands on my hips and frowning in frustration. I unleash a flurry of punches and manage to thoroughly soak myself before throwing my hands up in disgust. “Can you not call some? Are there no particularly sinister fish lurking here that will answer your summons?” I pout at Astarion, water streaming down my face and bare chest, but he doesn’t even crack a smile. I walk up the sandy strip and sit at his feet, arms resting on my raised knees.

“I think I shall head back to the city after dinner,” he says calmly, inspecting his fingernails and studiously avoiding my gaze.

“Alright,” I nod, equally calm. Perhaps more calm, I think, as his leg begins to swing slightly and he bites a corner of his lip.

“I’ve already stayed longer than I’d planned,” he explains.

“I know,” I smile. “I’m glad of it, but I understand.”

“Understand what, exactly?” he snaps, finally looking at me with a frown. “I have plans that require tending, that is all.”

“I’m sure you do,” I agree, and his frown deepens as if he wants me to argue. “Astarion,” I begin, switching tactics. “I told you that I had nightmares for months after I left the Gate. I didn’t really tell you what they were about.”

“You didn’t have to,” he says, picking at an offensive cuticle. “Probably a brain the size of a town, a certain devilish patron, and a vampire who used you sorely and then cast you aside. A lover who told you that you were… less than. Weak and… forgettable.” His frown is gone before he turns his face to look out at the water.

“At first,” I admit. “I feared you were right, and my nightmares preyed on those fears. Then they changed, and it wasn’t weakness I felt. It was strength. Righteous purpose. Crowds cheered for me and lauded my triumph over the most villainous vampire ever to plague the city.”

He turns and looks at me with eyes wide and sad and tinged with guilt. “I wouldn’t have blamed you,” he sighs.

“As you said in my dreams. I would’ve been wrong, is my point,” I say. “Those fears and those feelings and those nightmares, maybe their seeds were already sown but it was the curse that made them bloom, that twisted them. Once the curse was gone, I was able to see things more clearly. To judge less harshly, not just myself, but you.”

“Oh really?” he drawls. “So you wouldn’t stride back into town to end my tyranny?”

“If there were tyranny to end, I would’ve used my most potent weapon to persuade you to a better course,” I vow, and unleash that lethal smile upon him until he finally manages a chuckle.

“It’s just…” he trails off. “I don’t know how to do this,” he gestures at our surroundings. “I came to apologize and to prove to myself that you were thriving in my absence. I did not expect…”

“…forgiveness?” I offer. “Or that I would still want us to attempt a life together?”

“What does that even mean!” he groans. “A life together? I’ve barely learned to live in the sun! Everything I know of relationships is power, either Cazador’s over me, or mine over you, yet you don’t want power, don’t want to be my consort or my most beloved spawn. How can I be with you when you don’t want anything I have to offer?”

It’s my turn to laugh at that. “There are many things you have that I want,” I say with a chuckle and he rolls his eyes. “And I don’t have an answer beyond that. All I know is what I feel, and beyond being honest about that, I don’t have much better examples than you do. My father has been alone since my mother’s death, so far as I’m aware. Everything I know of love is courtly tales of romance that end in a wedding and a chaste kiss before the altar.”

“I think we’ve gone well beyond chastity,” he says with affected nonchalance, then he can’t maintain the façade and he turns away. “I’m going to ruin this, Wyll,” he says, shaking his head. “I admit it was wrong of me to want you bound to me, but without those ties…” he sighs helplessly.

“Without those ties we’re in the same boat as any other lovers,” I chide gently, standing to brush the sand from my legs. I don’t approach him, instead I back away a few steps.

“I’m not afraid of you,” I say softly. “I was more afraid for you, truth be known, but seeing you has put those fears to rest. I made my choice that first night, to protect rather than destroy. I trust you, and if the most loving thing I can do for you now is give you space, I will gladly do so. Go back to the city, Astarion. Think about what you want and what part you wish me to play in your life, if any.”

He stands and walks over to me, taking my hands in his. “I do not deserve a heart so pure as yours, Wyll Ravengard,” he says, sighing heavily, and I squeeze his hands gently.

“You’re wrong about that,” I say emphatically. “You absolutely do.”

He leans toward me and I let him initiate a passable imitation of a chaste kiss.

“Perhaps I could stay one more night,” he proposes.

“It’s your choice,” I say, smiling broadly. “But if you make it a night and a day, there’s something I’d like to do tomorrow, and I bet you’ll want to be there to see it.”

“Fine, you’ve talked me into it,” he declares, and I dedicate my efforts to actually catching a few fish.

Chapter Text

The sound of a silver spoon tapping lightly against a gilded goblet wasn’t enough to quiet the dining table and its cadre of chattering guests, so Lucas cleared his throat once, then twice, then shouted, “Oi, shut it!” Standing at the head (well, the head since his lord was currently absent and the foot when he wasn’t) of the long table laden with food and flowers, his blue eyes gleamed with a hint of pride. He set down the spoon next to a porcelain bowl of slightly melted strawberry sorbet and waited patiently, goblet in hand. He raised his chin and presented his most distinguished face with just a tiny pleased smile to soften it.

Faces turned toward him one by one. Nocturne sat to his right, dabbing at her lips with a damask napkin before settling it in her lap and raising her glass. Next to her was a nervous-looking wood elf with an angled fringe of short black hair. She’d been introduced as Alfara, a friend of Nocturne’s from the Cloister, and Lucas had done his best to welcome her, figuring she likely wasn’t used to being welcomed anywhere. To Lucas’ left sat the Harper Geraldus, still happily (and poorly) spying on the mansion and its denizens. With the vampire lord currently attending a gathering with the High Harper, Geraldus had only to watch Lucas, which he was glad to do from the vantage point of a seat at the heavily laden table.

The other seats held the house servants, Lucy and Rachel, and Carl the groom. Rochelle had a place setting as well, but had spent time ferrying dishes from the kitchens with the help of the others. Lucas knew it wasn’t technically ‘upper crust’ to host a dinner party where the servants participated rather than waiting on the guests hand and foot, but there wasn’t anyone around to stop him so they’d gathered freely.

“I would like to propose a toast,” he announced, glancing at Nocturne for her quick and subtle nod of approval that he’d done it correctly. “To our health and to our luck and to our absent lord. May we live and laugh together for many years to come.” Everyone nodded and sipped, their reactions subdued. Lucas sat back down on the thin cushion and took a quiet moment to reflect on the chain of events that had led him here, his journey from the sewers to this table, and to the strange confluence of emotions he’d been trying his best to navigate.

He wasn’t sure he liked this mood of his, this mixture of melancholy and contentment, so when Geraldus asked him if he was feeling alright, he took the opportunity to distract himself by giving his friend an exclusive tour of the training room. Lucas bowed to the assembled group, took Geraldus by the arm, and led him to the ballroom. The ceiling was a boil of dark gray clouds that cast just enough light to make the polished floor gleam.

Lucas showed Geraldus the switch to the hidden door, then grinned as the half-elf’s jaw dropped in amazement at the multi-story open space festooned with ropes and nets and beams and locks and chests and every weapon Lucas liked and a few that he decidedly did not.

“I’m learning bows now,” Lucas told the Harper, and showed him a narrow archery lane with a weapons rack at one end and not-people-shaped targets at the other. He picked up a small hand crossbow before setting it back down with a sigh. “I tried the little ones but I’m rubbish at them.”

“Oh I’m just as bad, I’m sure,” Geraldus laughed, lifting a longbow from its cradle and testing the string to produce a low thrumming sound. He pulled an arrow from the bin and nocked it to the string, pulling and releasing quickly to bury the arrow in a target’s bullseye. “Not enough room in here for a real challenge, is there?” he observed with a frown.

“That’s what my lord said,” Lucas chuckled, pointing upward to where tiny targets the size of saucers sat tucked here and there and everywhere around the upper stories. He grabbed his own shorter bow and the two of them spent a glorious half an hour in companionable competition. Lucas’ esteem for the young Harper rose with every target hit, and he wondered yet again why he’d been assigned to watch the vampire lord.

“You’re a crack shot but a shit spy,” Lucas observed, as they sat on a bench each with an un-stoppered jug of wine in hand. “Why aren’t you out doing whatever Harpers do somewhere they use bows to do it?”

“There’s a lot more to being a Harper than fighting,” Geraldus sighed. “Although it’s not really spying, either. It’s more like being in the right place at the right time and hearing the right things said by the right people, mostly. Isn’t that what you’re doing? Why are you training at all of this,” he waved his hand at the room around them, “if you’re meant to be at fancy balls gathering information for your master?”

“Since I came here, I’d gotten sort of out of practice at the things I’m good at,” Lucas explained. “The weapon stuff is my lord’s idea – my lord, by the way, not my master,” he nudged Geraldus with a sharp elbow. “He wants me to be able to get out of a tight spot better than I could before.”

“Do you trust him?” Geraldus said quietly, watching Lucas’ expression intently. “He hurt you before, didn’t he? That’s why you left?”

Lucas shrugged. “Yeah, he did. He was a right monstrous bastard and if I’d known a way to kill him, I probably would’ve tried it.”

“And you’re not his spawn,” Geraldus frowned. “At least not yet.”

“Not ever,” Lucas vowed. “No point in it even if I wanted it,” he added. “How am I supposed to look sweet and innocent if I’m all snaggle-toothed and red-eyed and bloodthirsty and stink like a dead body in the sun?”

“But if he wants you to defend yourself…” the Harper trailed off.

“There’s always someone stronger,” Lucas said. “My lord might be the most powerful vampire to ever live,” Lucas said, doing a passable imitation of his lord’s condescending manner, “but there’s spawn everywhere, and plenty of heroes who’d kill one without thinking twice. Best I look innocent and helpless, he says, and strike true and run.”

“What about the rest?” Geraldus asked. “The other spawn.”

“What rest?” Lucas laughed. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed but my lord doesn’t like most people. Sure he’ll smile and laugh and dance and all the rest, but that’s not his real face. He doesn’t want more people around expecting his fake face all the time. He says it’s exhausting and his cheeks weren’t meant to smile that much.”

“I don’t know,” Geraldus said, taking a long drink before continuing. “It sounds like you’ve lucked into a chance at a better life, but him hurting you…” They sat in weighted silence for a long moment.

“Do you know much about rats?” Lucas finally asked, and Geraldus shook his head. “They’re really smart, probably smarter than some people I know. You can train them and they’ll keep you company, be your best friend, sleep curled up at your side. But no matter how long you’re friends or how well you treat them, if they get scared, they’ll bite whoever’s closest, even if it’s you.”

“Did you just compare your lord to a rat?” Geraldus chuckled.

“Yeah, don’t tell him,” Lucas grinned. He took a swallow from his jug of wine, staring out at the room before him but not really seeing it, seeing instead the dank, steamy darkness of the sewers in summer and the slick of ice over stone in winter. “Rats only know being rats and whatever else you teach them. Maybe my lord used to know something other than being a vampire but if he did, he doesn’t remember it. And from what he’s told me and what I’ve seen, being a vampire’s spawn isn’t much different from being the kinds of rats he had to eat.”

“You said before you came here you didn’t have shoes,” Geraldus said curiously.

“I did, didn’t I? When I met you and Lady Fariza,” Lucas smiled wistfully. “That was my first party. I had shoes and socks and a snappy outfit. I had a bath and a haircut and I smelled like talcum and cologne. I never had those things before, never knew some of them existed.”

“And if, to keep those things, you had to let the vampire…” Geraldus spoke slowly, as if easing around the edges of the question.

“I don’t let him do anything,” Lucas interrupted. “I see what you’re asking, and I appreciate you for asking it, I really do. Me and my lord had a deal, and you’re right that he broke it, he broke it bad. But…” he hesitated, not to make an excuse, but as if the taste of the right words were on the tip of his tongue and wouldn’t tumble out properly. “Before I found this place, I was a rat, too. A happy one, don’t get me wrong. Well, maybe not happy. I wasn’t really sad or happy, I was just… looking.”

“For what?” Geraldus asked.

“Anything,” Lucas replied. “Anything new, anything big and empty and strange. The bigger and emptier and stranger the better, and this place was the biggest and the emptiest and the strangest, and I love it. Leastwise I love it since I cut out all the bad parts.”

“But it’s not empty,” Geraldus laughed wryly. “It’s a vampire lord’s lair. Not just any vampire lord, but one that’s so alive you can’t hardly tell the Hells’ power fuels him.”

“He is that,” Lucas mused. “But even with him here, it was still empty when I found it. And now,” he gestured with his wine jug, “it’s full. Not with creepy sneaking servants sneering at him, but with regular people. And with me,” he grinned at Geraldus. “It’s not empty now. It’s like a real home.”

“So if he broke your deal before,” Geraldus began, stretching his long legs out before him and slumping lower on the bench, “what’s to stop him from breaking whatever new one you’ve made?”

“Nothing, really,” Lucas said. “If he gets scared again he might bite, and when he does the one closest to him might be me. I could’ve stayed away, went and helped people in the temple. Wouldn’t go back to being a rat – I’ve got coin now and friends enough to stave that off.”

“Then why risk it?” Geraldus asked, and Lucas frowned as he thought, thinking that he’d done more thinking about himself and his feelings than he usually liked to do, wondering if he shouldn’t stand and leap up into the rafters and sweat out the urge to be honest with the Harper.

“I sort of really like my lord,” he answered at last. “And just because I won’t go back to being a rat, doesn’t mean he won’t. I don’t like the thought of him like that.”

“One sounds dangerous to you,” Geraldus shook his head, “and one sounds dangerous to us all.”

“I’m no martyr,” Lucas chuckled. “I’ve got a bed now and it’s too nice to be a martyr’s bed. I know Jaheira sent you to watch my lord, but nobody watches him more closely than me. He wants to do what’s right, most times, he just doesn’t know what that is, and he definitely doesn’t want it to be his idea.”

“It’s funny,” Geraldus laughed. “That’s how Jaheira described him when she fought alongside him and Wyll. ‘Geraldus,’ she said, ‘so long as Astarion fixes his compass to Wyll’s true north, I do not fear for him.’” The Harper had an uncanny impression of his own mistress, it seemed.

“Well, my lord’s been gone longer than he’d planned,” Lucas said. “Maybe he’ll bring that Wyll back with him, and between the two of us, we’ll keep him from spinning off-kilter.”

“I think you’ll like Wyll,” Geraldus sighed. “I think he’ll like you, too.”

“You do?” Lucas scoffed. “If he’s anything like his father, he’ll be a pompous git.”

“There’s times when he seems like his father, when he’s giving orders and going on about ‘justice’ and all that,” Geraldus allowed. “But most times, he’s just… Wyll. He reminds me of my brothers back in the Dalelands. He’s the kind of young nobleman you could share a pint with at the Oak and Spear in Highmoon and stumble home afterward arm-in-arm singing at the top of your lungs.”

“Maybe that’s what my lord likes about him,” Lucas wondered. “He’s normal in all the ways my lord never got to be.”

“May we all be so lucky as to be normal,” Geraldus said, his speech slurring ever so slightly from the wine. He held up his jug and Lucas clinked his own against it in his second toast of the evening.

“To being normal and boring and happy,” he agreed. “Now let’s climb something!” He set down his near-empty jug and stood and clapped his hands.

“Unless you’ve a tree nearby, I’ve no skill at climbing,” Geraldus groaned, but he set down his own jug and teetered to his feet, inwardly vowing to at least give it a go.

Chapter Text

“Why am I doing this and not you?” Shadowheart asks, crossing her arms. The soft glow of the Underdark’s luminescent plants paints the lighter side of her hair in shades of purple and blue as she frowns at me. The fact that I can’t help but smile at how pretty the effect looks on her isn’t helping my argument very much, however.

“Why shouldn’t it be you?” I ask, the very picture of innocence despite my being heavily armed. “It was you and your team that liberated the prism in the first place. I feel it’s only fitting you be the one to return it to Vlaakith’s followers, absent its former occupant, of course.”

“It’s not as if I’m nostalgic for the thing,” she argues. “I just want them out of the temple, and you’re far more convincing than I.”

“Tell her the real reason, darling, so we can start the festivities,” Astarion smirks. I shake my head at him as if disappointed, but I’m not surprised he’s guessed at my mood. I am surprised by how fetching the set of leather armor we scrounged for him looks on his slim form. Well, not surprised so much as tantalized, and he notices the wolfishness of my gaze, acknowledging my appreciation with a wink.

“I’m curious as well,” He Who Was says, leaning on the shaft of his halberd. “From what I’ve seen, you’re adept at talking your way out of conflict.”

“Half-wit,” Pech croaks at him from his perch on my shoulder, and Astarion chuckles.

“For once I agree with the bird,” the vampire admits. “While the Blade of Frontiers has a skilled tongue for persuasion, he is an abysmal liar. I’ve tried to teach him, but his heart just isn’t in it.”

“Why should that matter?” Shadowheart asks. “If these Githyanki escaped the monastery’s destruction and are still looking for the prism, they could hardly know it was a prison. They should gladly take it back, shouldn’t they?” She holds up the prism in question and turns it this way and that, its surface dull and gray.

“You’re right,” I finally say with a sigh. “I probably could persuade them to take their Queen’s weapon and leave this place. Weave a tale of the Underdark’s threats, the slaughter of the temple’s founders by Drow.”

“But you won’t,” Astarion says sagely.

“But I won’t,” I agree. “If I convinced them to leave, there’s nothing to stop them from returning. From finding the Grymforge and learning to operate it. From subjugating the Myconids if they see profit in it. They’ll honor no promise they make to me, and a Githyanki creche springing up in this location could threaten scores of people, far more than their presence in the Mountain Pass enabled. I can’t risk it.”

“Kill all the bastards,” Pech caws.

“If you don’t want to make a deal then let’s just kill them,” she argues. “They’d do the same to us.”

“It’s not sporting,” Astarion explains. “How will we face Lae’zel’s astral projection in future if we just willy nilly slaughter her kin without giving them a chance to go purge some other world?”

“That’s not…” I attempt to correct him but realize he’s summarized it well enough.

“You gave the Gith torturers a chance and they only insulted you with breath better used for fighting,” He Who Was points out. “I see no reason not to simply kill them.”

“It’s no use,” Astarion says. “Wyll has compromised his ethics quite enough. Let Shadowheart bat her eyelashes at the Gith while we wait in reserve to gallantly swoop in.”

“Is it heroism to delay an attack or merely sentimentality for your absent friend?’ He Who Was asks. “You would put the cleric in danger out of respect for one woman who isn’t even here?” He looks at Shadowheart with a hint of concern peeking out from beneath his usual taciturn façade. She tilts her head to the side and regards him with a pleased smile. “I have yet to see her fight,” he continues, and her smile disappears. “If her purpose is to provide healing where necessary, she should stay well back out of range. Protecting her will be a distraction.”

Astarion presses his lips firmly together, his eyes glittering with suppressed amusement as he looks back and forth between the towering Shadar-kai and the diminutive – and increasingly annoyed – cleric.

“I don’t carry weapons that I can’t use,” she grits out, the spiked head of Lathander’s mace peeking over her shoulder to lend credence to her claim. “Perhaps you should remain behind until I’ve seen a convincing demonstration of your prowess.”

“I’ve seen the both of you in combat many times,” I begin, but He Who Was interrupts me.

“I see no need to prove myself to you,” he states flatly.

“Then I’ll prove myself to you,” Shadowheart smiles sweetly, unlimbering her mace and holding it at the ready. The golden glow lights her face from below, turning her eyes into dark pools of shadow that almost conceal their fierce gleam.

“Yes, let’s fight amongst ourselves!” Astarion claps his hands in feigned delight.

“Fight!” Pech cackles.

“Let’s not,” I say firmly, stepping between them. “We will do this according to the plan I laid out earlier. Get into position and await my signal. Everyone here is up to this task. It does us no good to second guess each other’s skills.” I frown at He Who Was for emphasis and nod to Shadowheart, who sniffs but subsides.

Pech chortles in my ear as I head down a smooth path lit by the soothing blue glow of nightlight plants. He Who Was trails after me and I lead him down and around to the area where we’d fought a spectator amidst a forest of petrified Drow. A few of the frozen mercenaries remain, and I wonder at how little I care. I could seek out a fortune in basilisk oil, or perhaps one of Shadowheart’s spells would suffice, but it seems my heart has grown as hard as their stone bodies, and I dismiss the thought of freeing them as soon as it enters my mind.

Pech launches from my shoulder at my mental command, circling above the parapet to both send me an image of our foes and signal Shadowheart to begin her parlay.

“I don’t understand your hesitation,” He Who Was says, his voice pitched low so only I can hear it. “Your vampire friend could probably clear this place on his own while we ate our lunch. Why not let him do it?”

“Habit,” I whisper, and he stares at me in confusion. “I’ll not pretend I don’t want the Githyanki dead, and yes Astarion could likely slaughter them all, but I’m looking forward to the fight, to be honest. I’ve also learned it’s best not to indulge his liking for mayhem. If he’s to be a proper hero, I need to set a good example. A good hero always gives worthy opponents a chance to avoid their fate.”

“I never agreed to be a hero,” he states flatly.

“You bloody well did when you agreed to stay with me,” I point out, “and you know you enjoy it somewhere deep down in that shadowy heart of yours.”

“I haven’t decided,” he says, the faintest of pouts turning his lips downward.

“Well let me know when you do,” I respond, and concentrate on the swirl of images I can see through Pech’s eyes. A single Gith on the parapet above the gate, a few scattered about the interior, and the bulk of them in the small dining hall. Though Astarion is nearly invisible in his mist form, I trust he’s slipped through the small crack in the cliff wall that gives access to the courtyard. Pech alights on a high ridge, giving him a vantage point of the gate and the area before it. I note the Githyanki haven’t cleared the skeletal remains of Selunites from the area, and the rotting corpse of a minotaur has only been pushed to the side instead of policed.

I gesture to He Who Was to follow me and we edge closer to the fortress as Shadowheart approaches the gate, raising the prism above her head in a parody of a salute. We climb down a small crag then up a broken window grating until our backs are pressed against the stone of the outer wall. They’ve left the window opening unblocked, no doubt mimicking the monastery’s decay that hid their creche for so long.

“I heard you were looking for this,” Shadowheart calls out, and I can hear her both through Pech and faintly in my own ears from our closer location. There’s a sound of stamping feet and the jingling of armor I remember well from Lae’zel’s hapless attempts to move quietly. Stealth is not the Githyanki’s favorite weapon, though ambush certainly can be.

“Come closer, istik,” the guard shouts down to her. “Is that my Queen’s stolen weapon you hold?”

“It certainly is,” Shadowheart confirms. “I snatched it from Tu’narath myself.” She tilts her head to examine the prism like it’s a shiny piece of fruit. “Not a one of you could stop me.” She looks unconcerned as three more Gith join their fellow atop the parapet. “Would you like it back?”

“If you wish to bargain, send us the hshar’lak Voss and we will hear you out,” another Githyanki says in a reasonable tone.

“Oh, he’s long gone from this world,” Shadowheart sighs, shaking her head. “Helping my friend lead a rebellion against your bitch queen in the name of Gith herself and the Prince of the Comet or something like that. I don’t honestly know all the details. I just know that you’re fools.”

“Then we’ll take the weapon from your corpse,” the Githyanki responds in the same reasonable tone, as if he were chatting about the weather. He and the other guards raise heavy crossbows and take aim at the woman below.

“Well, that was their chance,” I say to myself, and slip through the open window, followed by He Who Was. “Umbra,” I declare, gesturing to invoke a pool of ink-black darkness over the squad of roughly twenty Githyanki formed up in the courtyard. We catch them by surprise and even as I move quickly toward the shadows with rapier drawn, I hear the choked grunts of a Gith dying with Astarion’s daggers in their back. He must’ve been hovering right above them to be so fast.

Though he can see in darkness as well as I, He Who Was minds the shadow’s edge, the longer reach of his halberd serving to keep the Githyanki trapped and blinded. I see one emerge right in front of me, and send a blast of eldritch energy thudding into her chest, knocking her back. I feel the usual surge of adrenaline and excitement that comes with combat, coupled with a bit of nostalgia as Astarion and I dance through the darkness together dealing death to these last reminders of the monastery’s fall. I can hear the twang of bowstrings as the Githyanki on the parapets loose their bolts first on Shadowheart, whose blessed sanctuary protects her, then on us, heedless of their comrades. He Who Was twirls his halberd to deflect any bolts that come his way, and I easily let my foes come between me and the errant missiles.

I note with some satisfaction that Astarion wields weapons I’d bought for him on our journey, one purchased from the creche quartermaster herself, and not the cruel dagger that carved infernal script into his master’s flesh. I hope he never takes up that blade again.

Between surprise and the blinding darkness, the main bulk of their forces doesn’t stand much of a chance. I see from the corner of my eye He Who Was ascending the broad stone steps to the gate, and I can see Shadowheart clearly through its iron bars, tossing the prism up in the air only to catch it again like she’s enjoying a child’s game. She’s mid-toss when I hear a hoarse shout of alarm from the Shadar-kai as the archers above fit bulkier ammunition to their crossbows and let fly. I recognize the wooden slats of their arrows as producing a thunderous shockwave, but know Shadowheart can handle the damage even if they do sting quite a bit.

He Who Was apparently does not know this, as he appears in front of her in a burst of shadow, his back to the gate. The arrows strike the ground just behind him and he shrugs off the shrapnel only for the shockwave to propel him into Shadowheart. The two of them are flung away from the gate in a tangle of limbs and I stop myself from laughing long enough to use blasts of power to knock the archers from the wall. Astarion disappears from beside me to reappear outside the gate where the remaining Githyanki never get the chance to rise from where they’ve fallen.

I pull the lever to open the gate and it creaks laboriously upward. Astarion notes my smile as I stride toward him, and he takes a silk handkerchief from his pocket to wipe away the blood coating his lips so I can gather him into my arms and kiss him soundly.

“I must say, I’ve missed these little battles,” he grins.

“I’ve missed having you at my back,” I agree, releasing him from my embrace. “I’ve even missed how savage you look with your fangs dripping blood.”

“Perhaps I’ll consider that when next I have my portrait painted,” he muses. “It would be a nice reminder to my party guests that I’m not always so pleasant.”

We step over the bodies of our enemies and approach another, smaller battle. After the thunder arrows’ blasts had knocked He Who Was into Shadowheart, he’d managed to land on all fours, caging her body beneath his heavier bulk. Judging by her scowl as she fiercely shoves him aside and climbs to her feet, she’s none too pleased by his misplaced attempt at chivalry.

“What were you thinking?” she growls down at him. “I didn’t need your help.”

“Did you not?” he says calmly, leaning back on his elbows and gazing up at her with glittering black eyes.

“No, I did not,” she says, crossing her arms. I walk around her to offer He Who Was my hand, helping him to his feet.

“She really didn’t,” I tell him apologetically. “None of us are unfamiliar with those weapons or their effects. At most she’d have landed unceremoniously on her arse.”

“Without a hulking ogre of a dim-witted elf smashing into me,” she adds. “And I would’ve landed on my feet, thank you very much,” she corrects me.

“Of course,” I agree. “I shouldn’t have assumed.”

“I merely…” He Who Was begins, frowning, then he closes his mouth and bends to retrieve his halberd.

“Merely thought I can’t handle myself,” Shadowheart finishes for him. “Merely thought I’m just a silly cleric, a little half-elf without a lick of sense. I’ll have you know…” she starts to lecture him but his calm look seems to infuriate her too much for words, so she kicks him in the shin instead.

“Are we fighting, then?” he asks innocently.

“No, we’re not fighting,” I say, stepping between them. “Tell Shadowheart you meant no disrespect.”

“I meant no disrespect,” he repeats after me, and Shadowheart rolls her eyes at the lack of sincerity in his tone -- although in his defense, that’s how he always sounds.

“If we’re to travel to Moonrise together, I won’t have you leaping in front of me every time there’s trouble,” she warns him.

“As you wish,” he nods.

“Let’s check these bodies for loot,” I say, “and we can leave the supplies for the scouts to retrieve. I for one don’t want to carry more than I have to on the journey back.”

“We’re not fighting?” Astarion asks, feigning disappointment. I silence him with a glance.

We line the bodies up just outside the gate and leave their armor for others to strip. A few rings that hum with magic and a sizeable quantity of specialty crossbow bolts find their way into our packs, and we bid the Underdark a fond farewell.

The inn at Waukeen’s Rest has been repaired, though the lingering scent of smoke will likely plague it for years to come. We secure rooms for the evening – Shadowheart in one, He Who Was agreeing to take Pech with him to another, and a suite for Astarion and I to share – and meet in the dining room for a meal after freshening up in our rooms. As I split a hunk of bread in half to share with He Who Was – his sopping habits continue unabated – I note the large gap between he and Shadowheart on the bench across from us. Astarion, on the other hand, sits close enough to me that I switch my fork to my opposite hand to avoid elbowing him in the side.

“How long will we stay in Moonrise?” Shadowheart asks, nibbling at a breadstick.

“I’m not certain,” I answer. “Are you sure you don’t want to stay here and oversee the rebuilding efforts at the temple?”

“Quite sure,” she laughs. “I’m not entirely comfortable surrounded by Selunites, with all their ‘moon maiden bless you’ and ‘by her light’. She and I have a more… quiet relationship. An understanding.”

“Why not go home?” He Who Was asks abruptly. “Do you not have a home?”

“I do have a home, yes,” she says, sighing in exasperation. “It does quite well in my absence, thank you for your concern.”

“I was not concerned,” he says, dragging his hunk of bread through the thick brown gravy on his plate. “Merely curious. Do you enjoy being a vagrant?”

“She’s an adventurer,” I quickly interject before whatever angry retort Shadowheart has in mind makes it past her lips. “If I’d spent so long in a lightless cloister, I’d prefer to wander, as well.”

“What I prefer,” she finally manages somewhat haughtily, “is to assist my friends with their difficulties.” She glances meaningfully at Astarion as if for backup, and he coughs and wipes his mouth with his napkin.

“Ahem, well,” he says, “I for one am glad to have such a powerful and wise cleric so eager to donate her time. Her sanctity and my infamy seem to balance each other out.”

“Glad to be of service,” Shadowheart smiles warmly at him.

“By her light,” he responds with a wink, earning himself a chuckle rather than the glares He Who Was keeps drawing.

“Careful,” I warn him. “Don’t draw the eye of any gods, be they light or dark. I want an evening to say a proper goodbye before you flap off to the city.”

“I mostly glide,” Astarion corrects. “And it’s not goodbye. Not for long, anyway.” He gives me one of his small, honest smiles and I grin widely in return.

“How much of your palace do you imagine remains intact?” Shadowheart asks him.

“I think the majority of the demolition phase has ended,” he says. “Although there’s always the chance of a mishap with fireworks taking out a wall or two.”

“Your servants play with fireworks?” I ask curiously, and he’s quiet for a moment before Shadowheart answers for him.

“You haven’t told him about Lucas?” she asks, surprised, and he shakes his head. “Oh you must meet him, Wyll. The two of them are thick as thieves, and it’s Lucas who’s put him on the twisted path toward slaughtering in the name of justice.”

“A path I would have arrived at on my own, if only out of sheer boredom,” he remarks.

“He lives with you?” I ask, not concerned so much as curious.

“Indeed,” he confirms. “He is my… apprentice.”

“Ward,” Shadowheart adds. “Or conscience, more like.”

“He’s young, then?” I wonder.

“He insists that he is above the age of twenty,” Astarion says, “and I allow him the conceit. He grows quite offended if challenged on the matter.”

“Well give him my best when you return,” Shadowheart says. “And Nocturne as well. If Moonrise grows too dull, I expect I’ll be along within the month.”

“Halsin may tempt you to stay,” I tease. “He has a great many animals and children in his arsenal.”

“He does not often venture to Moonrise, unless there is trouble,” He Who Was cuts in.

“I’m sure he’ll make an exception for me,” Shadowheart smiles innocently. “And if he doesn’t, I’ll just make some trouble.”

Later, when we adjourn to our rooms with full bellies and I curl up next to Astarion in our narrow but comfortably cozy bed, I ask him to tell me more of the home he’s creating in Baldur’s Gate, and of his young friend Lucas.

“Lucas is…” he trails off, thinking, as he lightly strokes my arm with his fingertips. “An innocent heart wrapped in a resilient shell. A resilient but fragile shell,” he sighs. “One I cracked quite badly and find myself dedicated to repairing. Why would I do that?” he says, thinking aloud.

“You’re powerful,” I venture. “You’ve seen power used cruelly, seen what it does to its victims. Perhaps you don’t want others to feel about you the way you felt about Cazador.”

“When you say it like that it sounds so pathetic,” he frowns. “I don’t need a street rat to like me.”

“Why not?” I laugh, smiling at him as we lie face to face with scant inches between us. “I’m here with you now because I choose to be. This boy seems to have chosen to stay at your side as well. Isn’t that infinitely better than a bunch of scheming spawn plotting your demise?”

“It’s not out of the realm of possibility that he’s also plotting my demise,” he admits. “If he’s learned anything from me, it’s to have contingency plans.”

“You barely have plans to start with, let alone backups,” I tease.

“Yes, well, he isn’t me,” Astarion says with feigned offense. “But you are right that it’s… nicer to have a home that feels relatively safe.” We lie there in silence for a time, content to share each other’s warmth. “When you return,” he finally ventures, “will you share it with me?”

“I will,” I say softly, and touch my forehead to his. “I love you, and I would be honored to build a life with you.”

“I love you, too,” he whispers, and I laugh. “What?” he demands.

“It makes me happy to hear you say it like that,” I explain. “Like it’s a secret you’re keeping from yourself. When you first said it, it rolled effortlessly off your tongue like the easiest lie in the world. It’s when you have to force it out with every ounce of willpower that I know it’s true.”

He rolls onto his back and crosses his arms with a huff of annoyed breath, but I don’t let him escape so easily. I straddle him and lean forward, propping myself up on my arms so I can look down at him. When he raises his hand to caress my cheek, I know I’m forgiven.

In the morning, the four of us gather in the square around the burbling fountain and wish him a swift journey. I promise to see him before too long, and our parting kiss is just passionate enough to have our companions turning their heads away to inspect their surroundings. Then, with a jaunty wave and a flapping of wings, he glides toward home.

I sigh wistfully, watching the white-furred bat – white for daylight and black for night, he’d informed me -- diminish to a dot in the sky, then I begin my own journey, a slow plod to Moonrise in the company of good friends.

Chapter Text

If there was one experience that Astarion could enjoy wholeheartedly it was flying. To be a creature wholly different from the elegant elven form he’d had since birth, different from the red-eyed and fanged monster he’d become as a spawn, even different from the spawn who’d felt the sun bathe his skin in warmth, to be free and aloft was wholly good. No tadpole, no hunger, no master, no memories of degradation and torment. No scars, no bloodlust and no fear.

As he winged his way toward his home, leaving behind his lover – the first lover to truly choose him as he is and not as he’d pretended to be – he was content. More than content, knowing he would be welcomed back instead of feared.

Long ago, at the beginning of their illithid-cursed journey, he’d taunted Wyll and his naivete. People with power can do whatever the hell they want. It wasn’t that he’d changed that view – it was only his power that begat his freedom – it was what he wanted that had changed. His master had had power over people, knew their secrets and twisted them to his own ends. Knew their fears and nurtured them into nightmares. Knew their loves and cut them down in front of them.

Astarion had more power than his master ever had, and he wanted to do none of those things, not anymore. He knew because he’d done it. He’d taken Wyll’s fear of inadequacy and fed it disdain and bile until it grew into a fetid swamp so murky it threatened to drown him. He’d taken Lucas’ desire to please him and smothered it in a coffin until it exploded in mindless rage. He’d betrayed them both, teased out their vulnerabilities and exploited them, just like his master.

His master had a particular expression that would cross his face whenever he was being cruel, whenever he’d scored a deep gouge whether with knife or words, whenever Astarion’s screams turned to helpless sobs. When Lucas had fled the mansion leaving fire and shattered glass in his wake, Astarion had stood mutely, staring at the empty window. The shards of glass that clung to its frame had reflected his expression back to him and he recognized it for what it was: his master’s face staring at him from a hundred stained glass slivers.

Astarion had fled to his bedroom, hands shaking. He didn’t confront the mirror. He was too afraid of what he would see. He confronted Mizora’s stone effigy instead. He didn’t rail at her or curse at her or blame her as he had many times since he’d had her dragged to his rooms. He searched her face instead and found an echo of his master and an echo of himself. But he didn’t feel pleased and he didn’t feel powerful. He felt awful. He remembered looking at his master with fangs bared and eyes blazing with hate. He remembered Wyll glaring at Mizora, despising her so much he’d scrub his skin raw with soap to cleanse away her touch. And he remembered Lucas snarling at him with anger and resentment and betrayal, deservedly cursing him through sobbing breaths.

People with power can do whatever the hell they want. If that still held true, it was a lifeline he would cling to until either he or it snapped. What then did he want? He flapped his leathery wings then furled them so he could drop from the clouds, spinning gracefully before catching himself just above the treeline. He let the freedom of flying and the warmth of the sun and the scent of the pines wet from recent rain fill his head with a dizzying sense of joy and he thought, this is what he wanted. To fly from love to love, from his lover’s smile to his friends’ teasing grins. To be lauded instead of feared. To be welcomed instead of shunned. To show everyone that he could be trusted, in deed if not in every word – he had no intention of becoming the stoic saint – and to prove worthy of that trust.

The parapets of the city rose from the horizon as he meandered his way back. He dipped and spun and flapped his way higher, making a great circle around the soaring wizard’s tower. He thought of Rolan and his family happily puttering about in there, turning a monument to avarice and pettiness into a place of learning and appreciation for the joy that magic can bring. He considered paying a visit but thought better of arriving on a wizard’s windowsill without announcement. He was hungry for a nice meal, not a jet of flame.

He dove toward the balcony of his rooms, transforming from bat to man midair so he could land delicately on his tiptoes on the stone. Even if no one was there to see, he held himself to a certain standard, after all. He grasped the handles of the glass-paned doors and flung them open, striding into his bedroom. Of course it was empty, as he’d extended his time away and not bothered to send word ahead of his return. He walked steadily toward the long mirror and took a moment to look at himself, really stare for the first time since his ascension.

Of course he’d looked at his reflection before many times. He’d frowned at the tiny lines centuries of pain had left around his mouth and eyes, he’d made sure his clothing was straight and tailored properly, he’d checked that every flounce of his hair was effortlessly elegant. But he’d never really looked at himself because he’d always been afraid of what he would see. That he’d see the face Wyll saw when he lay bloody and broken in the House of Hope and thought in his pain and grief that Astarion would take advantage. That he’d see the face Lucas saw when the lid of a coffin slid shut, drowning him in darkness.

So he well and truly looked at himself in the mirror, unafraid of what he would see. He stared into his own red eyes and saw those things there, saw the monster, understood the fear that drove him to lash out like a wild beast cowering in a corner. He saw those things, those frightening and weak and worthless things he’d done and felt, saw them and named them what they were: regret and remorse and guilt and sorrow. He would never look in this mirror again and shrink from seeing them. They were things he had done and things done to him and they would always be both goad and cudgel, but what they wouldn’t be was his future. His future would have love and friendship and joy and if he was lucky, it would have happiness.

He smiled at the mirror and his reflection smiled back at him, tiny lines bedamned.

There came a small knock at the chamber door and he called out, “Lucas, you scamp! I have returned and I am ravenous! Let’s go down to supper and I shall…”

He trailed off with a frown when the door opened and a different blonde head poked through the doorway.

“It’s only me, my lord,” Lucy said with an apologetic smile. Astarion’s initial disappointment was mollified by the appreciative look she gave him. Appreciative and without a hint of fear. “The sentinel spells told us you’d returned. I’ll have the table set for you if it’s food you’re hungry for?”

“It is food and food alone,” Astarion laughed. “I shan’t need to trouble you for blood for at least a little while, Lucy my dear.”

“Begging your pardon, my lord,” she said with a small curious smile. “Does that mean you had a nice visit?”

“I had an exceedingly pleasant visit,” Astarion said conspiratorially, sidling up to her as to a confidante. “I am reunited with ‘that Wyll Ravengard’ and,” he leaned forward to whisper the last in her ear, “he shall be residing here with us upon his return to the city. Clear some space in my closet for his things, would you? Not too much space, of course. He’s not the slave to fashion that I am.”

“Oh!” Lucy squealed. “I’m so happy for you, my lord! Wait,” she hesitated, her voice dropping to a whisper to match his. “Is it a secret? Should I…”

“It is no secret!” Astarion announced in a loud bellow. “Cry it from the balconies! Sing it in the streets! Spread the gossip far and wide! Let every soul in this sordid cesspool of a city know that the vampire lord will be planning a party to welcome home his paramour!” He left his rooms and walked to the balustrade’s edge and looked down to see two female servants looking up at him from the foyer below, their mouths open in surprise and delight. Lucy joined him at the railing and waved down to them.

“Rochelle get some supper on and Rachel set the table!” Lucy called out. “I’ll be in his lordship’s closet clearing space for our new master, the Grand Duke’s son!” Astarion could hear the two women’s squawks of delight and surprise, see them clap their hands together and scurry off in separate directions to attend to their tasks.

“Lucas!” he yelled, wondering why the nosiest nose in the manor hadn’t yet emerged to poke into his business.

“My lord,” Lucy said, “he isn’t here, or I’m sure he’d have greeted you straight away.”

“Well where is he, then?” Astarion frowned peevishly. He had a strange but not unwelcome desire to share his news with the boy, to see his big blue eyes stare up at him with just a touch of adoration, like a tiny stroke along a cat’s back that makes it stretch and think of purring.

“He went out to a party last night,” she told him. “It rained something fierce, so he likely stayed the night to save himself a drenching.”

“But it’s well into the afternoon,” Astarion pouted. “Surely his hosts would’ve tired of him by now and sent him scurrying home. Where was the party?”

“I don’t know, my lord,” she shrugged. “A carriage came yesterday afternoon to fetch him, but it didn’t have no markings on it and the coachman had no livery that Carl could recognize.”

“Well, I shall dine alone and await his return, then,” Astarion sighed. He returned to his rooms and washed himself, dressed in soft and comfortable and impeccably tailored clothing, and descended to the dining room where he sat and sipped at wine and ate until his belly swelled contentedly. He did it all in silence save for the clinking of tableware and muffled footsteps of the staff. He found it insufferably quiet.

After dining, he prowled the manor for an hour or two, noting the numerous new scars in the training room targets with pride. He experimented with the ballroom’s ensorcelled ceiling, turning it from stormy to sunny to a sullen gray. He checked the library bookshelves for dust, glancing at a basket full of invitations as if one would betray his young ward’s whereabouts. He poked Mizora on the nose and adorned her stone head with a festive garland of flowers plucked from a vase and swiftly woven by his dexterous fingers. Even the soothing trickling dance of water in the former kennels was loud in the silence. He’d gone from the boisterous banter of his companions to a deafening absence of conversation and he was finding it insufferable.

“Where is he?” Astarion demanded of Carl, confronting him in the stables as darkness descended upon the city.

“No idea, my lord,” Carl said, shaking his head and wiping his hands with a stained rag. “He didn’t mention anything to us at luncheon yesterday. I know he weren’t expecting that carriage, though. Normally if he’s going to a party he asks the girls to help him pick what to wear, leastwise when your lordship ain’t here to do it.”

“So he had no plans to attend a party, but a carriage arrived to ferry him away,” Astarion mused, tapping a finger to his lips thoughtfully. “Did the carriage wait while he went inside to don proper attire?”

“No, my lord,” Carl shook his head again. “He just spoke with whoever was inside and got right in. If the carriage had waited, I’d have chatted up the coachman. As it was, I didn’t even get a good look at him, and he weren’t wearing any sign or sigil I recognized.”

“Well I don’t like it,” Astarion frowned, and Carl frowned, too. “The sentinels gave no report of his return?” Carl shook his head yet again. “Might he have paid a visit to the temple, perhaps?” Carl shrugged. “But he was here until yesterday afternoon?” Carl nodded. “Very well, I’ll hie to the Open Hand and see if he’s slumming it with them.” Without awaiting a response, Astarion launched himself skyward and arrowed toward Rivington clad in sleek gray fur.

Brother Donnick informed him he’d seen neither hide nor hair of Lucas in a tenday, so Astarion took wing again to torment the Sharrans with his presence, but found only a small wood elf female eager to speak with him.

“I saw your Lucas two days ago, saer,” she said with the tiniest of smiles. Astarion wondered if she’d keep whatever memory gave her lips such a winsome curve or surrender it to Shar in misbegotten penance. “He had a dinner party, and Sister Nocturne invited me to go along.”

“And what tantalizing tidbits of gossip did you gather to justify your outing?” Astarion asked.

“Enough,” the woman said, her cheeks blushing with embarrassment.

“Well, you are more than welcome to attend such gatherings in future, should Nocturne deign to drag you along,” he said magnanimously. The more acolytes wooed from Shar’s side the better, and he could reward well-trained spies should they seek employment elsewhere.

He returned to his manor with her thanks ringing in his ears. He set down on the balcony outside Lucas’ room this time, chuckling to himself as he picked the three simple locks the boy had set to secure the entrance. “What good’s a door that’s always open?” Lucas had said simply when he installed them. “Any idiot can open an unlocked door, and I’m not any idiot.”

“No, you are a very special idiot,” Astarion murmured to himself, remembering his own reply. When he entered the room, the bedclothes were smooth and un-mussed, the stillness quite infuriating in its emptiness.

“Where are you?” he whispered aloud. When nothing stirred in the room to answer him, he unlocked the bedroom door and left, closing it gently behind him. The room was quiet and empty, the bed curtains blowing idly in the breeze from the open balcony door.

Chapter Text

“Isn’t she that Sharran, then?” Fist Helena whispers to Fist Nipawa, the taller woman bending down to keep the confidence but the whisper reaching my ears nonetheless.

“Not anymore, to hear the Harpers tell it,” Nipawa replies in a more normal tone, although her nose wrinkles with a sniff that tells me she doesn’t quite buy the Harpers’ take on things.

The ground floor of Moonrise Towers is bustling with people. It seems our return was anticipated and news of our intention to confront the Githyanki was hinted at by Halsin and Jaheira, only serving to stoke the gossip fires. The ex-Sharran in question has just taken her leave to seek, as she put it, ‘a moment of quiet by the water’. I could tell by the slight hunch of her shoulders that the noise and boisterous camaraderie of the community here had pushed her to her limit. As adept as she is at hiding her feelings, we’ve traveled together long enough for me to gauge her moods.

Besides, the gibbous moon is waning, a low silver disk looming on the horizon, and I know the view of its glow rippling atop the river waters will be a balm to her soul. Seeing the Selûnite outpost in the Underdark with fresh eyes had been more difficult than she’d anticipated, she’d confided to me. After our battle there with the Githyanki, she’d stood beneath the statue of Selûne, gazing at its upstretched hand which once held a gem of power that helped defend the outpost.

“I watched you shatter that gem,” she’d said to me quietly. “I could’ve snarled I felt so justified, so righteous. Gods but I was as petty and vindictive as the Lady of Loss herself. How did you stand me?”

“More easily than you think,” I’d replied. “But I know somewhat of that feeling. I’d felt the same doing Mizora’s bidding. ‘Only monsters,’ she’d said, and I forgot we’d never defined the word. I was young, and foolish, and it was easier to believe I was doing good than to believe I’d been tricked. When you defended Shar so vehemently, I always thought you were trying harder to persuade yourself than you were to convert me.”

“Halsin said that to me, after we’d lifted the curse and after Aylin was… spared,” she’d sighed heavily. “He said it was always easier to follow the clear path, no matter how dark. That it took someone of ‘strong character’ to question it. I think he gave me too much credit.”

“Or too little,” I’d chided her. “’Aylin was spared’, is that how you think of it? You spared her. You threw the spear and decades of indoctrination aside. No one can argue that didn’t take courage, even if you didn’t feel brave at the time.”

“I most certainly didn’t feel brave,” she’d chuckled ruefully. “I was terrified. When Aylin rose into her power I almost pissed myself. When Shar punished me, well, I think I may have done worse.”

“I don’t blame you.” I’d hugged her from the side and returned to the rest of the party. Now, at Moonrise, I decide to add my take to the rumors making the rounds, knowing my friend doesn’t deserve to have her heroism tarnished.

“The Harpers are right,” I say amiably as I approach the gossiping Fists. “Shadowheart suffered more than you can imagine at Shar’s hands,” I continue. “She bore a wound on her hand that would never heal, and would sear her with pain if she so much as spoke supportive words to her friends.”

“Really?” Helena breathes, eyes wide with sympathy.

“I was there,” I nod. “She fought through the pain and the years of torment. I watched her defy the Lady of Loss and spare Selûne’s daughter, Dame Aylin.”

“We saw Dame Aylin light up the darkness!” Nipawa says. “Jaheira led us to Moonrise following the path she blazed.”

“And you fought well,” I say, “but Shadowheart struck the first blow, and cost Ketheric his immortality.” I know that isn’t the full story, but certainly close enough to the truth to flavor the tale properly.

“I suppose she must be alright, if the Archdruid’s keen on her,” Helena shrugs, her gaze looking past me. I turn my head to see Shadowheart has paused in her walk toward the causeway to speak with Halsin, her head tilted back and a genuine smile gracing her face. She must find something he says amusing, as she laughs with such abandon it does my heart good to hear it. Her entire demeanor has changed, though not her sense of humor. She seems freer and more relaxed than I ever had a chance to see, from her, from any of us.

She crooks her finger at Halsin and he leans down to hear her whisper. He’s facing us, and I think whatever she says must be to his liking, as he straightens and nods, giving her shoulder a squeeze when she continues on her way. He walks toward us with a pleased smile on his scarred and tattooed face. I bow my leave to the Fists and move to greet him. He Who Was and Niram the Drow militia commander join us, with Pech still busying himself up in the rafter building a nest to fill with whatever shiny objects he finds. I asked him why, if he’s a spirit and not a raven in truth, he bothers to behave so much like one. He told me it’s so morons like myself don’t bother asking him stupid questions. I’ve taken the hint to heart.

“Are you leaving us in the morning as well?” Halsin asks when the four of us stand in a loose circle.

“We hadn’t planned on it,” I answer. “Who’s leaving in the morning?”

“Jaheira is setting out from Last Light after speaking with her Harpers there, and Shadowheart will be returning to the city at first light, although I do not know if they intend to travel together,” he says. I note he’s clasping his hands and then rubbing them on his pant legs, then clasping them again, as if uncertain what to do with them.

“Nervous about something, Archdruid?” Niram wonders, saving me from asking.

“No, no,” Halsin chuckles. “It is only that the moon is full and the waters warm after last night’s rain. Shadowheart suggested we continue her swimming lessons, and while I am eager to begin, she will be communing with her goddess for a time. I shall wait,” he nods, as if swearing a vow. Then he wipes his hands again and clasps them.

“Are you better at swimming than you are at waiting?” He Who Was asks dryly.

“Far better,” Halsin says. “Although I find my patience improves when I am outdoors. Perhaps I will take a more suitable shape for swimming and enjoy the open waters for a bit. If you mean to stay for a time, I will see you on the morrow.” He pats me on the back and heads toward the meeting hall, where a door leads down to the docks. Niram watches him go with a wry smile.

“What good will his lessons be if he’s shifted himself into a carp or a sealion?” He Who Was observes with a small frown. “I could teach the cleric to swim.”

“Done a lot of swimming in the Shadowfell, have you?” Niram drawls.

“How difficult could it be?” He Who Was says, folding his arms across his chest. “I should join them and let the cleric choose her tutor.”

“No,” I interject, and Niram shakes his head as urgently as I do. “You absolutely should not do that.”

“Why not?” He Who Was asks, his frown growing into a scowl. “The druid and I are of equal height, and despite his overdeveloped musculature, I am certain I surpass him in strength.”

“When did you develop this competitive streak?” I chuckle.

“You weren’t invited,” Niram points out. “The female obviously prefers the instructor she is… used to,” he chooses his words carefully, glancing at me.

“She certainly does,” I nod emphatically. “In fact, she confided in Astarion that Halsin is quite the excellent… tutor.”

“Enthusiastic about his work, I’d imagine,” Niram grins at me.

“Exuberant, even,” I match his grin.

“Are you an adequate swimmer?” He Who Was asks me abruptly and I choke on a laugh and shrug instead.

“I have heard no complaints,” I manage to say with a straight face.

“Would you share with me a memory of swimming, that I might learn the gist of it?” He Who Was asks solemnly.

“Yes, Wyll, please tell us all a tale of your swimming prowess, it’s been so long since I’ve heard a good one,” Niram says eagerly, his eyes glinting mischievously.

“Alright,” I say, ignoring Niram and taking He Who Was by the arm to steer him toward our rooms. “Let me tell you about the time I saw a mermaid.” The Drow’s soft laughter cheers us on our way.

Chapter Text

Lucas was ruining everything. Astarion lay in his enormous bed, luxuriating in the soft sheets and trying to concentrate on fantasies of a future waking to a tangle of bedsheets and his lover snoring gently next to him, but try as he might, the picture wouldn’t hold. The surge of optimism that had lifted his wings on his journey homeward the day before was fading like a balloon pricked by a pin. Even the sunlight streaming through the glass-paned doors to his balcony seemed muted, the remnants of a thunderstorm’s dark clouds still streaking the sky.

Astarion closed his eyes and pulled the covers up to his chin and tried his very best not to care. So what if the boy had scarpered? So what if the filthy vagabond had spurned their arrangement, leaving behind an empty room and a mansion redecorated to his childish tastes? What a little ingrate! What a spoiled, petulant brat! He must’ve been jealous at the thought of Astarion’s happiness! Must’ve decided to take a better offer, to relocate to a household where he wouldn’t have to vie for attention against a companion as formidable as the Blade of Frontiers.

Except try as he might, it wouldn’t work. It just didn’t make sense for the boy to leave behind no note, no trace, no angry screed railing at whatever injustice had drawn him away. So Astarion threw off the bedclothes and burst through the double-doors of his chambers to stride angrily down the hallway to Lucas’ room. He opened the wardrobe and frowned at the neat row of shoes and boots lined up at the bottom. He scowled at the elegant clothing hung carefully, not crowded together out of care that the rich fabrics might wrinkle. He tried to be angry at the boy, at the clothing, at the shoes, at the dim lifelessness of the room itself with its occupant gone. He tried and he failed.

“I don’t think any of that’s going to fit you,” Nocturne called from the open doorway where she leaned against the frame. She seemed unaffected by the sight of the vampire lord in all his naked glory reflected back at her from the mirror on the open wardrobe door. Astarion sniffed at the thought. No accounting for taste.

“Where have you been?” Astarion pouted, crossing his arms and turning to face her. “I looked for you at the House of Grief yesterday.”

“I was in Twin Songs for a bit,” Nocturne replied. “Alfara told me you came by. You know, if you have any need of her, I think she’d be open to relocating.”

“If your pupil remains truant, I won’t even have need of you,” Astarion said crossly. “Do you have any idea where he went, or why?”

“Neither, I’m afraid,” Nocturne shook her head. “Last I saw him, he was trying to decide which flowers to add to the arrangements so the manor would welcome you back with a cloud of perfume.”

“I prefer lavender,” Astarion said absently, furrowing his brow. “Were you here when the carriage came for him?”

“No, my lord,” Nocturne said. “It’s a proper mystery. There might be one man could give you a clue, though.”

So it was that after bathing and dressing and a quick visit to Danthelon’s Axe and a generous bribe to the eponymous proprietor, Astarion found himself at the door of a nondescript second-level flat in Brampton, deciding on the best way to approach its occupant. As he so often did, he decided to wing it, and kicked the door open with a resounding crash, striding through with the tiniest tingle of delight that his exalted powers made an invitation unnecessary.

“Why’d you do that?” the half-elf Harper said, rising from his seat at a small table covered in books. “I’d have answered if you’d just knocked.”

“I’m afraid the matter requires more urgency than a knock,” Astarion replied, stalking toward him and grasping him by the throat to lift him into the air. Geraldus’ slippers kicked a few inches from the floorboard as his face began almost immediately to redden. “Tell me where my ward has gone,” Astarion demanded, knowing full well the man couldn’t answer him. He let the Harper dangle until the pounding of his pulse beneath Astarion’s thumb beat a rapid staccato, then dropped him unceremoniously into the chair to gasp there, one hand pressed to his heaving chest.

“I don’t…” Geraldus tried, then gulped in another bit of air. “I don’t know what you’re on about,” he finally managed.

“I returned from my holiday only to find my household disappointingly silent,” Astarion said menacingly, determined to push the knot of fear and concern out of his own throat and into the Harper’s. “Where is the boy?”

“He’s not home yet?” Geraldus asked, frowning in confusion.

“He is not,” Astarion gritted out. “He entered an unmarked carriage two nights ago and has not been seen since.”

“I saw him that night,” Geraldus said, relaxing a bit and then leaning back in alarm as the vampire lord moved forward to loom over him. “Please at least close the door or take a seat or something,” he stammered. “There’s no need for all of this. Lucas is my friend, I’ll help you piece it out.” He stood and edged around the fuming elf to close the open door, sighing at its ruin of a lock.

Astarion glanced at the open books and reports piled on the table, yet couldn’t summon even a bit of curiosity as to their contents. An entire Harper library could’ve filled this room and he wouldn’t care. His hand, still warm from its contact with the young man’s neck, trembled slightly and he walked slowly to the small single bed, sitting down and taking his own deep breath while Geraldus watched him warily and with a glare of hurt in his eyes.

“Forgive me, Geraldus,” Astarion said, closing his eyes for a moment.

“No, I don’t think I will,” the Harper leaned back against the door and crossed his arms, the red bruises from Astarion’s hands stark against the pale skin of his throat.

“I beg your pardon?” Astarion said, brow furrowing in confusion.

“I don’t think I will forgive you,” Geraldus clarified, his expression as angry as Astarion had ever seen it. “Maybe you’re worried about Lucas. If he’s missing, then I’m worried about him, too. That doesn’t excuse you busting in here and roughing me up. What was your plan, anyway? We’re allies,” he said with a near groan of exasperation. “Were you going to torture me to get information I’d gladly give you?”

“I didn’t…” Astarion started.

“…have a plan?” Geraldus said mockingly. “Lucas told me this would be a difficult time for you, and I’m starting to think he’s the brains of your little operation.”

“That’s preposterous,” Astarion pouted. “I’m both the brains and the beauty. Lucas is the… heart, I suppose. Was it his bleeding heart that led him to declare this a difficult time for me?”

“Not hardly,” Geraldus rolled his eyes. “He said it’s difficult because the easier it gets for you to say you’re sorry, and the more people forgive you, the less it would mean. You’d just keep being a prick if you’re let off the hook too often. So you’re not forgiven, but I will tell you what I know. You can make it up to me once we’ve found him.”

“And how exactly shall I ‘make it up to you’ if my sincerest apologies are not enough?” Astarion sniffed.

“I’ll think of something,” Geraldus shrugged. “And I don’t think your apology was at all sincere.”

“Fine!” Astarion threw up his hands and stood up to begin pacing the small room. “I’ll work on my apologies and my plans. Now you said you saw Lucas the night before last.”

“I did,” Geraldus confirmed. “I saw him at the Hhunes’ party, though only for a moment and we barely spoke. He seemed fine, if a little subdued. Just kept smiling a little mysterious smile. I thought he’d taken to imitating you, to be honest.”

“The carriage that came for him was unmarked and the coachman unremarkable,” Astarion thought aloud, slowing his pacing until he came to a stop. “Why would he get inside and then turn up at a party? What was he wearing?”

“A dark brown waistcoat, I think,” Geraldus said.

“Strange,” Astarion tapped a finger against his lips. “I would never put him in earth tones. They’re all wrong for his coloring. He was in daywear when he left. Why would he get into the carriage instead of going inside to dress himself?”

“I don’t know what time the carriage came to fetch him, but by the time I arrived at the party, it was pouring down rain,” Geraldus remembered. “It rained the entire night and partway into the morning. If the clouds were already threatening, perhaps the coach was tempting.”

“Even if the coach was tempting, what would draw him to a Hhune fete? They’re not exactly known for revelry and their skullduggery isn’t a well-kept secret. Unless…” Astarion hesitated, then shook his head. “No, as much as I like indulging the lad, he’s not real nobility.”

“You mean the Hhune matriarch looking for an heir might snap him up?” Geraldus chuckled. “It’s not so far fetched as it seems. Her Ladyship has set one of Nine Fingers’ cadre on a search for likely candidates, and rumor has it the right sized bribe will get anyone a proper pedigree with a Hhune by-blow somewhere in the mix and an introduction to Lady Lutecia herself.”

“Would Lucas be tempted, though?” Astarion said skeptically. “We’ve been getting on well, and he wants for nothing. Would he trade that for a musty old mansion full of maps and cobwebs? He’d have to wait on the old woman hand and foot until she died before he’d see a smidgen of the freedom he has now. I’m not so onerous a patron, am I?”

“I choose not to answer that last bit,” Geraldus said cautiously. “But I did see Lucas speaking at length to Lady Lutecia, and he of course greeted Lord Hurlbut, who was hosting.”

“Well, questions still remain, but you’ve given me a place to start,” Astarion nodded decisively. He walked toward the door and stood impatiently waiting for the Harper to move.

“How exactly will you start?” Geraldus said uneasily, sliding to the side away from the exit.

“I’ll pay Lord Hhune a visit and ask politely to see the guest list from his party,” Astarion said, smiling a smile that looked calm and reasonable but stopped shy of his eyes.

“Ask politely,” Geraldus repeated, as if tasting the words for truth.

“Have no fear, my erstwhile ally, I will be on my best behavior,” Astarion inclined his head in a respectful gesture.

“I’m not sure whether you should,” Geraldus frowned, his features twisting as if fighting between concern and fear.

“Whatever do you mean?” Astarion asked.

“For six months, I’ve been attending these parties,” Geraldus said slowly, searching for the right words to express an unfamiliar feeling. “I’ve never feared for you, not physically. Not after what you did for the city fighting the Absolute, not after you destroyed your master, and not after you gave Lucas a chance – despite your atrocious fuck-up with him.”

“If you trust my physical form is in no immediate danger, what is it that has you afraid?” Astarion asked with genuine curiosity. “My mental state?”

“More… your position, I think,” Geraldus shrugged. “The patriars, the noble families, they don’t just come right out and attack you with blows you can parry and missiles you can dodge. They won’t fight you like honest monsters.”

“I take your point, good saer,” Astarion nodded thoughtfully. “I shall be on my guard.”

“I hope so,” Geraldus said. “I’m still sore at you, but I wouldn’t be alive to be angry if you and the others hadn’t rescued me from those shapeshifters.”

“I am glad that we did,” Astarion sighed softly and pulled the door open, the broken lock sagging forlornly, “although as usual, the impulse to save you was not mine.” He stepped halfway into the hallway. “I am sorry about earlier, I truly am,” he said seriously. “Think of a lavish boon for later, and I will happily bestow it. You deserve better.” He pulled the door closed behind him without waiting for the Harper’s reply.

Although the distance from Brampton to Manorborn would be cut in half if he took to the skies to cross the harbor, the vampire lord decided to wend his way through the bustling midday streets instead. He clasped his hands behind his back and walked with his head held high though his thoughts were leaden with dread. He’d erred with the young Harper, he knew. He’d let his fear guide him and that emotion had never served him well. It was all too easy to shrink back into himself, to lash out at those closest to him. Even now when words of apology came more easily to his liar’s tongue, he felt the truth of what Geraldus had told him: they were just the words to a spell he expected to absolve him every time if he said them correctly. The trick, he thought glumly, was to never need them at all. To be more considerate in his dealings. The idea was daunting, and he snapped his shoulders back as he felt them start to hunch in an old familiar manner.

How, then, to approach the Hhunes with consideration when he longed to kick in another door? The long walk gave him time to plan, and for once he tried to actually do it. Lucas had left the manor in unknown company, then reappeared at a party wearing a stranger’s clothes but apparently no worse for wear. Geraldus wasn’t the best spy, but he had some experience seeing through a disguise, and he hadn’t seen cause for suspicion. Some form of coercion was still a possibility, but the Hhunes weren’t magically inclined or particularly pious, merely powerful and rich and as ruthless as most patriars. Their position had improved a little with the fall of their primary rivals, the Vanthampurs, not long before Astarion’s own abduction, but they weren’t obviously grasping for power beyond what they already held.

Astarion hoped he could persuade them to part with the list of attendees based on flattery alone. He was well versed in how to charm, after all, and if that failed, he was willing to bribe, be it with coin or information. As much as he would like to play the powerful living vampire, he knew most of the Gate’s nobility wasn’t certain what to make of him striding boldly in the sunlight. Some had known only too well what his master really was and the sordid bondage in which he trapped his spawn, but most had simply treated him like the eccentric scion of a wealthy noble family. The upper classes preferred to keep up appearances, after all, and they had darker secrets of their own to hide. Indeed, one such devilish secret had claimed Duke Vanthampur and her eldest son while Elturel still burned in Avernus, leaving only the dissolute younger son to prowl their villa. Perhaps Hurlbut Hhune would like to know exactly what horrors still lurked beneath their abode? Another bit of knowledge that might be valuable.

The city around him aged and quietened as he passed through the final gate to Manorborn, the oldest part of the Upper City. The sight of Helm’s shrine caused Astarion’s lip to curl uncontrollably into a sneer; the protector had certainly never protected him. The edifice of dusty stone suited this place, he thought, everything dull and gray and built to intimidate. Unlike the more ostentatious dwellings of newer districts, these homes resembled fortresses, or banks crouching atop hidden vaults.

Once the thought of such vaults would’ve set his fingertips to twitching and his mind to unlocking tumblers, but he found his thoughts too cluttered for even avarice to find purchase. He arrived at last in the small paved courtyard of Hhune House, looking up at the massive metal-banded door, its knocker of dull iron set above normal height for a human, likely intended to make any visitor reach up higher than comfortable, implying not so subtly that their status was dwarfed by the family’s stature. Astarion wondered if they had a handy stool nearby for their shorter visitors, or if they meant for them to hop.

He lifted his arm toward the iron ring but faltered, his arm falling back to his side as a wave of tumultuous emotion poured over him and set his lips to trembling. Since his ascension had lifted the veil of hunger dulling his senses, every feeling was vivid, every sensation brilliant and at times unbearable in its intensity. His passion, his anger, his joy, even the low warm hum of the affection he felt for his friends all smeared rainbow colors across his waking life like one of Lucas’ murals. What nearly brought him to his knees in this moment, before this towering monument to the city’s age and indifference, was fear and desperate longing.

Gods, he wished Wyll were here. He would know the right words, the right tone to take with these Hhunes. He would stride through this door with an appeal to justice and compassion, and if the Hhunes possessed no soft heart, Wyll would coax them into growing one on the spot. Above all, Wyll wouldn’t be afraid, not of anything. If Wyll were here, he’d see the fear that threatened to turn Astarion’s guts to water and he’d place a hand on his shoulder and steady him, tell him he’d be fine, that he could do this.

But he wasn’t here, and neither was Lucas. Astarion remembered when he’d last seen the boy scant days ago, standing on the windswept balcony outside his room. He remembered those blue eyes looking up at him with the compelling admixture of admiration and suspicion and hero worship that was uniquely the boy’s. The memory gave him a bit of strength, just enough to steel his spine and send his hand to the cold iron ring, thumping it against the door three times to send a booming noise echoing off the stone. And then he waited, chin raised and eyes prepared to look down upon whatever servant answered.

The sound of massive bolts sliding back presaged the door creaking open. Astarion wondered if they neglected the hinges on purpose as an affectation. The foyer with its sweeping staircases still reverberated with the sound of his knock when an unassuming older human in butler’s livery of gray and silver greeted him with a small bow.

“May I help you, saer?” the man’s voice was cautiously welcoming but not yet obsequious, his gaze curious and obviously ignorant of the visitor’s identity.

“You may,” Astarion inclined his head graciously. “I have important matters to discuss with your master. If you could please announce Lord Astarion Ancunín.”

“As you wish, my lord,” the butler stepped aside to allow Astarion to enter, then closed the door behind him with an emphatic thump. Astarion felt that tiny thrill he got every time he crossed a new threshold shiver through him, and welcomed the adrenaline. The butler disappeared down a side hallway and left the vampire lord to prowl the foyer in a manner that appeared aimless but quickly presented several exit routes should the door prove difficult or magically trapped against both intruders and escapees.

Astarion’s back was turned to the hallway in a casual display of unconcern, but he heard the soft footsteps of the butler returning long before the low voice indicated he should follow. He matched his pace to the butler’s slower one as they proceeded down a corridor decorated with portraits depicting the storied lineage of the Hhune family, memorializing some truly unfortunate decisions regarding facial hair. The butler opened a plain door of solid wood to reveal a study dominated by a carved desk that reminded Astarion of a sarcophagus. The butler bowed as Astarion passed him, and closed the door behind him with a whisper of well-oiled hinges.

Hurlbut Hhune stood behind the desk, a slim man in a sashed robe that betrayed a slight thickening in the midriff. His graying hair was swept back from a regrettably large and shiny forehead, and he seemed to share his ancestors’ predilection toward poorly trimmed beards, but his smile was genuine and welcoming, the twinkle in his dark blue eyes mirroring the gleam of lamplight off his forehead. Another gentleman, a high elf if his coloring, delicately pointed ears and aristocratic elegance were any indication, stood near one of the bookshelves, a heavy volume open in his hands. The elf didn’t even bother to look up as Astarion strode to the center of the carpet and bowed.

“Lord Hhune, thank you for meeting with me at such short notice,” Astarion said, rising from his bow to meet the patriar’s gaze with a small smile of his own.

“Of course, of course,” Hurlbut clasped his hands and rested them on his belly. “What an honor to have a hero grace us with his presence.”

“You flatter me, saer,” Astarion smiled, noting that a hero did not deserve to have his formal bow returned, apparently. “I do not intend to take up too much of your time.”

“How can we help you, then?” Hurlbut asked, seating himself in a tall-backed leather chair, putting the immense desk between them.

“I believe my ward attended a gathering here two nights ago, and he has yet to return home,” Astarion said, careful to keep any hint of accusation from his tone.

“Your ward,” Hurlbut frowned thoughtfully.

“The blonde human boy,” the elf said without looking up from his book. “Lucas Szarr.”

“I’m not certain I recall, but I shall take your word for it that he was here,” Hurlbut sighed, as if sifting through his own memories were a chore. “He’s certainly not here now, I can assure you. If he hasn’t returned, I’m not sure how we can help you.” He spread his hands to emphasize his helplessness.

“As I’m sure you know,” Astarion began graciously, “my late master had both allies and enemies in plenty amongst our class. If you would be so kind as to share with me the list of attendees at your soiree, perhaps I can spy out friend from foe to ensure nothing untoward befell the lad.”

“Our class, our class,” Hurlbut murmured, resting his palms flat on the desk as if he meant to stand. “What is ‘our class’, I wonder?” he mused.

“The denizens of the Upper City,” Astarion said, his smile betraying none of the irritation such a question engendered. “The nobility of this fair town.” His ears twitched as he heard a soft chuckle emanate from the unnamed elf.

“I didn’t know your master well,” Hurlbut remarked. “I never took the offered opportunities to visit his little home or attend his brunches or…” he trailed off with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I do know somewhat of your role in that household, however. Curious that your master’s unfortunate end would lead to this fantasy of supplanting him.”

“I assure you it is no fantasy,” Astarion said with a strained chuckle of his own. “His palace, his holdings, and his position are mine. As to his power, I have surpassed it.”

“There are so many kinds of power,” Hurlbut sighed. “So many different ways to wield it, to protect it, to nourish it.” He tilted his head to regard Astarion intently. “Do you know my daughter, Henrietta, by any chance?”

“I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure,” Astarion said cautiously, hoping none of his siblings had ever been stupid enough to drag the lass back to their master’s lair.

“She’s a smart and beautiful young girl,” Hurlbut smiled fondly. “The apple of my eye, so to speak.” He leaned back in his chair, slumping a little. “She had the misfortune of becoming besotted with a common Manip when I had already arranged her marriage to the Rillyn heir. She came to me in this very room, knelt at my feet sobbing and wailing about her undying love. Claiming – with substantial evidence, mind you – that Derque Rillyn was a violent man and promised to be a cruel and abusive husband. Do you know what I did?”

“I do not,” Astarion said curtly.

“I had the Manip beaten to within an inch of his life,” Hurlbut said blithely. “Then I married her into the Rillyn family and packed her off to their home. Now every time I see her, she has a new bruise yellowing her fair skin.”

“Of course,” Astarion nodded, uncertain of the proper response to such a tale.

“Why do I tell you this snippet of family drama?” Hurlbut asked rhetorically. “Because it seems your master neglected your education. That he didn’t impart to you the proper execution of power, its ageless majesty, the way its waves crash over the smallest of lives and drown them beneath the inexorable tide of history.” He grinned then, a predator’s sly smile. “If I, a doting father, am willing to sell my own child into misery in order to navigate those stormy seas, why would you think for a single moment that I would concern myself with the whereabouts of a lowborn boy playing dress-up for his whore of a master, a master who’s nothing more than a murderous thief squatting in the wreckage built by his betters?”

Astarion’s small smile had long-since disappeared, the blood in his veins running as cold as his skin used to be to the touch. He glanced at the elf to find he’d finally looked up, ice blue eyes meeting Astarion’s pale red ones, that ice glittering with malice above a wide, cruel smile.

“So no, I don’t think I shall share with you the names of my guests, not from two nights ago, not ever,” Hurlbut said with a tone of finality. “If your ward has gone missing, I suggest you pluck another one from the sewers. I daresay you’ll need to if you intend to find one who shares ‘your class’.”

Astarion heard the door to the study open behind him but he remained frozen in place, pinned to the carpet by the elf’s icy gaze and the human’s stabbing words. He felt the old familiar sensation of falling back from behind his own eyes, withdrawing, curling up protectively while his body continued to function. He bowed, his body acting on its own, bending like a graceful automaton while the sights and sounds of the room around him spooled in his head, gathering there in a tight spiral, awaiting a place of safety to unravel, knowing this was not that place.

He exited the room and let the arrogant stares of the Hhune family portraits chase him down the hallway. Words of power flickered through his mind, his fingers twitched with the urge to gesture, to set this place ablaze, to destroy this monument to the city’s banal cruelty. He squashed the violent thoughts and stalked through the foyer and out the wide-open front door. It closed behind him with an ominous boom.

Despite its emptiness, the courtyard was not a place of safety, either. He exited through the stone archway and turned north toward the Manor Gate, his pace quickening as if armed men were at his heels. The crowds enjoying the sunny day were a blur of color and noise around him. He made it two blocks before he heard a woman’s voice calling his name. He made it another block before the sound of his name registered enough to bring him to a halt. He looked around, bewildered, and a hand descended upon his shoulder.

With a hiss he shook off the hand, drawing hidden daggers and turning to face the potential assailant. His first quick swipe cut through empty air, the green-clad half-elf having stepped well back from him, her hands upraised in a calming gesture.

“Astarion, hold,” Jaheira said cautiously, her feet planted at angles to retreat further should the vampire lash out again.

Astarion blinked, the face of his sometime ally swimming into focus. He sheathed his daggers slowly but his stance remained thrumming with tension like a plucked harp string. He recognized Jaheira and saw Geraldus standing at her shoulder, a look of concern and a touch of guilt flashing across his youthful face.

“And here I didn’t think to bring my blades,” Jaheira gently chided. “I’d imagined this neighborhood to be safer than my own. How foolish of me.”

“It’s not safe,” Astarion said almost without thinking, the words a whisper slipping from between lips bloodless from clenching tight against rage’s escape.

“Geraldus told me we have a missing friend,” Jaheira said, lowering her arms and taking a careful step toward Astarion, approaching as one would an unbroken horse. “Let’s find him together, hmm?”

“You offer me help?” Astarion scoffed. “After how I treated your man?” He nodded toward Geraldus, the purpling bruises around the Harper’s neck stark against his skin.

“Little Lucas never hurt anyone,” Jaheira reasoned. “We can address your behavior at a later time, once the boy is safely returned to us all.”

Astarion let his shoulders relax a bit, his eyes softening with regret and thanks. If he wasn’t worthy of help, at least they would do Lucas that kindness. He gave Geraldus a grateful smile, a smile that faded as the man’s eyes looked past Astarion, widening with alarm even as the clanking sound of mailed feet on the cobblestones grew louder in Astarion’s ears.

“The Harpers don’t enforce the laws in this city,” a deep male voice sounded from behind the trio. “But I do. I’ve received a sending from Hhune House’s retainers about a disturbance, and I will have answers before this creature slithers back to its hole.”

Jaheira’s face heated with anger at those words, while Geraldus’ mouth dropped open in shock at their callousness. Astarion drew himself up to his full height and turned to face Duke Ravengard and the patrol of Flaming Fist arrayed behind him.

“I wasn’t aware the laws had changed,” Astarion said with an amused chuckle. “Are the Watch’s ranks so depleted they’ve taken to recruiting mercenaries? Or are they simply too intelligent to sully themselves with baseless gossip?”

“Surely you can see there was no harm done to the Hhunes or anyone else,” Jaheira said through a smile that stopped shy of her narrowed eyes. She stepped forward to stand at Astarion’s shoulder, and Geraldus moved to guard her back, a thumb hooked in his belt in easy reach of his sheathed sword.

“My chat with Lord Hhune was pleasant if unproductive, and we parted amicably,” Astarion sniffed. “There were no voices raised, let alone blades. I can’t imagine why you and your lackeys would respond in force to a servant’s summons. Not unless you were eager to find an opportunity to converse with me. Perhaps to ask about your son? I understand it’s been months since you’ve seen him. Surely you would welcome the news that he is in good spirits? After conducting a thorough examination of his body, I can also report that his physical health is much improved.”

“I am in regular communication with my son,” Ulder stated, refusing to take the bait like a true diplomat. “I am well aware of his status and his intentions.”

“Are you?” Astarion chuckled. “Perhaps it’s lucky we ran into each other, then. Could you tell me how much space to clear in my closet for Wyll’s things? Oh, that’s right, you wouldn’t know. Surely he’s outgrown anything he may have left behind when you exiled him from the city he sacrificed his soul to defend.”

“Let us solve the matter at hand, gentlemen,” Jaheira said, raising her arm in front of Astarion’s chest although neither man had yet made a threatening move. “A good young man is missing, and no matter what alarm the Hhunes have raised, surely the boy’s well-being is more pressing.”

“I know of no missing boy,” Duke Ravengard said, anger coloring his voice. “I will withdraw if and only if this monster pledges to present himself for trial once his affairs are settled.”

“Will I be allowed to call witnesses as to my character?” Astarion asked. “I believe the Blade of Frontiers will gladly speak in my defense.”

“We will make certain Astarion answers your questions,” Jaheira warned. “Now please, Duke Ravengard, I think the public has heard enough for now.”

Ulder left off glaring at Astarion and glanced around the square, only now noticing the gathered crowd giggling and whispering as they watched the unexpected spectacle.

“Very well,” the Duke said to Jaheira. “See that he causes no further harm. I will hold you and your Harpers responsible for any disturbance of the peace.” The Fist patrol parted to let him stalk through their ranks, falling in behind him as they marched toward Helm’s shrine.

“I didn’t intend to become your nursemaid, Astarion, but I’m glad you and Wyll’s father didn’t come to blows in the streets,” Jaheira chuckled wryly.

“I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction,” Astarion said, any trace of a smile sliding quickly from his face. “Nor would I risk the hurt it would cause Wyll.” Despite his words, his gaze remained fixed on the retreating Duke as if daggers could fly from his eyes.

“Come,” Jaheira said, taking him carefully by the arm and pulling him into the soft shadows of a nearby cross street. “Geraldus told me a little about your suspicions. I take it the Hhunes were not forthcoming with the information you sought?”

“They were not,” Astarion said curtly.

“I’ve tried to remember everyone I saw there that night,” Geraldus said, taking a folded piece of paper from his belt pouch and offering it to Astarion. “None of the names really leaped out to either of us.” Astarion took the list and glanced at it searchingly, his expression growing pained as he realized how mundane its contents were.

“What reason would these patriars have to harm Lucas, let alone hold him?” Jaheira frowned. “It’s been two days, and the storm has washed the streets as clean as they ever get. If there was some accident, the traces will be difficult to find.”

“I’ve inquired at the temples where he would’ve sought medical attention,” Astarion said. “They’ve not seen him. If he were hurt too badly to reach them on his own, surely someone would’ve come to his aid by now? He had the coin to reward a helper, and I can’t imagine him falling victim to a petty thief or cutpurse. He’d be more likely to come out of such an encounter the victor.”

“I agree,” Jaheira said. “But we can prove nothing until we find him. I will have my rats scour the city for any news, and Geraldus…”

“What did you say?” Astarion interrupted her.

“About my little furry spies?” Jaheira grinned. “You didn’t think we gathered all our information with two legs and no whiskers, did you?”

“Of course not,” Astarion said softly, his mind racing, then he looked up at Jaheira with a gleam of intention in his red eyes, turning her grin into a frown of concern.

“What are you thinking, vampire lord?” Jaheira asked warily.

“That you’re not the only one with spies,” Astarion warned, and before Jaheira could stop him, he slipped past the two Harpers and swiftly disappeared into the crowd.

Jaheira’s shouts faded behind him unheeded as he hurried toward the Wide, breaking into a run, his mind racing to think of the best spot to execute his plan. The ruins of High Hall, still crumpled and desolate despite months of rebuilding, loomed in his vision and he took to the air in a blur of transformation, startling the people around him. Perfect, he thought, as he alighted at the highest peak of the abandoned tower. He realized with a start that he hadn’t set foot here since their desperate fight against the Absolute’s forces, their harried climb towards the Netherbrain. How fitting it would be to send out his call from the site of the brain’s destruction.

He closed his eyes and reached deep inside himself to the font of his infernal power, the authority his ascension had granted. He’d used it to summon servants and creatures for many purposes, but to find his Lucas, he would test its limits fully, heedless of the cost. He could sense the minions awaiting his command, the creeping crawling things, the savage and the scorned, the teeming masses of animals and people that would answer him. The stone beneath him stirred as millions of scurrying vermin left their dens. The air around him filled with the flapping of wings as bats and scavenger birds left their rooftops and towers.

As wave after wave of his power filled the city, an unseen compulsion to which the hordes eagerly responded, the vampire lord filled his mental cry with the image of their quarry. His blue eyes, his blonde hair, his scent and the smell of his blood. Astarion’s eyes remained closed as his feet left the stone beneath him, the inexorable force of his power lifting him into the air above the High Hall where he hovered, bathed in the sun’s rays.

Sounds reached his ears even there, the sounds of screaming. The heavy iron covers that sealed off the city sewers were pushed aside by boiling swarms of rats and insects, pouring through the streets as the people shrieked and tried to climb out of the seething mass only to find great black clouds of bats ready to tangle in their hair and scratch at them in their haste to serve the Vampire Ascendant.

From the High Hall to the Wide, past the Upper City gates to the harbor, from wall to wall to water the city echoed with panicked shouts and the howling of wolves, the squeaking of rats and the roaring of monsters, the loud low groan of thousands of mindless undead clambering from their coffins and braving the sunlight.

The more he concentrated, the clearer he made the picture of Lucas in his mind and bellowed it to the city below him, the more his power grew and expanded, the easier it got until Astarion felt himself laughing, giddy with amazement at the unbridled joy of command, the utter unadulterated power of it.

He had no idea how long it lasted, how long he floated there, held aloft on a cloud of the people’s dismay and his own omnipotence. He only knew how it ended. How the stream of information flowing into him from millions of eyes and ears and snouts narrowed to a trickle that smelt of dampness and muck and mud and the familiar odor of blood.

He released the city then, dropping from the skies to the parapet below him and focusing all his remaining power on the trickle of information he needed. He didn’t bother to transform, instead flying swiftly from the ruined tower over the broad expanse of the Wide to a small street near the Heap Gate. He ignored the weeping people huddled together, clutching at each other in their terror and confusion, and descended through an open sewer entrance, the stench below enveloping him in its noxious embrace. As he raced through the tunnels, his steps unerring on the slick stone, he could smell it himself, the traces of blood tickling at his memory, filling his nostrils the way it had when the Athkatlan spawn had first pierced Lucas’ veins, the way it had when shards of glass had cut the boy’s feet and left bloody footprints as stark red accusations against the monster’s own trespass.

Astarion darted toward his goal as if under compulsion himself, his power no buffer against the grief threatening to knot in his throat, until finally he arrived at the little alcove in the sewers, the floating platform, the broken mirrors, the neat stack of flyers mourning missing children, the shimmering green door he knew knew was locked. Astarion released the last of the rats from his control and they scurried away from the crumpled form laying in darkness, one arm outstretched toward the door, the door back home, the door to safety, the door that was locked.

His steps slowed from their former frantic pace, finally stopping near the latest in an endless stream of bodies he’d beheld, an ocean of blood and death and cruelty that seemed to wash up on this shore, to end with this small murder, this tiny thread snipped and abandoned and left to rot in shadow while the city carried on above.

He swallowed heavily and tried to blink past the sudden rush of tears to his eyes. There were clues here, there were culprits he needed to find. He waited for the rush of anger, of rage, the fire of vengeance to burn in him the way it had with Cazador. He begged himself for that release and was denied. His summons unanswered by wrath, the spark of violence buried beneath the blackness of grief and loss that pushed him to his knees in the filth, he gave up. He reached out a trembling hand and pressed it to a pale cheek already sunken and hollow, his fingers confirming his fears when they found the chilled flesh of a corpse.

Rage wouldn’t come. Instead, his cry of anguish echoed throughout the city like the tolling of a bell, and all who heard it were afraid.

Chapter Text

“How long do you plan to tarry here, Wyll?” He Who Was asks me as he wipes the sweat from his forehead with a cloth. His halberd leans against the railing of the training ground where we’ve spent the morning sparring.

“I’m in no hurry to leave,” I answer with a grin. “I can’t imagine I’m the only one enjoying the scenery.” He rolls his dark eyes at me as I stretch my aching arms above my head to loosen the taught muscles. A trickle of sweat rolls down the small of my back and I bend to the side, knowing the other fighters haven’t paid half as much attention to their footwork as they have to our shirtless sparring match. I place one hand behind my head and turn to touch my cheek to my flexing bicep.

“What kind of stretch is that?” he demands, frowning and folding his arms across his own bare chest.

“The kind that earns me admirers,” I wink at him, switching hands and repeating the movement to the other side.

“I don’t approve of your methods,” he scowls. “And this is the last time I agree to shed my clothing in support of your feckless pursuit of fame.”

“Good,” Pech caws from his perch on the fence post. “You look like a slimy eel flopping on the sand.”

“I’m just trying to cheer you up, my friend,” I say, patting him on the arm. “You seem even more glum than usual. You can confide in me, you know. If you bottle up all those emotions, they’ll explode out of you one day.”

“That’ll be fun to see,” Pech chortles. I reclaim my shirt and walk to a rain barrel in the corner of the yard.

“I am bottling up nothing,” He Who Was grits out. “I simply do not enjoy crowds as much as you seem to.” His lip curls in disgust as I take a dipper of water and pour it over my head, then shake the droplets from my hair before finally donning my shirt. The thin cotton clings to my damp skin and I answer him with another grin before he abandons me to stalk toward the river.

I turn to the small group still pretending to train and sketch a graceful bow before following my friend to more private environs. Pech finds a convenient branch nearby and I watch He Who Was struggle to pull a leather jerkin over his sweaty torso.

“Let me help you,” I say with an indulgent chuckle. When he turns with the jerkin stuck around his shoulders and only his eyes glaring at me from within the crumpled leather I can’t help but laugh. “Is this why all the clothing in the Shadowfell is bits and rags?” I joke. “Because otherwise you can’t dress yourselves?” I tug the jerkin down enough to free him and he pulls away with a grunt.

“Bare skin or no skin makes little difference there,” he says with a shrug. “It’s only here the sight of your bare back seems to draw attention.”

“Another reason I’m glad to have you here with me,” I say solemnly. “Your fine form is wasted on those gray skies.”

He only grunts again in response but I can tell he’s more comfortable away from the others. “It’s you,” I offer, and he looks at me quizzically, the tilt of his head uncommonly similar to Pech’s. “The reason I’m in no hurry to leave. It’s not the people here, they’ll be fine without me and I’ll be fine without their adulation.”

“Am I a burden to you?” he asks, and though his voice is calm I can tell by the crinkling at the sides of his eyes that he’s uncertain of my answer.

“In no way,” I assure him, and the faint signs of tension evaporate from his mien. “After Ketheric’s defeat, when we followed the Absolute’s army to Baldur’s Gate and I returned to the city for the first time since my exile, even Rivington was nearly too much to bear. The sights, the sounds, the smells, all familiar, but all so overwhelming after years in the wilderness. Sure I’d been to other cities in my exile, but I never stayed long.”

“And you never had history there,” he finishes for me, and I nod.

“I know that I’ll be fine now, that I’ll even welcome the glorious chaos of it all, especially knowing we have a safe haven with Astarion,” I sigh. “I just worry for you.” I place my hands on his shoulders and force my face into his line of sight until he reluctantly looks at me. “But I won’t leave you behind, and we’ll take it as slowly as you need.”

“Thank you,” he says sarcastically, and I release him.

“Let’s take a luncheon in our rooms, just the two of us,” I suggest, even as Pech squawks his displeasure. “You don’t count, Pech. Well, maybe a half. Just the two-and-a-half of us,” I amend, and we walk up the gentle slope to the Towers.

“How do you know?” He Who Was asks me much later after swallowing the last mouthful of his bread. True to form, he’s far more relaxed in private, sprawling across one of the couches with a hand pressed lightly to his full belly.

“Know what?” I respond, leaning back on my own couch and sighing contentedly.

“That we’ll have safe haven with Astarion,” he clarifies.

“I told him how we met, about the deal I made with the Raven Queen,” I say, still confused as to his meaning. “He won’t turn you away. I think he’s looking forward to having another houseguest, although he did mention your working to earn your room and board. I think he was just joking.”

“I wasn’t so concerned with my own lodgings,” he says. “My worry is for you. I fear you’ve built this picture of him in your mind as you’ve known him through times of great stress. Is that how he really is when the two of you are free to choose? No brains or worms or curses between you?”

“I take your point,” I sigh. “And you’re right, we’ve barely spent a tenday together when we weren’t flying from one conflict to another. But I know his heart, probably better than he knows it himself. He needs me to be steady for him, not to falter, and I am more than up to the challenge.”

“What do you get in return?” He Who Was asks with innocent curiosity. “The passion I think I understand, but you can’t spend all day in bed.”

“Another challenge!” I grin, and he shakes his head. “My friend, I love him. I know that’s just a word to you now, though I hope that changes someday. To me, it means being perhaps the only person in this world he can trust, that he can rely on. It’s a privilege, a role I can see myself playing for my entire life, and happily so.”

“Does it matter that your life could be so much shorter than his?” he asks, and I think his frown is not entirely for me when he poses the question.

“Not yet,” I answer truthfully. “I don’t know how I’ll feel about it in future, when my hair turns gray and I trade my sword for a cane. Let’s try to last a year before I start counting them.”

We spend the rest of the afternoon at more relaxing tasks. I take care to steer us away from larger groups in deference to He Who Was, who truly has grown better at adjusting, and hardly seems bothered at all when we’re with the militia members he’s come to know a bit better. Perhaps that’s the key to our return to the city. If my presence fails to keep him calm, there are always hidden ways through the walls.

We retire somewhat early, the moon still low in the sky when I take to my bed. I’ve barely drifted off to sleep, hoping for a pleasant dream, when the sending rings in my ears.

Return to the city within a tenday or I will execute the vampire in your absence.

I jolt awake, sitting up quickly and throwing the bedclothes aside. I stumble out of the room and to the doorway of the other chamber while I reply to my father as urgently as I can.

Don’t. I’m coming home.

Chapter Text

The booming sound of an explosion echoed through the palace from deep underground, rattling all the windows in their frames and shaking a silting of dust from the ceilings. Perhaps a day would come when the vampire lord regretted shattering the sewer entrance to the Tourmaline Depths, leaving a gaping hole in the stone and setting alarms to wailing upstairs, but today was not that day.

When Astarion emerged from the study cradling a small lifeless body against his chest, its face as pale as his, its limbs dangling and twisted and limp, the servants stood at the entrance to the ballroom with Nocturne at the front. She stepped aside and the servants’ hands flew to their mouths, covering their gasps even as they, too, made way for their lord and his burden. Astarion didn’t say a word, his expression impossible to read as he passed them by and headed for the hallway.

He walked down the hall and descended the staircase, the body feather-light in his arms, his path instinctual, his thoughts far away. He was remembering another, heavier body that he’d carried in just this way, refusing to share its weight with others. He’d stared straight ahead, unable to bear the sight of the grievous wounds that filled the air with the scent of blood, the taste of it still a memory on his tongue. He’d lowered that body gently to the soft carpeting of the Elfsong suite, his hand shaking as he’d raised his purse, its contents uncounted but surely more than enough to buy a life.

As he turned into the room where he’d screamed and drowned in the taste of his own blood countless times, the burbling of running water enfolded him. A burst of air from his fingertips scattered candles and sand and incense from the long table, leaving enough room for him to lay the still form down amidst the few sputtering flames. At last, he looked down, really looked. He was silent, his hands sticky with gore. He stared unseeing until he registered a noise behind him echoing off the stone, louder than the murmur of water. He knew they were words, knew who spoke them, but their meaning was lost on him.

“Find Shadowheart for me,” he said, his voice hoarse, even a whisper tearing out of a throat that was not yet healed. The noise melted away. He left the room and returned moments later with a metal basin, some soap, washcloths and a soft towel. He filled the basin with water from the fountain, the smell of wet iron powerless to mask the scent of death and burgeoning decay. He held the basin between his hands and let a trickle of his power heat the water. He didn’t know why, but the thought of touching cold water to cold skin made a shiver run through him. The shiver wouldn’t abate so he expanded the swell of his power until the water in the small pools began to fill the room with mist. When the warm cloud obscured Mizora’s stone features leering from the corner, he relented and approached the table.

He untied a piece of stained rope from around the dead boy’s waist, looping it and setting it aside. Then he unwrapped the filthy rags from the dead boy’s feet, folded them, and set them aside. He carefully lifted the tattered shirt over the dead boy’s head, folded it, and set it aside. He slid the pair of threadbare trousers down the dead boy’s thin legs, folded them, and set them aside. He picked up a washcloth and dipped it into the warm water, rubbing it with soap until a sweet lavender foam formed, then he began to methodically wash the dead boy’s body, cataloguing the wounds he found as he went. He changed the water when it grew dirty, taking care to warm it each time, thankful that the humid fog in the room made him sweat, that the tears in his eyes were just more salt water and not a sign of any strong sentiment. Just more water.

He’d touched more bodies than he could count, touched many he’d killed himself, but he’d never touched one with any reverence, with any remorse, with any connection. He’d never washed one clean, rubbed gently at its eyelids to clear the light brown lashes of grit, never washed one’s hair, rinsing until its fragile blonde curls lay wet against its ears. He’d never picked debris from one’s wounds, or run a soft towel over a scar gnarled with age. His own corpse had been tossed into a grave without a thought, buried with the worms and left to rise or remain by his own strength of will.

When it was done he left the room again, billowing clouds of steam roiling in his absence. He returned with a simple white robe and took great care dressing the dead boy in it and tying the simplest of knots to close it. He slid soft slippers over the dead boy’s feet. Then he stared at the pile of stained rags and let the memory flow through his mind like a soothing mantra, the day the boy had stripped himself of these rags and ventured into a tub to bathe, leaving them behind like a cast off skin.

When he felt he was ready, that he could speak, that his mind would form the words and his throat would push them past his lips, he stepped back from the table and cast the spell. Cum Mortuis in Lingua Mortua, he intoned, and his eyes flared green with power as the dead boy’s eyes flared to match. The blonde form in pristine white rose from the table, its mouth gaping open, filled with that green fire.

“Who murdered you?” he asked, his voice betraying him with its quavering.

The corpse did not respond. Did it not know? How could it not know?

“Who was in the carriage that took you?” he tried instead.

“I was,” the corpse groaned, and he gritted his teeth in frustration at the answer. Tears of green fire ran down his cheeks at the sound of that voice, so sweet and so empty. He knew it wasn’t the dead boy’s soul that spoke, just the lingering spirit, the last desperate memories. The soul was beyond his reach, for now.

“Where did the carriage take you?” he demanded, but the corpse was silent.

“Where did you get the clothing you were wearing when you died?” he gritted out, his voice shaking more but still intelligible.

“They had my clothes,” the corpse moaned. “My clothes from my life before.”

He hesitated over the last question, his mind empty of everything but the green fire, the burning connection between his magic and the latest in a long string of corpses, his thoughts incoherent and impossible to cage.

“What were you trying to do when you died?” he asked at last, lips clamping shut as the words escaped. He wanted to call them back, to keep this last frail connection between them.

“Get home,” the corpse breathed. “Tell my lord I’m sorry.” The green fire faded as the corpse settled back down to lie still and lifeless once more.

He felt hollow surrounded by the mist, like an empty husk. His strength failed him and he stumbled backwards to collapse onto one of the stone benches. Answers leading to more questions. What else had he expected? When did the dead ever answer plainly? He pulled his power back, hoarded it deep within himself in the endless empty space, let the mist dissipate and the candles burn down to pools of wax. Thoughts of next steps flittered through his mind like moths but he stared at the candles’ flames until the moths flared and crisped and faded and there was only the quiet of water, the smears of paint on the walls, the smell of wet iron and moss and the body, its cheeks clean and pale and shrinking onto the bones beneath.

He didn’t know how much time had passed, only that the old familiar gnawing hunger for blood was prodding at his insides. He’d used so much power, it had to have a cost. He would need to feed soon. Or he could deny it, default on his debt, let it grow and swallow him whole, let it eat him alive. Maybe that was the best next step, to stay in this room and shrivel and shrink and rot alongside the boy who’d trusted him. Maybe that was best.

He didn’t stir as others came to witness, came to stand and stare and shed their own tears. Some tried to talk to him, to express sympathy as if he’d lost something, as if the boy hadn’t been the one who lost. Their words were useless noise and he ignored them, busy with his starving and shrinking. Until one visitor came, a long bi-colored braid trailing down her back as she closed her eyes and raised her head and a soft song of mourning floated forth, its words slowly worming their way into his ears, into his thoughts, until they became a mantra: as the silver moon waxes and wanes, so too does life. It made him angry and he wanted her to stop and eventually she did. She came to sit next to him and for a moment, he thought to slake his hunger with her. To catch her unawares, a betrayal most foul in a room steeped in foul deeds. But he was too tired for betrayal, he realized, so they sat quietly together for a time.

“You didn’t call me here to mourn,” she said at last. “Say what you need to say.”

“I should have let him fall,” Astarion said, his voice low and hoarse from disuse.

“What do you mean?” Shadowheart asked, turning to regard him with a frown. He didn’t meet her gaze.

“When I found him in the depths, he ran from me like any sane person would,” he explained. “I startled him and he miscalculated. Lost his balance. I caught him. I should have let him fall.”

“Tell me why you feel that way so I can tell you how wrong you are,” she said, not uncharitably.

“It would have been a quick death,” he said. “The kind he expected. The kind he’d faced before. Easier than starving, than freezing, than all the mundane perils the wretches of this city face. Easier than the death he found with me.”

“You didn’t kill him, Astarion,” she said, shaking her head for emphasis.

“But I should have,” he countered. “Had I let him fall, he’d be just as dead, and I wouldn’t…” he swallowed heavily though his mouth was dry. “I wouldn’t have cared. I’d have shrugged, sniffed, gone back to my life. He’d be just as dead, and I wouldn’t care.”

Shadowheart slid closer to him on the bench until their shoulders touched, sending a flare of irrational anger through him at the warmth of her body, the sheer audacity of her living and him living and Lucas not. The flare sparked out and he sighed and let it pass.

“You sound like a Sharran, you know,” she chuckled ruefully. “’The House of Grief’, and for many, that’s what it is and they can find release there, but it never ends, Astarion. The moon never waxes if it never wanes. There is no joy without loss, not in this life.”

“It’s too late for forgetting, I think,” Astarion said. “If I thought it would help, I’d have asked Nocturne, although I suspect the Cloister would take the opportunity to pick my pockets quite thoroughly if I didn’t leave a drooling idiot subject to Shar’s petty revenge.”

“True, you don’t have many fans there due to your poor taste in companions,” Shadowheart smiled and nudged at his shoulder. “Tell me why you called me here, because I intend to do it anyway.”

“If I don’t ask then you’ll abscond with his body, drag it off to some moonlit glade and transform him into a werewolf or sprite or some other strange totem?” he mused.

“Werewolf might be interesting,” Nocturne said, pacing slowly down the aisle to take a seat on the bench behind them.

“I was thinking just Lucas, a mundane adolescent human male,” Shadowheart rolled her eyes indulgently.

“Well, if I were to make a formal request,” Astarion said softly, “I think just Lucas would be ideal.”

“I agree,” Nocturne said, leaning forward to give Astarion’s shoulder a comforting squeeze, which he both allowed and secretly appreciated.

“I will need to prepare some things,” Shadowheart said. “It’s nearly morning now, so I’ll set out soon and return when I’m ready.”

“The ritual will heal his wounds as well,” Nocturne pointed out. “We should examine his body for clues while Shadowheart is gone.”

“He has thirty-seven incisions made with a small, thin blade, a scalpel or something similar,” Astarion said before Nocturne could stand. “His fingers are broken at different angles, snapped individually, not crushed with a single blow. The whites of his eyes show signs of hemorrhage, likely from screaming or straining, though there are ligature marks around his neck, so brief periods of strangulation may have contributed. The deepest wound is to his abdomen, a slash with a dagger or butchering knife. Fatal but precise in that it avoided damage to the vital organs, giving him time before he finally succumbed to blood loss. There are burns. Twelve burns from heated metal of some kind, too rough to be a brand, probably a simple poker. There are signs of…other damage,” he faltered only at the end of his summary.

“What information could he possibly have that would justify those methods?” Nocturne frowned, breaking the uneasy silence. “And before you ask, it wasn’t Sharrans, at least not those I know are in the city, at least not alone.”

“I don’t think information was the goal,” Astarion said, shaking his head and standing up from the bench, walking to the small pile of rags neatly folded near the dead boy’s feet. “These were the clothes he was wearing when he died. The same clothes he was wearing when I first brought him upstairs to the mansion. He shed them to bathe just down the hall from here. When I asked him where he got them, he said, ‘they had them, my clothes from my life before.’”

“Uncharacteristically sentimental of you to preserve them,” Shadowheart mused.

“I did nothing of the sort,” Astarion said. “I didn’t touch the filthy things. The smell alone…” He rested his hand on the small dirty pile, nostrils wrinkling. “The rainstorm that night washed the streets clean of any trace, but his path below was easy to follow. If I’d known where to start…” He shook his head, abandoning the digressive path his guilt beckoned him toward. “He entered the sewers through the grate near Heap Gate, and made his way toward the Depths, bleeding all the while.”

“Why didn’t he just come to the front door?” Shadowheart wondered. “The servants…”

“…think where you are,” Nocturne chided, a small smile softening her words.

“There is a curfew in the Upper City,” Astarion said. “It’s why this palace sits astride the wall. We spawn disbursed through the southernmost gate.”

“Not through the sewers?” Shadowheart asked.

“The Tourmaline Depths were unknown to us,” Astarion admitted. “Cazador only revealed their existence when he lied to my siblings about the ritual.”

“But that means…” she trailed off with a frown.

“That my siblings learned seven thousand victims had languished in the Depths for centuries and didn’t question it?” Astarion concluded. “That Cazador showed them the price of ascension and they agreed to pay it, so long as they shared in the benefits? My family wasn’t given to philanthropy any more than I am.”

“So,” Nocturne said thoughtfully, “he chose the sewers out of necessity.”

“While we can’t yet discern where he was held and this… damage inflicted,” Astarion said, “he was released somewhere near the Heap Gate, the Upper City unreachable. His tormentors may have anticipated he’d take refuge in the sewers, crawl there to bleed his last. Or that he’d die on the streets. He may even have made it to Ilmater’s Shrine and sought healing there. Either way, their purpose would be served, their message sent.”

“What message?” Shadowheart asked.

“That I made a mistake,” Astarion answered, resting his fingertips upon the long table’s cold surface. “I thought to act as Cazador did, to laugh and dance and scheme and plot, all while maintaining the careful mask of civility that hides all manner of rot and devilry. That while kings may be safe in their castles, their pawns never are. They made this innocent boy, this child whose only crime was trusting me, into a sacrifice to the black heart of this city and the illusion that disguises it.”

“To what end?” Nocturne asked. “You were playing their game, why threaten you?”

“Because I’m a hero, darling,” he smirked. “This city prefers its heroes sealed in stone, speaking only through carefully curated aphorisms, not living, not breathing, and not fighting. Certainly not fighting the aristocracy’s petty piracies.”

“Did they think you’d heed their warning?” Shadowheart asked. “Shrink back behind that mask, licking your wounds?”

“No doubt,” he agreed. “But I have a different response in mind.”

“Whatever it is, I’d keep to the manor for now, speak with the servants, shore up your defenses,” Nocturne cautioned. “The streets aren’t exactly safe for you at the moment.”

“As if they ever were,” Astarion chuckles mirthlessly.

“She’s serious, Astarion,” Shadowheart said. “While the Dukes don’t yet know how to handle you, the people are afraid.”

“They should be,” he snarled, spinning to face them. “Every hand that held a blade to this boy’s skin I will prune from its branch. Every blow, every snap of bone, every act of cruelty I will repay a thousandfold. I will strip away every mask, I will raze every building. I will do what no god ever did. I will cut the rot from this city and burn it clean of anything and anyone that stands against me.”

“No you won’t,” Shadowheart warned sternly. “You’ll unite the entire Sword Coast against you if you try.”

“Let them come!” he shouted.

“Listen to yourself!” she snapped. “You know that’s not what you want, and it’s not what Lucas would… will want!”

“What he wanted was a hero!” Astarion scoffed. “He thought the people would be grateful! That I would save them and they would come to love me! But this city doesn’t love anyone, least of all the fools who try to save it. They want to feel safe and secure in their little beds at night while the patriars play parlor games with the lives of people who don’t count. This entire place is built on a graveyard. Who better to summon the dead from their graves than me?”

“I know that you’re angry,” she reasoned. “I know that you’re hurting, but don’t lose yourself, Astarion. There are people that love you. Don’t push them away. When Wyll returns…”

“…he’ll swing the sword himself, if his father demands it!” Astarion laughed bitterly.

“He won’t,” Shadowheart insisted. “He won’t.”

“We will see,” Astarion said with a knowing smirk, his red eyes narrowed.

“Please, Astarion, stay here until I return,” she half-begged, half-warned. “Lucas will need his friend, not some mad tyrant. The way back won’t be easy for him. He will need you.”

“Of course,” he said, shaking his head as if to clear it, his rage subsiding in an instant as if the boy’s name were a word of command. “Is there anything that you need?”

“Only to know you’re here and safe,” she said cautiously. “I can manage the rest.”

“I’ll stay here, if you can spare me,” Nocturne offered. “Not to guard you, my lord, I wouldn’t presume,” she gestured to forestall Astarion’s objection. “I’ll put the household to rights, set wards in the Depths, and handle any unwanted visitors.”

“All visitors are unwanted,” Astarion declared.

“If you wish,” she reluctantly agreed, stepping out of the small room and into the hallway beyond, pausing there to wait for Shadowheart.

“Astarion,” Shadowheart said softly, walking toward him and cupping his face in her calloused hands. He found himself leaning into her touch, an embarrassingly craven gesture he allowed himself. “For all of us, most of all for you, I’m glad you didn’t let him fall.” She stood on the tips of her toes to press a soft kiss to his brow, then released him and was gone.

Chapter Text

By the time we’d stabled our horses to enter the city He Who Was hadn’t mastered the art of riding beyond staying on his mount. All the usual grace of his movements on foot abandoned him the moment his arse met a saddle. It would’ve been comical had we not needed to move in haste.

“How are you holding up?” I ask, as we push through the milling crowds of the Outer City boroughs on our long trek to Basilisk barracks, the sun an orange globe at late afternoon.

“I am fine,” he assures me, and I take him at his word. His forbidding frown, glittering black eyes above twisted tattoos, and the gleam of the halberd strapped to his back serve to keep most reasonable folk at a distance, and we make swift progress.

The guards at Basilisk Gate let us through without question, stepping out of our way with a murmured, ‘My Lord’. I may have spent seven years in exile, but my deeds thwarting the Absolute have earned me enough notoriety to travel freely.

We enter the familiar fort, the small training yard strangely quiet, the Fists on duty stone-faced and silent. I point to a second-story ledge and Pech follows my silent command, landing there and listening attentively for any errant conversation. We open the barracks door and approach Blaze Portyr at her usual post behind the outer desk.

“Didn’t expect you so soon, Wyll,” she says with a grim smile. Everything about the woman comes across as grim or long-suffering; that she smiles at all indicates trouble. “Your father and Councilor Florrick are in my office.”

A nod is the only response I give her. I’m too tired and too angry at my father’s callous summons to begrudge her a smile. I throw the office door open and step forward with no intention of closing it behind me. Justice never happens behind closed doors.

“At last,” my father sighs, looking up from a map of the city spread across the sturdy desk.

“We’re glad you’re here, Wyll,” Florrick adds in her low, soft voice.

“Really?” I bite out. “Well, you threatened my friend’s life to get me here and here I am. Tell me it was a lie. Tell me to my face you don’t mean to string up a hero of the Gate.”

“He’s no hero,” my father scoffs, standing to his full height, his plate mail as polished as usual. “He’s thrown the city into turmoil. He’s disturbed the peace I’m sworn to protect, and I’ll see him at the end of a rope before he trespasses again.”

I turn to Florrick with a huff of exasperation. “What is he talking about? I saw Astarion not two days ago. He had no designs on the city, no plans for disruption.”

“He must have held back the truth, Wyll,” she sighs. “Maybe he knew you’d try to dissuade him.”

“From what?” I demand.

“Who is this?” the Duke points an accusing finger at He Who Was, who stands just inside the open door, arms crossed.

“My companion,” I answer, before He Who Was can say something unexpected that might irritate my father even further. “He and I work as one,” I add, in case my father thinks to toss him from the room.

“Another one?” he sneers. “I thought it was lady devils you favored. When did you develop this penchant for pretty elves?”

“When did you forget you owe your life in part to a ‘pretty elf’?” I retort. “The same who rid this city of a centuries-old vampire you’d let plot beneath your very noses!”

“That was six months ago,” he says dismissively. “I warned you you’d replaced one villain with another when you cleaved to him, and now he’s proven me correct!”

“Don’t play the saint with me!” I yell, and I hear the office door close quietly behind me. Blaze Portyr must have decided she didn’t need the entire yard to hear us.

“I’m not the one playing,” the Duke warns. “Your ‘friend’ threatened patriars in the Upper City, invaded their homes. Then he set his minions to running loose in the streets! He needs to answer for those crimes.”

“You can’t imagine it, Wyll,” Florrick adds. “Everywhere you looked there were rats and flying creatures. Undead staring right into our faces, insects crawling over us, wolves on four and two legs, dark shades groaning. The people were terrified, screaming in panic. It was like the Shadow Curse had fallen over the Gate.”

“To what end?” I ask helplessly. “Were it an attack…”

“It was a warning,” my father declares. “I gave him a day’s grace to present himself for questioning, and he chose instead to show the entire city he has no respect for our laws. He must be brought to heel.”

“He’s not a dog,” I protest. “You can’t order him to sit and speak like one.”

“No, he’s not a dog. Hounds are loyal,” the Grand Duke agrees. “If he were loyal to you, he’d have thought better of defying me.”

“He’s loyal to me, father,” I say. “That doesn’t extend to you by proxy.”

“Or to the laws of this city,” he frowns.

“The Council needs his testimony,” Florrick says calmly. “I’m sure if he comes before us and there’s a reasonable explanation…”

“What part does reason play in this?” my father bellows. “What excuse could he have to terrorize this city and its people? So he fought the Absolute; he was one of many, with you leading the charge. Without his uncanny hold over you, he may well have allied against us. Or with Gortash defeated, he seeks to duplicate his infamy.”

“Lies,” I say, raising my voice to match my father’s volume if not his contemptuous tone. “He earned this city’s gratitude the same as I did, and I won’t have you throwing invented charges at him.” My father opens his mouth to spit some new accusation but I hold up my hand and the look on my face must convince him to relent. “I will speak with him. We will face the Council’s questions together. I won’t have you dragging him to some dungeon for questioning, and don’t you dare claim you wouldn’t do just that. I know you, father, but you do not know me.” My raised hand becomes a pointing finger levying charges of my own. “I will not forsake him without cause, and if you attempt to arrest him before I’ve heard his side of this, I will defend him.”

“He’s played you for a fool,” my father says. “Every time you’ve been out of my sight, you’ve fallen prey to the seduction of evil forces.” The fact that he glances over my shoulder at the Shadar-kai shows just how little trust he has in me.

“Every time I’ve been out of your sight, I’ve fought to right the wrongs I could,” I protest, turning to Florrick. “When we met at Waukeen’s Rest, you asked me to find my father and rescue him. When we parted at Last Light Inn, you headed to the city to beg Gortash for Steel Watchers to aid you. When I found you in a prison cell condemned to death by my father’s word, my companions and I rescued you. When a devil accused me of treachery, you took her word over mine. When Gortash sent my father to suffer in the Iron Throne, we liberated him and sheltered him from his foes while he recovered. I’d say I’m a far finer judge of character than either of you. Even if you come for Astarion with all the force of the law behind you, I will stand at his side.”

I spin about before they can respond, before the vein throbbing at my father’s temple reaches critical pressure. I throw open the door once more and ignore Blaze Portyr’s exhortations to stop. I can hear murmurs from the courtyard but they grow silent the instant I step outside. I raise my chin proudly and meet the eyes of the Fists – meet those eyes that don’t slide away from the intensity of my gaze. He Who Was follows me as we head for the exit, Pech swooping low to light upon my shoulder.

The city and its people seem subdued as we head toward the Elfsong, thinking to gather some information on this plague of rats my erstwhile paramour apparently unleashed upon the city. I know I’ll get no truth from my father.

“How do you fare with the crowd?” I ask He Who Was, who steps up to match my stride so we can converse freely. I can sense curious gazes following us down the street, hear the whispers, but I care nothing for their gossip. I was a hero when I left and it didn’t ease my pain or flatter my ego. It makes no difference to me now whether they watch me with approval or disdain. The city’s people have always been fickle, waiting for the nobles to tell them what to think.

“Why do you ask me?” He Who Was says with a wry grin. “You’re the one whose sire seems determined to hang your lover. Is he always so dictatorial?”

“Is he always such a dick?” Pech echoes.

“He sees only black and white, good and evil,” I sigh. “That which keeps the peace and upholds order is good. Everything else is therefore the blackest devilry.”

“So long as the waters are calm, monsters may lurk beneath,” He Who Was sneers.

“And drag whomever they please into the depths,” I agree. The Elfsong hoves into view and I pass it by. “I’ve changed my mind,” I explain. “I need to see him. He invited us to stay, and I will hold him to that pledge before I seek other lodging. I won’t make assumptions.”

“It seems much has changed since he left you smiling and well-kissed,” he frowns. “Let’s hope he knows what you’re risking to stand by him, and that he hasn’t rescinded his invitation.”

Chapter Text

“See that no one enters the mansion until I give word,” Astarion instructed the servants and Lucas’ erstwhile tutor. “What we mean to do requires the utmost concentration and we cannot be disturbed.”

“Begging your pardon, my lord,” Rachel said, her black braids swinging forward as she bowed her head respectfully. “Can we put the flowers in Lucas’ room? The ones he gathered for your return before he…” she bit back the end of her sentence but Astarion took no offence.

“Yes, Rachel,” he said indulgently, lifting her chin with one slender finger and giving her a charming smile. “Flowers in vases sound like a lovely idea. Spare any scattering of petals on the bedsheets. He’ll be recuperating, not lounging.”

“Will there be rats again, my lord?” Carl asked, scratching his head sheepishly.

“I doubt it,” Astarion said, not ruling it out entirely. “Vermin are more my idiom than Selûne’s.” With no more questions forthcoming, he left them in the foyer and made his way back to the ‘room for thinking’, a room now playing host to the white-garbed corpse of its designer and the cleric of Selûne kneeling before the table where it lay. Astarion entered quietly and sat on one of the rearmost benches, but Shadowheart turned her head to smile at him and stood, stretching her muscles as if she planned to enter battle instead of drag a soul back from across the planes.

“I was waiting for you before I began,” she said, taking a seat next to him. “You should know what to expect.” Her hair was braided to fall down her back in a thick plait as usual, but she was wearing a soft robe of gray stitched with silver thread that fell from a round, high collar to swirl around her bare toes.

“I suppose it won’t be as simple as handing you some coin and you scratching his name out of some dusty tome?” Astarion sighed.

“Hardly,” she laughed. “Though I’m glad, in a way. When I followed Shar, I fear she’d have punished me for even thinking of doing this. Selûne… she wept with me and sent her blessing with barely an hour of prayer.”

“There was a time when I’d have seen no real difference between them, the dark and the light,” he said thoughtfully. “All the gods were the same to me, deaf to my pleading. I am glad that I was wrong. Glad that you’ve found one who values you and doesn’t try to twist you into something you’re not.”

“Thank you, I’m grateful as well,” Shadowheart smiled, patting Astarion’s knee companionably. “The ritual will take about an hour, and I don’t know what you’ll hear or see. I have faith that it will work. By the Moon Maiden’s grace, I will bring him back to us.”

She stood and gave a final stretch to her arms and back, then approached the altar-like table. “He’ll still be dreadfully weak when he returns,” she continued. “I’ll be the worse for wear as well, so I’ll give him this healing potion to strengthen him,” she indicated a gold-stoppered bottle of red liquid. “I’ll let you know when it’s safe to approach.” She gave Astarion one last smile over her shoulder, and he settled back on the bench, using all his willpower to resist pacing and keep quiet and still.

She began with a soft murmuring prayer that went on and on, a melodic drone, half-lament and half-poem. The words blended with the rippling water and even the faint sound of burning candle wicks lent their counterpoint to the chanting rhythm. She raised her arms, the long sleeves of her robe forming a crescent moon from wrist to ankles to wrist. In her left hand she held a diamond, its facets reflecting the candlelight in a prism of flame. She lowered her right hand to lay across the pale brow of the body in front of her, and her chanting began to stutter, as if the words themselves were traversing other planes.

Astarion watched with fascination, a minor flare of jealousy like a lump of coal in his heart. Why was it Cazador, that night so many years ago? Why couldn’t a cleric have found him, a messenger of a gentler power? How different his life might have been if he’d been healed instead of cursed, if someone had rescued him. Would he be better? Would he be good? He didn’t remember enough of himself to guess.

He could hear Shadowheart speaking, but the words were meaningless, like the edges of echoes in a cavern. The diamond flared with its own bright light, gleaming silver, brighter and brighter until he had to close his eyes against its brilliance, and even then it illumined the red veins in his eyelids, though it gave off no heat.

Shadowheart spoke an invocation then, a short sharp commanding phrase, and the diamond in her hand shattered with a deep sound like the tolling of a bell. Astarion’s nostrils flared as rivulets of blood dripped between her fingers, but his eyes stayed closed until he heard the sound of coughing.

“It’s okay, you’re safe,” Shadowheart said in a softer, normal voice. She closed her palm and spared a pulse of magic to heal her own hand, but lifted the healing potion to Lucas’ lips as he struggled to rise from the table.

Astarion’s fingernails dug into his palms as he clenched his fists against the impulse to move, to rush to the boy’s side. He restrained himself until the potion was swallowed and the blush of color returned to cheeks no longer sunken in death. He saw Lucas smile gratefully at Shadowheart, no trace of blood in his eyes, no swollen lips, no crooked fingers in the hand he raised to hold the potion bottle. Lucas swung his legs and sat with them dangling off the table. He kicked them experimentally then frowned up at Shadowheart, who was leaning on the table in the throes of fatigue.

“I think you fixed my leg,” Lucas said, and Astarion held his breath at the sweetness of the sound. “Did you mean to?”

“I meant to bring you back,” she grinned at him, tousling his hair even as he frowned and brushed her hand away.

Lucas kicked his legs together again, then picked at the fabric of his white robe and turned his gaze fully on Astarion. “Did they make me a saint while I was dead?”

“Not that I’m aware,” Astarion drawled.

“Why am I in this get-up then?” he groused, touching the knot cinching the robe at his waist. “Should I feel insulted, lord?” he asked. “This is an awful simple knot.”

“You’ve been dead for a few days, Lucas. How was I to know you’d retain any motor skills at all?” Astarion stood and approached the table, struggling to keep his breath even when he saw the boy smile up at him, not flinch away.

“You’ll be a few days recovering,” Shadowheart cautioned Lucas. “And I could really use a nap.” She planted a kiss on Lucas’ cheek and stumbled a bit on her way to the door.

“As delightful as you’ve made this room,” Astarion said, “I’ve had my fill of it. Let’s get you upstairs.” He lifted Lucas off the table with an arm beneath his knees and one supporting his back, carrying him from the room the same way he’d carried him into it. His heart thumped faster at the difference, at the way the once lifeless burden now squirmed like an eel in his arms.

“Let me down, lord, I can walk,” Lucas protested, shoving against the vampire lord’s chest with the strength of a child. “I want to walk,” he insisted, and Astarion reluctantly lowered his legs to the carpet. The boy clutched at Astarion’s arm when his legs initially crumpled beneath him, but he finally managed to stand.

“There’s no need to push yourself so soon,” Astarion offered, but Lucas waved a hand at him dismissively and used the other to steady himself. As Lucas picked his way carefully down the hallway, the vampire lord trailing behind him, his breathing was heavy, as if he were remembering how to drag air into his lungs.

“Did you find your man?” Lucas panted, grasping the banister and climbing the staircase one laborious step at a time.

“I did,” Astarion nodded, though the boy’s back was to him, its muscles straining.

“Did you say sorry for being a pompous git?” Lucas managed, pausing at the top of the staircase to catch his breath but sparing enough for his stuttered questions.

“I did,” Astarion said, stopping several steps below the boy and waiting patiently.

“Did he forgive you?” Lucas asked, holding a breath.

“He did,” Astarion said, imbuing those two quiet words with a wealth of warmth and relief.

“Is he here?” Lucas gasped, dragging in breath at last.

“No,” Astarion shook his head. “Not yet.”

“But he’s coming?” Lucas turned his head to look back at his lord, leaning heavily on the banister, his shoulders hunched and straining.

“He is,” Astarion said, his hand raising almost against his will, offering support. An offer Lucas turned his back on and took a few quick steps forward, staggering until he regained his balance, his hand hovering inches from the wall but eschewing its aid for the moment.

They continued on in silence save for the boy’s labored breath, the scuffling of his feet on the carpeting. Step by step Lucas made his way through the manor, the vampire lord following behind without a sound. Astarion was glad they encountered no servants, knowing they might crowd the boy, press him into well-meant embraces, protested his walking under his own power, pausing to rest after every several steps.

Astarion did step past him when they finally reached the upper floor, but only to open the door to Lucas’ room. The boy gripped the door frame, staring at the bed as if it were a mountain range he meant to scale. He pushed himself toward his goal, the coverlet soft under his fingers as he gripped it tightly and hauled himself onto the mattress, lying face-down, back heaving. He righted himself and struggled to sit up, his head slumping forward in exhaustion. Astarion watched him from near the balcony door, uncertain whether to draw the curtains or throw them wide, opting finally to leave them filtering the midday sun.

“I want this off,” Lucas muttered, plucking at the white robe and prying the slippers from his feet with his toes, letting them fall to the carpet. Astarion went to the wardrobe and opened it with a flourish.

“What would you like?” he asked.

“Well,” Lucas thought, head still down as if he hadn’t the strength to lift it. “Some smallclothes and the gray tunic, lord, please.”

Astarion picked out the garments and walked to the bed, kneeling down and setting the slippers aside. He looked up then, his gaze even with Lucas’ chest, and saw the boy’s fingers plucking clumsily at the simple knot holding his robe closed. Lucas looked up and met his gaze, then looked down to continue fumbling at the knot. It took a few moments before he untangled it and he sat quietly, head down, breathing steadily but shallowly. Astarion reached up and slipped the robe from his shoulders, leaving it pooled on the bed behind and under him.

Picking up the underwear, Astarion put them on the boy and pulled them up to the slim thighs, noting the smooth skin where once a scar had shown raised and vivid as a reminder of past wrongs. Astarion paused, thinking back to the hours of pain that had carved scars from his own back to allow fresh smooth skin to grow in their place. He wondered if Lucas would miss the reminder of past pain, or if he’d glory in its erasure as Astarion did his.

Lucas placed his hands on Astarion’s shoulders and leaned forward to lift up his rump. Astarion tugged the underwear into place, then picked up the soft gray tunic and pulled it carefully over Lucas’ head, letting the boy slip his own arms through the holes. The tunic was loose and fell to Lucas’ thighs. The effort seemed to drain much of Lucas’ remaining strength, and Astarion remained kneeling as the boy rested his forehead on Astarion’s shoulder.

“You know I don’t mean no offense, lord, right?” Lucas said softly. “I just needed to do some things myself, and…” he trailed off uncertainly.

“And you needed to know that I would let you,” Astarion finished for him, his voice equally soft. “That I would listen to you.” Lucas’ only answer was a sigh of cold breath against the vampire’s neck. When he’d gathered the strength to lift his head, Lucas looked at his lord with a small smile, and Astarion took the boy’s face between his palms. “I will always listen to you,” he told him solemnly.

“You’re getting better at promises, lord,” Lucas grinned, leaning back to scoot to the headboard and push his legs under the covers, moving more easily as if his lord’s words had given him a burst of energy. Astarion placed an extra pillow behind Lucas’ back and pulled the covers up to his waist.

“Get some rest, darling,” Astarion said, standing and walking toward the door.

“Are those your flowers?” Lucas asked suddenly, pointing to three vases on the low bookcase, elegant white cylinders spilling over with delicately petaled blossoms in a profusion of purple.

“I believe they are,” Astarion said with a small shrug.

“I picked them out for you,” Lucas said, but a small pleased smile crossed his face. “Do they smell nice?”

“I’ve never smelled sweeter,” Astarion nodded, turning to leave.

“Lord, could you leave it open?” Lucas said.

“Would you like the balcony doors opened as well?” Astarion asked.

“No, lord, just that one,” Lucas shook his head once before sliding down to rest back against the pillows. “Not the one to the outside, just the one there, if it’s alright.”

“It’s quite alright,” Astarion said. He took a step into the hallway and heard Lucas call out sleepily.

“When I’ve had my nap, lord, I’d like to renegotiate our arrangement,” the soft voice drifted to silence. Astarion paused a moment, then walked away.

Chapter Text

“I’m sorry, saer, I just can’t,” the sweet-faced blonde in tasteful gray servants’ livery says to me, half-hidden behind the open door. I choke down my frustration and offer her my most charming smile, glad to see her eyes flicker with appreciation – a flicker that fades to regret soon after.

“I’m sure Astarion appreciates your loyalty,” I say sincerely. “But are you really certain he meant to include me in his instructions? Does he consider me a visitor?”

“Saer…” she begins, biting her lip. “We all know who you are, and perhaps if our master expected you, he’d have ordered something different. If you come back in the morning…” she trails off hopefully.

“The sun’s barely set, miss…” I raise my voice in a question but she doesn’t volunteer her name. “Surely the household isn’t settled in for the night so early.”

“Well,” she hesitates, “our normal schedule is a bit out of plumb at the moment, saer.”

“That’s putting it lightly,” a lower voice tinged with a healthy dollop of sarcasm adds. A purple-haired Tiefling in casual clothing places a hand on the blonde woman’s shoulder. “I’ll speak with them, Lucy,” the Tiefling says, and the servant disappears with a grateful smile. My own smile fades as the door is opened no further.

“Do I know you?” I ask, something about the understated yet confident way her eyes meet mine seeming familiar.

“I may have sold you a few things once,” she says, “the day you came to our Cloister and massacred half its inhabitants.” The slightly amused tone of her voice doesn’t change.

“A Sharran,” I venture, “from the House of Grief?” I can sense He Who Was straightening from his habitual slouch behind me at the mention of a goddess none too popular in the Shadowfell.

“Yes, although when I’m here, I have other duties,” she smiles, revealing a flash of sharp canines. “I’m Nocturne.”

“Shadowheart’s friend,” I say, and she confirms it with a nod. “Have you spoken with her recently? I saw her not two days past at Moonrise.”

“She’s here, actually,” Nocturne admits, but forestalls me before I can ask to see her. “She’s resting, Wyll.”

“Resting?” He Who Was scoffs. “She can’t bestir herself to welcome her ally, and tell him why half the city wants the vampire’s head on a pike?”

“It’s not the sort of story you can tell in an instant,” Nocturne says, frowning at the Shadar-kai. “And she needs rest and recovery more than you need answers, at least until the morning.”

“What is she recovering from?” He Who Was demands, but Nocturne regards him calmly and doesn’t answer. Of all the emotions with which he’s grappling, I know frustration is one he despises. He’ll be in a foul mood later no matter where we sleep.

“Can’t I speak with Astarion, then?” I ask, and despite my most persuasive tone, she only sighs.

“He’s not here, Wyll,” she says. “We didn’t know to expect you so soon, and upon his return to the city, events sort of… overtook him, let’s say.”

“Where’s he gone?” I demand, attempting to soften my tone and failing miserably. “He can’t have fled. He wouldn’t just leave, no matter the threat. Did he leave to seek me out?”

“I don’t think so,” Nocturne says apologetically. “He said he had an appointment that could only be kept at night. I think if he’d meant you, he’d have said it in a far different tone.” She can see my mind beginning to parse the puzzle, so she interrupts my thoughts. “Wyll, give it a night. If he’s not returned by morning, Shadowheart should be rested enough to speak with you. I know it’s hard, not knowing. My Lady knows every time Shadowheart disappears, I worry after her. But if there’s anyone can take care of themselves, it’s the all-powerful living vampire.”

“I don’t fear for his life,” I mutter, my heart sinking.

“Tomorrow,” Nocturne says again, and she slowly but firmly closes the door. I hear the clicking of locks and see a thin gleam of red outline the door for a moment.

“Not the warm welcome you’d anticipated,” He Who Was says, stating the obvious and earning himself a disgusted look.

“It make no sense,” I grouse, tugging at my braids in frustration. “My father’s after his head, the people can talk of nothing else, and he’s gone?”

“Not to mention the cleric is here, rather than at the home she claimed to enjoy so much,” he frowns.

“Maybe Jaheira will know,” I posit. “Let’s pay her a visit before we resort to taking rooms. At least you’re not tired, right?” I look down at my own raiment, covered with the dust of travel, then at He Who Was, his black leather so filthy it's become a mottled muddy brown.

“I am sore but not tired,” he summarizes. “This is your city, and I will follow where you lead.” I give him a thankful smile.

I do miss him, you know.

My smile fades slightly as I hear Astarion’s voice echoing through my head. It takes a moment for me to place it, a picture swimming into a colorless, fish-eyed view. My love, kneeling on a tiled rooftop, gazing down at, well, down at me, I imagine, and seemingly addressing my erstwhile avian companion.

It’s been mere hours since we parted, yet it somehow feels longer than the months before. The look on his face brings a lump to my own throat. I see him turn to regard Pech directly, and though I know him to be ageless, his eyes alone bear the weight of centuries. I meant it. My offer. But the place of warmth and safety I offered your master doesn’t really exist. At least not yet.

He Who Was regards me curiously and I hold up a hand to forestall him while I listen, while I drink in the words meant for me.

I won’t be gone long. He gazes out over the city’s rooftops. Tell him I will explain it all to him, when it’s safe to do so. Safe for everyone, but most importantly, safe for him. He stands and Pech’s view of him sees him silhouetted against the cloudy sky. Well, tell him if you really are his crow, and not just some random bird drawn to the sparkle of my jewelry.

I look up at that, hoping to at least meet his gaze across the space between us, but I’m rewarded only with a dark winged shape taking flight into the silver light of the rising moon. Pech flutters down from the rooftop to balance atop my companion’s halberd, probably in a vain attempt to throw the elf off balance.

“Vampires are such melodramatic idiots,” Pech declares, settling his wings. “They’ve all got a sob story. ‘Nobody appreciates me’, ‘why doesn’t the world kiss my ballbag.”

“That’s not…” I protest.

“Don’t bother,” He Who Was interrupts me. “The Shadowfell is littered with the souls of his kind, and not a one of them is worth defending.”

“I won’t argue about the rest of them,” I allow. “But let’s give my love a chance before we lump him in among them, hmm?” He Who Was shrugs, the movement of his shoulders rocking the bird on his perch while Pech shakes his head rapidly from side to side.

“There are plenty of weak points,” He Who Was says, looking up to assess the mansion’s Upper City face. “There’s no need for us to stay out here if you wish to greet the vampire lord upon his return.”

“I doubt we’d gain entry without raising an alarm, or setting off a defensive spell, or both,” I say. “And it’s not the way I’d imagined this. I need to know more, and I’ll leave his home undisturbed for now. I trust him and I trust Shadowheart, more than I trust my father, at least.”

“Let’s hope your vampire knows that,” He Who Was says.

Chapter Text

“Would you like something to drink?” The petite teenaged elf lifted an elegant teapot in one delicate hand and a jug of homebrewed ale in the other, her lips curved in a small smile that hides the sharp fangs beneath.

“I’ve no wish to be rude,” Astarion said from his seat at a small wooden table inside a rustic thatch-roofed cottage. The vampire lord certainly had no wish to be rude, as he was seeking the lady’s counsel. Even though he could have opened the unlatched front door and strode inside without an invitation, even though he’d seen the gentle glow of candlelight flickering through the windowpanes, he’d knocked like a proper gentleman. In return, he’d been welcomed like a guest, offered a seat and now a drink.

“I wouldn’t see it as such,” the lady said graciously, setting down the teapot and pouring a pint for her visitor. “The cottage upstairs is one I share with Meldin, my husband, so there is food and drink aplenty.” Her smile grew a little wider and her red eyes a little softer at the sound of her mate’s name. Astarion wondered if he got such an insufferably maudlin look upon his face whenever he thought of Wyll. He suspected that he did, damn it all.

“Thank you,” Astarion said, taking the offered glass and sniffing at the deliciously hoppy aroma. “I must say, I am delighted to see you doing so well.”

“And I’m delighted you deigned to spare me,” she laughed, sitting opposite him and brushing a long wheat-blonde lock of her loose hair over her shoulder. “So here we sit, both delighted."

“It honestly never occurred to me to destroy you, my lady,” Astarion said. “Cazador made me ‘to be consumed’. He made you to continue the Szarr line. Neither of us consented to play those roles.”

“Was it a soft heart or a sense of justice that brought you to that conclusion?” she asked.

“Oh certainly neither of those,” Astarion chuckled, taking a sip of his ale and savoring the mouthful before swallowing. “One can only kill one’s tormenter once, more’s the pity, and while ending the Szarrs was very satisfying, I find that leaving you to thrive in their absence is even more so.”

“And I am thriving,” she agreed, “as much as one of our kind can.”

“But we can,” he said, half question and half declaration, sitting forward in his seat.

“We can,” she confirmed, her eyes crinkling in sympathy as the vampire lord relaxed back in his chair, his fingers tapping at his glass, a wrinkle of concern between his arched brows. “Astarion,” she said more loudly, red eyes meeting red eyes as he looked up at her. “We can.”

“Vampires are scheming, paranoid, power-hungry beasts,” Astarion sighed. “I’m afraid you’re the exception that proves the rule, my lady, not I.”

“Nonsense,” Lady Incognita smiled. “We can both be exceptions.” Even though her actual age was twice that of the teenaged girl she appeared to be, the wisdom reflected in that smile seemed beyond even most long-lived elves. “Isn’t that why you’ve come? To see if you erred with me, and if not, to see how it might be done?”

“Perhaps,” Astarion prevaricated, but as his eyes flickered about the room, saw the comfortable cushions, the colorful embroidery flowering at every curtain-edge and napkin, the well-tended plants in pretty thrown pots, the sense of longing in his eyes belied the twist of disdain on his lips.

“Meldin is due home at any moment,” she mentioned. “We can discuss it together, if you wish.”

“Then he’s not…” Astarion trailed off, uncertain as to the proper etiquette.

“No, but we have discussed it,” Lady Incognita said frankly. “He’s still hale and hearty and plying his trade. He spends his days at the bakery and returns to me at twilight. My rooms below are far more lavish than this, if you can imagine. He spoils me, though I spend most of the day reading and resting.”

“He’s more useful to you as a mortal, then,” Astarion ventured.

“I suppose, although his ‘usefulness’ has never been a factor, not to me,” she said. “What was it you said? Vampires are scheming? That they’re power-hungry? That they’re beasts? All true, for those that think to carve up the world and rule it, to feed a hunger they’ll never succeed in sating. Just the thought of ruling more than my humble roost makes me tired, tired to my bones.”

“You’re too young to be tired of anything,” Astarion chided.

“We’re none of us young, not really,” she said. “If you’ve questions to ask you’d prefer my husband not hear, ask them now, my lord.”

“My making was a nightmare of confusion and pain,” Astarion said after a moment. “From what I’ve read in your diaries, yours was less so, but the aftermath was quite different.”

“Yes, it’s as you say, our intended roles were different,” she agreed. “I was to be a china doll set on a shelf until my avarice for blood and power overtook me. You were a pretty snare for the unwary, a wriggling lure to drag others into the net with you. My uncle sought to make me cruel, and sought to make you compliant. The methods of our making were different, but each callous in its own way.”

“Is there a way for it to be less so?” Astarion asked. “Is there no way… Your husband…”

“Is there no way for it to be an act of love, is that it?” she prompted, and he nodded reluctantly. “Don’t begrudge yourself the question. Vampire or no, as an elf I would have had these thoughts, as likely would you. It’s only natural to worry over the ones for whom we care when their hair begins to gray.”

“I don’t know for certain if it will be a question,” he added. “It may remain my worry and mine alone, pondered over in the quiet hours of the night. I wish only to have an answer at the ready.” He took a long drink and set down his glass, then stood and paced slowly across the worn wooden floorboards. “I saw a bard once who sang a song of Strahd.”

“Oh, I think I know the one you mean,” she smiled, the delight shining on her face at odds with the glint of her fangs. “’Once and twice and thrice he plunged/Three sips/One for lust, one for love, and one to end a life/Ere another’s begun.’”

“Quite so,” he chuckled mirthlessly. “Although in this particular case, it is my fervent hope the description isn’t prescriptive.”

“You're not asking on your lover's behalf, then?” she wondered.

“Not this time,” he admitted. “But three bites…”

“Is something more than either of us received,” she nodded. “One bite sufficed to enslave you. One bite to turn me and my maker’s blood to consign me fully to the darkness. Those who bore the family name were not to be slaves, they were to be masters. Which do you seek for your ‘acquaintance’?”

“Considering he’s adopted your family name, it should be the latter,” he quipped, “but I suspect I know what it is he wants, and it’s not mastery over others.”

“I’m glad, though not surprised,” she smiled. “When you came to the estate and carved through my family with long knives and fang and claw, when you presented yourself to me coated in gore and demanded to know my name, I sensed you were not the vampire lord to make slaves.”

“I could have been,” Astarion paused in his pacing. “I could have been more monster than any you’ve ever known, have no doubt. Left to my own devices…” he shook his head at the dark swirl of memories, the loneliness and confusion in which he’d lingered, in which he’d nearly lost himself. “You helped me, you know.”

“How so?” she wondered.

“So serene, so calm in the face of everything they’d done to you,” he explained. “You’d made peace with it, found peace, somehow.”

“It’s not as if I’m particularly powerful,” she chuckled. “Any vengeance of mine would’ve required the scheming and plotting and usury I’d rejected. I was lucky that you took my vengeance for me when you took your own. You freed me, and I owe this contentment, this quiet happy un-life, to you.”

“I am glad to have been of service, my lady,” he said, bowing elegantly.

“To the question which brought you here,” she said, her ivory cheeks blushing a little at his flattery. “You are unique after the ritual. You have powers unheard of even in legend. It’s for you to discover what that means for your progeny. I can tell you this: it’s your intent that makes the difference between torment and gift. If you really care for someone, I believe you will succeed.”

Astarion opened his mouth to inquire further but the sound of footsteps approaching made him hold his tongue. The front door opened and a halfling man of middle years entered, his brown eyes twinkling the moment they set upon his wife, who seemed to blush more fiercely than before.

“I have returned!” Meldin announced, pulling a cap from his head to reveal a shock of bright red hair to match his bushy beard. He didn’t seem to mind the vampire lord in their midst, striding right past him to plant a kiss on his wife’s pale cheek. He saw the half-empty pint glass sitting on the table and turned to Astarion with a broad smile. “You must be the eater, then!” He exclaimed. “What did you think of the ale?”

“I… thought it was delightful, though it could use a sour note,” Astarion smiled.

“Indeed, indeed,” the halfling murmured in agreement. “Well, I must insist you stay for supper. My good lady wife will be beside herself at the chance to watch the two of us tuck in!” He turned toward the kitchen cupboards muttering something about a ham, turned back quickly to kiss the crown of his wife’s head – causing her to giggle like a schoolgirl – then began to pull out the makings of a hearty meal.

Astarion sank into his chair and sipped at the ale in somewhat of a daze, that longing look returning to his eyes as he watched a vampire blush.

Chapter Text

“What do you remember of the Sundering, Wyll?” Jaheira asks, tapping a finger lightly against her tea cup. She’s seated at a long wooden table in the dining room of her home, the only light a pair of flickering candles, the youngest children long since put to bed by the time we arrived. I’m not sitting. I can’t shake the feeling of helplessness that’s dogged me since Astarion left me behind to go I know not where.

“Not much,” I admit. “I was eleven or twelve summers, and kept mostly to the Upper City and my training.”

“Don’t bother asking me,” He Who Was adds, lifting a mug of ale from his own seat at the table. I wonder if I should caution him about his drinking, though he assures me it’s not to excess. He insists he only likes the way a glass or two dulls the intensity of his emotions. Perhaps he’s reliving his adolescence. He certainly dresses as if he is. “I was in the grip of the Shadow Curse in those years.” With those memories swirling through his head, I don’t begrudge him his solitary mug.

Jaheira spares a glance for Geraldus, seemingly not wishing to exclude him, but the Harper doesn’t stir from his post in the shadows, his tall form leaning against a bookcase, his brown eyes gazing out the window.

“The Upper City was spared much of the turmoil, though we worked hard to make that so,” Jaheira continues. “Did your father tell you how he came to take his place on the Council of Four? How he became a Duke?”

“When the Bhaalspawn slew Abdel Arian,” I answer. “My father felt it was his duty to take up his sword in the late Duke’s honor.”

“What a noble calling,” Jaheira chuckles dryly. “I suspect what he left out was the fate of his opposition.”

“Blood,” Pech cackles from the windowsill.

“For some,” she nods at the bird. “Your father became convinced the Guild and the Outer City were at fault, and he used the Fist to crush them. Did you think the gallows were a construction of Gortash born from the mind of Bane? They were built by your father, his obsession fueled by Bhaal’s hate.”

“That can’t be,” I protest. “My father would never serve Bhaal.”

“It’s true he rejected the mantle of Chosen before the urge could grow too strong,” she agrees, “but not before a hundred heads were chopped in a single day. Not before they decorated the streets as a grisly warning. There were no trials, though the courts were a mockery of their own. There was only blood.”

I sag into a chair at this, frowning and unable to stop my head from shaking in rejection of the premise. “That goes against everything I was taught,” I venture at last.

“We teach our children the best of us, and hide the worst if we can,” Jaheira sighs. “Your father was not the only heart Bhaal tried to turn in those days. The Guild was not innocent, and I had a hand in clearing smokepowder barrels from the cellar of High Hall myself, to foil a patriar’s plot. Do you know what happened to the patriar who thought to destroy High Hall long before the Absolute made it crumble?”

“Justice, I would hope,” I say, even as I realize she wouldn’t have steered the conversation to this point if that were true.

“The answer is nothing, not by the City’s hand, at least,” Jaheira says. “With his plot foiled, the Council considered the matter closed, though they would have died had it succeeded.”

“Why are you telling me this?” I ask helplessly. “I of all people know my father can be stubborn.”

“Your father sees the surface,” she explains. “He sees the law, no matter that it was men who made it law to begin with.”

“Does the law end at the Upper City gates?” I wonder.

“Too often,” she nods. “And our mutual friend may have his master’s mansion, but he does not have his master’s invulnerability.”

“Come now,” I scoff. “Astarion knows how the game is played, where the secrets are hid. Hells, he has a book full of them. I watched him loot it myself from the Counting House vaults.”

“How do you think the nobles will deal with one man who knows all those secrets?” she asks. “Will they welcome him to their parlors and party games? Or will they set the Parliament of Peers on him, led eagerly by your father, who already has cause to despise him? Not just for what he is, but for who he is to you.”

“And he’s done himself no favors in that regard,” Geraldus says softly from his shadowy corner. “They were willing to tolerate him for a time, but now…”

“I can’t find it in me to blame him,” I sigh, resting my head in my hands.

“Of course not,” Jaheira smiles indulgently. “I seem to recall a young man in his underwear covered in bloody wounds ready to turn his sword on his companions to reach his lover’s side in time of danger.”

“I feel much the same now, truth be told,” I chuckle wryly. “Though I am fully clothed.”

“Then we’ve no reason to put you to sleep,” she quips. “I ask only that you consider the whole of the scenario in which we find ourselves. Vampire or no, Astarion is a hero and with a little blonde conscience prodding at him, he was becoming even more of one. With you by his side, knowing your nature, the two of you could rule this city in whatever role you chose. Your influence would be unmatched.”

“Then why won’t he see me?” I say in a more whiny tone than I’d intended.

“Because he’s a rat,” Geraldus says, interrupting Jaheira before she can respond. I frown at him and begin to rise from my chair to retort, but his raised hand begs a moment. “It’s something Lucas told me before…” he falters for a moment before collecting himself. “That you can befriend any wild creature, but if it’s frightened, if it’s cornered, it will always bite, especially those closest.”

“I’m not afraid of him,” I say. “If he needs to rail and lash out, he can do it at me. I only want to know he’s safe.”

“He’s not safe, Wyll,” He Who Was interjects. “Even I can see it. These nobles plot against him, murdered this boy, and goaded him into terrorizing the city. Your father can now act against him openly and no one will think it wrong but you.”

“And the patriars’ secrets will go to his second grave with him,” Jaheira agrees. “The people’s favor will shift with the wind.”

“Then I’ll shift it back,” I vow, and three heads shake at my naivete. “Don’t shake your heads at me!” I say, standing abruptly but luckily not toppling the chair behind me. “I am not my father, content to pave peace overtop injustice. There’s a plot needs rooting out, and I’ll tear it up with or without your help.”

“We’re going to help,” Geraldus says incredulously. “Lucas was my friend. What is it about you all that without a worm in your heads forcing you together you’re always shoving others away?”

“I understand the impulse,” Jaheira sighs. “To keep the danger all to yourself, thinking to spare the ones you love. You fought alone for many years, Wyll, but surely you can see we are better help than hindrance?”

“Fine,” I say throwing up my hands. “I don’t question your loyalty, I just… Why isn’t he here, hearing this from you? Planning with us? Preparing to fight?”

“Because he’s a cornered rat,” He Who Was shrugs. “Like the half-elf says, he sees only enemies.”

“If he sees us at all,” Jaheira adds. “When we went to pay our respects to the boy, Astarion didn’t acknowledge us, didn’t even seem to notice our presence so deep was his grief.”

“All the more reason I should be with him now,” I say, my chest tightening with anguish at the thought of him so alone.

“Get some rest, Wyll,” she counsels. “We will go in the morning, and if the vampire lord has not returned, we can at least speak with Shadowheart. She may know better what plans he has concocted on his own.”

“He’s not much for plans,” Geraldus mutters, hunching protectively with his arms crossed.

“No, I suppose he’s not,” I agree. “I thank you for your hospitality,” I tell Jaheira. “We’ll return in the morning, then.” He Who Was quickly drains his tankard and stands, Pech fluttering to his shoulder as we leave the Harpers to their own counsel. The streets are quiet at this time of night, the moonlight painting my companion’s pale skin with silver and shadows.

“Do we go to find rooms?” He Who Was asks.

“Of course not,” I say, heading off with a purposeful stride without waiting for his response. “I didn’t spend months with a rogue without learning how to stage a break-in.”

“Wonderful,” he drawls. “Watching you pick a lock should be entertaining, at least.”

“I’m a Warlock,” I say with a grin. “I don’t pick locks.”

Chapter Text

“Ask me for coin, for land, for jewelry, for a castle,” Astarion said, his voice a flat monotone, devoid of the customary lilt that accompanied his lies. “Ask for me anything but this.”

The draperies hung limp over the windows in Lucas’ room, the doors to the balcony shut firmly against the city without, against the gray of pre-dawn. The boy sat upright in the bed, his back resting against a stack of pillows, his gaze fixed on the door. When the vampire lord had returned from his visit, he’d thought to check on Lucas, to reassure himself that he hadn’t imagined the previous day’s events, that the boy wasn’t still lying in the room below, draped in a white robe that neither rose nor fell with breath. When the vampire lord had returned from his visit, he’d found Lucas awake and waiting for him, ready to propose a new deal.

“I don’t want those things, lord. I want this,” Lucas said flatly. What a pair the two of them made, both pale, both voices empty of emotion, as if they discussed the weather.

“It can’t be taken back,” Astarion warned with as much alarm as he’d warn about a crack in the sidewalk.

“Can anything?” Lucas asked with barely a hint of curiosity. “Do you think because I’m here now talking to you, you took back what happened?”

“No, of course not,” Astarion said, looking down at his feet, noting the dust on the boots he’d neglected to switch out for slippers, so driven by his need to assuage his fears. “I know it can’t be forgotten easily.”

“It can, though,” Lucas disagreed. “In the place where I was, I didn’t remember any of it. I wasn’t happy or sad. I wasn’t anything. I wasn’t even me, really.”

“Was it better?” Astarion asked sharply, looking up to meet blue eyes in the dim light of the room. “Would you rather have stayed?”

“I don’t think so,” Lucas said, kneading at the blankets with his fingertips as if remembering the sense of softness. “I could’ve stayed if I wanted. I had a choice, Shadowheart said.” Astarion relaxed a little, though his shoulders retained a nervous tension.

“Then why not take what I offer you and make a new life for yourself?” he ventured.

“I thought about it, lord,” Lucas said earnestly. “But even that gray place was better than going off to somewhere you aren’t.”

“Don’t you dare,” Astarion scolded. “Don’t you dare make this about me.”

“I’m not the one who made it about you, lord,” Lucas said, anger flaring up in his tone. “They made it about you, and you want me to what now? Just leave? You going to throw a party once I go? You going to invite all them guests that used to laugh while you screamed, not knowing if they’re the same ones that laughed at me?”

“No,” Astarion started, then shook his head helplessly. “No visitors, no parties. Not until we’ve settled this.”

“You said you’d listen to me, lord,” Lucas said, and Astarion closed his eyes against the hurt and anger in his stare. “I’m not leaving until I find out who hurt me, and I’m not staying if I’m too weak to hurt them back. That’s all there is to it.”

“That’s not all there is to it, you fool,” Astarion hissed. “You want to hand me your life? You can’t trust me with that kind of power over you.”

“You already have it! You told me that yourself!” Lucas laughed joylessly. “You have it, they have it, that spawn had it, the Watch has it, any odd pack of goons that catches me unawares has it. This whole stinking city has it, and always has, my whole life. I didn’t used to care, not at all. One day after the other until the day you met me, and every day after that has been better. Even when you were mean and I was angry, I’d rather be mad than nothing.”

Astarion rubbed at his forehead but couldn’t stop his brow from furrowing. “I don’t even know how to do it properly,” he managed at last, but Lucas had learned his tells too well to believe him.

“You tried to do it to that Wyll Ravengard,” Lucas pointed out smugly. “Were you just gonna bite him and hope for the best?”

“The two situations are not comparable,” Astarion snapped. “I was…” he hesitated, as if confessing a sin. “I was new to this power, heady with it, and it never even occurred to me that I could be wrong, so very, very wrong.”

“Well we both know you’re good at being wrong,” Lucas smirked. “Why stop now, just because I’m asking?”

“I’ve never loathed anyone as much as I did those sycophants who begged Cazador for power,” Astarion gritted out with a sneer. “They served and they simpered and they never balked at a single sadistic demand. Now you want to make me a hypocrite.”

“Hardly,” Lucas shook his head, then winced at the lingering headache the movement sparked to new life. “I’m not begging, and I won’t call you master or do any of those other things. I want the same deal as before.” He looked down at his hands and clasped them. “You told me I’d be safe so long as I was with you,” he said softly. “But you can’t be here all the time, and I don’t want you to have to be. I want to be someone who helps, not someone that has to be helped. It’s too late to go back to being invisible. If I’m gonna be seen, I have to be strong.”

“It pulls on you,” Astarion sighed. “The hunger, the power, the feeling of death itself. It pulls at you, and it’s so much easier to give in, to let that impulse guide you.” He looked pleadingly at Lucas but the boy didn’t look up. “It will drag you to your grave if you let it. Don’t you want to really make it to the age of twenty before you…”

“Before I what?” Lucas interrupted, looking up slowly. “Before I die? Again?” His blue eyes clouded with remembered pain. “I’m not afraid of that,” he said, though his voice trembled. “I’m not afraid of you or anything you give me. I am afraid of the windows. I’m afraid of the door to the room being shut. I’m afraid of rain,” his teeth began to chatter as a shudder ran through him, and Astarion took an involuntary step toward the bed. “I’m afraid to see my own face in the mirror, since my own face was the last one I saw. It wasn’t red eyes like the spawn that charmed me, it wasn’t your glowy eyes like when you floated me, it was stupid weak blue eyes, the kind nobody’s scared of, nobody but me.” He choked out the last sentence and lowered his head again, shoulders shaking.

Astarion sat at the edge of the bed and took the boy in his arms, holding him as he sobbed. He remembered the last time he’d offered his embrace as comfort, the night Wyll recounted the tale of his exile. Wyll hadn’t asked for comfort then; he never did. He’d just retreated to his tent, thinking to face his regret alone. Astarion hadn’t let him, nor would he abandon this crying child now, though tears soaked through the shoulder of his shirt and his heart ached with sympathy – by far his least favorite emotion.

I should have let him fall, he tried to think, tried to run it through his head like a mantra, but he just couldn’t. Somewhere in the Shadow Cursed lands, he’d lost the ability to turn away. Even at his worst moments since, moments when he’d let his own power and greed and arrogance and cruelty overwhelm his senses, he’d known it was wrong. He’d chosen to be a monster in those instances, fought for it, and every time the shame and regret were worse than any reward.

He held the boy and let him sob himself to sleep, kept holding him even as his labored breathing calmed, long after his tears had dried to salty tracks on his cheeks. He held the boy and tried to think of a way to refuse his request, even when he understood the boy’s fear so well it might as well have been his own. He understood the boy’s anger, too, and his helplessness.

The vampire lord shed a tear of his own then, in resignation. He understood, but would Wyll? Another tear followed the first, as he weighed which kind of love to choose, somehow certain he couldn’t have both.

Chapter Text

“I don’t understand your mood, Wyll,” He Who Was says, leaning on the shaft of his halberd in a nonchalant way that seems to have become a habit for him. That he’s had time enough away from the Shadowfell to even develop habits makes my grin stretch even wider. His personality hasn’t changed all that much from when we first interacted in the Shadow Cursed lands, though his outward appearance certainly has. Compared to the other Shadar-kai I saw at the monastery, he appears youthful and vital, the paleness of his skin more exotic than sickly. His speech, however, remains barbed and wary. I’ve come to enjoy it. Every hero needs a skeptic to keep him grounded, and I am no exception.

“What’s not to understand?” I ask, turning my attention back to a gaping hole in the stone where a shining green door used to be. I frown thoughtfully. I can see the rooms beyond the door, but to assume Astarion left his domain open to the sewers would earn me an eyeroll from any of my companions. “I see an enemy and I vanquish it,” I mumble, only half my thoughts on forming a sensible response. “Right now, my enemy is this… doorway. Then, it’s a vampire lord who desperately needs me.”

“If he needs you so badly, why did he flee at the sight of you?” He Who Was observes unhelpfully. “His actions might reek of desperation, but not the way you describe them.”

“He’s desperate to see me, he just doesn’t know it,” I mutter. “Once he sees me, once I open my arms wide to him, he’ll know it.” I spread my arms and turn to He Who Was, who gives me the eye roll I deserve. I drop my arms to my sides with a sigh. “I don’t intend to be insensitive,” I say in a more sober voice. “If he turns me away, I will go. I just fear he doesn’t trust me. He’s still so new to trust.”

“How trustworthy are you?” he says, tilting his head to regard me curiously. I frown in confusion so he elaborates. “You spent months tormented by dreams of destroying him, basking in the sound of thunderous applause and enjoying your father’s approval. Are you not tempted to choose that path now that it could easily be reality?”

“No!” I protest, stepping toward him, my cry echoing adamantly through the tunnels. “I’m not tempted in the least! Partly because of those nightmares and the way they tore at my very soul, but also because my love for him is stronger than anything this city can do to us. I will show the people what real justice looks like when I find whoever slew his friend and drag them to the gallows myself. If they don’t put up a fight, that is, and give me something to skewer.” I give him my back, my mood soured by his doubts.

“Stupid Shadar-kai always poking and prodding,” Pech caws. “Their feelings leached bone-dry ‘til they think everyone’s as bloodless as they are.”

“I meant no offense,” He Who Was tells me, though his tone is acerbic even in apology. “I am… jealous, I think.” He sounds surprised at himself.

“Of what?” I grouse. “The obstacles that keep throwing themselves in my path?”

“The bond that makes you so eager to fight through them,” he says slowly, and I think I do detect a note of envy in his voice.

“Well, maybe someday you’ll find your own vampire,” I say, and he curses under his breath at the idea.

“Our Queen would burn his soul to ashes,” Pech chortles in a huffing laugh.

“She hasn’t forsaken me,” I observe. “Why does she hate them so much? Are their souls such a plague to the Shadowfell?”

“It’s not that,” He Who Was answers. “Not solely that. They break the cycle of fate. She hates those who seek to evade their death.”

“Doesn’t everyone seek to evade death?” I quip.

“Through caution,” he grunts. “The undead feed on the lives of others, consuming them, their memories and sometimes their very souls. Vampires spread their curse, make slaves of each other. Where they hold sway, strife always follows.”

“Isn’t strife what she wants?” I ask, glancing over my shoulder at him. “For the memories?”

“That’s too simple,” he shrugs. “She does not seek to cause pain. She honors its memory. Other gods concern themselves with deeds and souls. My Queen bears witness to voices others ignore.”

“Maybe that’s why Astarion is an exception,” I offer. “He’s not building an army of vampire spawn or plotting to conquer the city. Although I must admit, I like the picture Jaheira painted, he and I together, putting the city to rights.”

“Politicians don’t get to stab things often enough to satisfy you,” He Who Was says.

“Probably more often than you think,” I mutter, drawing my rapier and pointing it at the open space. With a word of command, I send a gust of wind bursting forth through the gap in the wall. When nothing happens save rubble swirling about, I frown in disappointment. “I expected a trap or two at least. Why is the door gone?”

“Ask your lover when you see him,” He Who Was says. “Why don’t you just send the spirit? He’s living enough to trigger magic, and if it’s fatal, no great loss to us. He’ll reappear when you call, and we’ll get some quiet in the meantime.”

“Good idea,” I say, snapping my fingers. “It didn’t occur to me. I’ve never been one for summons.”

“Send the shadow elf,” Pech complains. “He’s the one who never shuts up.”

“Sorry, Pech, it’s up to you,” I say, not sorry at all, and he makes a show of fluffing out his wings huffily before finally launching forward through the opening. He passes through unscathed and does a lazy circle in the air before landing on an unlit torchiere. “Huh,” I remark. “I really thought it would be trapped.” I stride forward and notice the stone tile at my feet glows a bright pink at the touch of my boot.

“Did you watch this rogue closely while you traveled together?” He Who Was asks, kneeling down next to me. I blink several times, confused as to why I’m lying on the ground. He offers me his hand and helps me to my feet.

“Not closely enough, it seems,” I grin. “Lucky whoever set the ward wasn’t inclined toward more lethal options.”

“Let us go,” he urges. “Some of us haven’t had a nice nap.” I note the touch of his hand was colder than usual, and there are signs of strain on his face I’m not sure can be wholly attributed to fatigue.

“Are you all right?” I ask, picking up my dropped sword and sheathing it.

“I don’t like the smell of this place,” he says, stepping further inside and peering around him.

“We are entering from the sewers,” I say. “Come on, there’s a smaller lift through here to the upper floors.” I clap him on the shoulder and lead the way to the open chamber. The small lift – almost a dumb-waiter, I think with a wry chuckle – grates up and down in an endless cycle. At its lowest, I jump to its flat top and He Who Was follows, his leap somehow ending in an awkward stumble that threatens to knock us both off the platform. I grip him by the shoulders to regain my balance, but the flesh of his arms is icy cold, and he offers neither apology nor explanation. The lift rises and I jump from its small alcove to the next floor, then quickly move to the side, ready to catch my suddenly clumsy companion. With his height, it's barely a short hop, and I see nothing amiss with his landing.

He notices my scrutiny and draws himself up to his full height, switching the long shaft of his halberd from his hand to its straps on the back of his sleeveless black leather tunic, his expression as inscrutable as ever.

“Come on,” I say with a sigh, leading him to the corridor near Cazador’s former den. A little magic gains us the upper level, with the lift leading to the manor above at our right hand and the yawning ritual cavern to our left. I hesitate, torn between the urgency of my desire to see Astarion and the flashes of memory colored by nightmares that have painted this place since I last left it. The corridor is clear, but I could still describe the scene, note the location of each crumpled Gur body, hear the groans as they died fighting a monster I’d helped unleash upon them. Died fighting me.

I’d wished never to return, that none of us would ever return, that this whole place would somehow collapse in on itself and bury its crimes in rock, but my wishes have never found much purchase in reality. Still, my steps turn toward that cavern almost by impulse. Pech darts ahead of us like a wisp of black smoke. I stop between the cell doors, remembering the faces of the spawn imprisoned there, their anger and the dull hopelessness in their glowing red eyes. The children snarling at us and weeping at the pangs of hunger wracking their bodies. I hurry forward before my own regret can overwhelm me, the past beyond my ability to change it.

I descend the broad staircase, the green-tinged darkness a fog surrounding me. The cages still hang like grisly chandeliers, their emptiness another indictment on my conscience. Everything is an echo of my memories and my dreams. I shake my head to clear it of visions superimposed one atop the other, how it felt to hang helpless in the ritual’s grip, how it felt to see Astarion torn from my side, stripped and imprisoned to await his own destruction at his master’s hand, how it felt to share his mind, to feed him the image of his scars while he carved them onto his master’s bloody back. How it felt when that crescendo of infernal power ended, leaving behind only silence and relief and the unshakeable certainty that I’d made yet another in a long line of mistakes.

So lost in my own regrets am I that I don’t notice what has changed. Pech finishes his exploratory flight by perching on a rope strung between two of the hanging cages. I look down at my feet and see the scuffmarks my boots have made in a thin layer of dust covering the green stone. There’s nothing living here, nothing alive, no plots or schemes or army of spawn. Even the sarcophagus is just… gone, and I wonder at its absence. I spin around, questions rising in my throat unbidden, demands I feel I have to make, answers I need from Astarion himself. I need to hear his laugh, see his smile as he tells me he’s free of this place and all its horrors. That it doesn’t draw him back to scream at the shadows. That we’ll never come back here again.

“Do you hear them?” He Who Was asks me, his head raised, dark eyes searching the shroud of fog around us.

“I don’t hear anything,” I say, the echoes of our words the only sounds reverberating through the still air. “Let’s go.” I walk toward the steps leading out of this place, startled when He Who Was drops to one knee in front of me.

“Do you hear them?” he asks again, then he looks up at me and his normally stoic expression is contorted by fear. He opens his mouth but the speech flows forth in a deeply booming bass, the harsh syllables forming words unknown to me. Before I can decipher the language, a different voice replaces it, higher pitched and babbling, then another voice like a young man’s, then a child’s piping wail. The voices overlap a cacophony of guttural cries, all that I can understand is a sibilant whisper running beneath them, repeating don’t push don’t push don’t push in Common. His lips abandon any attempt to shape the sounds, his mouth hanging slackly open. His back arches in a painful bow and I manage to grasp him by the arm before his head can hit the stone as he falls backward.

“Pech!” I bellow, summoning the raven with mind and voice simultaneously. A cough of bright blood sprays from He Who Was’ throat and I try to turn him onto his side, but his frame is racked with tension, every muscle taut, his skin ice cold to the touch. The raven lands next to me and regards us with one beady black eye. “What’s wrong with him?” I demand. I’ve seen him channel spirits before, watched him plead for mercy with Madeline’s voice spilling from his lips, but this is a violent torrent of shrieks invading him unbidden, not a single woman’s spirit invited to speak.

“Old place. Maybe older than me,” Pech offers, as if that explains the Shadar-kai’s twisted seizure. “Thousands of lives suffered here. They want to be heard. Witness them.” He unlimbers his wings as if to fly away and I stop him with a guttural word of command as much spoken as thought. “What?” he squawks.

“How can I bring him out of it?” I ask, gripping the elf by the shoulders and wincing as the cries spiral upward into screams, thousands of voices begging for succor and finding nothing but the cold emptiness of this cavern. I can’t tell if he’s drawn a breath since this started.

“Kill him,” Pech says eagerly. “Send him back to the Raven Queen.”

“I’m not killing him,” I snap, and Pech cackles back at me with his wings spread wide. “You’re not helping.” I fumble for my dagger.

“I’m not here to help, I’m here to serve,” Pech argues. “If you don’t want to get your hands dirty, wait until they fill him up. Let them stuff him with their years and years of years of pain until he’s just a brainless sack. Then shove him over the edge there,” his head gestures toward the darkness beyond the platform. “He’ll burst and go home, the Queen will suck up all their stories and she’ll give you a much better reward than having this fool around.” He pecks at He Who Was’ clenched fist and I brush him back.

“I’m not going to kill him,” I reiterate, succeeding in my attempt to flip He Who Was onto his stomach by using the halberd strapped to his back as a lever. I wonder was this place ever silent for him, and curse myself for dragging him to a place soaked in misery without thinking to warn him.

“Why not?” Pech asks. “Maybe he wants to go home, ever think of that? Maybe he’s sick of you.”

“If he wants to go home, he can tell me himself,” I declare, and bring the dagger’s pommel down hard at the base of his skull. He falls limp, the sudden silence deafening to my ears. I regard his slack form, not envying him the muscle aches he’ll have when he comes to, nor the headache he’ll have from my blow. I consider asking Pech what other consequences he might suffer from such an onslaught of aggrieved spirits, but I’m not interested in hearing the raven repeat his earlier sadistic suggestions.

I shake my head with a heavy sigh, realizing another obstacle has sprung up to block my path to Astarion, this one brought about by my own foolish actions. If I’d only lead us directly to the lift and the manor above, ignored the calls of my conscience that lured me here. Rolling He Who Was onto his back, I manage with some difficulty to lift him. With his arms over my shoulders, his feet drag on the ground behind me as I carry him up the staircase. I pause once to retrieve a remembered potion that lightens my burden by increasing my strength, then continue the climb.

I eye the lift at the end of the hallway. We could take our chances in the mansion above. Nothing would threaten us, I’m sure of it, but I can’t shake the feeling of shame, of unwanted intrusion, and I know the unconscious form on my back can’t consent to awakening in a strange place surrounded by unknowns in a house still mourning its loss. I suddenly feel so very young and rash amidst the dust and death and stone of this place, and decide to leave this obstacle undisturbed for now.

I welcome Pech’s silence on the journey back through the hole in the wall, down the canal and wending through the sewers. It’s a long, stinking walk to the nearest exit and up to the streets where only sizeable amounts of gold and leveraging my own reputation can hire us a hack to take us to the Elfsong. More gold and a great deal of pleading gets me two rooms, despite one occupant being a passed-out (from drink, I explain) elf with more tattoos than a bandit.

I finally lay He Who Was out on a bed and shed my armor. I won’t leave him until he regains consciousness, but I banish Pech to the room next door in case he tries to convince me again that murder is the better option. I slump into a chair at bedside, waiting for the urchin I bribed to return with healing potions from the apothecary. I sit and the full weight of exhaustion crashes down on me at last. The nervous tension that began with my father’s sending, the adrenaline that saw me through a mad dash to the city and the confrontations that followed all abandon me now.

My attempt to break into Astarion’s home well and truly thwarted, there’s plenty of time before dawn for me to reflect on what a terrible thief I am.

Chapter Text

“What’s this?” Lucas asked, frowning down at the ring his lord slid onto the middle finger of the boy’s right hand. A slim band of entwined gold and silver, it felt loose at first, then tightened comfortably with a tingle like a static shock in winter. The vampire lord was perched on the edge of the bed where Lucas sat propped up by a stack of pillows behind his back.

“This is a gift,” Astarion said, meeting Lucas’ blue-eyed gaze with his calm red one. “The only gift I am prepared to give you at this time.”

The vampire lord marveled at the swift play of emotions over the boy’s expression, from consternation to curiosity to rage until finally resting on a guarded simmer of disappointment. When first they’d met, he’d thought the boy might be simple, so hidden behind a blank stare were his feelings and so coarse was his language. That blank stare still served well in most situations, now coupled with a hint of a knowing smile he’d adopted in imitation of his lord, but he rarely hid from Astarion anymore. A sign of trust the living vampire held sacred, having so sorely violated it once before and not liking the results.

“Shove it up your arse,” Lucas grumbled, starting to tug it off his finger. Astarion took both the boy’s hands in his to stop him.

“Firstly, never reject an expensive gift,” he lectured. “Even if you don’t want it, someone else always will. Secondly, against my better judgment, I am about to express some maudlin sentiments. I demand your full attention as recompense.”

“What’s maudlin?” Lucas asked, studying his lord’s eyes carefully for clues.

“Saccharine and soppy, that sort of thing,” Astarion answered.

“Why?” Lucas demanded. “If you cared, you’d give me power instead of a stupid ring.”

“My dear, you already possess a great deal of power through your sheer proximity to me,” Astarion sighed. “Though I’m not surprised you want more.” He quelled further questioning with a stern look. “Lucas,” he began, looking decidedly uncomfortable at telling the truth. “I understand better than most what is to be afraid. To be weak. To be helpless. To be subjected to pain for the pleasure of others.” He released his grip on the boy’s hands and stood, pacing a few steps away before turning back to catch a glimpse of a smile on the boy’s lips.

“It’s only that you always walk around when you’re feeling feelings,” Lucas said softly with a shrug upon noticing the direction of his lord’s gaze. “I only ever knew my own habits before. I like knowing yours.” He blinked up at the vampire, a shimmer of adoration glinting across his big, blue eyes.

“That’s not going to work,” Astarion said, and the sycophantic look faded into a contemptuous pout in an instant. “Much better. Now, as I was saying, I understand more of what you’re feeling than you can fathom with your sullen little brain, but there is one feeling I daresay I’ve never had. A lack with which I’m struggling, since we’re all being honest here.”

“What’s that?” Lucas asked, his curiosity warring with his resentment at being denied.

“Mortality,” Astarion sighed, as if beset by a tremendous burden. “As a member of the most perfect and long-lived caste of elves, I did not spend my youth plagued by a sense of impending doom. Time was luxury, not a nemesis from the cradle on.”

“You weren’t afraid of dying?” Lucas ventured.

“Not really, no,” Astarion said honestly. “I wasn’t prone to dangerous pursuits, and old age and infirmity seemed centuries off. Until the night I was beaten and left to die on the streets of this illustrious city, I had given no thought to my own demise. Even as I lay there, my predominant emotion was outrage, that the thieving Gur had stolen from me my most prized possession: the long life of leisure I’d intended to lead.”

“I suppose that tracks,” Lucas said thoughtfully. “You elves are awful stuck-up.”

“Indeed,” Astarion nodded without a hint of hypocrisy. “Our arrogance is rivaled only by that of vampires themselves, in my humble opinion, so if you take my word for nothing else, believe me when I say that granting you such power in your moment of weakness would in no way satisfy you.”

“Right,” Lucas sneered sarcastically. “You want to keep me tiny and scared and in this room for my own good.” He bunched the blankets in his shaking fists. Rather than respond in kind, Astarion crossed his arms and regarded Lucas with a look of sympathy stopping well shy of pity.

“When I lay bleeding on the street all those years ago, and Cazador offered to save my life, I had no idea what it would cost,” Astarion said softly. “I refused to die in such a despicably low manner. If I had known, then, what the next two centuries would bring, I would have made the same choice. That is how much I value my own survival.”

“You’re not doing a good job of talking me out of wanting it, lord,” Lucas complained.

“That’s just it, darling,” Astarion smiled almost winsomely. “I can’t talk you out of it, because I understand wanting it all too well.” He gestured to Lucas to pull his feet back and climbed onto the bed, sitting cross-legged on the blankets. He leaned forward as he spoke, the bed’s canopy draped over and around them lending their conversation a conspiratorial air. “Were I you, young and human and afraid and in pain, I would beg my benefactor to bestow on me every ounce of power I could wring from him. I would scratch and claw and wheedle and whine, just as you are, although I’d be far more debonair about it.”

“Then why?” Lucas whined, tilting his head and jutting out his chin in a passable imitation of a far younger version of himself.

“Because weak and frightened and helpless is not how I see you,” the vampire lord answered. “And as I care for you, against my better judgment and all my attempts to prevent it, I refuse to confirm your assessment. You shall remain human and in time, you will thank me for it.” He jutted out his own chin stubbornly.

“That’s rich,” Lucas fumed. “You’ve got all the power now and you pat me on the head and tell me to be happy I only died the once? To cross my fingers and hope for the best it don’t happen again?”

“Of course not,” Astarion shook his head. “I expect you to be furious, at me, possibly at everyone around you. I expect you to reject my help as you tried to reject that pretty little ring. I expect that your road back to strength will be a long and painful one, and I can only walk it at your side. But I will, if you’ll allow it.”

“You will why?” Lucas demanded. “Don’t say it’s because you care about me, not after you floated me around and tried to scare me just like I am now!”

“I did,” Astarion nodded regretfully. “I did do that. I’ve done worse,” he continued in a soft tone of confession. “When circumstances were dire and the stakes were high, I offered a man the same boon I’m denying you. I told him he was fragile and powerless and woefully, pathetically human, and yet he was and is stronger than I. It is my hope that you’ll be able to speak with him in future, that maybe he can tell you where he found that strength again after I tried to rob him of it.”

“I don’t want to talk to your Wyll,” Lucas pouted. “Nothing he says is gonna keep me from dying again.”

“Everyone dies eventually, Lucas,” Astarion allowed, “but I plan to keep your current living state something of a closely held secret contained to the manor. Wyll of all people is adept at keeping secrets, and the Sharrans are positively religious about secrecy, so they’re no great risk. Together, I have no doubt we can keep you alive until we’ve ferreted out the creatures responsible for all of this.” Lucas’ belligerent expression didn’t ease and the vampire lord found himself wishing fervently that Wyll were already resident. He would have to contact him as soon as he’d sorted this uncomfortably fraught situation with the boy.

“You plan to keep me a secret?” Lucas scowled. “Because your plans always work so good. Y’know, if they kill me again, I won’t come back. Shadowheart said I had a choice, and I won’t say yes next time.”

“Oh bravo,” Astarion drawled. “What an admirable attempt at emotional manipulation. You have learned something by watching me.”

“I’m not sorry,” Lucas sniffed, holding his eyes open unblinking in an attempt to get them to tear up convincingly.

“Of course not,” Astarion rolled his own eyes. “You should never apologize in the very act of doing the thing for which you’re apologizing. Ruins the entire effect.”

“If you’re not going to help me, then just go,” Lucas said forlornly, managing to conjure a single tear to track down one rosy cheek.

“I’m going to help you, just not in the bloodthirsty and short-sighted fashion you’re demanding, you little tyrant,” Astarion took Lucas’ right hand in his and stroked his thumb against the braided metal band. “What are the three things you said you’d do when confronted with danger?”

“Run, hide, run-and-hide,” Lucas answered instinctively, then frowned at his own brain for playing along.

“Quite right,” Astarion commended. “This ring will help you to hide, and I will teach you such spells as are useful to supplement.”

“The ring’s magic?” Lucas asked. “You’re gonna teach me magic?”

“I am,” Astarion nodded. “While I am no wizard holed up in a tower with my nose buried in books, I am adept at the practical applications of such knowledge.”

“Am I smart enough?” Lucas said uncertainly.

“Your wits are sufficient,” Astarion said, nonchalantly wiping the tear from Lucas’ cheek as if its presence annoyed him. “The headband you wore to aid in your studies actually adorned the brow of an ogre once, and he cast quite a few powerful spells with its help.”

“You fought an ogre?” Lucas said, and Astarion smiled sadly at the familiar sense of wonder that had crept back into the boy’s voice.

“Not alone,” Astarion shrugged. “Of course there were three of them…” Lucas smiled at him then and Astarion schooled his features to hide a sudden surge of affection.

“Okay, if an ogre can do magic, then I can, too,” Lucas said determinedly, and again Astarion marveled at the boy’s ability to shift moods in an instant. “Should I fetch the tiara?”

“No, we’ll start with the ring,” Astarion shook his head.

“Lord, can anybody do magic?” Lucas wondered. “If anybody can do magic,” he continued, assuming the answer before the vampire lord had a chance to speak, “why doesn’t everybody do it?”

“While most anyone of sufficient intelligence can make a fair attempt at casting a spell, the real barriers lie in the pocketbook,” Astarion answered smugly. “Obviously natural affinity does play a role, but leisure time and a bottomless purse make all the difference.”

“Makes sense, I guess, since books cost money,” Lucas said, toying at the ring with his thumb.

“Magical items such as this ring or the mask which I continue to hold in trust for you until you learn the proper value of things,” he looked at Lucas pointedly, “make magic accessible to those lucky enough to acquire them.”

“Or steal them,” Lucas grinned, a mischievous glint in his eyes that gave the vampire lord a moment of hope.

“Or pluck them off an ogre’s corpse,” Astarion said with a wink. “If we’re to keep your resurrection a secret without keeping you closeted here, we can’t have you investigating in your current guise. The ring will allow you to change your appearance, within reason. You could manage a half-ogre, but a full one would be out of the question.”

“Like a disguise?” Lucas brightened. “There’s a kit in the disguise room downstairs. This is like that, but magic?”

“It is,” Astarion said. “To invoke it, first picture the desired changes in your mind, then speak the phrase omni occultantur. I shall demonstrate.” Astarion climbed off the bed and cast the spell himself, one of the little childish tricks his master had chastised him for learning. Lucas looked up at him, a frown of confusion flickering over his face before he spied it.

“You’re not a vampire you, lord!” he exclaimed, impressed at the subtlety of his lord’s disguise: his pale skin now kissed by the sun to a warmer vanilla shade, his eyes a midnight blue, the teeth in his smiling mouth dull and non-threatening.

“Rather helpful, don’t you think?” Astarion quipped, and Lucas nodded eagerly.

“So I can change anything I want?” Lucas asked.

“Within reason, limited only by your imagination, and I know you have a surfeit of that,” Astarion nodded.

“I could change my whole face,” Lucas said thoughtfully, looking down at the ring.

“If that’s what you wish,” Astarion said.

“Even if I’m not strong, I could look strong,” Lucas said, gnawing at his lip.

“When I learned this spell, it was without the benefit of a mirror,” Astarion said in an attempt to refocus the boy. “I would look down at my hands and my clothing, and hope for the best with my face. Come and try it.”

Lucas slid out from under the covers and hopped to the floor. He shook out his arms at his sides and huffed a few deep breaths.

“You’re not going swimming, darling,” Astarion sighed.

“Okay, okay,” Lucas said seriously. “I’m going to look the strongest I can imagine.” He took a deep breath and held it, closing his eyes, then said in a loud voice, “omni occultantur!” With a brief shimmer, his form grew taller and more lithely muscular, his gray tunic appeared as an elegant frock coat of sable and silver, his pale blonde hair bleached itself to white, and his ears lengthened into gracefully pointed tips. The eyes that met the vampire lord’s gaze were a deep red, and the corner of his upturned mouth hinted at a sharp fang.

“Absolutely not,” Astarion said flatly, staring at his newly formed twin. He could see Lucas’ true form beneath the disguise, having watched him adopt it, but the effect was unnerving to say the least. “While I’m flattered, of course, I’m a poor choice of doppelganger if keeping you safe is the goal.”

“Fine,” Lucas sniffed and heaved an affected sigh in an uncanny imitation of his lord. “Maybe something else strong.” He concentrated and his red eyes began to glow a pinkish hue, his hair growing long and unkempt and brown, his fingernails filthy claws, his teeth still pointed, his mouth twisted in a sneer. Every detail of the Athkatlan spawn’s appearance was still seared into his mind, and he called them forth with unerring accuracy.

“Are you my penance?” Astarion groused. “Were you ever a real boy at all or just a malignantly adorable spirit sent to plague me?”

“I’m a real man still, lord,” Lucas answered. “No thanks to you.”

“If your intention is to inspire some feeling of guilt in me, you’ll have no luck,” Astarion said, releasing his own disguise so his eyes could flare dramatically red. “While I do take some responsibility for your death, I was also instrumental in arranging its reversal. I think that’s quite enough drama for you for now.”

“You’re going to teach me more magic?” Lucas asked warily, and Astarion nodded. “And we’re going to find them that killed me and gut them?” Astarion nodded a second time. Lucas relaxed a bit and let the borrowed spawn’s features melt away. “I’m not going to stop asking, lord,” he warned.

“Of course you won’t,” Astarion said indulgently. “Your persistence is part of your charm.”

Chapter Text

“Thief!” Pech’s mental shriek startles me out of a sound sleep and I unceremoniously topple from my chair to the carpet.

“And here I thought I was being sneaky,” Shadowheart says with a pout. “I must be out of practice.” She’s looking down at me with her hands on her hips, so I roll to my back and prop myself up on my elbows to offer her my best sleep-addled smile.

“You’re very stealthy, my friend,” I compliment, my head indicating the raven perched on a bedknob. “It’s this hellion that woke me.”

“Ah, your patron’s gift,” she says, approaching the bird warily. “So it’s an alarm system?” I note with some appreciation the way her tailored suit accentuates her curves, and wonder if returning to the city with my lover on my mind has turned me into an unrepentant rake. If Astarion can appreciate style, so can I, I think. No crime in giving beauty its due.

“Gift or curse, depending on the day, but yes, it does have some uses,” I groan as I sit up, so many muscles aching. I eye the chair in which I’d spent the night like I might a torture device.

“She has pretty eyes,” Pech caws at me, its head tilted to the side and angled toward Shadowheart, as if inviting her to stroke it.

“Don’t let it fool you,” I warn, rising uncertainly to my feet. “Pech, leave her and her eyes alone,” I instruct it for good measure.

Shadowheart gives the raven a wide berth after that exchange, and assesses the room. I eschewed the upper suite as far too ostentatious for our needs, and chose instead two smaller rooms, still well-appointed, still graced by an exterior window should an escape be warranted.

“Is he dead?” she asks, looking down at He Who Was, his lanky form sprawled atop the bedcovers, the black leather of his armor caked in dried sewer slime, his head tilted to the side in case his throat continued to bleed. “Why can’t you find friends with a bit of color to their complexion?” she complains good-naturedly. “How’s a healer to know when they’re in need of aid if they always look sickly?”

“He’s had plenty of sun these past months, but his skin’s hue is persistent. As to his condition, it’s my fault,” I sigh, my pangs of guilt matching the penance of my aching back. “We had quite the misadventure in the wee hours, and I merely dumped him there and collapsed in the chair.”

“I checked your room first,” she says, “and found it untouched. Waste of money if you meant to share after all.” As she reaches a hand toward the shadow elf’s brow, I note her fingers are trembling slightly.

“Are you alright?” I ask. I pick up the nearest chair and move it behind her. Rather than snap at me for my concern, she settles gratefully into the chair.

“Still recovering, thank you,” she smiles up at me wanly, tiny smudges of fatigue beneath her eyes. “But it’s nothing serious. We’ve all had quite the tenday. What was this ‘misadventure’ you mention? And why did it involve the sewers?”

I sit gingerly on the bed’s edge to speak with her, regarding the Shadar-kai with a frown of worry. “I had a foolish impulse to enter the palace through the sewers. I thought only of getting to Astarion, even though he’d asked me to wait, and it’s He Who Was who suffered because of my impulsiveness.”

“Patience has never been your strong suit,” she chuckles, squeezing my hand with her own. “Tell me what happened without the added recriminations, would you?”

“We found the sewer entrance destroyed,” I begin, and choke back the rest of my words as her eyes take on the shimmer of grief. “What is it?”

“Did Astarion tell you about Lucas, at your reunion?” she asks, and I nod. “That’s where his body was found, trying to make it home. Astarion destroyed the door himself when he discovered it. Oh Wyll, there was a time when I’d written the vampire lord off as lost. I think if that boy hadn’t fallen into his life, he’d be crouched in that mansion like a fat malignant spider.”

“I shouldn’t have left,” I sigh, conveniently papering over my own struggles with a sense of failure at solving those of others.

“Don’t be an idiot, Wyll,” she says, smacking my fist like a teacher scolding her pupil. “He’d have wrung you dry and you’d both be the worse for it. You needed distance and time, and I daresay it seems your taciturn fellow here helped in his own way. Astarion needed to see what it would cost him to become his master, to see the folly in a vampire’s rules or he’d never have broken them.”

“That was one of the nightmares that plagued me,” I admit. “Him in the darkness plotting and scheming against the city, feeling justified to have his revenge and possessing the power to make it happen.”

“Well, it’s not as much a fantasy as it once was,” Shadowheart sighs. “Let me help your friend as best I’m able and we shall plot a bit for ourselves, hmm? I’m here on Astarion’s behalf to fetch you, if you’re willing, but you’re going nowhere until you’ve had a bath. I can smell you from here.”

“Any help you can offer for his mortal ills I’d appreciate,” I say, standing and taking a few steps back from the bed to lessen my oppressive stench. I hurry to my pack and dig out some incense to light. “But he’s yet to awaken and I fear for his mind.”

Shadowheart closes her eyes and murmurs a few words, a soft silvery glow moving from her hand toward the supine Shadar-kai. Though he looked no less filthy following the blessing, his skin did take on a healthier cast, less wan and more the soft ivory he’d earned on our journey.

“How much do you know of the Shadar-kai?” I ask, and she shrugs tiredly. I can see even the smallest of spells costs her sorely. “They ferry the memories of spirits to their Queen. When there are many spirits whose grievances have gone unanswered, they seem drawn to whoever will listen. It didn’t even occur to me that the depths beneath the palace would be a trap for him.”

“So we shan’t be bringing him along to fight ghosts with us?” she quips, a sad smile softening the jape. “That place is a trap for everyone, in its own way,” she says thoughtfully. “Everyone except for Lucas. He adores it, though he visits far less now that he’s remade the mansion to his liking.”

“Adored it, you mean?” I prompt her gently. “Jaheira told me he’s passed, that it’s driven Astarion to mad feats of power. My own father demanded I return to the city to forestall his execution.”

“No wonder you’re so desperate to reach him,” she sighs. “I’m sorry I wasn’t able to speak with you yestereve. I was no more conscious than your friend here at the time. I can reassure you on two matters: the boy lives, thanks to the largesse of my Lady Selûne and my own not inconsiderable efforts, and the vampire lord is not mad. Well, not in any way that would present a danger to the city as a whole, I’m fairly certain.”

“In truth,” I breathe, sagging in relief, as at least one burden of many lifts from my shoulders. “Then why did Astarion leave the city? He saw that I was here, I know it.”

“I daresay he’ll tell you himself, once you’re safely reunited,” she smiles. “All I know of the matter is that he sought counsel on a subject particular to vampires, and that he found the answers he needed.”

Pech lets out a derisive squawk at the mention of the thinking undead, and I exchange a grudgingly sympathetic glance with it.

“I’m reluctant to leave He Who Was here alone,” I say, my ears still echoing with the torrent of tormented shouts that poured from his throat before I rendered him unconscious.

“I have strength enough to keep him company,” Shadowheart offers. “Nocturne used to help me when my mind was scrambled from the mirror; I’m sure I can calm him should he need it.”

“I’ll thank you for doing so, though I’m not certain he will,” I venture. “I almost fear he’ll abandon us to avoid the press of the city and its people.”

“There can be comfort in silence and nothingness,” Shadowheart says, and I know she understands better than most. “Caring for nothing and no one is a form of freedom. Astarion said as much to me when he was mourning Lucas’ loss, said he wished he’d let him die before he came to care for him. If the Moon Maiden didn’t ask that I show compassion to every soul her silver light touches, I’d be tempted to tell them all to fuck off, myself.”

“Shadowheart the ex-Sharran, true healer and stalwart companion to the masses,” I grin. “Quite a change. How do you like it?”

“It’s awful,” she shudders. “Miserable. I don’t know how you stand it, yet you keep gathering these poor lost fools to you like you’re trying to collect a matched set.”

“I’m no expert in empathy,” I laugh, shaking my head. “If you find a trick to it, I’m all ears.”

“Salving what hurts I can,” she shrugs. “Commending the rest to my Goddess, whether by prayer or by sending them to meet their own gods.” I chuckle at the mischievous glint in her green eyes at the prescription.

“Well, if you’re content to idle here, I shall take this meddlesome raven with me and go see what good I can do at the manor,” I say, taking a deep breath and focusing myself on my task. “Please show my friend some grace should he awaken while I’m gone.”

“I shall, if you agree to show your lover some grace by bathing before you go,” she bargains.

“I will do that and more,” I agree, my heart beating faster at the thought of entering Astarion’s home at last. At entering our home, I think, intent on holding him to his promise. I bow in thanks to Shadowheart, sparing her any physical contact with my smelly self, and command Pech to accompany me to the unused chamber next door.

No matter what we face, I vow as I strip my sweat-soaked armor away and begin to sponge the stench of the sewers from my skin, no one can match us when we stand together. I’m not sure whether my thoughts are naïve or hopeful, but every hero needs a trademark, and if foolish idealism is mine, I’ll embrace it willingly.

Chapter Text

Astarion waited very patiently at the balustrade overlooking the mansion’s foyer – patiently for him, which meant standing still while his fingers tapped a nervous pattern on the painted wood. He could hear the muffled echoes of the servants off at their various tasks, could hear faint sounds from the training room where he’d left Lucas after a brief sparring match, and he could hear the faintest of raps on the front door three stories below. His ear twitched.

He watched, hand now gripping the railing tightly, as Rachel emerged from the kitchens to open the door wide and greet their latest visitor. The two exchanged words of greeting, and Rachel dropped a polite curtsey before moving aside to allow the Blade of Frontiers to stride confidently into the manor like he owned the place. Astarion smiled, still wondering at the change six months had wrought, at the straight back and prideful grin that matched the vampire lord’s own arrogance at times. All traces of the desperate desolation of those times had fled from the soft brown eyes that rose to meet his gaze unerringly, as if Wyll could sense instinctively where he stood.

Astarion held his gaze even as he gestured to cast a spell that let him leap lightly over the railing and drift gently to the marble floor a few feet from his guest. Rachel closed the door and scurried back to the side hallway, where he could hear the other servants gathered in a gaggle ready to gossip incessantly about their master. Well, gossip is a servant’s duty after all, he thought.

Neither man nor vampire spoke for long moments, eyes assessing each other. What an elegant pair we make, both thought, their attire tasteful but luxurious in the soft richness of its fabrics, the colors well suited to each other’s palate. Without a word, Wyll extended his hand to Astarion and the vampire lord suppressed a shiver as he took it.

Wyll raised his arm and Astarion twirled deftly to echo the opening steps of their first dance, all those long months ago. That strong arm wrapped tightly around his back, pressing him flush against a firm chest, the quickness of its rise and fall the only indication of the banked passion within. Astarion let himself sink into the depths of the man’s eyes, a curious sound like the clicking of a lock sounding in his heart as contentment warred with excitement within his own breast.

“It’s so close to my dream,” Wyll murmured, pulling Astarion closer to whisper in his ear. “That night we danced, when you asked me what I was thinking, it was of this.”

“Did you imagine an audience then?” Astarion said, resting his hand on Wyll’s waist even as he heard the heaving of collective sighs from the servants watching them.

“I did,” Wyll chuckled. “And I cared as little for their judgment in my dream as I do now.” His eyes flickered closed as he pressed his lips to Astarion’s, the vampire returning his kiss eagerly.

So much had changed since the ritual, Astarion thought, in both of them. For his part, the return of emotions long deadened by pain threatened to swamp him in an inexorable flood of sensation. His hunger for this man felt as endless as his bloodthirst, but pure and free of fear, free of coercion. They stood there in the foyer of the home they would share and clung to each other, content, kissing with abandon until at last they drew apart with broad smiles.

“Would you like a tour?” Astarion offered, taking Wyll’s hand in his and entwining their fingers.

“I would,” Wyll nodded casually, as if snogging in public were a mundane habit he’d recently adopted. “So long as we start at the top and work our way down, if you don’t mind?”

“Not at all, my love,” Astarion smiled graciously, tugging Wyll along toward one of the sweeping staircases leading to the upper floors. Wyll quickened his steps and Astarion sped his gait to match, keeping a playful distance between them even as they both anticipated their destination.

“This is my boudoir,” Astarion declared, stepping through the double doors to his rooms.

“So I see,” Wyll said, his gaze unwaveringly on his lover’s face. He kicked the door closed behind him and lifted Astarion by the waist, tossing him unerringly onto the bed where the vampire lord spared no thoughts for his dignity as he landed with a bounce, reclining on his back as Wyll stalked toward the bed and climbed up to cover him with his body.

So like their reunion in the forest, yet so unlike, their kisses ardent and their hands tearing at each other’s clothing, feverishly pressing lips to each uncovered bit of flesh. Their first tryst in the bed they’d promised to share, they rushed to make their common dream a reality as fast as they could. Astarion’s back arched at the feeling of Wyll’s lips wrapped around his cock, the warm depths of his mouth so giving and perfect he feared he’d have to learn control anew lest he embarrass himself.

Wyll trailed wet kisses up Astarion’s belly and chest, meeting his mouth and sliding his tongue inside with a hungry gasp. Wyll grasped Astarion’s cock and aligned it with his rear, pulling back to show his lover with his eyes that no fear had followed him to their bed. Astarion gripped Wyll’s hips and raised his own, watching Wyll’s eyes burn with heat and his teeth grit against the delicious stretching of Astarion’s cock sinking into him. Wyll leaned down, almost collapsing on the pale, sweat-slick chest beneath him. Astarion wrapped his arms around him and held him close as they lost themselves to the shuddering, relentless glory of their lovemaking.

Afterward, though it was not yet midday, the two curled up naked in the enormous bed together, blankets rumpled and forgotten, chests heaving with welcome exhaustion. They spared a moment to share a laugh at the ridiculous joy of it all, then let contentment settle into their very bones and mutually resolved to discuss the problems they’d shunted away for a bit.

“I do quite like this room, you know,” Wyll ventured, his voice a soft breath against Astarion’s cheek. “It suits you.”

“Thank you,” Astarion said. “It awaited one last touch to make it perfect.” His smile left no doubt what that touch had been.

“Tell me how I can help,” Wyll said, “besides convincing my father you’re not the city’s enemy.”

“If only that were wholly true,” Astarion sighed, scooting down to rest his head against Wyll’s broad chest, enjoying the tickle of hair against his ear and the steady soothing beat of his love’s heart. How had he ever thought this man weak, he wondered. “I’ve an idea to persuade the populace to my side, of course; they’re easily led. Your father will be a different matter entirely, but I’m more concerned with how his enmity will impede my investigation.”

“Shadowheart said the boy lives?” Wyll asked.

“He does,” Astarion confirmed, “though he suffered a great deal.” He tilted his head up to meet Wyll’s gaze. “What do you know about human teenagers?” he asked with a hint of helplessness that caused Wyll to chuckle.

“Only that I was one, not so long ago,” Wyll laughed, his chest vibrating with good humor.

“He’s sullen and despondent, filled with a rage I can at least understand,” Astarion said. “But he’s gotten it into his head that his only safety lies in power – power he’s practically demanded of me.”

“Was that the journey you undertook? To find out how to grant him his wish?” Wyll asked, his fingertips stroking idly at Astarion’s shoulder until the vampire squirmed a bit and snuggled more firmly against his side.

“It was,” he said. “I found the answers I sought.”

“But you didn’t do it,” Wyll said, and Astarion closed his eyes against the certainty in his tone, the pride and affection he had no experience with or defense against. “Why not?”

“It’s all your fault, of course,” Astarion grumbled against Wyll’s belly. “At his age, you’d made a bargain with your own devil, and that power brought you only pain. I couldn’t bear the thought of being that devil for him.”

“You’re no Mizora, love,” Wyll smiled indulgently.

“But I could be,” Astarion admitted. “My own instincts are ill-suited to these decisions. Were it left solely up to me, I would mold him into the perfect little spawn, obedient and soulless. He’d grow to hate me, I’d make sure of it.”

“If that were true, you’d have done it already,” Wyll said, but Astarion shook his head.

“All I could think of was death,” Astarion confessed. “My own at Cazador’s hand, yours with Raphael, the boy struck down solely to cause me pain. Of course he wants power. He looks at me and sees someone who’s safe from any physical blow the city can strike. I can’t think of a way to convince him he’s wrong, when my every instinct tells me he isn’t.” He propped himself up on one elbow to regard Wyll intently. “Tell me how you did it,” he demanded. “How did you bring yourself to reject my offer. I can’t persuade him when I don’t understand it myself. I’ve never understood it.”

Wyll thought quietly for a long moment, back to that night when he’d turned his lover away, shattered all his own foolish dreams to cling to his humanity. “I think it was all I had left that I could control,” he answered at last. “Even if it was the wrong choice, it was mine. If I’d agreed, I’d have ceded my fate to you, and in that moment, I didn’t know who you were.”

“I’ve yet to discover that myself,” Astarion sighed. “As I said, my instincts are not be trusted. I can’t blame the boy when I’m scarcely more mature than he, as much as it pains me to admit it.”

“Fear makes fools of us all,” Wyll agreed. “When I pacted myself to Mizora, I was more afraid for the city than for my own life. When I refused your offer, I feared for what you’d become with me under your thumb. Perhaps Lucas can’t see beyond his own fear to what it would cost you to rob him of his future. He just needs time to trust himself as much as he thinks he trusts you.”

“I have this vain hope that you’ll speak with him,” Astarion smiled winsomely. “I am happy to unravel the plot that claimed his life, and I find training him to be a far more amusing pursuit than it promised to be at first, but I can’t assuage his fears.”

“If I’m to settle in here,” Wyll said, tugging Astarion’s head down to his chest once more, “I’ll have to befriend him whether I can reach him or not. It’s his home, too, or so I’ve heard.”

“More his than mine,” Astarion snorted. “He laid claim to the lot while I was… indisposed.”

“I’m sure we’ll become fast friends,” Wyll reassured him. “I can assist in his training, impart the better of my father’s lessons. In time, maybe he’ll grow to be the best of us.” Astarion relaxed against Wyll, soaking in the warmth of his skin, and hoped that it was true.

Some hours later, when the two of them left the room to seek out the boy and some supper, they found the training room empty, the man-shaped dummy bristling with knives.

Chapter Text

As he spiraled slowly back to consciousness, He Who Was didn’t so much think as feel. Long millennia in the Shadowfell had hollowed him of emotion. During brief jaunts to the material plane in his Queen’s service, he’d felt countless memories cycle through him, like water flowing through a tap, only for the Shadowfell’s gray nothingness to desiccate him back to a shriveled husk of a man. A century spent in the Shadow Curse had filled his husk to bursting with emotions that burned hot; fury, disgust, a twisted sense of sadistic justice. After the curse’s fall, when that heat had cooled and hardened like his blood on the cave’s stones, he’d searched for replacements, for a new heat. He’d kindled a spark of hatred for the raven, a tiny bit of heat colored by jealousy. The raven still felt. The raven wasn’t hollow, it was filled with a gleeful cruelty, a vicious hunger that led it to Wyll, led it to feed him nightmares until he nearly succumbed to its madness.

He Who Was had lain there in the dark and concentrated on that spark of hatred, tried to fan it into flames that might keep him free. Then Wyll had come and deigned to liberate him, from the cave where he was trapped, from the raven’s madness, and from that flame. Wyll had shared his own memories with him, and He Who Was had listened, let the emotions pour through him as before, with one great difference: he’d stolen the ones he liked.

It was no great crime, this hoarding, though he’d thought his Queen might punish him anyway for daring to clutch at these feelings. She was fickle and difficult to predict. He’d started by stealing, but the longer he stayed at Wyll’s side, the more he learned to coax his own desires to sprout from the fallow ground of his soul. He still let emotions flow through him without much conscious thought, but he found he could filter them, like panning for gold in a stream, and hold fast to the ones he found pleasing.

Until the Tourmaline Depths. Until the dark shades swarmed him and stuffed him full of their screams, sweeping away the tiny treasures he’d collected, drowning out his own cries and replacing everything that he was with their own sorrow.

Now, as his eyes blinked open to see a strange ceiling above him, he wondered if there was anything left of the soul he’d been painstakingly constructing piece by piece. He felt a single overriding emotion twisted around his heart like a clenched fist, and he worried at it until it dissipated like smoke. He had no interest in clinging to it, even if the result made him hollow once again. It was fear, sharp and metallic in his mouth with the taste of his own blood, and he forced it out before it could become all of him. He felt the smallest surge of panic and clung to that, knowing that if he could only see Wyll, he would know what else remained. Or perhaps if he had a drink, the heady haze would prize his close-held memories from their hiding places.

His physical senses returned to him first, the scent of incense heavy in the air almost masking the stench of the sewers. That must be him, he thought, and his nostrils twitched in disgust. A thin felt coverlet was pulled up to his chin, its underside scratchy against the exposed skin of his arms. His right hand was as cold as the rest of him, while his left was warm, a smaller, softer hand clasping his. He slowly turned his head to the side, the muscles of his neck protesting with stabs of pain that almost forced a sound from him.

The cleric sat in a chair at his bedside, her hand in his, her head pillowed on her outstretched arm. At this angle, he could watch her sleeping without her knowing, an act he felt no shame in doing, since she’d likely done the same to him before falling asleep. Her features were a strange mixture of delicate and strong, her nose a gentle slope sprinkled with freckles, her eyelashes long and dark and curled at the ends over smudges of exhaustion, her ear a subtle curve, its pointed tip brushed by the black and silver of her long braided hair.

He Who Was let all these impressions brush through him and tried to sift out some feeling, but the information left no conscious trace, so he continued to look and breathe and pull the warmth from their clasped hands through the rest of his body in an attempt to ease the aching tension in his muscles. The incense had long since burned away to leave only his own stink behind when she finally opened her eyes.

Sleep fogged the soft green of her irises. As she slowly blinked to focus on his face, he felt the stirring of a memory like a string he quickly traced back to its source. Flashes of other memories strobed like sunbeams through his mind, and he locked his gaze on her eyes and tightened the grip of his hand in hers and remembered the river flowing cool and silken over his bare legs, the sun warming his shoulders, the adrenaline of the fight in the Underdark, the pride in his own prowess as he cut down his share of their foes, the concern that led him to foolishly shield the cleric with his body, and the embarrassment that flushed his cheeks when he’d realized his error. He let that last one slip away, but held tight to the rest.

Shadowheart raised her head, brow furrowing at the inscrutably black eyes staring shamelessly at her. He Who Was noted the red impression on her cheek where it had rested on her sleeve, finding the furrow strangely fascinating.

“You’re awake,” she said perfunctorily, as if there were nothing strange about his actions. She looked down at their hands and tugged at hers, but he gripped it more tightly, determined not to release her hand until she grew angry at him, or annoyed, or some other reaction he could only guess at but desperately wanted to see. She stared right back at him, more curious than any of those other things, and he waited for a question so he could refuse to answer. “Are we having a staring contest?” she whispered, and he recognized the same glint of mischief in her eyes that Wyll often got when he was teasing.

He refused to answer, only continued to stare at her stoically, the dark swirls of tattoos on his face making his expression all the more unreadable. She propped her chin in her free hand, her elbow sinking slightly into the thin mattress, and stared right back at him. He felt a hum of tension building in his chest, an uncertainty, a risk like he was tossing dice with no idea how they’d land and no idea of the stakes.

“Wyll left you in my care,” she finally said at a normal volume. “He was very worried about your mental state, and I must say, your actions are not reassuring in that regard.”

He Who Was blinked at this, his first movement in what may have been hours. He wondered at the building tension suddenly snapping at the thought of Wyll’s concern. His friend, who for no discernible reason, cared enough to worry about him. He considered keeping hold of her hand in the hopes of squeezing more concerns from her, but his newly remembered pride looked down on the idea of her thinking him addled. He did tighten his grip just a bit before forcing his stiff fingers to unclench, locking his jaw against the sharp pain in his joints.

Shadowheart must have sensed his discomfort despite his efforts. She turned down the blanket to his waist and lightly kneaded at the taught muscles of his bicep. “Hmm,” she murmured. “I’ve seen this with those tortured by lightning. You must be in a great deal of pain.”

He opened his mouth to respond with a sarcastic ‘yes’ and could only manage a grunt as his throat erupted with a fiery rawness that tasted of blood. He began to cough, his body curling against his will as clots of blood drooled from his mouth. Shadowheart took a soft rag from the bedside table and pressed it to his lips, her other hand cradling the back of his head until at last the fit ended, leaving him trembling, his throat rough with agony.

“I know it hurts,” she said, and he managed to frown at her understatement. “I’ll fetch you something for the pain. Try and close your eyes, and don’t try to speak.” She lowered his head to the pillow and stood to walk toward the door. He felt that flare of panic again until she turned back toward him. “I’ll only be a moment,” she said, then she was gone. He closed his eyes and tried to will his body to relax but the pain had hold of him and refused to relent. He stared at the ceiling instead, surmising they must be at the inn Wyll had mentioned. How they’d arrived here from the mansion’s depths eluded him, unless Wyll had turned away from his quest to ferry him here. A flush of shame suffused his cheeks at the thought that his weakness had cost his friend the reunion he’d so desperately sought.

So great was that sense of shame that He Who Was refused to open his eyes when he heard Shadowheart return to sit again at his side. He smelled the sharp heat of alcohol and the tang of citrus, and felt her calloused fingers behind his neck, so he opened his eyes just enough to see the mug she held to his lips. He bit back a groan as she helped him raise his head and sip at the warm drink, almost groaning again in relief as it burned its way down his throat, strangely soothing.

“It’s hot whiskey with lemon and clove,” she said softly. “I sent a lad to fetch some healing potions, and unless he absconds with my coin, he should be back in a bit.” She tilted the cup again and he took another eager sip. She held his head up, his own strength too spent to help, and he found himself impressed by her steadiness. In four sips he’d managed to drain the cup, a welcome lassitude spreading through his limbs, and he lay back down.

“Now,” she said with a nod of emphasis, “you stink. There are two ways we could rectify that: we can wait for those potions, or I could bathe the worst of the sewer off. I’m inclined toward the former, but I’ll give you the option.”

He Who Was thought for a moment, staring into her calm green eyes, then tore his gaze away and lifted his head, looking meaningfully at the sponge tray on the bedside table. He even managed to jerk his head once in that direction against the protestations of his neck, then sagged back against the pillow with a sigh and awaited his bath, that thrumming tension in his chest returning at the thought of her touch on his skin.

“Good, we’ll wait then,” she said, either not noticing or purposefully ignoring his gesture. He frowned at her as she pulled the blanket back up to his throat, the frown easing only a fraction as she took his hand in hers. “Should I tell you a bedtime story?” she teased. He only narrowed his eyes to slits, the last thing he saw as he closed them fully was her full lips curving in a smile.

Shadowheart waited until the Shadar-kai’s breathing grew even with sleep, her eyes soft with curiosity. His appearance remained fierce even as he lay vulnerable. She sighed at her own bone-deep exhaustion, her recovery interrupted by Wyll’s arrival and Astarion’s plea to find him. She vowed to be less indulgent of the vampire’s requests in future. Let his lover coddle him now, she had her own tasks to accomplish. Then she chuckled at herself and leaned forward to rest her cheek on her arm, knowing that she was bluffing and could deny her friend nothing.

She drifted off to sleep, a prayer of gratitude on her lips, thankful that her Lady didn’t begrudge her the softness of her heart, even if her taste in friends was suspect.

Chapter Text

Lucas knew everything was wrong. Everything he felt, everything he thought, everything was just wrong. Even the straightness of his leg, its smooth unblemished skin, felt wrong. His insides were a turbulent mass of anger wrapped in a pretty suit of skin, and only the anger felt like it was really him.

He’d been training hard this morning, determined to re-adjust to his rightened gait, to drive this restored body to its limits, and to practice all the things his lord had tried to teach him before; the things that he had balked at back when he hadn’t wanted to hurt anyone, the things he gloried in now that he wanted to hurt nearly everyone. The rage helped him to focus, cutting here and there on the training dummy. Any time the boiling stew of anger that was his guts threatened to bubble up a protest or a sliver of fear and helplessness slid its way into his spine like an icy needle, he’d burn it all away with violence.

The hapless dummy took on many guises in his fevered imaginings, only one wholly deserved. His memories were blurry, red-tinged with pain and smeared with tears and blood, but when he’d first awakened and found himself restrained and somehow clothed in his old sewer-soaked rags, he’d focused on assessing his surroundings in as much detail as possible. He could recount to his lord the texture of the gray stone walls, the thickness of the leather straps, the shape and relative sharpness of every implement, the timbre of every voice, and the painted metal masks and rough black robes each of them wore.

Why did they wear those masks, with sharp iron teeth and snapping metal jaws? As Lucas plunged his dagger into the dummy right under its stupid stuffed chin where his blade would bypass those masks, he got angrier and angrier until the dummy wasn’t wearing a mask at all but had a young, human face. A handsome, smiling face that Lucas had never seen, so it more resembled Ulder Ravengard, but younger and with hair. Because of all the wrong thoughts in which Lucas was indulging, the foremost was that that Wyll Ravengard was to blame for all of this.

First for leaving the vampire lord all alone to scream at shadows, that earned his effigy a stab to the gut. Second for keeping his lord away an extra day, leaving Lucas to die alone in the muck trying his best to return to an empty house, that earned him a slash to the throat. And third for finally showing up, only to distract his lord with dancing and kissing and fucking and laying around in bed all day when his lord had promised, had promised him he would find the people in the masks and make them pay.

That earned the dummy a stab to the groin.

As Lucas left the dagger stuck there, quivering, he tried out a snarl, the kind he liked to think he would make if he had a vampire’s power and he had claws and fangs and intimidating red eyes. That earned another stab, since Lucas was certain it was that Wyll’s fault his lord wouldn’t give him power. That stupid Wyll’s fault his lord thought humans were strong enough on their own, as if a pampered Duke’s son with the magic to turn a devil lady to stone were the same as a boy who counted himself lucky to eat once a tenday growing up.

Lucas added more knives, practiced more snarls, and rolled his plans over and over in his head until they were coated in murderous purpose. Then he unlocked his lord’s big weapons chest and ran his delicate fingers over each, the memory of those fingers broken and twisted overlaying his vision until he bit his lip to push the vision back. He chose one dagger with a sinuous curve and a hungry feeling to the steel, and one shortsword with no guard at the hilt and a wicked point that seemed to draw the shadows to cling to it like a lover. He carried the weapons down to the room for adventuring, where he fit himself with leather armor, taking care to avoid looking in the mirror until it was time for his real disguise. He wanted to don one of the suits of Drow armor, the cruel blackness of it and the stiff strapping across the abdomen felt like it could contain the roiling of his guts and protect them from most blows, but he opted for a more common looking suit, not trusting his own abilities at the magical disguise, even with the ring to shore up his confidence.

When he was outfitted like a proper rogue with all his wickedness sheathed and hidden, he stood in front of the long mirror looking down at his boots. He closed his eyes and thought of his goal, something subtle, little touches that would armor him in their own way. Then he spoke the words of the spell and opened his eyes. Satisfied, he drew up the hood of his cloak and made his way through the ballroom on light feet. He’d go out through the sewers, through the green miracle. He didn’t think he’d ever go out the front again. The Upper City didn’t want him any more than he wanted it. He was shut of it. He’d keep to the underground where he knew the dangers. His lord and his noble lover could have the front of the house, could keep the servants and the white paint and the windows and the sunlight.

He could feel the broad green cavern calling to him as he descended the lift and he spared a moment to stand at the top of the stairs there and regard the space below. He wondered how his lord would’ve felt if he’d failed, if his master had become the big ascending vampire instead of him, if his friends that had promised to help him get his vengeance and his power had just laughed and told him to forget about how much things hurt.

He looked at the open space where the sarcophagus used to squat, wondering if it wouldn’t have all been better if he’d just left his lord in there to sleep away the century. If whoever hated his lord so much would’ve left it all alone if he’d just disappeared. If they would’ve let Lucas be, instead of stabbing him in a slow dying spot and leaving his feet unharmed so he’d have just enough life left in him to make it back. Lucas bit his lip again at that thought. If that Wyll hadn’t kept his lord away, his lord would have been here to save him, and Lucas wouldn’t have this stupid smooth skin and this boiling angry belly.

He tasted blood from his bit lip and that squashed those thoughts. He wondered how blood tasted to a real vampire spawn, did it taste like wine or did it still taste like blood only you’d like it? So long as his lord denied him he’d have to stick to guessing.

He slid through the gaping hole where the sewer door had been, keeping close to the side in case the middle was trapped, sparing no thought as to how it came to be there. He ignored the spot where he’d fallen, ignored the mirror shards and the tattered fliers. He was playing a role, and that role wasn’t scared of anything. He crept through the sewers shrouded in his black cloak and hood, on his way to frighten someone else for a change.

It was far quicker to move underground than through the city streets, so it was only midafternoon when Lucas got to his destination. The alley behind the tenant block was dim enough he didn’t bother with the door or the stairs, just scampered to the right second-floor window and braced himself on a drainpipe while he slid a utility knife across the latch. He could see most of the small room through the window, though the curtains were half-drawn. A tall man sat at a little round table, one hand tugging at his hair while the other scratched away with a quill. He was concentrating so intently on his writing he didn’t hear the window open or Lucas land lightly on the balls of his feet just inside. Lucas crouched there for a moment, pondering what would be the scariest way to do this. He decided a whisper would do.

“Writing my eulogy, Harper?” he said softly. Geraldus, to his credit, moved swiftly despite being caught unawares, putting the table between himself and the window and reaching for a well-worn shortbow before he had a chance to see his visitor.

Then it was Lucas’ turn to be caught off guard, as Geraldus abandoned the bow and covered the ground between them in two long strides. He enfolded Lucas in a hug so strong he lifted the boy off his feet. Lucas dangled there for a bit, torn between chagrin and annoyance, before he hissed in the Harper’s ear and squirmed his way free. Geraldus looked down at him, smiling, and Lucas frowned. Geraldus was ruining his plan.

“Should’ve known he wouldn’t give you up so easy,” Geraldus sighed happily. “Come sit, let me look at you.”

“I didn’t come for a chat,” Lucas snarled, determined to carry through despite this unexpected setback. “I came to find out why you lied. Spit it out and I’ll let you keep enough fingers to draw a bow.” He tilted his chin up so the light could set his red eyes to gleaming, and turned up the corner of his mouth in a snide grin so one ivory fang could show.

Instead of fear, Geraldus just looked bewildered and a little sad. He backed up a step and sat down heavily in his abandoned chair. “All the lessons you could’ve learned from him and this is the one you picked?”

“Don’t insult my lord,” Lucas threatened.

“Or what?” Geraldus scoffed. “You going to dangle me by the neck like your master did? That what you want me to think? That he went and made you a spawn and you’re here to beat information out of me?”

“He did make me a spawn,” Lucas insisted. “We’re hunting down them that killed me, and I’m going to drink their blood.”

“Not with that spell,” Geraldus said, grabbing a pair of simple cups from a nearby shelf. “Sure the armor’s real enough, but you’re too warm to be a spawn. You came in without an invitation, and cloak or no, it’s broad daylight out.”

“I’m very special,” Lucas said with a bit of hesitation, and Geraldus nodded indulgently. “My lord is powerful so his spawn don’t follow those stupid rules.”

“Too bad, then,” Geraldus sighed, unstopping a small earthen jug and pouring a few inches of clear brown liquid into both cups. “Wouldn’t want to waste this whiskey on a spawn what only likes the taste of blood.”

“No one’s supposed to know,” Lucas warned, edging toward the chair opposite the Harper.

“That you’re alive or that you’re not a spawn?” Geraldus asked, pushing one cup toward Lucas taking a sip out of his own.

“That I’m alive again,” Lucas sighed, slumping into the chair and holding the cup in both hands, staring into it.

“Then why did you really come here?” Geraldus asked. “Not to put my mind at ease, obviously. I’m only your closest friend.” He took another sip of his drink to hide his wounded pout.

“I didn’t…” Lucas frowned, then took a sip of the fiery liquor to cover his own consternation.

“Didn’t what?” Geraldus demanded. “Think I’d understand what it’s like to be nothing but bait? To be alive only because the ones with all the power happened to evade the trap you fell into?”

“My lord wasn’t even home to fall into any trap,” Lucas grumbled, liking the way resentment and whiskey mixed in his stomach.

“Neither was Jaheira,” Geraldus said flatly, tipping another splash of liquor into each of their cups.

“He wouldn’t do it, you know,” Lucas said. “Make me a spawn. He told me to take some money and bugger off somewhere out of the city.” He took a bigger sip.

“Of course he did,” Geraldus said, rolling his eyes. “Jaheira tried to do the same to me. Thought to toss me out of the Harpers, send me back to the Dales to tell my father his sixth son’s a failure.”

“Why would she do that?” Lucas wondered. “You’re a crack shot, and I’ll bet you’re a good spy when nobody already knows you are one.”

“I’m a passable spy,” Geraldus said with a shrug. “Better than most. Not up to handling a den of doppelgangers on my own, but that’s no small feat for anyone, even the High Harper herself.”

“That must’ve been scary,” Lucas said, red eyes crinkling with concern.

“Still no excuse to try and push me out,” Geraldus said. “Just like it’s no excuse to try and push you out just because of what happened. I’m not sorry you’re not a spawn, though. I won’t be sorry for that.” He pointed his cup emphatically at Lucas, then took a drink.

“Do you think it was a doppelganger?” Lucas asked. “Or did you really lie to my lord?”

“About the party?” Geraldus frowned. “Why would I lie? We didn’t even know you were…” he trailed off and drained his cup to cover his sudden pang of grief. “Can’t rule out the possibility. They’d certainly have no great love for Astarion. He carved up quite a few of them. Said they tasted foul, though.”

“Do they have other magic, besides changing their shapes?” Lucas asked. “When the carriage came for me, and I saw that it was me inside, I got in without thinking about it twice, and then I blinked and I was somewhere else.”

“They have about as much magic as most, I suppose,” Geraldus said, thinking. “If the Hhunes are helping them, they’d have no shortage of coin to buy it.”

“I’ll have to pry it out of them, then,” Lucas said with a decisive nod, draining his own cup.

“You think they’ll tell you when they turned away your master?” Geraldus said, shaking his head. “They threw him out and called the Grand Duke to arrest him. And he’s a hero of the Gate, not a little one like you.”

“They don’t know I’m alive again,” Lucas said. “I don’t have to ask all polite.”

“You can’t go in there pretending to be some spawn,” Geraldus warned. “Astarion’s in enough trouble as it is after what he did.”

“What did he do?” Lucas demanded, slamming his cup down on the table.

“Only called up a plague of rats and bats and wolves and zombies,” Geraldus said with a wave of his hand. “Floated in the air above High Hall like a madman and terrorized the city, sent them creatures scuttling all over to find you. Duke Ravengard wants to lop off his head at the Basilisk Gate for it.”

“But…” Lucas sat back in his chair, frowning, as Geraldus refilled both their cups.

“So if you go harass the Hhunes looking like a spawn, just know it’s your master’s head you’re risking,” Geraldus said intently, lifting his cup and sloshing a little over the side.

“He didn’t tell me that,” Lucas said sullenly, leaning forward to sip from the overfull cup without lifting it.

“You could try doing the one thing Astarion’s terrible at,” Geraldus suggested.

“Making a plan?” Lucas guessed, and Geraldus nodded.

“Neither of us is leaving the city,” Geraldus vowed. “Not until we unravel this plot and get you your revenge. Let the vampire lord worry after his own head in the meantime. We’ll pay a visit to the Hhunes.”

“I was thinking to sneak in, though,” Lucas said gently. “You’re not much good at sneaking, if you don’t mind my saying.”

“That’s the Gods’ own truth,” Geraldus concurred. “In the city, at least. I’d put you to shame in the forest, mark my words.” Lucas nodded. “So while you do the sneaking and the interrogating, I’ll do what I learned early on for when my brothers wanted to get away with something.”

“What’s that?” Lucas wondered.

“Make a distraction, of course,” Geraldus said, as if it were obvious, and he clinked his glass against Lucas’.

Chapter Text

“Did I gift you that ensemble?” Astarion asked, using one long finger to pull his darkened glasses down to the tip of his nose so he could rake Wyll with an appreciative gaze.

“You did not,” Wyll said, smoothing the front of his simply tailored leather suit of teal and gold. “I have a great many things in storage, and I am perfectly capable of dressing myself.” He grinned at the vampire lord as they strolled through the Upper City on their way to the Elfsong, Pech circling lazily above them, much to the dismay of the passers-by, who visibly flinched at the sight of his glossy black wings.

“Hmph,” Astarion sniffed, pushing his glasses back into place to hide his red eyes from the nervous crowds. “Since you look quite dashing, I shall allow it.”

“Your largesse knows no bounds,” Wyll teased. Though the streets bustled with midday traffic, their casual promenade was decidedly unmolested. Even the most harried of travelers gave Astarion a wide berth, eyeing him nervously and whispering to their companions. “It’s not as if you could start a row with me in public should my fashion sense prove too disappointing,” Wyll added. “You’re a wanted man in this city.”

“Darling, I’m a wanted man in every city,” Astarion sighed, as if the weight of his own infamy were too great to bear. “But I do prefer admirers to scolds, so while you’re liberating that pale companion of yours from Shadowheart’s clutches, I shall be repairing my reputation with the common folk.”

“I can fetch him later, if you’d like some company,” Wyll proposed. “I’m curious as to your plan.”

“I’m afraid that just will not do,” Astarion said, shaking his head. “My plan entails a little bit of lying, a little bit of bribery, and the tiniest bit of earnest sentiment. Were you there to witness my performance, I would be hard pressed to keep a straight face.” He paused near the tavern’s mailbox and turned to face Wyll, leaning both hands on his walking stick.

“Then I’ll collect He Who Was and pay a visit to my father at the barracks,” Wyll said, reaching out to rub Astarion’s upper arm gently, as if he could bear only a few moments without offering a reassuring touch.

“Oh good, a nice chat with your father always puts you in such an angry mood. I shall look forward to you bringing that frustration to our bed this evening,” Astarion smiled.

“You’d do well not to mention my father and our bed in the same sentence,” Wyll chuckled, his hand grasping Astarion’s shoulder and pulling him closer. “I mean to ask him about the investigation into Lucas’ murder.”

“What investigation would that be?” Astarion said disdainfully. “What’s one young life worth when there was a disturbance of the peace! In Baldur’s Gate! That cannot stand!”

“Now, now,” Wyll said soothingly. “I will make him see reason, at least as concerns the tiny little ruckus you caused.” Astarion smirked at his understatement. “Then we’ll find your young ward and bring what justice we can.”

“I imagine he’s sought out the solace of Ilmater’s temple, or perhaps he’s taken to the sewers for the moment,” Astarion said with a tiny crease of concern between his eyes.

“We’ll find him,” Wyll promised, his hand settling on the back of Astarion’s neck, reassuringly strong.

“So we shall,” Astarion nodded, then pressed a chaste kiss to Wyll’s forehead. “Now let us to our various and sundry errands. I’ll be sure to spare a glance to ensure the gallows are well maintained, mind you. I refuse to be executed in squalor.”

“No blade will touch your neck while I draw breath, love,” Wyll said, his seriousness at odds with Astarion’s light tone. “I’ve seen it in my nightmares and that was enough.”

“Have a drink or two and you’ll forget all about it,” Astarion quipped, extricating himself gracefully from Wyll’s grip and meandering his way down the street toward the harbor. Wyll watched him go with a small smile playing across his lips, then turned to enter the tavern.

The crowd was thin in the time between luncheon and supper, so Wyll had little difficulty spotting He Who Was seated at a small round table close to the fire. A line of bottles was arranged on the table before him from small to large, and he stared into the flames unblinking while sipping from a delicate glass. Wyll sighed at seeing him awake and at least outwardly unharmed, and clapped him on the shoulder as he approached.

“I can’t tell you how glad I am to see you up and about,” he said happily, sinking into one of the empty chairs and reaching for the smallest bottle. Finding it empty, he shook each successive one until one rewarded him with a liquid sloshing sound. “Feeling well enough to drink, are you? Where’s Shadowheart?” He took a sip and coughed at the sharpness of the grain alcohol.

“She is resting upstairs,” He Who Was said, his voice still rough with ill use. He looked into his glass and swirled it before draining the contents in one quick gulp. “Thank you for bringing me out of that place,” he added. “It must have been no small feat. You have my gratitude, once again.”

“No need for thanks between us,” Wyll said, shaking his head. “It was my foolishness that led you to the trap, only fair that I bring you out of it.”

“If you wish,” He Who Was shrugged. “I take it by the smugness of your grin that you’ve reunited with your vampire?”

“Indeed,” Wyll said agreeably. “Although his true nature is but a matter of rumor, so perhaps ‘Astarion’ will do when we’re in public.” He Who Was only snorted at that, and Wyll took it as a good sign that his sense of humor escaped his ordeal unscathed.

“Now that you are safe in the city, perhaps I should take my leave of you,” He Who Was muttered, almost involuntarily.

“What? Why would you say that?” Wyll said with surprise. “Are we to divorce so soon? Our deep bonds of affection yet unconsummated?”

“You jest, but this is your realm, yours and the… Astarion’s,” He Who Was grumbled in an oddly self-pitying tone exacerbated by the telltale signs of intoxication. “Politics and parties… what will I do besides stand behind you, listening to you argue?”

“First, you’re extremely intimidating even when you’re not trying to be,” Wyll said earnestly. “Second, do you know how we spent our days in the city when I was last here?” He Who Was shook his head, so Wyll began to count on his fingers. “We solved a serial murder case by foiling a Dwarvish assassin’s attempt to join the Bhaalist cult, we killed a Chosen of Bhaal and one of Bane, multiple giant steel robots powered by tadpoled zombie brains, Sahuagin in an underwater prison…”

“I don’t know that last,” He Who Was interrupted grumpily.

“They’re fish people monsters and they smell horrible,” Wyll explained, then continued counting. “We destroyed a green hag that had swallowed a child, a pack of doppelgangers, the Zhentarim, Shadowheart’s former Sharran cloister, not to mention an elder vampire and his minions. Oh, and mindflayers including a dominated red dragon atop an elder brain mutated by a Netherese artifact.” He paused and took a quick drink. “I may have forgotten some.”

“You’ve shared none of those memories with me,” He Who Was said.

“I’ve shared with you the thoughts that haunted me,” Wyll shrugged, leaning back in his chair. “Fighting monsters has never caused me to lose a wink of sleep.”

“Only bedding them,” He Who Was remarked.

“My point is, I will not forsake you even if the days to come hold nothing but boredom,” Wyll insisted. “I don’t toss my friends aside so easily, and this city isn’t nearly so peaceful as you imagine. Besides, I promised your Queen I’d keep a close eye on you.”

“I would see this fight with Astarion’s master through your eyes, if you are willing,” He Who Was ventured, refilling his glass.

“What do you remember of the spirits that assailed you there?” Wyll asked.

“Only that they were many and mad and desperate to be heard,” He Who Was said flatly, tossing back the liquor in his glass. He was silent for a long moment, thinking of that torrent of bewilderment and terror rushing through him like flood waters, dark and oily, washing away so much of what he’d gained, drowning the sense of self he’d been painstakingly building. He considered confessing that to Wyll, then only grunted and poured himself another drink.

“How long have you been down here drinking?” Wyll asked, frowning.

“It was light when I came downstairs and it is light now,” He Who Was responded. “What do I know of time?”

“Does she bother you, the tavern ghost?” Wyll wondered aloud, gesturing toward the ceiling above them.

“She does not. It is enough for her that the guests listen,” He Who Was said. “She troubles only my ears. I wish she would learn a new song.”

“Well, I suppose you’ve earned a day of drinking, though I’m surprised Shadowheart hasn’t joined you,” Wyll said. “I’d thought to go and see my father. Are you too drunk to stand and glower? I doubt the conversation will grow too heated, now that I know more of what’s occurred.”

“I am not too drunk to stand,” He Who Was said, the slight slurring of his words casting doubt on that assertion. “I shall glower as you wish, then I would like to go to a brothel.” He ignored his full glass and opted to take a long swallow from the bottle instead.

“You want to what?” Wyll said, frowning in confusion.

“A brothel is a place where one can purchase sexual partners, is it not?” He Who Was said. “I saw an advertisement.”

“Not exactly,” Wyll said slowly. “You don’t buy people, you pay for the pleasure of their company.”

“And for sex,” He Who Was prompted.

“Usually,” Wyll confirmed. “How did you develop this sudden urge? I’m not judging, mind you. I just thought you wanted something more. You told me at the village fair you wanted what I’d found with Astarion. That you wouldn’t settle for less. A warm body for coin is not the same, my friend.”

He Who Was toyed with his glass with one hand, the other still grasping the liquor bottle. “I have forgotten everything that is warm and alive,” he finally managed. “It concerns me that I will not possess the necessary skill to please a lover, should I find myself drawn to one.”

“You… you want to practice?” Wyll said, biting his lip to force a serious look onto his face.

“It is no different than training at arms,” He Who Was said, nodding his head decisively, if a trifle sloppily.

“Did you spend much time sparring in the Shadowfell?” Wyll asked.

“No,” He Who Was said, shaking his head a few more times than the simple response required.

“And yet the first time I saw you fight, you did not doubt your own abilities,” Wyll pointed out. “You prevailed over seasoned warriors with ease.”

“You are saying that this body will perform adequately even without training?” He Who Was drawled sarcastically.

“Well you know the basics, don’t you?” Wyll probed. “Anatomy? And you don’t have to jump straight into sex, you know. A nice kiss to start? If you’re embarking upon a grand love affair, it could be quite some time before the more advanced skills come into play at all.”

“How did you persuade your vamp- Astarion to come to love you?” He Who Was asked, regarding Wyll intently, if not entirely without drifting sideways.

“If I knew, believe me, I would tell you,” Wyll said with a self-deprecating chuckle. “I do know it wasn’t my skills in the bedroom that won him, since I had none.” He took a contemplative sip from another of the bottles, marveling at the variety He Who Was had managed to order. “It wasn’t pleasure he sought, anyway, in the beginning. I haven’t asked him, but I’m not certain he really enjoyed himself before our reunion. Things were… fraught, to say the least.”

“I will think on the matter,” He Who Was said. “Just know that it is not enough that I know these ‘basics’ or that this body can thrust on instinct. I will not be satisfied fumbling about like a fool.”

“Then I have a suggestion, before you start tossing your purse at prostitutes,” Wyll said, clinking his bottle against the one in his companion’s hand. “I’m going to lend you some books.”

Having left Wyll at the Elfsong, Astarion headed south. The tap tap of his walking stick against the cobblestones had a jaunty rhythm to it, and he smiled at the touch of the sun on his face, unperturbed by the stares and whispers of the other travelers. His stride was long and he felt alive and invigorated in a way he hadn’t in many months. Though he considered this line of thinking to be risky, he admitted to himself that he just might be happy. After all, conspirators threatening his station by stalking and murdering his companions was nothing new, and Wyll’s father plotting against him was almost welcome, given how much he despised the sanctimonious stink of the man. Compared to the past two centuries, his future might be less dire than at any time since he’d accepted Cazador’s ‘gift’.

So it was with a broad smile on his face that he entered the bustling press room of the Baldur’s Mouth Gazette. Out of deference to the mystery surrounding his true nature, that smile was devoid of fangs, only blunt, bright white and boring omnivore’s teeth. He left his dark-lensed glasses on for the moment and inhaled a deep breath of air redolent with paper and ink.

“Who let you in?” a gruff voice demanded from his left and slightly downward. Malek Stones came out from behind his desk and approached Astarion with a wary stare. “If you want to complain about the story, complaints department is in the alley out back.” The dwarf placed his hands on his hips and glared up at the elf.

“My dear Malek, I see you’ve had the desk lowered. It suits you,” Astarion said, leaning on his cane and beaming an innocent smile at the current editor in chief. “I have no intention of complaining about your coverage of recent events. I know it is your duty as a man of integrity to print the truth.”

“Then what brings you ‘round, saer?” Malek asked suspiciously. “Come to cancel your subscription?”

“Indeed not,” Astarion said, shaking his head. “I have come to offer you an exclusive. My confession and, more to the point, my motivation.” His smile faded and a mournful look overtook his face.

“Oh, so it wasn’t a lark? There’s some sob story behind you setting the streets to scurrying?” The dwarf frowned but his eyes lit with curiosity.

“There is a story,” Astarion promised. “It is a tale of charity and woe, of skullduggery and murder, and of the pursuit of justice.”

“Are you gonna cry?” Malek asked, his eyes narrowing.

“I will attempt to refrain from too much weeping, but I may shed an errant tear in the telling of my tale,” Astarion sighed, doffing his glasses to reveal the wet sheen glimmering in his deep blue eyes.

“Go back to the office, then. I’ll send in Lens and some tea,” Malek directed, pointing a thick finger at a Tiefling reporter sitting at her desk and surreptitiously watching them both. He jerked his thumb at her and she grabbed a pen and stack of paper and headed for the door he indicated.

“My thanks for your indulgence, good saer,” Astarion inclined his head. “Perhaps I shall increase the fees I pay for my current subscription out of gratitude.”

“Don’t bother, unless you’ve money burning a hole in your pocket,” Malek warned. “And don’t slip any coin to Lens, either. She’ll write the truth if’n you tell it.”

“I wouldn’t dream of lying,” Astarion said, placing his hand on his heart. He followed Lens into the small side office and proceeded to regale her with his story until the sky had darkened to the gray of dusk. All the best lies hold kernels of truth, and all the best liars know to hew as closely to fact as possible, so Astarion told of his loneliness after the untimely death of his master and the scattering of the heroes who defeated the Absolute. How he’d discovered a poor lost orphan boy and thought to raise him as an adopted son, only for the boy to go missing.

It was then that he bent the story a bit. Well, a little bit more.

“There are rumors that you’re not really an elf, saer,” Lens said, pausing in her scribbling. “Or not entirely at least. That you might be…”

“…a vampire?” Astarion asked with a chuckle, taking a sip of tea from a strangely delicate teacup. He’d imagined a newsroom would have no-nonsense mugs. “Did I not walk here in broad daylight, madame?” he said, smiling with those blunt teeth and letting a hint of humor tint his eyes a brighter blue. “While I do admit to some eccentricity and a fondness for the reddest of wines, do I seem particularly undead to you?” He offered Lens his wrist. “Take a sniff, if you’re curious.”

“Bergamot, rosemary, and some kind of liqueur?” Lens ventured, inhaling deeply.

“No underlying hint of decay?” Astarion teased, and she blushed in response. “I confess in my studies I have dabbled in a spell or two of the necromantic persuasion, but never to excess. At least, not until I was driven to such extremes in my desperation to find my poor, dear Lucas.” He let his breath hitch a bit and took out a handkerchief to press it to the corner of his eye.

“So you sent the creatures hunting for him?” Lens asked, her eyes round with sympathy. “Did you find him, my lord?” she asked hopefully.

“I did,” Astarion said softly, his hands crushing and kneading the silk handkerchief. “Just not in time.” His tone was solemn and thick with bereavement, all the best lies being based in truth. “He was tormented in an exceedingly cruel fashion and succumbed to his wounds while crawling and struggling to reach his home.” Astarion stopped, a teardrop falling onto the handkerchief where it glimmered like a diamond.

“Do the authorities have any suspects?” Lens asked gently, mindful of his grief.

“They declined to investigate his disappearance, so I have little faith in their investigation of his murder,” Astarion said uncharitably. “The Flaming Fists are far more concerned with my regrettable actions. And I do regret them,” he said earnestly, leaning forward, his expression one of contrition. “I was out of my mind with worry over him, and in my madness, I summoned what pitiful allies I have and sent them amongst the people, to search, not to harm. But I am sorry for the fear that I caused, and can only hope that no one suffered any lasting harm from my unfortunate lapse in judgment. Every citizen has my deepest and most sincere apology.”

“Thank you,” Lens said solemnly, her wary gaze well softened by Astarion’s appeal. “What will you do?”

“Well,” Astarion said with a heavy sigh, slumping back in his chair. “I will discover what clues I may and devote the entirety of my fortune to finding the culprits. Perhaps someone has some hidden knowledge of the matter and might see your article. Perhaps your words can move their hearts to confess. I will of course express my gratitude both in word and coin, should the information prove actionable.” He gave Lens a rueful smile. “You know, when Lucas came to me, he was unable to read,” he said with a second sigh. “I helped him to learn but there are surely others who share his plight. Do you by chance have a reputable artist on staff?”

And so it was that another pot of tea was poured and shared whilst the vampire lord, his disguise intact, painted a portrait of the poor murdered urchin in words so that a halfling girl could draw him in earnest. Two pictures she drew: one of a boy with huge blue eyes and blonde curls and a shy smile; the other of that same face bruised and battered and besmirched with blood, those eyes closed forever. When the pictures were finished the artist lay them side by side and she and Lens gazed down at them with tears in their own eyes.

“He looks like a proper angel,” the artist breathed through a sob, and Lens nodded, and Astarion agreed.

It was at about that time, with day turning to dusk turning to night, that the proper angel was burgling Hhune manor while his Harper friend assaulted its front door.

Chapter Text

“Are you going to get in trouble?” Lucas asked as he lead Geraldus through the sewers beneath the Upper City wall.

“Probably,” Geraldus said, shrugging in such a way the longbow slung across his back dipped and rose. He’d donned his full gear of studded leather armor, bow and arrows, and a longsword even as Lucas had questioned his sobriety. Geraldus had assured his friend that growing up with five older brothers made him adept at sobering up quickly when a fight broke out. “But as you said, I’m a shite spy. I’d rather face it head on.”

“It’s a house full of nobles, what trouble will there be besides a few guards?” Lucas wondered, and Geraldus stopped him with a hand on his arm.

“You can’t think that way, Lucas,” Geraldus warned. “Don’t you know why the Vanthamupur’s manor is down to a single heir?”

“Something about Zariel and a plot against the Grand Duke?” Lucas ventured, frowning as he tried to recall the details of his lord’s little book of political secrets.

“Beneath their home was a temple to the ruler of Avernus, in their dungeons was a Hhune, and in their treasure vaults was a devil-infested shield they’d stolen from the Hhunes,” Geraldus said with a lecturing tone. “It was adventurers that rescued their prisoner, slew the devil-worshippers, and sent that shield to the Hells.”

“Then the Hhunes should be even less powerful,” Lucas shrugged under his thick black hooded cloak.

“These noble families have survived for centuries,” Geraldus said, shaking his head. “Not just survived, but thrived. Even your lord’s master and his ilk preyed on the city without consequence until heroes destroyed him. You can’t go in that house thinking they’re normal people. They’re monsters until proven otherwise.” Lucas frowned at the vehemence in the Harper’s tone.

“I’ll be careful,” Lucas said slowly. “But I don’t understand why you’re on about this. You go to their parties and eat their food and laugh at their stupid jokes.”

“And I never forget for one second what they really are,” Geraldus spat. “Did you ever wonder why I can relax more in a vampire’s lair than in one of their ballrooms? Watch and report, that’s what I’m asked to do, but no matter what vile crime I uncover, nothing ever comes of it.”

“Then why are you helping me, instead of reporting?” Lucas asked, his whisper grating harsh against the stone surrounding them.

“When you went missing and your lord fair tore my head off looking for you, I ‘reported’,” Geraldus said bitterly. “Jaheira’s answer was to confront Astarion and offer our help, but what good is our help if all we’re willing to do is talk? Whoever took you and did those cruel things to you, they don’t deserve to get away with it. The only report I’ll file is on their deaths.”

“That’s a little bloodthirsty, ain’t it?” Lucas ventured, his tone appreciative. “What if they kick you out?”

“Then they kick me out,” Geraldus said obstinately. “I’m tired of it anyway,” he admitted. “Do you know how long I waited in that safehouse surrounded by murderers before Jaheira came? Nearly a month, and they weren’t the kindest of gaolers. Nearly a month before I could finally join in killing them. The first blow I could strike that wouldn’t mean my death, and my reward was being told to go home.”

“Well,” Lucas said after a moment. “I suppose we’ll do this like proper adventurers, then, not that I really know much about that?”

“It isn’t about what you do, it’s about who you do it with that makes you an adventurer,” Geraldus said, starting them walking again with a soft touch to Lucas’ elbow. “I pledged myself to the Harpers, but tonight I’m pledging myself to you.”

“I…,” Lucas began, then paused, uncertain. “I don’t want you to get hurt because of something stupid I did,” he ventured.

“What’ve you done that’s stupid, besides try and trick me into thinking you’re a vampire spawn?” Geraldus protested. “Did you forget I was watching your lord long before you came ‘round? I owed him my life, in part, and after we rescued Fariza together, I really thought he’d be able to keep it up, you know, be a real hero, but I saw him slipping. I can’t guess how far he would’ve fallen if you hadn’t dropped in. I owe you if only for saving us from him.”

“That’s more credit than I deserve,” Lucas grumbled, uncomfortable with the compliment.

“Don’t swell your head over it,” Geraldus said with a grin. “Since you’re insisting on making your own plan, you’re stuck with only me for an ally. Sure you don’t want to call your vampire lord and the Blade of Frontiers? I’m a poor substitute.”

“Bollocks,” Lucas cursed. “They’d send the both of us home. I want to fight my own battles, and you sound like you’re raring to stick someone with those arrows. Tell me how a pair of adventurers would do it?”

“Slip in and find out what you can,” Geraldus said. “I’ll draw their attention to the courtyard, and if they threaten me, I’ll respond in kind.”

Lucas nodded, glancing sidelong at the stern set of the Harper’s jaw. He wondered for a moment if they were doing the right thing, then squashed that question right out of his mind. He had to tilt his head back a bit to see Geraldus’ profile properly, and he found he quite liked the calm strength of the man at his side. He liked the way the leather of his armor was well-oiled and worn at the joints, the way the grip of his longbow was reinforced with hide that’d taken on the dimpling of the archer’s grip. Geraldus looked like a real adventurer, and at his side, Lucas started to feel like one, too.

The rest of their journey took place in companionable silence. The Upper City sewers were cleaner and quieter than most, the hatchway closest to Hhune House in Manorborn easily breached and the shadows cast by the setting sun long enough to darken the alleyway where they parted after clasping hands.

Hhune House was old but not large. Lucas had no trouble clearing the outer wall, pausing on the ground below and listening for any manner of alarms, traps, or dogs. Hearing none, he flitted from one shadow to the next and chose the best window on the third story for his entry point. Crouched with his back to the stone, he waited for his friend to move.

Geraldus, for his part, felt a curious sense of relief and anticipation. He’d never enjoyed inaction, and spending a month being taunted and tormented by a den of doppelgangers hadn’t increased his taste for it. He wondered if maybe he should’ve accepted Jaheira’s offer of retirement, then shook his head. Plenty of Harpers did more than watching and reporting. It was on him that he’d agreed to such a pathetic posting instead of taking action. He would do what was right from now on, and damn the consequences. He’d left his Harper pin sitting on his bedside table for a reason. No spying tonight. Tonight, he’d back up his friend and keep him safe.

He pushed his way through the creaking iron gate to the Hhunes’ courtyard and approached the front door just as the vampire lord had done. He rapped the heavy iron door knocker rapidly, listening to its echoes inside the house. It wasn’t long before he heard a response, not from the door itself, but from behind him and to the side.

“The house is down for the night, good fellow,” a tall blonde elf in shining ringmail said with a calm, almost musical voice. Two guards in plain light kit flanked him, and Geraldus smiled and turned toward them while running tactics in his head, his bow hand twitching eagerly. “Is there something we can help you with?”

“Perhaps,” Geraldus said, folding his arms across his chest. “I attended a party here some days past, and one of the guests went missing.” He was careful to watch the elf’s lips rather than his eyes so he saw the cruel twist to the elf’s grin.

“This again?” the elf said with a put-upon sigh. “You’ll find no answers here, friend, and you should honestly know better than to trespass.”

“Should, but don’t,” Geraldus said with a smile. “And I’ve no intention of leaving until I’m satisfied.”

“Will it be up to you, I wonder?” the elf mused, and Geraldus only shrugged.

The heavy thud of the iron door knocker was audible through the stone wall, so Lucas took it as his cue to begin his climb in earnest. With his hood drawn up, he was a formless black lump scaling the wall, the weathered stone providing holds aplenty, and he reached the window quickly, only to find it unlocked. He drew it outward and slipped inside, closing it behind him all without a sound. The hallway was barely lit, hardly a challenge to stay unseen, and the threadbare carpet beneath his feet was sufficient to muffle his footsteps.

It took barely any time at all to trace a route through this upper story, and what he noticed first was the thick layer of dust and how every door he tried showed no sign it had been opened in ages. Remembering the attic in his lord’s home, full of skeletons and coffins, he counted himself lucky not to have found anything similar here, but he couldn’t help but be frustrated by the very idea. To have a big house like this and not even need it all? No training room or library or treasure room to tempt him? Piles of furniture under sheets like fat ghosts crouched in corners, disappointing him at every turn.

He resolved not to grow complacent or take his friend’s distraction for granted. For all he knew, Geraldus could be risking his life to assist, so Lucas felt he had to find something. He found a carpeted staircase leading down to the second floor and leapt from the top to the landing to the bottom in two short hops. The layout appeared the same as above, albeit lacking the dust, and lit wall sconces cast a soft glow through the hallways.

He searched the rooms, finding one decorated in frilly lavender lace that at least yielded him a dainty necklace or two off the vanity. Maybe it wasn’t being a real adventurer to toss the place, but would he think twice nicking gold from an ogre’s cave? And didn’t Geraldus say they were monsters until they proved they weren’t? Having a whole empty floor on their house made them monsters enough, to Lucas’ mind.

He continued to argue with his own conscience, albeit half-heartedly, as he approached a door with a sliver of light coming from underneath. He thought he was being very quiet, but he hadn’t even tried the doorknob before a lady’s voice sounded from inside.

“Who’s there?” came the voice, a high-pitched lady’s voice with a quiver of age to it. “If you’ve brought my tea, move quickly now. I’ve been waiting long enough!” Lucas frowned at how miffed she sounded, as if keeping her waiting were a capital crime. He abandoned any crisis of conscience and decided then and there that he would bully this old lady without regret.

Before he could talk himself out of that decidedly un-heroic plan, he threw back his hood and opened the door, stepping through and closing it behind him. If this demanding lady recognized him, he’d have part of an answer, wouldn’t he? The sheets upstairs gave him the idea to play the ghost, come from beyond the grave to haunt this house, and then the next house and then the next.

He found himself in a sitting room, part of a bedroom suite, the furniture ornate with scrollwork and gilding and floral-patterned upholstery. An older woman wearing more jewelry than Lucas had ever seen on a single person sat on a loveseat with a small embroidery hoop and kit at her side. She regarded Lucas with her rheumy brown eyes, pursed her lips angrily, and shook her head from side to side, setting the hairpins in her gray hair to swinging. Even her hair has jewelry, Lucas thought uncharitably.

“You’re not funny, Kaddrus,” the woman scolded Lucas, seemingly unsurprised by the blonde ghost in her room, but certainly unamused. “You demean us both with these juvenile antics. I won’t tell you again.”

“Tell me what, mum?” Lucas asked cautiously, stepping into the room, one hand on the hilt of his shortsword, the precaution hidden beneath a fold of his cloak.

“To leave off your tricks,” the woman continued, her eyes narrowing at the lack of respect in Lucas’ address, “and to never again appear before me as that poor young man.”

“Poor?” Lucas said, curious. “Do you mean ‘poor’ like I’m a beggar, or ‘poor’ like you feel bad about what you did?”

“I beg your pardon?” the lady said with a frown. Lucas had done enough of his homework on the Hhunes to hazard a guess as to her identity as the elderly widow, Lutecia, so he relaxed a little. “You are not a beggar, and I feel badly about nothing save falling for your ruse. Even had you presented the young man himself instead of borrowing his guise, I would not have been tricked for long.”

“So you never really met me?” Lucas asked, provoking more frowns. “It wasn’t me at your party, it was this ‘Kaddrus’ in disguise?” He took a few steps closer and tried his best to be menacing but Lady Lutecia seemed impervious to his attempts at intimidation.

“Are you the boy in truth, then?” she said, appraising him shrewdly. “What’s your name?”

“What’s yours?” Lucas retorted.

“I am Lady Lutecia Hhune,” she said smugly, “and if you didn’t already know that, what are you doing in my sitting room? Answer quickly, now. My tea may be late in coming but it will make its way here eventually.”

“I’m not afraid of your maidservant, mum,” Lucas snorted. “You ought to worry more about your own hide than your tea.”

“I haven’t worried after my own hide in years,” she said, waving her hand dismissively. “Make your boorish threats if you must.”

“Is this ‘Kaddrus’ the one who looked like me at your party?” Lucas asked again, more insistently. “Did he come in the carriage to fetch me?”

“We agreed to lend him for the evening so he could procure you,” Lutecia explained. “It was his own perverse sense of humor that brought him to the party still wearing your chubby little face. He knows I’ve been searching for a suitable heir and thought to entertain himself by tricking me into thinking you were a viable candidate.”

“My…” Lucas blurted, offended at her characterization of his very manly if beardless cheeks. Then he figured he ought not waste time rising to her barbs. “Lent him to who?”

“To whom,” Lutecia corrected haughtily, and Lucas gritted his teeth. “And you will have to ask him. Were I consulted on the matter I would have advised him to stay out of it altogether. Our family has no grudge against that vampire spawn, quite the contrary if he really did destroy his master on the cusp of some grand infernal ritual.” She rolled her eyes as if the thought of a grand infernal ritual were dreadfully droll. “Truth be known, your master’s likely done us a few favors. Just bad business to make an enemy for no clear gain. Not the forgiving type, is he?”

“Not to them that lie to him and murder his friends,” Lucas said.

“Yet when he came to inquire about your whereabouts, he left quietly when asked,” she mused. “Very docile he was, not at all the fearsome creature I’d imagined. I’d thought he might do me the favor of trimming the family tree that day, but alas he did not.”

“He didn’t know what you did to me then,” Lucas said. “He does now, so maybe you’ll get your wish.”

“Oh I doubt it,” Lutecia said sourly. “He’s playing his little parlor games like a true patriar. He knows heroes don’t last long in this city, but nobility is eternal. Now, are you going to murder me or will you be going out the way you came in?”

“Where’s this Kaddrus?” Lucas demanded, half-drawing his sword for emphasis.

“Either on his way with my tea or busy killing whomever you brought with you on this foolish errand,” she said with a ladylike shrug. “If you came alone, then I expect it’s the former.”

Even once the fight began, Geraldus didn’t regret coming alone. Three against one was fair odds. He’d waited patiently for the elf to make his move, frowning at the haughty gesture that sent the two guards forward first, shortswords glimmering in their mailed fists. He’d taken a smooth step back to ground his footing, unslung his bow, drawn, and shot in the space it took to breathe a single breath. Perhaps it wasn’t sporting to aim for the thigh, but the sound the arrow made as it sank deep was a satisfyingly meaty thunk, and the crackle and whine as the missile split into two to strike the second man in the gut brought a grim smile to Geraldus’ face. The elf dodged clear of harm with a practiced move, and Geraldus noted that he’d be a more worthy opponent.

Leaving the two guards groaning on the ground, the elf drew his own sword and closed the distance between them lightning fast, side-stepping the next two arrows Geraldus sent his way and forcing the Harper to draw his longsword to block the first attack. As they struck and parried, Geraldus wondered if it were truly an elf he faced. The sword strokes were less graceful than a butcher’s cleaver, and one missed blow landed on the courtyard pavers with a booming crack of stone, more strength behind it than the elf’s slim form belied.

Geraldus thought idly of watching Wyll and Astarion fight when they’d joined in liberating him from the safe house. How they’d quipped and bantered and taunted their opponents. That had never been his style, however; he’d honed his skills fighting beasts and his brothers. The one didn’t understand a witty remark and the others would only grow sloppy in their anger and turn a sparring match into a beating. The elf didn’t waste time on banter, either, the only sounds in the yard the clanging as their swords met and their grunts of effort.

Geraldus switched his grip as he deflected a ringing blow with his sword that had such power behind it his entire left arm was shocked to numbness. Even as he fought, the thought he might lose or come to serious harm didn’t bother him. There was a still, quiet part of his mind that had made peace with his own demise since the night he opened his eyes to see Chelvin’s doppelganger choking the life from its mirror image. Every moment since then had been a gift of what random chance spared him in that initial massacre. He did frown in concentration, his breathing measured and deep, and he waited for the proper opening to swipe his sword across the elf’s exposed neck. They sprang apart at that, the thin red line scored across that pale flesh surrendering but a single trickle of blood rather than the mortal gush it should have.

The elf had the audacity to laugh at him, leaning his head back and cackling like a madman. Geraldus backed slowly away from him, sword upraised between them, wondering if the plain steel of his sword would be enough against whatever magic protected his opponent.

“Do you really want to die here?” the elf said with a smile. “Your friend didn’t die here. Why should you?”

“Where did he die, then?” Geraldus asked, shaking his arm to speed its recovery, planning which arrows might make the best dent in the elf’s hide. “If it’s killing me you think you’re doing, why not just tell me?”

“If you’ve no tales to tell, it saves me the trouble of burning your corpse,” the elf said reasonably. “The Hhunes don’t like the smell of burning flesh as much as I do.” He raised his sword to re-engage and Geraldus prepared to block one-handed when there was a sudden whispering sound as of a razor parting silk, and the elf looked down to find the tip of a jagged blade poking out from his chest.

“You could tell me,” Lucas said, dragging the elf against him using the leverage of the shortsword buried in his back, and raising a twisted dagger to the elf’s throat with his off hand.

“Cut his throat, Lucas,” Geraldus shouted. “We’ll ask his corpse once we find out what he really is.”

The elf gripped Lucas’ wrist, not waiting to find out if the boy would follow the Harper’s command, and pushed it away from his throat with ease. Not wanting to lose the dagger or have his wrist broken, Lucas rolled with the push, tearing the shortsword from what he guessed was Kaddrus’ back with a cruel twist and flipping backward to land an arm’s length away.

Kaddrus snarled at Lucas, his form melting like hot wax until the slim elven build had given way to dark red skin over solid muscle, a pair of sweeping batlike wings soaring from broader shoulders than any elf ever boasted.

“Don’t look in his eyes,” Lucas called out, his own gaze focused on the jagged wound in the center of the cambion’s chest. A wound that Lucas had caused. The first blow struck in his own defense, Lucas thought it seemed a little bit beautiful with its gout of black blood. A second splash of blood sprayed out from the cambion’s throat as a gleaming, gore-wet arrowhead impaled his neck from behind. The droplets fell well short of Lucas’ boots, and he looked up to lock eyes with Geraldus over the monster’s shoulder, the Harper already nocking another arrow.

“Can you talk to it if it’s dead?” Geraldus asked, holding his bow at full draw and pausing there.

“You mean like, yell at its corpse?” Lucas asked, retreating as the cambion stumbled toward him choking and fumbling at the arrow in his throat. “What good would that do?”

“No, with a spell,” Geraldus said. “Torturing a devil isn’t going to do us any good, he’d probably just enjoy it.”

“Will his corpse even stick around?” Lucas asked with a frown. “Wouldn’t he just… go to the Hells?”

“I don’t know,” Geraldus sighed. “I suppose we’ll find out.” He loosed, drew, and loosed again in quick succession. At point-blank range, there wasn’t much the cambion could do to dodge, so it simply collapsed in a gurgling heap, wings flapping limply on the pavers, its thick black blood running out in rivulets across the stone.

Lucas approached warily and poked at it with the tip of his sword. “Still here,” he said, stating the obvious. “Is it even dead?” he wondered.

“Mostly,” Geraldus said, slinging his bow across his back and wiping a cloth down the length of his sword. Lucas watched him for a moment, then cut a strip of cloth from his cloak and began wiping down his own weapons.

“Should we ask him questions?” Lucas asked. “I think his name is Kaddrus. Is your name Kaddrus?” he said loudly to the twitching devil, giving it a nudge with the toe of his boot.

“Maybe I shouldn’t have shot him in the throat,” Geraldus admitted sheepishly, “but the wings startled me. I was pretty sure he wasn’t an elf, but didn’t suspect a cambion. Maybe that’s why he didn’t disappear? I don’t think they’re full devils.”

“He works here,” Lucas said. “I interrogated old lady Hhune and she said Kaddrus was who looked like me in the carriage and later at the party, but that he didn’t do it for her. She said I’ve never been here.”

“He said as much to me, as well,” Geraldus nodded, sheathing his sword. “That you didn’t die here.” He glanced sidelong at Lucas with a teasing smile. “Interrogated an old lady, did you? Impressive.” Lucas frowned and punched him in the shoulder.

“Should we be leaving before the Watch comes?” Lucas asked, looking nervously around the courtyard.

“They won’t come,” the Harper said, shaking his head. “Having a cambion openly on the payroll isn’t the sort of thing you want confirmed by the Watch. Not when you’ve a righteous reputation to uphold.”

“What about them?” Lucas nodded to the two guards, one sprawled unconscious and the other grimacing in pain over his gut. “Do we have to kill them?”

“We don’t have to kill anyone,” Geraldus said with a shrug. “But it won’t hurt to ask them a few questions.”

A few questions and a few answers later, two very dirty and tired men emerged from the sewers near Brampton in the Lower City. They climbed a narrow flight of stairs, supporting each other as they stumbled wearily, and entered a modest flat. When the door closed behind them, the hallway was silent save for the muffled sound of their laughter.

Chapter Text

“Who the fuck are you?” Lucas demanded, sliding his wickedly curved dagger from its sheath with his off hand. He’d brought Geraldus to the manor library to do some devil research only to find a stranger sitting on a bench, his back resting against the wall while he read a book.

The stranger looked at Lucas with deep black eyes, dark tattoos of tentacles swirling around and beneath them. Those eyes dropped to the dagger in Lucas’ hand and those thin lips crooked a little in a dismissive smirk. The stranger closed his book and set it atop a pile of others on the bench next to him. Then he slowly stood up from the bench – up and up and up and Lucas gritted his teeth. Why were all these arseholes so much fucking taller than him? This one had the same white hair as his lord, similar pointy elf ears, but he knew his lord wouldn’t wear anything so boring as sleeveless black leather armor and leather pants of the same stupid hue. In fact, there was nothing colorful about the stranger at all, from his hair to his skin to his clothing to his eyes, he was just monochrome and Lucas really wanted an excuse to stab him.

Geraldus put a hand on his arm and denied him his chance.

“That’s Wyll’s mate, Lucas, leave off,” Geraldus cautioned.

“Well what’s he doing here?” Lucas practically snarled. “What the fuck are you doing here, then?” Lucas barked at the elf.

“Reading,” He Who Was replied, that single softly spoken word carrying with it all the emotion of a rock. He lowered himself back to the bench just as slowly as he’d stood, then picked his book back up from the pile and resumed his reading as if undisturbed. He looked up and met Lucas’ blue eyes with his black ones, then licked one long pale finger and used it to turn a page.

Lucas froze, the red haze of anger and frustration that he’d pushed out for an entire evening threatening to swamp him anew. He took a step toward the elf, uncertain about his own intentions, when Geraldus stepped in front of him and placed his hands on Lucas’ shoulders.

“Hey now,” Geraldus said soothingly, like someone would talk to a cornered animal. Lucas looked up at his friend’s face, his height pricking at Lucas’ pride for once instead of seeming solid and reassuring. The Harper had exchanged his armor for more casual attire, but Lucas hadn’t shed even his thick cloak from the night before. He’d spent the night wrapped in it and lying on a bedroll on the floor of his friend’s flat, a second bedroll next to him despite the available bed. Real adventurers don’t often have a soft mattress, Geraldus had told him, so they’d camped in his room around a candle and joked and made plans long into the night.

And now this fucker had ruined it all by scaring him. That trickle of fear was like a fuse, burning hot down to the explosion of violence Lucas had thought well banked.

“Let’s go back down,” Lucas said flatly. He’d led the Harper through the sewers and into the expanse of the green miracle, sharing with him the secret place and telling him how special it is. Now Lucas could feel that cool calmness warring with his rage, and figured he should choose the safest option and retreat before his anger caused real trouble.

“Alright,” Geraldus agreed. “If that’s what you want.” He left his hands resting on Lucas’ shoulders until the blade slid into its sheath, then released him and nodded toward the nearest door. As they made to leave, another white-haired elf swanned into the library, his clothing a riot of plums and reds, nothing like the creep in the corner.

“There you are,” the vampire lord said with a relieved smile. “Wherever did you go that this Harper had to drag you back?” Astarion approached them and swept his narrowing eyes appraisingly over Lucas’ attire. He sniffed once. Twice. “Explain the blood,” he said curtly, sparing a glare for Geraldus.

“It ain’t my blood,” Lucas said belligerently. “You should know that better’n anyone.”

“We had a notion, my lord,” Geraldus explained. “To find out a few things about…”

“Let him tell me,” Astarion said, jerking his chin toward Lucas.

“We went looking for clues,” Lucas said, raising his own chin pridefully. “And we found some, more’n you have.” Astarion tilted his head, all trace of a smile faded from his face. “I found the thing that took my face,” Lucas boasted. “We killed it.”

“Do you have any idea how difficult it is to raise someone from the dead?” Astarion said slowly. “Do you think putting your restored existence in peril shows a proper sense of gratitude?”

Lucas opened his mouth to retort, because nothing made him angrier than being wrong and maybe he wasn’t grateful, maybe he didn’t want to be back here weak and afraid, but he sure didn’t want his lord to throw it in his face when he’d just done his first strong thing.

“So this is the lad,” said a warm, pleasant voice that de-railed Lucas’ thoughts. Wyll entered the room, a book in one hand while the other gave Astarion’s shoulder a squeeze, as if touching the vampire lord were something just anyone could just do anytime they wanted. Wyll offered that same hand to Lucas and the impulse to draw the dagger and just lop it off got stuck in Lucas’ throat where words should go. “I’ve been wanting to meet you,” Wyll said with a winning smile that made Lucas want to smash it.

Lucas looked the Grand Duke’s son up and down, pursing his lips tightly together. At least this one isn’t freakishly tall, he thought. Still taller than Lucas, though. Wyll’s handsome, he thought, well built but not covered in muscles, his skin’s the comforting color of chocolate, and his face and neck show the scars of old wounds long-healed. At the thought of scars, Lucas’ temper flared again, since his were gone, all his pain erased without his permission, gone like it never happened, like he never lived before he found this place. He left Wyll’s offered hand hovering and glared at his lord instead.

“What’s gratitude, then?” Lucas sniffed haughtily in imitation of his lord. He folded his arms across his chest defiantly, all the better to snub Wyll. “Since it was on your account I got killed in the first place, ain’t we just even now?”

Wyll lowered his hand, but his expression didn’t look too put out by Lucas’ rudeness. If anything, he exchanged a sympathetic look with the vampire lord.

“On my account,” Astarion said softly, lowering his gaze to the floor. Lucas’ heart twisted for a minute, unsure whether he’d actually succeeded in hurting his lord’s feelings, unsure whether he wanted that or not, unsure about nearly everything.

“Is that what you discovered, Geraldus?” Wyll asked, talking right over the top of Lucas’ head like he wasn’t right there.

“It is,” Geraldus said, a trifle apologetically. “Lady Lutecia didn’t see the point in provoking Astarion, but it was their servant that fetched Lucas and wore his face to their party as a kind of joke. We thought to do some research, see why the Hhunes would have a cambion servant at all,” he gestured with his head toward the bookcases lining the walls.

“A cambion?” Wyll repeated. “It is rare to find one serving outside the Hells. They’re even more ambitious than most infernal creatures. I have some experience in this area,” he said with a self-deprecating chuckle, rubbing at the scars on his neck. “Maybe I can…”

“Maybe you can butt out,” Lucas blurted. “You weren’t here and you don’t know nothing about it. Lord Vampire Astarion and me have a business arrangement, and you ain’t part of it. Just ‘cause he likes to put his…”

“Lucas,” Astarion interrupted sharply. “Wyll is as much a part of this as he wishes to be. He offered you his help. I don’t understand why you’re being so…”

“…ungrateful?” Lucas sneered, the old familiar feeling of smothering crawling up from between his shoulder blades to settle against the back of his neck, the edges of his vision darkening as the three taller men around him seemed to swell in size and make Lucas feel all the smaller. “I asked for your help and you told me to get bent,” he continued, and the vampire lord rolled his eyes.

“Oh, we’re back to this, then?” Astarion drawled. “You enjoyed dying so much you want to do it again so soon? It’s not enough you died the once on my account, but now I’m to kill you myself?”

“Well not now, obviously!” Lucas yelled. “You’ve got this bastard to bite, what use am I? I’ll just take my stuff and leave you to it!”

“Don’t leave on my account,” Shadowheart said, her voice calm as if she wasn’t interrupting a shouting match. She snatched the book from Wyll’s hand and exclaimed at the cover with delight. “Are you re-reading this, Wyll? It’s one of my favorites!”

Lucas sagged a little, not just because he didn’t want to yell around Shadowheart, who he liked and who hadn’t done anything wrong to him and who was the exact same height as him, which he very much liked, but also because when his anger subsided, the black at the edges of his vision pushed in, and his breathing grew faster, like he was going to need to hold his breath sometime soon and had to draw in as much as possible.

“I brought it for He Who Was,” Wyll said, smiling down at Shadowheart. He hugged her to him with an arm around her waist and murmured a thank you in her ear. She smiled and returned the book to him, then approached Lucas with a happy sigh.

“I’ve missed you, scamp,” she said. “Are you okay with a hug?” she asked him quietly, a question just for him, so he nodded in answer and let her fold him into her embrace, which was warm and strong and smelled like sweet flowers. “Is it too much?” she whispered in his ear, and he let his head give a single nod against her shoulder.

When Lucas raised his head, the moment of solace dissipated in an instant. Too many eyes were on him, and he could sense rather than see that the stranger elf, the tall one with the glittering onyx knives for eyes, was approaching to join them. The room was tiny, closet-sized, coffin-sized, and Lucas gripped the twisted dagger’s hilt and tugged the blade free of its sheath with a grunt of effort, his muscles torn between obeying him and fighting his movements. Even his new-made scarless body didn’t want to help him.

At the sight of a blade drawn so near the cleric, He Who Was stepped quickly forward, only to freeze when Shadowheart glared fiercely at him. The look she gave Geraldus was much softer, and the Harper nodded in understanding and managed to coax Lucas to leave the room with him, Astarion and Wyll stepping to the side out of range. The path clear, Lucas didn’t protest, he simply walked into the hallway and turned to the right toward the ballroom and the lift to the green caverns below.

Astarion watched him go with the strangest and most curious sense of loss furling in his chest like a red ribbon wrapped around a fist. It was that same ribbon that had twisted itself to knots when the boy first asked to be a spawn, to make himself Astarion’s forever, and the vampire lord knew that if he did it, if he killed him and raised him and became his master in truth if not in name, he would lose Wyll forever. He looked at Wyll now, saw the look of earnest sympathy on his dear face, and wondered if it looked to the boy like he’d made the selfish choice; that he’d chosen his lover, that he couldn’t have them both alive and human and in his life. That he didn’t deserve either one.

“It’s alright, love,” Wyll said, taking Astarion’s hand in his free one. “He needs time. No one understands that better than I do.”

“He doesn’t seem inclined to take that time,” Astarion complained. “He’s going to get himself hurt. What if that’s what he wants? To be hurt and what? Force my hand?” Wyll might say he understood but the vampire lord decidedly did not.

“I doubt it’s that calculated,” Wyll said.

“It’s more like one of your plans, Astarion,” Shadowheart said with a smirk. “A jumble of emotions squeezing out through the tiniest pinhole of action. Why, the first thing he grabbed was a knife. He’s like a miniature you.”

“That’s no knife for a child to have,” He Who Was observed, and Shadowheart snapped her head around to frown up at him.

“If it makes him feel safer to have it, then he should,” she scolded, and He Who Was fell silent. Shadowheart took the book back from Wyll and slapped it against the Shadar-kai’s chest. “Here, you could use a lesson in empathy yourself.” She turned away and He Who Was caught the book before it could fall to the floor. Wyll thought for a moment that his elven friend had shrunk an inch or two, the way his shoulders slumped.

“Geraldus has a level head and a loyal heart,” Wyll said. “I’m certain he won’t let the lad come to harm.”

“Are you?” Astarion laughed mirthlessly. “Couldn’t you smell the stink of blood on them? Sneaking about, fighting devils, just the two of them? You think I should allow that to continue?”

“What’s the alternative?” Shadowheart asked. “Lock him away and he’ll hate you for it, even if you think it’s to keep him safe.” Astarion grimaced, well aware the boy was a hair’s breadth from hating him already, the ungrateful little brat. He pulled away from Wyll’s hand and paced across the library carpet.

“We can keep an eye on him, discreetly,” Wyll offered. “I’ll set Pech to the task, so we’ll know his whereabouts at least.”

“Just let him run about playing at adventuring?” Astarion scoffed.

“He’s not playing,” Shadowheart protested. “He has as much right to the truth as any of us, more even. Maybe you were their target, Astarion, the one they meant to hurt. That doesn’t make it any easier on him, it probably makes it worse. We’ll prize from him what clues he’s found, when he’s calmed down a little, and perhaps he’ll accept our counsel then. If not, we can at least be there to aid him should he stumble into danger.”

“Rush headlong into it, more like,” Astarion grumbled, tugging at his hair with a frustrated groan.

“I’ll go and speak with him,” she said with a smile, tugging a sheaf of folded paper from her pack. She peeled off one broadsheet and handed it to Wyll. “I’d best tell him to hide his face, at least,” she said, nodding to the paper. “Astarion’s gone and made him famous.”

“Has he now,” Wyll remarked, unfolding the Gazette and raising his eyebrows in surprise. “Remarkable likeness,” he said appreciatively. “I don’t know if he’ll thank you for this, but at least it should put paid to my father’s plans to punish you.”

“He won’t thank me for anything,” Astarion sighed. “And I don’t blame him.”

“I’ll head down to share the news,” Shadowheart said and Astarion rolled his eyes at her pun. She gave Wyll a little shove toward the pacing vampire, glared at He Who Was standing mutely with a book clutched to his chest, and left the library, shaking her head and imploring the Moon Maiden to protect her from fools and friends.

“Let’s sit and have a drink, shall we?” Wyll suggested, taking Astarion by the elbow and settling him on a couch, then seating himself across the low table from him on the facing couch. “What?” he asked, seeing Astarion’s crestfallen look.

“That’s where Lucas sits when we’re sorting the invitations,” he explained. “No wonder he thinks I’ve betrayed him. Oh,” he threw his hands up. “My betrayals are never this subtle! He should know me better than that!”

“He’s young and hurt, love,” Wyll said gently, stepping around the table to seat himself next to Astarion. “He can’t be much older than I was when my father cast me out of the city.”

“Did you curse at your father and wave a Bhaalist dagger around?” Astarion asked.

“I didn’t really have one to hand,” Wyll chuckled.

“I’ll lend you that one, if you’d like to give it a go. It seems wonderfully cathartic,” Astarion grumbled.

“Let’s let Lucas keep it for now,” Wyll suggested. “Killing a cambion is no small feat, even with a ranger at his side. He has a right to be proud.”

“He most certainly does not!” Astarion pouted. “Make sure that bird of yours keeps him in sight.”

“Sadly, Pech can’t stray far from me,” Wyll frowned. “Too far and he’ll return to the Shadowfell, though he won’t die. I could summon him back, if I were so inclined.” He glanced up at He Who Was, still standing near the door clutching the book. “Not a single comment about our smallest companion?” he prompted.

“Spirits are capricious,” He Who Was murmured. “The spirits that serve the Raven Queen more than most.”

“We’ll know when Lucas ventures out,” Wyll said with a shrug. “And in what direction. I can…”

“…I will follow him,” He Who Was interrupted, turning to face them.

“You won’t know where he’ll go, or any landmarks we would recognize,” Astarion said. “I can set a rat or two on them, it shouldn’t be a bother.”

“Rats know landmarks better than I?” He Who Was asked softly.

“Oh dear, have I insulted him?” Astarion asked Wyll, his voice saturated with false concern.

“He’s in a mood,” Wyll assured him.

“I am not in a mood,” He Who Was quietly insisted. “I do not know what being in a mood is, but I know that I am not in one in a way that would prevent me from following the boy.”

“Then by all means, follow to your heart’s desire,” Astarion said, waving his hand. “Knowing Lucas, he shall lead you through the best parts of the city.”

“In the meantime, I’ll think on who the Hhunes might lend such an important servant,” Wyll said thoughtfully. “There are strings I can pull at for information.”

“I will take this book with me,” He Who Was said, a trifle defiantly, as if expecting to be denied.

“I think you’ll enjoy it,” Wyll said with a knowing grin.

“Is it one of your favorites as well?” He Who Was asked, almost uncertainly.

“See if you notice which pages are dog-eared and you’ll have your answer,” Wyll joked.

“Do you think he’ll be alright?” Astarion asked, steering the conversation back to his recalcitrant ward.

“I’m sure of it,” Wyll said, nodding. “He’s resilient, and this place is safe for him so long as we’re here.”

“I’m glad you’re so confident,” Astarion sighed. “I only hope he doesn’t hate me for long.”

Lucas took a deep breath and held it, the cool air of the Tourmaline Depths soothing his aching chest. He didn’t mind Geraldus being there, even with his excessively tall frame looming over his shoulder, and he liked that his friend appreciated the majesty of the caverns around them. Lucas had thought to show him his nest in one of the hanging cages, that he could hang from between the bars and laugh at Geraldus far below him, too clumsy to make the climb.

But he couldn’t. He stared at the bit of knotted rope that remained of his web, the rest of it breaking away as soon as his foot had touched it, breaking away and falling to swing far out of reach. He rubbed at his belt absently, his belly hollow beneath where a loop of spare rope always used to sit. Now here he was, a proper adventurer in armor and a cloak, but without a single skein of rope. Still holding that breath, he wondered if he should jump for it anyway, knowing full well it was too far for him. It would be familiar, he thought, that feeling of reaching for something and finding it beyond his grasp, that feeling of falling.

With a little hiccup of a sob, he released the breath he’d been holding. He couldn’t make that jump, not until he found and punished the ones who hurt him. After that, he would come back, and maybe bring some fresh strong rope, and maybe not.

Chapter Text

“Is this your bedroom now?” Shadowheart asked with so much appreciation in her voice that it bordered on insincere, likely as intended. She stood just inside the opening leading to Cazador’s former lair. “Never thought I’d see this room again. What happened to the skull?” She approached the small dais where a musty pillow sat empty.

“No idea,” Lucas said with a shrug, not bothering to sit up from where he sprawled across the simple single bed, his head propped on a cylinder-shaped pillow. “Whose skull was it?”

“Cazador’s master,” Shadowheart replied, abandoning the pillow in favor of joining Lucas on the bed, shoving him over firmly but gently. He moved without complaint, and together they stared up at the nondescript ceiling, the same green-gray-gold stone as everywhere in the Tourmaline Depths. “Cazador killed him to become a true vampire.”

“Wasn’t he a true vampire all along?” Lucas asked.

“No, he was a spawn,” Shadowheart explained. “Tormented by his master, trapped by the same rules as Astarion, and twisted long before he took his master’s place.”

“A real vampire lord,” Lucas grumbled, reasoning as he often did that the louder and more confidently he said something wrong, the righter it would seem. “With spawn to serve him and secrets to keep the people afraid of him. That’s how they’re supposed to be.” He effortlessly channeled even the disdainful tone of the old servants, the supplicants to Cazador’s power.

“Lucas,” Shadowheart said, propping herself up on one elbow to look down at the boy, who refused to meet her disbelieving gaze. “Have you ever met a true vampire?”

“Just my lord,” Lucas scoffed. “And a spawn, who was nice until he wasn’t and then my lord killed him.”

“Well I’d suggest you nip that whiff of admiration in the bud,” Shadowheart warned. “You didn’t know Astarion as a spawn, and he’s never been a true vampire. He went from a tortured slave to something… more. Something unique. True vampires are not creatures to admire.”

“What was he like before?” Lucas asked, trying to keep his tone even so as not to annoy his friend.

“Oh, he was smaller,” Shadowheart said thoughtfully, lying back down. “There was no room in his heart for anything but fear and greed. The tadpole gave him the first taste of freedom he’d had in centuries, and he was desperate to keep it. After the ritual… well, he had his freedom, and his revenge, and the power to keep himself safe, or so he thought. He had everything he wanted but Wyll.”

“Well they’re thick as thieves now,” Lucas said uncharitably. “A true vampire wouldn’t have forgiven him so easily.”

“Oh you are determined to play this game, aren’t you?” Shadowheart said, laughing. “I’d forgotten what it was like to be so angry.”

“I’m not angry,” Lucas said angrily, causing Shadowheart to burst into another round of laughter. “I’m not!”

“Lucas, it’s okay to be angry,” she said. “It’s okay to be anything, but it won’t help.” She propped herself up again. “I was raised a Sharran. I was taught that love is a lie, the weak should be exploited. I was taught to trick and to torture and to forget any feeling that balked.”

“Is that what Nocturne believes?” Lucas said with alarm, sitting up abruptly. “Do you think it was them that hurt me? They wore masks. Do Sharrans wear masks? Did she help them?” He stared out of the room, the clear path of escape between the tied-back velvet draperies easing the panicked knot in his chest.

“No, Lucas, she wouldn’t do that,” Shadowheart said soothingly. “Lie back down, there’s no one in this house that means you harm, quite the opposite.”

“Why does she stay there, then?” Lucas asked, lying back down but with a thrum of tension still vibrating through him.

“I think because she realized what I did,” Shadowheart said. “That it’s lonely, so very lonely, and it’s no weakness to admit we are better together.” She reclined back and took Lucas’ hand in hers, so they lay side by side. He found it comforting, and the room seemed less small because of her closeness, not despite it. “People who believe like the Sharrans, and like vampires, that selfishness is strength, they’re just jealous. They’re lonely and jealous of those who aren’t.”

“That sounds too simple,” Lucas said with a frown.

“It does, doesn’t it?” Shadowheart chuckled. “But you’ll find it applies more often than not.”

“If my lord made himself an army of spawn, he wouldn’t be lonely,” Lucas protested.

“If you really think that, why don’t you practice calling him ‘master’ and see how he reacts,” Shadowheart suggested with a snort of derision.

“I told him I won’t call him that,” Lucas said. “We’re partners.”

“Yet you want to be his slave, subject to his every whim,” Shadowheart said. “Didn’t you react a bit differently when he tried to treat you like a spawn once before? I seem to recall a hostile takeover of this very mansion while your ‘master’ drank himself into a stupor not far from where we lie.”

“Well, with his big coffin gone, he doesn’t have any reason to come down here,” Lucas argued, deliberately circling around the obvious wrongness of his reasoning. “It can be my place, and he can stay upstairs with his Wyll pretending not to be a vampire at all.”

“Do you really hate him that much?” Shadowheart asked with a sigh, letting go of Lucas’ hand, leaving it cold while she crossed her arms instead.

“I don’t hate him at all,” Lucas said after a long moment’s thought and his own heavy sigh. “It’s him that hates me, or at least, doesn’t care anymore. Now he’s got his Wyll back, and his power. Nobody can hurt him, but they can still hurt me.”

Shadowheart pulled a crumpled bit of newsprint from her pocket, unfolded it, and smoothed it flat over her chest. “When he hurt you and lost you because of it, he stuffed himself in a box,” she began. “When he couldn’t find you, he ransacked this city in search of you. When he found you dead, he had a look to him I’ve only seen twice before.”

“When?” Lucas asked warily.

“When Wyll died,” Shadowheart said softly.

“What? When did Wyll die?” Lucas asked, turning his head sharply on the pillow to regard Shadowheart’s profile.

“In Avernus,” Shadowheart said. “He suffered a great deal there, and was cut down right in front of us. Astarion carried his body back from the Hells and had him raised. Then he fell again in the underwater prison, after rescuing his father.” She turned her head to regard Lucas sadly. “I know we must look powerful to you, the heroes that defeated the monsters and saved the city. The stories don’t tell you the price we paid. Wyll lost so much, first to Mizora and his father, then to Astarion himself. Please don’t begrudge him his happiness. He’s earned it.”

“I can just stay down here,” Lucas said. “I won’t mess up their life together.”

“That’s a terrible plan, Lucas. You are so very much like him,” Shadowheart chuckled. “He was unprepared for how much it can hurt to lose the ones you love. Pushing them away doesn’t make it hurt any less, no matter how good a nice brooding session feels in the beginning. Let me show you something,” she said, holding up the broadsheet to reveal a lengthy interview with two pictures in the center: one of a smiling blonde boy with large round eyes, the other of a face so battered as to barely resemble its counterpart. Lucas reached up and took the gazette from Shadowheart, his eyes moving back and forth quickly to read the text, then resting on the portraits with an uncomfortable twist to his lips.

“Did he lie to this reporter, then?” Lucas finally ventured. “So the city won’t be mad at him anymore?”

“Maybe a little,” Shadowheart admitted.

“They say he cried,” Lucas frowned. “He can probably do that whenever he wants, pinching himself or something.”

“Probably, but why would he?” Shadowheart asked gently. “He wept over you when there was no one to see and nothing to gain. Why doubt him in this?”

“Is this how I really look?” Lucas asked, his fingertips touching the smiling printed face. “Like a kid?”

“It’s how he sees you,” she said. “A hopeful young man.”

“Right,” Lucas snorted. “And this,” he touched the second picture. “This is how he wants me to stay.”

“If that were true, he wouldn’t have called for me,” Shadowheart sighed. “I know it’s difficult, Lucas,” she said, sitting up on the bed and patting his knee absently before standing and turning to face him. “Having a heart always is. All I ask is that you speak with him and don’t hide down here, away from the people who care for you.” She walked to the bridge leading back to the main corridor but tilted her head to the side, hearing a raucous squawk echoing around the cavern. “I don’t think they’ll leave you alone no matter what you do.”

“I guess,” Lucas said, his eyes still glued to the gazette, his emotions roiling in his gut like a fight between the words plain on the page in front of him and the anger and loss he clung to. Why was it so much easier to be the boy with his eyes closed than the one with the smile? Maybe it wasn’t his lord he should talk to; his lord was far too alive. If the Duke’s son really had died and been yanked back to the fight only to die again, maybe he was the one Lucas should ask. Maybe he would know how to settle his guts, at least if Lucas could manage to squash his resentment long enough to string two words together. He stared a long time at the smiling face in the newspaper, and thought if he couldn’t feel like that boy, maybe he could play the part. Just like spying at one of his lord’s parties, he could smile until his insides matched his outsides.

But first he would read the words again.

Chapter Text

“What are you doing all the way down here?” Shadowheart asked, following Wyll’s raven companion down to the dimly lit sewer depths. She spared a glance for the ruins of the entrance door, welcoming the tiny twinge of pain that twisted in her heart every time she thought of her friend shattering that door with the force of his grief. She felt the echo of a phantom pain on the back of her hand, the ghost of a wound now healed but never forgotten, that searing mental reminder every time she felt anew the compassion and kindness that had once brought punishment, and now brought only satisfaction.

“He’s hiding,” Pech cackled, finding a perch on a pile of crumbled stone and cawing his weird laughter at the Shadar-kai sitting cross-legged near the canal, a book open across his lap and his halberd leaning against the wall at his side.

“Do you understand him?” Shadowheart asked, unbothered by the elf’s silence. “He seemed quite adamant that I follow him, and here you are.” She walked over to He Who Was and looked down at him, the slice of light in which he sat doing nothing to illuminate his eyes as he glanced up from the book.

“Yes,” He Who Was answered, closing the book and resting his hand atop it. “I do not know why he brought you here to disturb me.”

“So you can fuck it up some more,” Pech barked. “So she can see you here doing nothing and useless.”

“He’s pretty talkative,” Shadowheart observed. “Maybe he wants to know why you’re down here?”

“He knows,” He Who Was said, looking up at Shadowheart and straightening his back from the instinctive slump it affected in her presence. “I am waiting for the boy.”

“Lucas?” she asked, and He Who Was nodded. “I suppose that’s prudent. He’s a bit unpredictable at the moment.”

He Who Was thought of telling her what he sensed from the boy, that rage and fear and loss were setting his head to spinning elaborate webs of vengeance that put them all at risk, but since every word he spoke to the cleric seemed to anger her, he kept his thoughts to himself and resolved to stick to gestures. Besides, in the book he was reading, the hero was silent more often than not, hiding his true feelings behind a stoic mien that He Who Was felt comfortable adopting.

“Are you enjoying the book?” Shadowheart said after a long and awkward silence stretched between them.

He Who Was thought of many responses and settled on a shrug, watching the cleric’s face closely for signs of irritation. He relaxed slightly when she only grinned with amusement. It seemed his silence was the correct tactic to take.

“Let’s see what bits young Wyll liked the best,” she said mischievously, clapping her hands together. She plopped herself down next to the Shadar-kai and reached for the book on his lap. He pulled his hand back quickly, letting her retrieve the book, but the momentary slackening of his muscles pulled tight with tension at the press of her thigh against his. She balanced the book on her palm by its spine and let the covers fall to each side, the pages fanning out in noticeable clumps. Picking the first gap, she scanned the passage, recognizing it immediately, then moved to the next and the next, nudging He Who Was in the side with her elbow as she commented.

“First meeting, how very boring,” she remarked. “First kiss, a little better. I know tripping and falling into an accidental kiss is more common in novels than in reality, but the author plays it off well, and our hero was never going to make the first move himself.” She flipped further into the book, seeming not to notice He Was Who watching her closely, sparing no glances at the passages she pointed to. “Oh, this one’s much better. A rainstorm forces them to take shelter in a barn and they’ve but one blanket between them. Have you reached this part yet?”

He Who Was shook his head, his breath catching as her ivory teeth bit at her lips with consternation. “Are you okay with me spoiling it for you? I can stop if you’d like.” He Who Was shook his head again, and she smiled, turning back to the book. “There’s only a little fondling in the barn scene, but it’s a good setup for their first time together. The hero is quite the beast when roused. Funny how a barn seems romantic to read about, when it would probably smell as awful as this sewer we’re stewing in right now.” Her nose wrinkled in disgust and He Who Was thought of suggesting they move somewhere that smelled less foul, but realized there was no guarantee she meant to accompany him. That her sitting next to him right now, pressed against his side like a conspirator and sharing this story with him might never happen again. So he kept his mouth tightly shut.

“Can I ask you something?” she said, turning to face him, the book forgotten for the moment. He nodded, and saw the way her gaze flickered across his face as if searching for something, then returned to meet his. “The tattoos on your face,” she began. “They must have been incredibly painful,” she raised her hand as if to touch her fingertips to the swirling tentacles of black squirming out from the rims of his eyes, but stopped short as he involuntarily flinched away. “I’m sorry,” she apologized, lowering her hand.

“They did,” he said quickly. “Ask me what you will,” he offered, wondering if he should take her hand and press it to his cheek so she would know he did not mind her touch, that he was only startled.

“What do they mean?” she asked. “To subject yourself to so much pain by choice, there must be a reason.” She gave him the time to gather his thoughts, which he appreciated, though the raven was not so charitable.

“Failure,” Pech cackled, and He Who Was glared at him.

“Go back to your master,” He Who Was warned. “You are not wanted here.” Shadowheart glanced at the raven curiously.

“Fine,” Pech replied, flapping his wings and launching from his perch. “I’ll talk to your friends,” he called, circling in the opening to the Tourmaline Depths. “They’re waiting for you. They have more to tell you. Come visit!” he called, arrowing back into the darkness.

“Does he bother you?” Shadowheart asked He Who Was, who drew in a deep breath to calm the unwelcome stab of fear the spirit’s threat sent through him.

“The markings are a tradition with my people,” he answered, choosing one question over another in an attempt to distract. “When our bodies fail and we are reborn, we are empty of who we were. Those that remember inscribe the markings. They connect us to our past, and give us our first new memory.”

“What do they mean?” Shadowheart asked. “What do yours mean?”

“I do not know,” he admitted. “They are copies of copies, like this body.” He wasn’t certain he liked the way her eyes softened when she looked at him. “The pain is the meaning,” he clarified.

“Why would you seek out pain?” she wondered.

“The Shadowfell is not a place of strong feeling,” he said, trying to explain. “The memories and objects we gather for our Queen, the moments we spend outside of our realm, they are the only colors we see and the only emotions we feel. Pain is the only thing we feel for ourselves. It is welcomed. It is ours, not borrowed or stolen.” He watched her searchingly, waiting for her look of disgust or dismay. He shifted, muscles sore from sitting, stretching out his long legs and welcoming the cramping bite. “There are some who go much further than this,” he gestured at his face.

“Shar’s perfect darkness,” Shadowheart said softly, and he frowned but let her continue uninterrupted. “No love, no light, no anything. That’s what your home sounds like to me, and you torture yourselves to escape it for even a moment.”

He Who Was looked down then, avoiding her gaze. His hand sought out the haft of the halberd, the feel of the carved wood reassuring to him, solid. He had chosen the weapon for its size, its presence, its inability to hide what it is. Carrying it made him feel more solid, more tied to this plane, to the gift of this life, the colors so much more vivid and real than millennia spent in shadow. He had no words to describe his existence before, the bright shock that was every tap of the needle piercing his skin, the way the Shadowfell sucked that brightness away leaving only a dull aching hunger in its place.

Instead of replying, he nudged Shadowheart with his knee and nodded toward the book she held. “If this were your book, and you were to open it, where would the pages fall?” he prompted.

“Oh dear,” she laughed, and his hand gripped the halberd more tightly at the unabashed joy in the sound. “I should say the naughtiest bits, shouldn’t I? The throbbing and the grunting and the thrusting? Is that what you want to hear?” He only watched her intently without reacting, until she sighed and shook her head as if to mock her own naivete. “I suppose it’s the way the hero thinks when he looks at his love,” she said quietly. “The way he doesn’t know what to do or what to say, the way he tries so hard to deny how he feels, and the way he can’t help but love her anyway, no matter how much he fights it.”

“You like his weakness?” He Who Was asked, not certain of her meaning. She closed the book and held it against her chest, shaking her head.

“I suppose it’s that he’s strong, but his love is stronger,” she admitted. “I was taught for so long that love is a lie. I scoffed at these stories but I think it was my own disbelief I was really mocking. How could so many tales and songs and stories be wrong?”

“I do not know what truth they hold,” He Who Was said with a shrug. “Have you felt this for yourself?”

“Love?” she asked. “The kind that robs you of words and drives you to idiocy? I can’t say that I have.”

“I have,” He Who Was said, and Shadowheart’s eyebrows lifted skeptically. “In the memories Wyll has shared with me, I have felt what you describe. For the vampire, and for his father, although the feelings are very different.”

“Wyll shares his memories with you?” Shadowheart said, turning to face He Who Was, her knees pressing against his thigh. “Why?”

“It is my purpose,” He Who Was explained. “To listen. To gather these memories for the Raven Queen. To ensure they are not forgotten. As to why, I have been told that it is helpful to be heard and not judged. Wyll judges himself harshly. I do not.”

“Strange,” she remarked. “When we first met, you seemed all too eager to judge. Not play the impartial witness you describe.”

“The curse and the raven gave me a confidence I did not earn,” He Who Was admitted. “Vengeance, a violent and twisted sort of justice. At the time, I welcomed it. I did not see it as wrong. I had no way to know.”

“If Wyll trusted you enough to share his thoughts with you, that will do for me,” Shadowheart said with an indulging smile, a smile He Who Was tucked away in his memories gratefully.

“He tells me I was a help to him, and he calls me friend,” He Who Was said. “I have seen and felt many things through his eyes, and my Queen has given me leave to stay with him.”

“What does that mean?” Shadowheart asked, her smile fading to a concerned frown. “Why couldn’t you stay?”

“My Queen ordered me to return to the Shadowfell, to flee the curse,” He Who Was explained. “I refused. I wanted to stay. Returning would have meant my destruction, but Wyll struck a bargain for me. I can spend this lifetime at his side, if I choose.”

“This lifetime,” Shadowheart repeated. “What if you should fall? Or if Wyll angers your Queen and she spurns him?”

“If I die, I will return to the Shadowfell and be clothed anew,” He Who Was said with a shrug more casual than the pang of sadness he experienced at the thought. “I do not know about the other. My Queen is well pleased with Wyll. I do not know how he could anger her more, if she is willing to overlook the vampire.”

“Poor Astarion, guilty by association,” Shadowheart said with a chuckle. “Well, we’d best keep you alive, then, so Wyll has someone to vent to when he feels the need.” She stood and handed the well-worn book down to He Who Was, who took it reluctantly, sensing she had no more questions for him, wondering if he had said too much, explained it all, emptied himself of anything of interest and kept only the empty shell to stand and glower and intimidate. “I’m glad, though,” she added.

“Of what?” He Who Was said quickly, searching for another question to keep her here and talking and laughing.

“That you’ve seen more than what’s in those pages,” she gestured to the book in his lap. “I hope you find it for yourself someday.” She gave a little wave and turned to return to the mansion.

“You as well,” He Who Was said to her back as she left, and he swore that as she walked away, the light around him faded until it was too dim to see the printed words in a book still warm from her touch.

Chapter Text

“Can I ask you something?” Lucas said, using his most polite voice with a bit of contriteness. He was feeling much better after having a bath, and as he’d soaked and the foamy suds around him had pinkened a bit with the blood he hadn’t realized was dried to his skin, he’d wondered if real adventurers were perpetually dirty, like he used to be, and whether that made them surly and more prone to killing. Now that he was clean and sweet-smelling, so as not to offend his lord’s keen senses and delicate sensibilities, he felt less in a killing and smashing mood, so he decided to follow Shadowheart’s advice and make his peace with his lord’s lover.

“Anything,” Wyll replied with a gracious smile. Lucas filed the memory of that smile away, in case he’d need to imitate it sometime in future to soften his lord’s mood. “Did you want to speak here?” Wyll let the scroll in his hands furl itself along a natural curve and set it down on the side table in the library.

“How much have you seen?” Lucas asked. “Of the house, I mean. The way it is now. I suppose you’ve seen most of it the way it was before.” He picked nervously at the buttons on his simple shirt and tapped his leather belt once, feeling the reassuring give of the rope underneath it.

“The front of the house was certainly a surprise,” Wyll said, standing and approaching Lucas but leaving a comfortable distance between them. Not a wariness, exactly, more of an awareness that Lucas didn’t like to be crowded. “All the years I spent in the Upper City, and I never realized the creepy manor on the hill had a respectable face.”

“It’s one of a kind, it is,” Lucas agreed. “The new part, the new old part, and the depths.”

“Wherever you feel most comfortable,” Wyll said agreeably. “Even if I’ve seen it before, I’d like to see it with you.”

“Any part?” Lucas asked skeptically, wondering if Wyll would be as comfortable in the green miracle as Lucas was, or lounging about in Cazador’s lair. A little flare of unreasonable jealousy lit in his belly, and he tried to snuff it out. Tried and failed, like always lately. “Come on, then,” he said, gesturing for Wyll to follow. He led him down the hallway and down the stairs to where the sound of water trickling around stone was both soothing and made him want to piss. He walked into the room, avoiding looking at the table and its flickering candles, distracting himself by watching Wyll’s face as he entered the space.

“Astarion’s told me you’re quite the artist,” Wyll said, taking in the murals. Lucas looked at them with fresh eyes and thought perhaps he should change them. Now that he’d died, maybe all the colors should be darker. Wyll stepped further into the room, the expression on his face strangely unperturbed by the spread stone wings of his former patron as he stared at her for a long moment. Lucas waited for him to get angry, or to cry, or to flee in terror, or to do something other than stand there quietly.

“Do you want to smash her?” Lucas prompted, and Wyll laughed, turning to him with a curious twinkle in his eye.

“Astarion once asked me that very thing,” Wyll said, shaking his head. “I don’t have a new answer. It’s still enough only that she’s stopped. She can’t hurt us like this, and it seems no one’s coming to her rescue.”

“Do you forgive her, then?” Lucas asked in disbelief, and was rewarded with a narrowing of Wyll’s eyes, a dangerous look that made him seem less like a martyr and more like a warrior.

“Never,” Wyll vowed. “She’s evil through and through, and I don’t feel an ounce of pity for her. In fact,” he said, turning his back on the stone devil and addressing Lucas directly, “I think of her as little as possible. To forget is revenge enough.”

“I suppose,” Lucas allowed, sitting down on one of the stone pews and finally allowing his eyes to focus on the table, thinking how childish it was of him to put all those candles and incense there, like an altar to nothing and anything. “When you died, did Shadowheart call you back?”

“No, she hadn’t the skill then,” Wyll said, sitting next to Lucas but not too close. He clasped his hands and rested his forearms on his knees. “We had a god traveling with us, not by choice, mind you. He had the power to bring us back, if we paid him. Couldn’t do it for free, of course. Gods have more rules than you’d think.”

“So he didn’t ask you?” Lucas wondered. “Whether you wanted to come back?”

“Not that I can remember,” Wyll shook his head. “I don’t remember anything between dying and waking. Nothing calm, nothing peaceful, nothing horrible. Just like falling asleep only to wake without dreaming.”

“You kept your scars, though? Those don’t look new,” Lucas nodded to Wyll’s face and neck.

“Came back exactly as you see me now, minus a stone eye as a souvenir I’ve since replaced,” Wyll winked at him.

“How are you so calm about it?” Lucas said, incredulous. “You’re not angry at the devil lady? Not mad at everyone that hurt you?”

“There’s not many left alive who hurt me,” Wyll said with an arrogance Lucas quite liked. “And I assure you, I feel my share of anger when it’s warranted. I’m not overly fond of my father at the moment, truth be known.”

“Will you fight him?” Lucas asked. “If he won’t give up trying to kill my lord, even after the newspaper?”

“I hope it won’t come to that,” Wyll admitted, “but I won’t see Astarion harmed. Not if it’s in my power to prevent it.”

“Is it in your power, though?” Lucas asked skeptically. “Maybe you’re a Warlock again with a bird and a pet elf, but you’re still just a human like me. You could’ve been more and you said no.” The statement hung taut between them and Wyll’s smile was more of a grimace as he replied.

“I wouldn’t call He Who Was my pet, nor would I call him an elf if I didn’t want to endure him glaring at me for hours on end,” Wyll cautioned. “And when Astarion offered to share his power with me I already knew I wouldn’t be a Warlock for much longer. After we defeated the brain, I’d just be Wyll Ravengard. My greatest power was being uncommonly rich and having access to a great deal of equipment from our adventures.”

“Don’t discount being rich,” Lucas remarked.

“I never shall,” Wyll agreed. “And I don’t know that I can explain the choices I made in a way that will make sense. Astarion tells me you’re over twenty. I’m only a handful of years older than you, and my bargain with Mizora,” he gestured at the petrified cambion, “upended my entire world when I was just seventeen.” He chuckled and his cheeks darkened with embarrassment. “I thought I was so smart at that age,” he sighed. “Had my future all planned out. Then it all fell apart, so I made a new plan: be a hero to the helpless outside the city, all the while doing Mizora’s bidding and hiding my pact from those around me. Then the tadpole shook it all to pieces again, and this time, my plan grew to include Astarion.”

“If he was your plan, why did you turn him down?” Lucas argued. “And you left him here in the city all by himself to yell at your devil and scream at his master. Do you know I used to think his master was in that big stone box? Turns out it was just empty that whole time.”

“I turned him down, at first, because I believed him when he said I wasn’t strong enough,” Wyll admitted. “You said it yourself: just a human with a sword and some borrowed power. I’ve never regretted that decision, though my reasons have changed. I don’t think the man that spent his days screaming at his master’s empty sarcophagus was as strong as he’d wanted me to believe, either. We both of us had to find our power, or we’d only destroy each other.”

“What about me, then?” Lucas asked a bit more belligerently than he wanted. Wyll’s refusal to yell at him was disconcerting, and Lucas felt he was sparring with a far superior opponent. He wished his lord would walk in the door, so Lucas could set him to yelling, despite the unfairness of that wish.

“I am sympathetic to your plight,” Wyll began, far too reasonably for Lucas’ liking. “It’s too easy to say that I know how you feel, but I do know what it’s like to be unmoored, for want of a better term. To have the only solid things in your life fall apart around you, the floor drop out from under your feet.”

“I was fine with it before I found this place,” Lucas grumbled. “I didn’t ever think about baths enough to miss them, and didn’t ever think about dying enough to care.”

“I never thought about love, either, in my exile,” Wyll added. “To have something and lose it, it hurts. Almost makes you see the Sharrans’ point,” he chuckled.

“I don’t think I would want to forget, even my bad memories, even when they hurt,” Lucas admitted.

“You’re a smart man,” Wyll said. “Maybe forgetting isn’t much help, but sharing can be. To have someone know and not condemn, not tell you all the mistakes you already know you made, it can help.”

“Like talking, you mean?” Lucas asked. “Like if I told my lord what happened?” He looked down at his boots with a frown. “He already feels bad about it. I don’t want to hurt him worse. Sometimes, he remembers, even with the house all changed. He’ll see something that sets him off, and he gets lost in it for a bit.” He glanced at Wyll, wondering if it wrong for him to tell his lord’s secrets, but Wyll only smiled a sad smile, not an angry one.

“I understand,” Wyll said. “But you can always talk to me, or share with He Who Was.”

“Tell your creepy elf?” Lucas scoffed.

“I know, I know,” Wyll laughed. “But you don’t have to tell him in words. You can show him, and he’s not one to give his opinion unless you ask it of him. Repeatedly.”

“I suppose,” Lucas said with a shrug.

“I can’t make the memories easier for you to bear. I have enough of my own that trouble me still. But I can help you get answers. Believe me when I say that we will find the people who hurt you, and we will bring them to justice,” Wyll said earnestly, and Lucas was almost entirely persuaded. He tucked away that earnest tone of voice to use the next time he swore to do something, even if he was lying.

“I don’t see any blood,” Astarion said from the doorless doorway with a satisfied sniff. “Have we reached a momentary truce, then?” He let Wyll’s smile almost reassure him, but the concern didn’t quite leave his eyes.

“I think so, lord,” Lucas said, nodding to Wyll and standing up from the stone bench. “My thanks, saer,” he added to Wyll.

“Just Wyll is fine,” Wyll said with a smile. “And you’re most welcome.”

“Yes, we’re all friends here so no ‘saers’ are necessary,” Astarion said. “You may continue to address me as ‘my lord’, however. My dignity demands it in my own home.”

“I’ll bet it does, lord,” Lucas grinned, approaching the vampire lord. “Can’t have anybody disrespecting you over breakfast. It’ll put you in a right snit the rest of the day.”

“You know me so well,” Astarion said.

“I’m thinking I should thank you as well, lord,” Lucas said quietly, glancing at Wyll, who politely turned to face away from them. “Even though you won’t make me strong the way I asked, you did make me alive again, and maybe you know a little more about killing than me, since I’ve only killed the one thing, and maybe my thoughts aren’t the smartest right now, but I am glad not to be dead still, and…”

“Lucas,” Astarion interrupted, “if you really want to thank me, just stay alive, just the way that you are. Muddled thoughts and homicidal impulses and all.” Astarion coughed delicately to clear his throat, the way he often did when allowing sentiment past his lips.

“Yes, lord,” Lucas nodded, and Astarion nodded in turn, and went to sit on the bench next to Wyll, taking his hand tentatively, as if still uncertain he had the right.

“Your father has summoned us, darling,” Astarion informed him. “Shall we stand him up?”

“Tempting,” Wyll said, lifting Astarion’s hand to his lips and pressing a quick kiss to the back of it. “But we’d best not. I’m interested to see what he has to say when confronted by the two of us together.”

“I’ll just leave then, if you’re going to be kissing hands and such,” Lucas called loudly, the echoes of his teasing bouncing off the walls.

“Where are you off to?” Astarion asked warily.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Lucas said with a broad grin.

“Yes, I would like to know. That’s why I asked,” Astarion said, exasperated.

“I’m meeting Geraldus for a drink, lord,” Lucas said proudly. “Don’t worry, I’ll change my face, since you went and made it known.”

“Very well then dear, be on your way,” Astarion said with a bright false smile. “Even if hands are all we kiss, I do have a reputation to uphold.”

“I’ll be sure to tell everyone that you’re down here rutting like dogs, then,” Lucas turned to go.

“Not dogs, Lucas!” Astarion called after him. “Wrack that brain of yours for a more elegant beast!”

Lucas glanced over his shoulder to see the pretty picture his lord made with his man, sitting hand-in-hand, and as he headed for the stairs, he tried to think of all the animals he’d seen or known about, and couldn’t come up with any that were good enough to compare, even in jest.

Chapter Text

“What are you doing down here?” Lucas asked, emerging from the cool green depths into the familiar stink of the city sewers only to find Wyll’s creepy pet elf sitting with his back against the slime-covered wall, a book open on his lap. The elf’s thin lips opened to reply so Lucas interrupted him: “Don’t just say reading.” The elf closed his mouth.

Lucas took a moment to really look at the creep, wondering why Wyll didn’t call him an elf when he had the same long, pointy ears – not elegant like his lord’s, though; just pointy and with the sides of his head shaved, left just sticking out all obvious. Same pale skin, but not warm-looking like his lord’s; just sallow like the corpse of someone who died far below where sunlight reached. Lucas approached the elf warily, glancing down at the book in his lap.

“Why are you reading so much?” Lucas asked. “Did you just learn how?” Lucas remembered his own voracious appetite for reading once he’d learned the trick of it. Maybe they didn’t have books in whatever fishing village the creepy elf was from.

“I am studying,” He Who Was replied, closing the book and standing slowly, letting his muscles stretch to forestall any cramping from the few hours he had spent in one position.

“Studying smut?” Lucas frowned. “What can you learn from that shite?” He gestured with his chin toward the book.

“Your customs,” the Shadar-kai answered, the low hum of disdain ever-present in his voice reminding Lucas a little of his lord at last.

“Smut customs?” Lucas grinned. “You don’t have fucking in your village?” He crossed his arms, thinking maybe he’d delay his appointment long enough to mess with this enigma that, apparently, followed his lord’s Wyll around like a faithful hound.

“We do not,” He Who Was said calmly, as if answering a question about the weather. He stowed the book in the pack hanging behind his left hip and reached out to grasp the halberd leaning nearby.

Lucas wasn’t ready for that admission, so all his planned jests tumbled out of his head. “How do you make new elves, then?” he wondered, suddenly more curious than mocking. “Did all your females die?”

“There is no need,” He Who Was explained. “My people are all there will ever be.”

“Was there a plague or something?” Lucas said, brow crinkling in thought. “Are you ill? Is that why you look so sickly pale? Are you the last one?” He Who Was simply stared at him for a bit out of those shiny black eyes, and Lucas wondered if he’d offended him and then realized he’d rather have answers than worry about that. “You don’t talk much, do you?”

“No,” He Who Was said, blinking slowly as if contemplating whether to answer or leave Lucas pestering him. “You remind me of him,” he said at last.

“Of who?” Lucas demanded. “My lord?” he added, hopefully.

“Of Wyll,” He Who Was corrected. “He talks a great deal.” Halberd in hand, He Who Was waited patiently for Lucas to ask another question, or be on his way, or both.

“Oh,” Lucas said, crestfallen until he remembered that his lord’s Wyll was a powerful hero in his own right, and charming enough to talk his lord into loving him, so it couldn’t be that poor of a comparison. “Why are you reading in the sewers?”

“I am waiting for you,” He Who Was said with a shrug. “You seem to use the sewers to travel. Had you chosen a different path, the raven would have alerted me.”

“Waiting for me why?” Lucas asked, narrowing his eyes. He wasn’t afraid of Wyll’s elf much, but he stuck a hand into his pocket to grasp a handful of dirt anyway, just in case his judgment was still off from being murdered.

“To keep you safe,” He Who Was explained, seeming neither enthusiastic nor put upon by the task.

“Who asked you to do that?” Lucas wondered, pleased at the thought someone would be concerned about his whereabouts enough to assign him some kind of bodyguard.

“I offered,” He Who Was said, leaning on the halberd’s shaft. “Though Wyll would have served to ease your master’s worry, he belongs at your master’s side. Yours is the greater need for protection, and I have no other purpose here.”

“Is Wyll your master?” Lucas asked pointedly.

“He is not,” He Who Was said, shaking his head. “He is my friend.”

“Well my lord ain’t my master, either,” Lucas stated flatly. “We’re business associates, so just call him ‘lord’ and all that.” He moved to the wooden floating platform and He Who Was joined him, balancing easily on the sludgy stream as the platform began to move.

“I will call the vampire by his name,” He Who Was said, and Lucas thought he spied a curl of disgust to the elf’s lips.

“Are you jealous?” Lucas asked, probing for weaknesses and finding the creepy elf frustratingly hard to read. “Is Wyll why you’re reading that smutty book?” Lucas didn’t think his lord was in any danger even if the creepy elf had designs on his man, but maybe Lucas would feel a little sorry for him if he was pining away. The elf could join half the servants in sighing over his lord and his lover’s unbreakable bond.

“I am not jealous,” He Who Was said, and Lucas was rewarded with a chuckle, the Shadar-kai’s first sign of emotion, albeit a small one. “Wyll and Astarion are well suited, and I am happy for my friend.” Lucas opened his mouth to ask another question, so He Who Was decided to volunteer more information, finding the human boy’s insatiable curiosity strangely flattering. “Did you not study when you moved from the streets to the ballrooms?” he said. “Your world’s customs are as unknown to me as the habits of vampires and nobles must have been to you.”

“Fair point,” Lucas conceded. “I didn’t even know about baths, really. Do you? Know about baths?” he asked warily.

“I am aware of the concept,” He Who Was said. “The books mention them often.”

“Well not everyone fucks in the tub,” Lucas cautioned. “So don’t believe everything you read.”

“I will not,” He Who Was promised. “I have already detected anatomical exaggerations which cast doubt on the work as a whole.”

“I don’t…” Lucas began, then shook his head and abandoned the thought. Though the elf was leaning on his halberd again, seemingly more out of boredom or habit than a crutch for his balance, those dark eyes were staring intently at somewhere in the area of Lucas’ guts. Being the object of such an intense stare give Lucas a shiver, which in turn sparked the ever-present embers of anger. “Why are you staring at me?” he barked, his hand twitching in anticipation of a fight despite the elf’s promise of protection.

“I would offer you help,” He Who Was said calmly. “If you would allow me to touch you, I believe I can help.” He didn’t move or take his hands from the halberd’s shaft, waiting patiently for Lucas to acquiesce in a way that quieted that angry flare and banked its coals. Lucas nodded and stood up straight, as if for the kind of inspection his lord gave him when he was checking if all his buttons were properly done up.

He Who Was stepped closer to Lucas and made three quick moves with his left hand, tightening two of the straps on Lucas’ leather armor, and twisting Lucas’ belt a counter-turn. While the armor still felt bulky, the adjustments settled it better on Lucas’ shoulders, and the weapons and tools on his belt aligned more naturally with his hips. With the elf so close, Lucas took the opportunity to examine him just as closely, noting the way the black strips of his leather jerkin fit smoothly against his skin, the flexing of his bicep indicating more strength than his casual stance had implied, and that the signs of wear on the joints of his armor weren’t as pronounced as Geraldus’.

“Thanks,” Lucas said, aiming a grin at the elf, who nodded and stepped back. “I haven’t been adventuring that long, so I had to guess on some of it.”

“This armor was made for a larger frame,” He Who Was replied, and Lucas wondered if he hadn’t learned how to say ‘you're welcome’ yet from his smut books. “If you know an armorer in the city, we could purchase you equipment of your own, tailored to your requirements.” They stepped off the platform as it reached the end of its route and Lucas led the elf to the east, skirting the edge of the harbor. The smell of the sewers here was tinged with salt from seawater seeping through the stone.

“Only brought bribing money, not buying money,” Lucas said with a sigh, patting the purse at his belt.

“I believe I have enough coin,” He Who Was said, unlimbering a heavy pouch and offering it to Lucas, who stopped and turned around to stare at its bulging, clinking bulk.

“Might want to hide that away better, mate,” Lucas chuckled. “Where’d you get so much? Does Wyll pay you a wage to follow him around?” Lucas did the elf a kindness by taking the bag and tucking it behind the lining of the elf’s pouch. He Who Was raised his arms outward to let Lucas do it, and Lucas wondered if the elf trusted him or if he just didn’t know all the spots under the armpit his lord had told him were good for stabbing.

“My friend shares with me,” He Who Was explained, following the boy as they continued, both deftly skirting the more noisome puddles and leaping easily over stagnant pools.

“An allowance, then,” Lucas concluded. “Sort of like my lord would give me, if I didn’t just nick whatever I need.”

“Perhaps,” the Shadar-kai said. “I know only that Wyll has a purse, and when I have need of money, I take it and he replaces it.”

“He just lets you rob him regular and doesn’t mind?” Lucas laughed, the joyful sound of it bouncing off the tunnel walls. He Who Was felt the tips of his ears twitch and a smile tease at his own lips, and he felt an echo of the same desire he’d felt upon hearing Wyll laugh for the first time, that hunger to trigger the reaction over and over again and keep that sound in his own hoarded memories.

“He does not mention it,” He Who Was said, admiring the nimble way the boy guided him, the subtle hand gestures that pointed out potential traps and dangers.

“Rich people sure are something different,” Lucas muttered. They continued along in a comfortable silence, broken only by Lucas showing the elf which routes to avoid and his short descriptions of why to avoid them: ‘skeletons’, ‘zombies’, ‘stink blobs’, ‘murderers’, ‘too much shit to bother with’, and ‘Guild types’. “You’re not much for chatting, are you?” Lucas observed, when they were nearing the edge of Eastway and the hatch they’d use to venture upward.

“Not often,” He Who Was responded, remembering the way his thoughts had fought each other to tumble out of his mouth when conversing with Shadowheart, the urge to lay before her the sum total of his experiences in hopes that she would somehow approve. He frowned, resentful of the impulse that overtook him in her presence and abruptly abandoned him in her absence.

“That Wyll says you’re good at listening,” Lucas observed, reaching the strong iron ladder leading upward and turning to face the elf, who was seeming less creepy by the minute.

“It is my purpose,” He Who Was answered, stopping and quickly erasing the frown from his face.

“Like your job?” Lucas asked, intrigued. “Like a priest?”

“Not like a cleric,” He Who Was said. “I retrieve memories and objects for my Queen.”

“Like steal them?” Lucas frowned.

“If the person with the memory is alive, then no,” He Who Was explained, leaning on his halberd.

“So you just listen to people talk all day? No wonder Wyll likes you,” Lucas chuckled.

“There is no need for speech,” He Who Was said, shaking his head. “I am sensitive to strong emotion, from people and objects, and can view memories through the eyes of others if they consent.” Lucas pondered that for a moment, biting at his lip.

“If I thought my thoughts from that night at you, could you fill in the gaps?” Lucas asked thoughtfully.

“You cannot share what you do not yourself remember,” He Who Was said. “But I may be able to see patterns that were lost to you in the moment.” He waited expectantly, allowing the boy to come to his own decision.

“You probably don’t want to see it,” Lucas sighed, turning toward the ladder. “It wasn’t pretty.” He Who Was reached out to put his own hand on the ladder, and Lucas looked up at him.

“I will balk at nothing that you show me,” He Who Was said quietly. “Whether you share or not is your choice. I will not judge you for it.”

Lucas touched at the furled knot of recollections gingerly, like his tongue probing a sore tooth, wary of jostling something loose. The masks and laughter rose to the surface like bubbles of poisonous gas in a fetid pool, just waiting to burst and shower him with nightmares. The elf’s face didn’t betray any kind of emotion that would sway him either way, not eagerness or anticipation or annoyance or fear. That absence clinched it. Lucas gave a small succinct nod, and He Who Was returned his nod solemnly.

Releasing his grip on the ladder’s rung, He Who Was leaned his halberd against the stone wall and sat cross-legged in front of it, gesturing to Lucas to sit opposite him. Lucas welcomed the opportunity to rest, even if the act of sharing itself filled him with trepidation, and sat down, careful not to sit on his cloak.

“Okay, what should I do?” Lucas asked, worry warring with curiosity. He folded his hands together to keep them still.

“Simply remember,” He Who Was instructed. “Not many can prevent me from intruding even if they know how to try.”

“Will I know you’re in there?” Lucas asked. “Will it hurt? Is it going to hurt you?” he blurted nervously.

“You will not detect my witness,” He Who Was said. “I will be you in those moments, and experience them as you did.”

“Let’s not do it, then,” Lucas said sadly, moving to stand.

“Decide for yourself,” He Who Was said, and Lucas settled back down with a frown of concern. “Do not worry for me. Anything shared freely is worth the cost.”

“If you’re sure,” Lucas said warily, and He Who Was nodded, which relaxed Lucas not a whit. He decided to close his eyes, mimicking the elf’s cross-legged posture and resting his hands on his knees, rubbing at them to warm them. He thought back to the carriage door opening, to looking inside and seeing his own face staring back at him, though it didn’t look as much like his own face as it used to. In his memory, the grinning devil face and horns hovered over it, like a reflection in water obscuring what lie beneath. Lucas opened one eye cautiously to look at the elf, and found a pair of dark eyes watching him from within the swirling tattoos. Those dark eyes closed, as if giving him permission, and he closed his own, settling back into the memory with a curious sense of safety.

The images of that night were like a string of mismatched beads, gaps between as he’d floated in and out of consciousness. He’d been shackled spread-eagle, somehow clad in his old tattered rags, the wooden frame that held him smooth in places and rough in others. He flinched from the memories of blades against his skin, tried to forget the feeling of hot blood running down to pool at his feet. Tried not to hear anew the crack of bone or the shock of cold water hitting his face to revive him from unconsciousness. He tried to focus only on the figures, their long cloaks and clawed gloves, the grinning skulls of their masks, the sharp edges of their laughter and the clink of wine glasses as they took turns torturing and chattering, like a party with torment in place of music. He was lost in it, pulled under by the current of the nightmare, surfacing only to stumble toward his home and find his way barred by the Watch, every bit of him aching and shaking. Then he was crawling through the sewers, his lord’s face a picture in his head like a beacon, the yearning to reach him the strongest desire he’d ever felt, the realization he’d failed his greatest disappointment.

When it was over, Lucas’ mouth was open and panting, his mouth tasting of the memory of blood. He forced himself to release his own grip on his knees, his knuckles sore from clenching. He opened his eyes and was startled to see the elf’s eyes glistening with tears and his expression one of subtle sadness.

“Are you all right?” Lucas asked, his voice strangely hoarse as if he’d been screaming, even though he hadn’t made a sound. “I’m sorry, I tried not to think of too much.”

“Do not apologize,” He Who Was said gently, an imitation of the soft voice Wyll had used with a rescued child, a voice that had seemed to calm their tears. “You honor me,” He Who Was added, even as he cupped the boy’s memories gingerly like they were fragile and dear.

“Don’t know about that,” Lucas said, grinning despite the cracking of his voice at the end. “I think maybe it did help a little, though. Did you notice any patterns, like you said?”

“I noted several things,” He Who Was answered. “Most should perhaps wait for Wyll and the vampire to hear them, but I am curious about the clothing in which they dressed you. It was familiar to you?”

“Yeah, my togs from before I found the green miracle,” Lucas nodded, using one hand on the iron ladder to help himself up. He offered his hand to the elf, who stared at it for a moment, then took it and stood. “I thought your hand would be cold,” Lucas said, distracted. “You look all cold.” He prodded at the elf’s bicep with a finger until thinking better of it and grinning sheepishly. “I left them on the floor when I took my first bath. Thought they’d be tossed or burned or something on account of I probably had bugs.”

“If you were infested, the vampire would not have touched your clothing,” He Who Was observed.

“Nah, my lord told the old servants to toss ‘em,” Lucas said, eyes glinting with mischief.

“Where are these ‘old servants’?” He Who Was asked. “Have they been questioned?” He retrieved his halberd so he could adopt his habitual lean, still treasuring the strange ache the boy’s memories had seemingly implanted in his chest.

“You’re a smart one, no matter what everyone says,” Lucas complimented, and He Who Was frowned at the idea that anyone would say otherwise. “That’s where we’re going.”

“To interrogate them?” He Who Was asked.

“Not quite,” Lucas shook his head. “After my lord pissed me off, they scarpered. They were long gone by the time I came back, but they weren’t the types to slink off to Tumbledown. No,” he shook his head again, ruefully. “They were the types to do anything to get what they wanted, including holding onto some lice-ridden rags on the off chance they could use ‘em to hurt my lord. Sounds like a vampire thing, don’t it?” he asked, not certain he knew enough about vampires to say, seeing as Shadowheart had pointed out he only knew the one. One and one-half, if the crushed spawn counted.

“It does,” He Who Was nodded, and Lucas enjoyed the approval no matter how dubious the source. “Their plots can unfurl over centuries, but are always petty. Even in death they are cruel.”

“Where do you know dead vampires from?” Lucas asked, eyes opened in wonder.

“Many of their souls are drawn to the Shadowfell,” He Who Was explained. “That is also my home.” Lucas clucked his tongue in sympathy.

“If I lived somewhere with a lot of dead vampires, I’d probably latch onto some rich tosser, too, given the chance,” Lucas said approvingly.

“Wyll saved my life,” He Who Was said, chuckling for the second time, to Lucas’ delight.

“He’s that hero type, ain’t he?” Lucas grinned. “I wonder if my lord will act up now that his Wyll is back, let him play the hero so my lord can crack wise in the shadows and stab.”

“I have seen the vampire fight,” He Who Was said. “Yours is an apt description of him.”

“Ah well,” Lucas sighed. “Being a hero is about what you do, not what you say. At least that’s what my lord tells me when he’s saying something he oughtn’t.”

“What if you say nothing and fight in silence?” He Who Was asked, and Lucas peered up at him closely to see if his expression meant he was joking.

“Guess that’ll be your job,” Lucas said with a shrug. “Come on. My friend’s waiting.” He pulled up the hood on his cloak and began to climb the ladder toward the city above.

Chapter Text

“You’re insatiable, darling,” Astarion remarks with a low purr to his voice. He stands before the floor-length mirror in his suite adjusting his coat to lay just so over his broad shoulders, tapering in to his narrow waist. He uses the mirror to connect his appreciative gaze to mine. “I’m a little surprised, to be honest.” He turns to face me, though the mirror allows me to continue admiring the snug fit of his pants. “I thought the frenzied nature of our initial trysts was due to the harrowing circumstances, but it seems to be your actual nature.”

“Perhaps it is,” I say, laughing and stretching well-used muscles, delighting in the luxurious feel of the bedclothes, the soft yet firm way the mattress cradles me. “How was I to know?” I sit up and fish my briefs from the pile of my discarded clothes. I slip them on and prowl on bare feet toward my lover, scratching idly at my lower stomach. Astarion turns back to the mirror and I embrace him from behind, resting my chin on his shoulder and smiling at the picture we make. “What about you?” I ask, nuzzling at the lobe of his ear. He tries to frown at me but I can tell from the way his buttocks press back against me that it’s only a game. “Do you wish me to curb my appetites to match yours? I’ve heard that older men…”

“Surely you jest,” Astarion pouts. “I am in the prime of my unlife, and I have no desire to censure you.” He rests his hands over mine.

“I’m serious, you know,” I offer, blushing a little at how serious my face looks in the mirror when I’m being, well, serious. “If you’re still uncertain, if the past troubles you, I will content myself with whatever you can freely give.”

“Oh my love,” he sighs, and I feel his shoulders relax against me. “I was afraid, at first,” he admits. “I would have none of this without your help, and I thought that was what you wanted of me, to be the powerful vampire lord.”

“You are a powerful vampire lord,” I growl into his ear, and he laughs.

“True,” he says, without a hint of humility. “But not in the way I was taught, at least I am trying not to be. Gods, the thought of keeping up that act with you for centuries simply exhausts me.” His smile fades and his eyes look up, focused on some distant vision. “To be what I thought you wanted, what I thought I had to be. How could I not be a villain, after what I’ve done? What it cost to bring me into the light?”

“It would have been crime on top of crime,” I murmur, kissing the soft spot between his ear and the collar of his coat. “So many lives already destroyed. If you followed your master’s path, you’d have only added ours to the pyre.”

“Then what kind of vampire lord should I be,” he wonders in a soft voice.

“The kind that’s proud,” I drop a kiss to his neck as punctuation. “That’s courageous,” I add, with another kiss, and I feel him squirm a bit in my arms. “That’s grateful for the power he has and uses it to help the powerless,” he rolls his eyes at that so I shift him to face me and kiss the hollow at the bottom of his throat. “The kind that loves fiercely in the way that only he can,” I finish, and capture his mouth in a deep, affirming kiss.

“The kind that’s fabulous,” he murmurs against my lips when we finally part, and I laugh, taking a step back and nodding in agreement. “You should dress if we’re to be fashionably late to meet your father,” he says, glancing at my disheveled state. “If you’d like to borrow something with a high collar to cover that,” he gestures to my neck and the two scabbed punctures there.

“No, thank you,” I say, shaking my head. “My father is well aware of your true nature, and should any of the people spy these scars amongst all the rest, it will only serve to keep our names on their lips. Gossip is our ally!” I declare boldly.

“Well, we shall never be boring,” Astarion agrees. He watches me with unabashed admiration while I dress, my tunic and trousers well-tailored and clean. I remain barefoot, planning to retrieve my boots from their position in the hallway outside, exiled from the bedroom for being ‘covered in muck’.

“Your young ward headed out on another adventure,” I inform him, catching that distant worried look in his eyes that I’ve come to associate with his thoughts of the boy. “He Who Was has him well in hand, according to Pech.”

“I suppose he can’t get into too much trouble with such a dour companion,” Astarion says with a relieved sigh.

“So long as they don’t go on a bender,” I say. “He Who Was has developed quite the appetite for alcohol.”

“Is he depressed?” Astarion wonders, opening the doors and stepping into the hallway. “Could you tell if he were depressed? Not simply by looking at him, I’d imagine.”

“He is… gathering,” I say, after reflecting for a moment on the best word to describe my friend. “Any memory, any experience, he seems to be greedy for them all, and from what he tells me, being drunk makes them ‘softer’.”

“What does that even mean,” Astarion says with an annoyed frown.

“There’s nothing soft in the Shadowfell,” I say with a shrug, picking up my boots and thinking I’ll tap them on the ground outside to remove the worst of the dust.

“Well, don’t let Lucas fool you,” Astarion warns. “There’s nothing soft about him, either.”

Chapter Text

As usual of late, Lucas wasn’t sure what to do with the happiness layered atop a seething pool of anger and fear, so he tried to keep his thoughts squared firmly in the former while allowing the latter to bubble and boil below.

“You’ll break it in nicely in no time, Lucas,” Geraldus promised, his gaze assessing the fit of Lucas’ new armor. Having emerged from the sewers far in advance of their nighttime appointment, Lucas had decided to take He Who Was’ advice and splurge — with the Blade of Frontiers’ purse, naturally — on adventuring kit all his own.

“You’ve chosen well,” He Who Was said, with a nod of approval. Geraldus had known exactly which shops and smiths to patronize — including one run by a Tiefling who seemed inclined to grant a significant discount on hearing Wyll’s name — and Lucas’ admiration for his two companions grew as they made their recommendations and haggled and helped.

They’d settled on a rather unique piece, a short gambeson of soft suede in a midnight blue hue that buckled at an angle across the chest. The fit was snug but not the least bit restrictive, which Lucas liked, and the matte suede in its dark color both suited Lucas’ sense of style and promised to be near invisible in the shadows. A matching set of trousers with reinforcement in the upper legs would protect his arteries and the tendons at the back of the knee where his boots didn’t reach. Lucking upon such fine leatherwork gave Lucas a good premonition about their continuing adventures. He even found a hooded cloak of indigo duffel, its clasp a carved wooden toggle, its interior lined with deep pockets. If he were not currently disguised as a red-headed wood elf, he thought the overall coloring would suit him perfectly. He also liked that the padding gave him the appearance of bulkier muscle than he actually possessed.

While the tanner, a jolly halfling woman of middle age, fussed over him, his companions had seemed to bond over a shared affinity for action, especially when it involved combat. Geraldus questioned He Who Was about the enormous halberd he toted with him everywhere, and the Shadar-kai described his preference with a shrug.

“My people favor subtle and simple blades,” he’d explained. “This weapon is neither. Its spirit is eager to prove its mettle.” He handed it to Geraldus, who nodded as soon as he grasped the carved wooden shaft.

“I can feel it,” Geraldus said with a delighted grin, almost reluctantly handing it back to its owner. “It’s feisty.”

“As you say,” He Who Was agreed, a hint of pleasure in his voice at the compliment to his choice of weapons.

“I think I’m all set here,” Lucas interrupted, approaching the two. “Be sure to thank Wyll for the funds,” he added.

“Why would we thank him?” He Who Was asked. “It was I who gave you the purse.”

“Of course,” Lucas chuckled. “What was I thinking?”

“It’s late enough for us to head for the Lantern,” Geraldus said, glancing up at the darkening sky. “He’s likely there by now.” With a final grateful nod to the tanner from Lucas, the three men retraced their path to the Brampton corner where they’d met hours earlier. This close to the docks, the night always brought an encroachment of fog, gray clouds dulling sharp edges and turning every lamppost into a soft glowing beacon.

Lucas let Geraldus take the lead, as he’d done the leg work and was familiar with the Low Lantern, a disreputable tavern grown in the belly of a permanently moored three-master. A set of wooden stairs creaked beneath their feet as they climbed from the wharf to the top deck, the only light above an eerie green-paned lamp at the bow, its glow signifying the tavern below was open for business.

“He’s not to know you’re you, obviously,” Geraldus cautioned, as they approached the hatch to descend below decks. “Unless you think it’ll gain you some leverage. Let’s see how the conversation goes.” Lucas nodded, leaving his hood up and his disguise in place, all the better for a dramatic reveal should it prove necessary. Or fun. Or both.

The middle deck had a comfortably seedy atmosphere, the patrons few and varied, the waitstaff and security sporting the type of wary gazes Lucas was well used to from his years on the streets. He kept his eyes on He Who Was, wondering if he’d be out of his element, but even the tankards of ale didn’t seem to distract him. His solid presence was reassuring in its own stoic way, and the last shreds of tension bled away from Lucas’ shoulders, replaced by a tingle of excitement. We’re doing it! he thought. We’re adventuring! He wondered how his lord could stand to forego this kind of foray in favor of boring parties and gossip. He’d take bantering with any one of the Low Lantern’s regulars over nattering with nobles any day.

If he got better at this, he could help his lord with all sorts of problems. Pirates, skeletons, skull-masked cultists… Lucas shook his head to clear it of his fantasies and concentrated on projecting confidence rather than the eagerness that swelled up his chest. They descended another set of steps to the next deck and took in the low-ceilinged, windowless space, lit only by lanterns hanging from chains tethered to the ceiling. More of a lounge, smaller seating areas were scattered about, allowing for more private discussions. He Who Was lowered his halberd to carry it horizontally at his side, so as not to foul it in the lanterns, and Lucas wondered if he had another, smaller weapon for close quarters such as these.

Geraldus headed unerringly for the aft end of the lounge, where a low coffee table and a pair of couches sat at the edge of the light. A man of middle years, his long dark hair a bit greasy to match the oiled point of his goatee, sat on one couch, his worn leather boots propped on the table. A pair of bodyguards, a human and what looked like a devil of some kind — devils not being Lucas’ area of expertise — loomed near the couches with a deceptively casual stance.

“Ah, Harper,” the man said in a voice as oily as his hair, projecting the greeting loud enough that the few patrons would know they had a spy in their midst, albeit not the type to care about petty criminality. “I’m glad my efforts won’t go to waste, if you’re here as agreed.” He lowered his voice to a more conversational tone and gestured at the empty couch, pulling his feet from the table and crossing one leg over the other. Lucas noted the grace in the movements; this man wasn’t hampered in any physical way he could discern, though he had none of the effortless grace of the vampire lord, the standard against which Lucas measured everyone he met.

Geraldus sat and Lucas joined him. He Who Was moved to stand behind their couch, silently signaling his purpose here wasn’t to converse. He raised his halberd and leaned on its long wooden shaft.

“Well met, my lord,” Geraldus said politely, and Lucas noted how yet another of the city’s patriars resembled a smuggler more than any reputable noble. “I wouldn’t dare waste your valuable time.”

“The value of your time, Lord Vanthampur,” Lucas said, lowering his voice and tossing a heavy purse onto the low table. The man glanced at it but made no move to retrieve or count it, instead slinging an arm across the back of his own couch and regarding the party curiously.

“The information wasn’t hard to get,” the man drawled, “but I’m intrigued by the request, especially coming from a Harper. Is your Archdruid a friend to vampires now? Strange bedfellows, is it?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know any vampires, saer,” Geraldus said, blinking innocently. “And the request was my own, not an official one. It was my friend who suffered. I only want to find his killers.”

“Hmmm,” was the only response, while the man moved his gaze from one to the other to the other. He sat forward suddenly, resting his elbows on his thighs, peering at them intently. “You’ve paid to know the whereabouts of a dead lord’s servants, and that information I have. I wonder if we couldn’t make another deal as well, an exchange of information. Between friends,” he added, his eyes glittering with malice above a falsely amiable grin. Lucas didn’t think the malice was for them, however, so he gave Geraldus his opinion with a shrug. The Harper didn’t even seen to notice.

“Is it Ravengard?” Geraldus said cautiously, watching the man’s reaction. “Or the Hhunes? Or both?” The man surprised them with a loud burst of laughter.

“Them,” he said once his amusement had run its course. “Others. Everyone stirring up scum in this swamp of a city.” He gestured to the bartender, and the kenku scurried over with a tray of drinks, its beak cracked in places with the scars of old blows, its beady eyes unblinking as it set the tray down and made its way back behind the bar. “Call me Amrik, and drink freely. I’m of a mind to pick your brain for what you’ve learned in that upstart lord’s lair.” He leaned back, his posture more casual than his words.

“You don’t frequent many ballrooms these days, do you, Amrik?” Geraldus said, his smile small but genuine.

“I find the company distasteful,” Lord Vanthampur sniffed. “I prefer this place, where the knives are worn openly instead of hidden behind a polite word. My own manor is rather empty, truth be told, though I’m doing my level best to sire a brace of heirs to liven up the place.” He grinned lasciviously. “If you’re the types I think you are,” he continued, “you might strike a few blows in my family’s name on your way to your own revenge. If all I have to do to make that happen is let slip a secret or two, it will be well worth the investment.”

“Ravengard first, then,” Geraldus said, his voice betraying not a whit of trepidation at selling out the Grand Duke. “Your mother wanted to supplant him while he languished in Avernus, but she died long before he returned. The adventurers that struck her down and sent your brother to meet her there haven’t come back to the city, not that I’m aware of, anyway. Where would our blow land, should we choose a target to your liking?”

“The son, of course, not as a target, but as a weapon,” Amrik said amiably. “I’ve no real quarrel with the adventurers who thwarted my mother’s schemes, they did what those types always do. The Grand Duke, however, is a hammer looking for an anvil, and his suspicions are easily roused. If he were to be distracted by his son’s rise, with that pale companion by his side, it would keep him from scrutinizing my own endeavors too closely.”

“Wyll needs no encouragement to continue on his path,” Geraldus admitted. “I can reassure you that he’ll be a distraction, whether he intends to ‘rise’ or not. He’ll not leave the elf’s side, and his father will have no success unraveling that bond.” Lucas nodded in silent agreement with the Harper’s assessment.

“The Hhunes,” Amrik said, steering the conversation to his next grudge. “My mother may have stepped in it by stealing their stupid shield and tossing one of them in her dungeon, but they’re not the proud patriars they pretend to be.”

“No more than any of the Knights of the Shield,” Geraldus agreed. “But Gortash’s lackeys and Bhaal’s assassins took care of most of them; it will take decades for their presence in the city to build to relevance again. Hurlbut Hhune hasn’t put forward his name for the Council of Four…”

“Ah, but no one has,” Amrik interrupted with a sly grin. “The Parliament of Peers, of which I am an esteemed member, hasn’t met in months, leaving that bald-headed buffoon of a Grand Duke in sole control of the city.” He took a long draw of air through his thin nose. “Smells like Elturel to me, though in truth rather than trickery.”

“The Harpers are no friend to autocrats,” Geraldus promised. “The Archdruid well remembers Ravengard’s brand of justice; he’ll find it difficult to close his fist with his own son among the heroes preventing it.”

“That’s reassuring,” Amrik nodded. “My fellow patriars seem content to blame the destruction of High Hall and the loss of their comfy cushions there for the lack of an election, but I’m certain it’s merely an attempt to see how things shake out. If the Harpers can be a burr under Ravengard’s saddle and his son continues to vex him, I will rest easier.”

“Glad to ease your mind,” Lucas blurted, forgetting to lower his voice in his frustration. “But you need to ease ours in turn. Give us the information we paid for, or we’ll send you to meet your family.” He grasped one of the wine cups with a noticeably trembling hand, remembering to sniff the liquid for toxins before draining the cup of its sour contents.

“Very well,” Amrik said, not perturbed in the least by Lucas’ threat. “When the Gate’s palest hero took his brief hiatus, the staff scattered to other positions, as servants are wont to do. Most returned to serve the lord and his little lost heir. Those that didn’t, joined the Eomane household. Well,” he said with a chuckle. “They entered the house, but you won’t find them there.”

“Where would we find them, then, my lord?” Geraldus asked, his own voice cracking with urgency.

“Not long after the city’s latest catastrophe,” Amrik said, waving his hand dismissively at the memory of the Absolute plot, “the Eomanes’ solicitor approached me with a request to purchase one of my family’s properties. A bathhouse, in the northwest Lower City. The servants you seek were sent there, though who they’re meant to serve is an interesting question. Not the common bathers, from what I’ve heard.” Rather than watching Geraldus for his reaction, Amrik focused on Lucas, who ducked his chin to let the shadows under his hood hide his disguise from scrutiny.

“That place was foul with the Dead Three’s minions,” Geraldus frowned. “Their coffers swollen with your mother’s coin, if I recall.” Amrik shrugged, uninterested in defending the deceased Duke. “What lurks there now?”

“Besides those few disgruntled humans whose dreams died with their master?” Amrik speculated. “That I do not know. While the bathhouse’s legitimate business was good for a steady stream of income, I am not hard up for funds, and I have no interest in following my mother into Zariel’s service. The city suits me best when it is settled. I have no grand ambitions to plunge it into Avernus or bludgeon it with the Iron Fist of Bane. I don’t want to see it carved up with Bhaal’s blades or dust-covered like one of Myrkul’s mausoleums. I just. Want. Calm,” he enunciated clearly. “That is why I’m being so free with my words,” he said, smiling cheerily and reaching for a cup of wine. “Because none bring calm like adventurers.”

“How do you figure?” Lucas asked, thinking of the cambion blood he’d washed from his skin not a day ago.

“Heroes solve problems,” Amrik explained, sipping at the sour wine and smacking his lips with satisfaction. “Swords speak more swiftly than tongues. My family learned that lesson, as did the Hhunes’ devilish servant just this tenday, no?” He watched Lucas over the rim of his cup as he took another slow sip. “I thought this ‘Lord Astarion’ was going to settle down and become just another boring fop, but it seems the death of this pauper boy has sparked him back into action in dramatic fashion. I welcome the brief storm of his vengeance and look forward to the calm after its passing.”

“We’ll try not to disappoint you, saer,” Lucas said, setting down his empty cup and standing up. Geraldus stood and inclined his head to Amrik in a respectful gesture, not quite an actual bow.

“I have a feeling you won’t,” Amrik said. “I don’t know what you’ll find in those water-logged halls, but I suggest you bring the Blade and as many of young Ravengard’s companions as you can muster. I’d hate to see you fall before you can rid the city of those who threaten its peace.”

“Funny,” Lucas said, grinning. “You sound like the Grand Duke when you say it that way.”

“Never,” Amrik said with a mock shudder, his smile greasy but genuine. “Good hunting, Harpers.” He raised his cup in a toast and watched the trio make for the stairs, secure in the belief that he’d aimed their swords in the right direction. A little bit of revenge, and he was paid in the bargain. A fine night’s work.

“You glowered really well,” Lucas whispered to He Who Was as they began their climb, and it turned out the Shadar-kai had learned to say thank you after all.

Chapter Text

“Is the wine to your liking?” my father asks after swallowing his own small sip.

“Delightfully dry,” Astarion replies, his smile likely appearing genuine to anyone who doesn’t know him as well as I do. My father takes him at his word with a pleased nod, and I’m struck again by how jarring it is seeing this side of him. To be seated at a dining table in the modest Upper City home where I grew up is disconcerting enough, but to have my father sitting across from us in a casual maroon tunic, his own false smile slipping easily across his face, is fast costing me my appetite. I pick up my own wine glass and drink deeply, wondering if the warm glow of intoxication will help or hinder my making it through this meal.

“I’m glad,” Ulder says glibly. “I wasn’t sure of your particular dietary restrictions. I can’t say I’ve hosted one of your kind in my home before.”

“An elf?” Astarion asks cheekily, chuckling at his own joke. “Let me put your mind at ease, Your Grace. I do not suffer from the limitations of my predecessors. I can sunbathe, swim, crash parties, and enjoy whatever scrumptious repast is placed before me. I am finding the tenderloin particularly delectable. My compliments to your chef.”

“Yes,” I say agreeably. “Is Martha still ruling the kitchens with an iron fist? I have fond memories of filching sweet buns from the counter and dodging her rolling pin while she chased me.”

“Martha disappeared amidst the chaos in the city,” father sighs, shaking his head. “Her son was taken by the cult of the Absolute, and she went in search of him and never returned.” He’s silent for a moment, perhaps lost in his own dark memories.

“To Martha, then,” Astarion says quietly, raising his glass. “And to her son, and to all of those lost and too often forgotten.” He sips at his wine and thankfully, my father joins us.

“The Absolute claimed many victims,” I say, “but some have survived to make new lives for themselves. Most of the rank and file of Ketheric’s army were not tadpoled. When the Netherbrain rose, the army found themselves fighting their own leaders, lucky to escape with their lives. I’ve met some, and convinced them to assist the Archdruid Halsin in securing the lands around Moonrise Towers.”

“They roam freely?” Ulder asks sharply. “They took up arms against this city and you didn’t think to exact justice?”

“It’s not that simple, father,” I protest. “They didn’t join the cult willingly; some were torn from hearth and home and pressed into service. It would be cruelty to punish them, not justice.”

“A subtle difference,” Astarion murmurs into his wine glass.

“I know it’s difficult,” I continue, though my father’s frown makes my efforts feel futile. “To see each person as they truly are, to see the difference between coercion and willing criminality. But that’s the sense of justice I learned at your knee; to judge each man by his actions, not condemn them all, especially not when they were misled.”

“Or enslaved,” Astarion adds another muttered example.

“I suppose I would be quite the hypocrite in your eyes if I thought otherwise?” Ulder asks, almost issuing a challenge, but I can’t help but shrug.

“You lead this city,” I say, letting flattery soothe the wound I know I inflicted with my honesty. “But you’ve gone through trials this past year that would make a younger man take to his bed for months. You deserve a rest before you wade into another war, even a political one.”

“Why haven’t you convened the Parliament and added three new Dukes?” Astarion asks, and seeing my father gaze into his winecup, I’m afraid I know the reason.

“I was awaiting my son’s return,” Ulder says, confirming my suspicions. “Now that he is back, I’m not certain he’d be welcomed by the city’s nobles, given his… lengthy absence.” Astarion understands his hesitation better than I, and can’t help but respond.

“His absence, or his choice of companions?” Astarion wonders, setting down his wine as if it no longer tempts him.

“Both,” my father answers him frankly, too secure in his stubborn sense of self-righteousness to hide his contempt for the man I’ve chosen. “Your ploy with the paper may have placated the people, but the nobles of this fair city are a different matter. They would see this… they would see you burn in the sunlight before they would agree to elevate Wyll to his rightful position with you at his side.”

“Father…” I groan. “You can’t have so little faith in me.”

“Oh, I’m certain it’s not you your father doubts,” Astarion says with a sigh of resignation that twists my heart to hear. He pushes his chair back from the table, crosses his leg one over the other and rests his clasped hands on his knee. “I won’t apologize for who or what I am,” he begins, meeting my father’s gaze uncowed. “Nor for what was done to me, or the crimes I committed under Cazador’s thumb.” He looks at me, and the way his gaze softens loosens the knot around my heart. “I care deeply for this man, however, and he has taught me a great deal about power and the wielding of it. I am not a vampire of the kind you know,” he adds. “I don’t burn in the sunlight, at least not in the way I can see you imagining, and were I to pay you a visit, I’d only need an invitation out of politeness. Vampires are hungry for power because for all their arrogance and cruelty, they have none. They are shackled to the shadows whereas I am not. They are prisoners of their hunger for the blood that sustains them, whereas I can enjoy this well-cooked roast and the way a dry red complements it. They impress legions of spawn to flatter and serve them, whereas I have friends; companions with whom I have fought and bled in service of this city which has given me so very little.” I smile at him even though he’s not looking, and I wonder if my father can see how proud of him I am.

“Even if I am convinced,” my father says solemnly, “the other patriars may not be so forgiving.” I can tell by the relaxed set of his shoulders that he is at least partially convinced by Astarion’s sincerity. I open my mouth to interject that I never indicated a desire to sit on the Council, or even to join the Parliament of Peers. That I’m not certain I wish to be tied to the city by politics, but Astarion speaks before I can utter a word.

“Ah yes, the other patriars,” he drawls. “The Parliament of Peers, that gaggle of mercenaries and cutthroats living off the labor of others. Come to think of it, as I have inherited my former master’s holdings, should I not be a member? I’ve heard there are quite a few vacancies.” He tilts his head to regard my father.

“I don’t feel that’s wise,” Ulder says, instinctively shaking his head at the very idea.

“Why not?” Astarion asks with feigned innocence. “Cazador had his little spies in your pretty parliament, there’s no reason they should shun me, at least no reason they could outwardly declare. And let’s look at your own peers, shall we?” He begins ticking off numbers with his fingers. “A worshipper of Zariel plotting to usurp your position in your absence. A mindflayer’s companion and victim, complicit in the crimes of a secret society. And Dillard Portyr, who apparently perished for the second time at the hands of Gortash’s minions. Whom in the Parliament would you see elevated to take their place? The Hhune, a leader in the same Knights of the Shield Duke Stelmane served? Amrik Vanthampur, though he’s shown no interest in the role? One of the others? Can you find clean hands, or do you just not know how to judge, given the persons you’ve broken bread with so eagerly over the years?” I can see the tension return to my father’s shoulders with a vengeance.

“Father,” I finally manage to interject. “I wish you’d spoken with me about this before manipulating me into returning. I won’t stop Astarion if he wishes to join the city’s government, and I will speak on his behalf should any challenge his right, but my path lies outside of politics for now. If you’ve been waiting to nominate new Dukes in the hopes I’ll be one of them, I am sorry to disappoint you.”

“What will you do if not your duty?” my father wonders, and I shake my head at his stubbornness.

“I returned to do my duty,” I explain. “As I see it, my duty is to ferret out those plotting against Astarion. The kinds of monsters who would torture an innocent boy for no other reason than to trick Astarion into acting out, and to fool you into making him your enemy.” I sigh, thinking of the plans I’d made earlier to give Astarion a tour of the house where I grew up, to show him the bedroom where I dreamed of becoming a Fist like my father, where I dreamed of becoming a hero. I no longer want to give him that tour. That boy feels like a stranger to the man I am now.

“I am sorry for what happened to your ward,” Ulder offers after a moment of quiet. “Though I hope your investigation will not lead to more disruption. Do you have any hints as to the identities of these conspirators?” Ulder asks, and I defer to Astarion to answer.

“It seems the Hhunes’ involvement went no further than lending their cambion to play a cruel trick and ensnare Lucas in their web,” Astarion answers, appearing somewhat mollified and thankfully abandoning his newfound interest in politics for now. “They would not have done such a favor for any common rabble or cult. The manner of the young man’s torment was varied but two things stood out in my mind: that they had his castoff urchin’s rags at hand, which could only have come from one of my former servants, and the way in which he was left wounded to make his own way home. There are noble families who play similar games with commoners, knowing the Upper City is barred to them, forcing them to race against their own mortal clock.”

“This is known to you?” Ulder asks, frowning.

“All manner of dark secrets call the Upper City home, Your Grace,” Astarion says, more calmly than I would have managed at the thought. “My master was but one.”

“Thank you for dinner, father,” I say with a melancholy smile. “I will keep you apprised of what we discover,” I add, fully intending to inform him only of the matter’s ending. I push back from the table and rise, offering my father my hand which he clasps with a grip still somewhat weak from his ordeals. Or maybe, I think with a start, it’s a sign of his age creeping up at last. Our hands have barely parted when I hear Astarion gasp, and I turn to see him touching a hand to his temple, his lips twisted in a grimace.

“Why so loud, Rolan?” he mutters, then drops his hand and smiles brightly and disingenuously at my father. “Yes, thank you so much for dinner. I’m afraid we really must go, as it seems some unwelcome guests have popped in for a visit at my home.”

“I’ll send Pech to scout ahead of us,” I say, already moving for the door, cursing that I’m dressed for dining and not for a fight. I stop when a thought occurs to me, and turn back to my father, the smile gone from my face. “Did you know?” I ask him, and to his credit, he understands the question.

“No, Wyll,” he says, shaking his head. “My invitation was an honest one.” I nod, and turn away.

Chapter Text

“Where’s the little lordling?” the vampire spawn crooned, his gleeful cackle marred by the gout of blood spattering from between his fangs, his taunt ending in a racking cough. “I know where he is, I know,” he managed to choke out, as if his desire to goad Astarion were more essential than keeping his blood within his failing body.

“Is that why you came,” Astarion said, more statement than question. Wyll recognized the calm tone of his voice as banked rage, could practically see the fierce gleam of his red eyes reflecting off the red of the spawn’s blood. His eyes had started to glow the moment Wyll’s raven familiar, Pech, had screeched in anger and pushed the word ‘vampires’ into Wyll’s mind.

They’d made their way with haste from the Ravengard home, Pech hovering at the edge of Wyll’s control — any farther and he would return to the Shadowfell until summoned again — with Astarion wracking his brain the entire time, attempting to guess which intruders had dared cross his threshold uninvited, tripping the arcane alarms he’d paid good coin to install.

“None of the nobles or their goons,” Astarion had muttered. “A frontal assault is far from their style, all risk with nothing to gain.” He’d cursed, quickening his pace as Wyll ran beside him, the early evening crowds giving them a wide berth based on their grim expressions alone. “Knights of the Shield? Zhentarim? I wasn’t solely responsible for any of their fates. Who would be so reckless?”

They’d reached the Upper City entrance to the former Szarr Palace within minutes, and the cool stone façade of its respectable face bore no signs of invasion. It was then that Pech, soaring over the roof top to the rear of the building, had shrieked his warning. Astarion burst through the front doors with controlled urgency, red eyes glowing and narrowed now that he knew his enemy’s kind. The foyer was empty, no movement, no noise, and Wyll had stopped in the middle of the marble expanse as Astarion bade him wait, disappearing into the kitchen and returning in less than a minute.

“The servants are safe,” Astarion had informed Wyll, taking him by the elbow and hurrying him toward the connecting door to the older parts of the house. “They sealed themselves in the safe room as soon as the alarm sounded. Except for Nocturne, who slipped out the front, doubtless to find us a cleric.”

“Did they know they were vampires?” Wyll had asked. “Did they see them?” He’d lowered his voice when they entered the passage, muffling his footsteps as best he could while Astarion’s movements were soundless and graceful with the instinct born of long practice.

Astarion had shaken his head. “They know better than to confront anything or anyone foolish enough to trespass here.” He’d stopped then and turned to regard Wyll with those baleful eyes. “We are both of us more than what we were when we faced my family,” he’d said solemnly. “I will not allow you to come to harm.” At Wyll’s nod, he’d added, “Believe me,” and Wyll had nodded again, the memory of fangs piercing his flesh, of vampire spawn dragging his lover from him while he bled surging at the back of his mind. Instead of fear, the memories had lit that familiar spark of anticipation and excitement, a fearlessness he’d cultivated by necessity, the manifestation of his refusal to be cowed when there were monsters to be slain.

So they’d ventured together, unafraid, to the hallway outside the ballroom, and beheld the petty vandalism that awaited them. Paintings torn from the wall and slashed by knives and claws, sculptures smashed on the floor, smoldering scorch marks on the carpeting where lit candles had fallen.

Astarion had frowned. They could see from here the back door to the terrace was wide open, the cool blue of night lying just beyond.

“This is pathetic,” he’d said, not bothering to whisper. His ear tips had twitched as the sounds of further depredation reached them from inside the ballroom, and Wyll had called Pech to him. The raven had arrowed through the open door to alight on Wyll’s shoulder, his scaly feet dancing back and forth nervously as he chattered a steady stream of angry chittering and his mind dripped endless curses into Wyll’s. The spirit had seemed as eager as his master to find the fanged interlopers.

Astarion had raised his hands at his sides, their palms glowing with crimson power, and the growling of wolves had presaged their coming as they’d slunk in from the shadows, a full pack of twelve or more. Wyll had wondered absently if Shadowheart had shed her fear of them, but had shook his head in shame at his own doubt. Of course she had. None of them were what they were, and few of their phobias had survived the cult’s routing.

They’d entered the ballroom as a group, both Astarion and Wyll giving little thought to tactics, rightfully arrogant in the swell of their power. With a word and a gesture, the ceiling darkened with roiling clouds, a deep rumble of thunder presaging the storm. There was the smell of blood and smoke and the room was plunged into a gloomy gray that hindered neither ally nor foe.

Wolves hunt in packs by instinct, so two of the shadowy hunched shapes were quickly surrounded by snarling canines, lunging and withdrawing in turns as their prey spun in place. Pech dove unerringly for another, his beak making a bloody ruin of the spawn’s face even as they snarled and waved their hands. In the past, Wyll had had to direct the raven, but Pech needed no command to rend vampire flesh. He abandoned one spawn to ravage another, and Wyll had focused on a smaller group.

His first spell had smothered the spawn in icy shadows that clutched and writhed. Should one chance to fight their way out, blasts of eldritch power from Wyll’s outstretched hands tossed them back into the morass. After scant seconds, none emerged, and the fog howled its hunger as Wyll released it.

Astarion had eschewed fighting like a vampire and instead stood tall, dodging grasping hands and bared fangs and blades with a lithe grace that reminded Wyll of their dances. The horde of spawn, for all their hubris, approached in stealthy crouches, getting in each other’s way and clearly unused to fighting with allies. Who was their master, Wyll wondered, that they seemed merely a feral mob, reliant on powers and traits inherent to their vampirism instead of combat skills that could have delayed their fate? Every throat exposed to attack with fangs met Astarion’s blades, the sounds of severed heads hitting the floor reminding Wyll of an orchard in fall as rotten fruit fell from its branches to strike the ground with ripe splats.

It was only afterward, when the wolves had deigned to receive pats on the head from the vampire lord and the ballroom’s ceiling had brightened to resemble full daylight – a light that did not burn the sole remaining spawn, much to Wyll’s disappointment – that they could take stock of the invasion’s depredations. One spawn writhed against the wall, pinned there by twinned daggers in his shoulders, blood streaming from his mouth to stain his chin and shirt, long brown hair matted with gore.

Full thirty-odd bodies lay strewn about the ballroom, though dismemberment made the number difficult to verify. Wyll had stepped deftly around and over the blood and severed limbs, smiling to himself at the nostalgic surge of pride and excitement at emerging from yet another battle unscathed, his partner never so tempting as when spattered with the blood of his victory. In days past they would have taken to a river or brackish pool to sponge off the stains. Now he found himself wondering how much better the manor’s expansive bathing pool would feel. A twinge of guilt at such thoughts amidst such serious circumstances was quickly squashed.

“These I recognize,” Astarion said, his eyes still bright with the red fire of his power, blades still naked and dripping in his hands. He was looking down at one of the bodies, a woman with brown eyes and long blonde curls staring sightlessly at the ceiling, her body and clothes rent and torn by the telltale punctures of fangs, her paleness denoting both death and bloodlessness. “She was a servant here, one of the ‘volunteers’ who sought Cazador’s ‘gift’.” He’d turned his head to the spawn wriggling on the wall, feet kicking futilely inches from the floor. “And this one, though it seems only he was rewarded.” He’d stalked toward the spawn, somehow managing to avoid a single misstep even without looking down. Astarion had begun to clean his daggers with the tail of the spawn’s shirt. Wyll had noted none of the spawn were armored, or even armed with more than simple knives. Had they trusted in their own superiority that much? Where would such foolish confidence come from?

“So, Greenfern,” Astarion had said casually, sheathing his blades and crossing his arms. “What was your purpose here? To cow me with clutter? I have other servants, you know. I have minions that would feel rewarded to clean this place with their tongues.”

“We showed you,” the half-elf had spat, blood and drool accompanying his words. “Showed you we’re coming.”

“Well, if that ‘we’ is meant to include you or Syrin,” Astarion had gestured over his shoulder at the dead girl lying at Wyll’s feet, “your part in it is about to come to an end. Who else makes up this ‘we’?” He’d placed one fingertip on the knife hilt in Greenfern’s left shoulder and wiggled it a bit, wincing in distaste at the resulting mixture of glee and pain in the spawn’s dull red eyes.

“I wanted to come,” Greenfern had said with a sigh of pleasure. “So you’d see we found a real master, a true vampire to serve. Not like…”

“And Syrin’s service ended like that?” Astarion had interrupted him. “You used her to enter and drained her to what? Gain yourselves a few extra seconds of existence? Is this vandalism and vague threat meant to frighten me? I destroyed my master. I have ended the entire Szarr line, vampires and spawn alike. I cannot be frightened by something so ridiculous as this.”

“He’s mad, Astarion,” Wyll had said, approaching them. “Whatever vampire would spend his spawn on so futile an exercise wouldn’t send them with any information worth having, and torture doesn’t seem to deter him.”

“True,” Astarion had said. “While it does confirm my suspicions about the origins of Lucas’ old clothing, the knowledge that there’s a vampire involved – one with demonstrably poor taste in spawn – is more information that we had. Was it your idea, then?” he’d addressed the spawn. “To torment the boy? To what purpose?”

“If you’d turned him like you ought,” the spawn had sneered, “he wouldn’t have been so easy to pluck from the palace. We told our master you were soft, staring at your own reflection all day. Look at what you did to this place!” the spawn had bellowed, straining against the knives shredding his skin as if angered by the very color of the paint on the walls. “Making that brat scream got you to show the city your power at last, and then you ruined it by sobbing to the paper. You’re an embarrassment to your kind.”

“I’d say the same, but your kind is embarrassing enough on its own,” Astarion had sniffed. “Gods, was I this insufferable?” he’d asked, turning to Wyll, who let his smile answer the question.

“Astarion,” Wyll had asked. “This makes no sense. They couldn’t hope to hurt you with this. Was there someone else they sought? Something else?”

“Whatever we wanted,” Greenfern had said with a bloody grin. “Anything. Everything the old master owed us, and this bastard denied us.” He’d kicked out at Astarion, who stepped back to avoid drops of blood spattering from the motion hitting his trousers. “I wanted to taste the boy,” he’d added almost dreamily. “Couldn’t bite before, but he’s not here. Where’s the little lordling? I know where he is, I know.”

“Then there’s a reason to flay you after all,” Astarion said, red eyes glowing, but the gleam of anticipation in the spawn’s own eyes made Wyll shake his head.

“He Who Was is with Lucas, wherever he is,” Wyll said. “If he were in danger, we’d have had some word.” Pech cawed his agreement from his perch on a severed leg.

“Geraldus is with him as well,” a dry female voice added from the doorway. Jaheira entered, a grim smile gracing her face as she beheld the slaughter. She was flanked by her two adult wards, Rion and Jord, the girl echoing her mother’s smile and the druid shaking his head ruefully. “My Harper is not so foolish as your friends, it seems. He sent word to me of their plans through one of my rats.” She tilted her head to regard the pinned spawn. “Unless this one will tell you who his master is, he has nothing to offer.”

Astarion drew a dagger and slashed it across Greenfern’s throat in a smooth, graceful motion. The half-elf’s expression frozen in mid-protest, as if he expected to continue his taunting and realized too late how meaningless his fate would be. “I find I don’t much care about which vampire’s behind this idiocy. The only villainous monologues on offer shall be mine.”

“I can’t say these decorations are an improvement,” Jaheira teased. “Can your ceiling spit rain to wash this mess away?”

“I don’t know,” Astarion smiled pleasantly. “I think this mess has a certain beauty. Nothing compared to your fair visage, however, High Harper,” he flattered, and Jaheira laughed while Rion rolled her eyes.

“Jord, would you mind overmuch letting the servants know it’s safe to come out?” Wyll asked. “They’re holed up beyond the kitchens.”

“Tap three times on the copper kettle and they’ll emerge like mushrooms from fertile soil,” Astarion said with a bow of thanks.

“Mushroom jokes,” Jord muttered as he left. “Splendid.”

“A moment to equip ourselves for an outing,” Astarion said, “and we can go fetch our various fools.” He moved toward the training room door and Wyll followed.

“I can vouch only for their destination,” Jaheira said. “I don’t know what they will find there.”

Wyll glanced at Astarion, noting the red glow of his eyes had barely dimmed despite the absence of any danger. “They’ll be fine, Astarion,” Wyll murmured for Astarion’s ears alone; though he didn’t doubt the others had the ability to hear, they had the manners to ignore it. Astarion didn’t even nod in response, the tension in his shoulders only noticeable to Wyll’s careful scrutiny. “Tell me, love,” he added, trying to change the subject. “Why didn’t you use your fangs during the fight?” The vampire’s lips had been pressed together in a thin line throughout, and Wyll wondered at his restraint.

“I told myself those servants’ blood would never grace my tongue, and I meant it,” was Astarion’s terse reply.

Chapter Text

“I am not in favor of this plan,” He Who Was said flatly, voicing his first objection in the hour since they’d left the Low Lantern and Lucas had outlined his idea. The Shadar-kai, inscrutable at the best of times, had betrayed no outward sign of concern or protest when they walked to Brampton to collect Geraldus’ gear, although he had exchanged a knowing glance with the Harper when Geraldus had cast what Lucas assumed to be protective spells of some kind. Lucas had waited in the hallway, bouncing on the balls of his feet with anticipation at the thought of doing something with the information they’d been given, and when Geraldus had emerged from his home – locking the door with a small sigh at the shiny new lock – clad in his armor with a longbow slung over his shoulder, Lucas hadn’t been able to suppress his grin, had practically floated along the cobblestones to Heapside where the bathhouse entrance squatted.

Only then had He Who Was given some indication that he thought Lucas was being foolish, but they were far too close for Lucas to turn back now.

“It’s closing soon,” Lucas said, pushing through the outer gate. He felt another little shiver of excitement, the same thrill he got whenever he ventured somewhere in his new life where he’d have been barred in the past. He faltered for one moment and pressed a hand to his stomach, remembering that night in the rain when the Upper City was barred to him, but the feeling of soft leather beneath his hand rather than blood-soaked rags helped him to push past the fear and lead his companions into the courtyard.

He’d never been past the gates or over the tall stone walls, never seen this courtyard with its smiling statues and carefully trimmed bushes. Bright torchlight cast soft shadows on the manicured lawns. Only a few chattering patrons passed them on their way out of the bathhouse proper, and Lucas felt less like an interloper and more like a figure of authority, there to uproot whatever evil schemes lurked beneath the unknowing peoples’ feet.

“Come on,” Geraldus said, taking the lead. Inside the bathhouse, the ceilings soared above temperate pools, and Lucas frowned. He’d lived for years never having a bath, never feeling the welcoming embrace of clean, warm water, the way it enveloped him in calm silence when he ducked his head. He took a deep breath and imagined pushing that twinge of jealousy out with his exhale. Though he’d rejected being a novice in Ilmater’s service, he still knew when his bad thoughts were holding him back, and lamenting his lack of baths was definitely one of his bad thoughts.

They followed Geraldus to a door in the Northern wall. The staff seemed to be scurrying home already, but two guardsmen in studded leather flanked the door, exchanging glances with each other when the trio of adventurers approached.

“No massage for you tonight, brother,” one remarked, his grin strangely friendly in the tangle of his bushy black beard. “Though it don’t look like you’re here for that.” He didn’t seem perturbed at the idea of a fight, and his compatriot – who could be his heavyset twin were his beard not a full shade lighter – gave a quick twist of his neck to loosen the muscles there.

“We’re for the passage leading below,” Geraldus said, his tone gruff and businesslike. He held up a cloth coin purse in one hand and let the other hover over its mouth. “Name a price that’s not more coin than my time is worth, and I’ll bid you a goodnight on my way by.”

“Nothing down there, mate,” the near-twin said with an uncomfortable cough, his eyes fixed on the purse.

“Then why you guarding it?” Lucas asked innocently.

“It’s dangerous, it is,” the first guard said, glancing at his fellow, who nodded quickly to indicate he thought it was a good lie.

“Is it empty or is it dangerous?” Lucas wondered aloud, but Geraldus shook ten gold pieces into his palm and offered them to the pair.

“It’s our business what we’re after,” the Harper said, not bothering to dissemble. “Five each and the cleaning crews won’t have to deal with any blood tonight.” Behind him, He Who Was unslung his halberd in a leisurely motion, letting the wicked blade catch the light.

“Yeah, sounds about right,” both guards agreed in unison, reaching for the coin. They divided it between them without any hint of an argument, and even opened the door and made a sweeping gesture of invitation.

Geraldus passed them with a curt nod and He Who Was followed, taking care to keep his halberd lowered so as to be unthreatening. Lucas couldn’t resist pausing between the two guards, content that his wood-elf disguise remained in place in case any avid readers of the gazette recognized him.

“Why are you guarding it?” Lucas asked them for real this time, and they exchanged looks again.

“So no one gets hurt, a’course,” the bearded guard said, his near-twin nodding in solemn agreement. “Besides, this ain’t the only way down, so we’re guardin’ against what might come up as sure as we’re guardin’ against what might go down.” They both nodded in emphasis and Lucas found himself flashing them a grateful smile as he passed, feeling less trapped than strangely protected as the door closed behind him. He wasn’t sure he’d ever met a kind brace of guards before. Maybe working in a bathhouse so close to Ilmater’s shrine had some of the bound god’s mercy floating through the air.

The ceiling of the room was high enough that Lucas could breathe easily. A faint perfume from bottles of scented oil permeated the air and a low blanketed table lay to one side.

“What’s this room for?” Lucas asked He Who Was, who looked around then stared pointedly at Geraldus who was busy with the north wall. The Harper turned his head to see both his companions staring at him and he frowned. “What's this room for?” Lucas repeated his question.

“It’s a massage room,” he answered, careful not to sound condescending. As the stares continued, he gestured at the table. “You lie down there and the masseuse rubs your aches and pains away,” he explained.

“Through your clothes?” Lucas wondered, frowning as he tried to picture it.

“There is a chapter in the book I am reading…” He Who Was began to say, but Geraldus held up his hand.

“Most massages aren’t like that,” Geraldus warned. “In a respectable place like this, it’s just to relax you and heal you.” He Who Was opened his mouth to speak again but Geraldus shook his hand at him. “They cover you with the blanket, Lucas,” he added. “It’s all above board, very professional.” Geraldus looked back and forth between the two before turning back to the wall.

“Sounds like something rich people would do, rubbing each other on their bare backs,” Lucas muttered, although he had to squash another bit of jealousy down at the thought.

“It can be comforting,” He Who Was said slowly, watching Geraldus for signs his speech was in some way unwelcome. When the Harper made no move to turn, He Who Was addressed Lucas more freely. “In the book I am reading, the hero has suffered a grievous wound. His woman nurses him back to health, and kneads at his sore muscles to ease them.”

“That’s nice of her,” Lucas says.

“Why do you say ‘his woman’,” Geraldus grumbled. “Does he own her?” He pressed his hands on a barely visible seam in the wall and a door-shaped section slid back with a scrape of stone on stone.

“He does not own her,” He Who Was said. “But he has claimed her in his mind many times, and he is surprised when he feels only comfort from her ministrations and not lust.”

“Look! Door’s open,” Geraldus said, distracting Lucas from his next question. “A little disgusted with myself it took me that long even knowing exactly where it was,” he said with a sigh, his hands on his hips. The space beyond the door was dark and shadowed. “Lucas?” he asked. “Can you manage in the darkness? There’s a torch if you need it.”

Lucas considered for a moment, then shook his head. “I’ll make do,” he said. “Though I’ll follow behind you, if you don’t mind. Don’t want to blunder into that one’s pointy stick,” he nodded at He Who Was.

“Let’s go, then,” Geraldus said, taking the lead. “This place was well cleared out from all reports, but it’s been months, and the city’s secret spaces tend to fill back up if left alone for too long.” He entered the passage and the shadow elf followed at a comfortable distance, trailed by Lucas. The darkness enfolded Lucas like an old friend, and he couldn’t help but grin at the renewed surge of excitement. A real adventure with real allies, he thought, and extended his senses outward as best he could to compensate for the lesser light.

Two torches bracketed the opening, unlit, but the light from the room above was enough to illuminate the broad stone steps of the staircase leading down. The floor of the room below was hidden beneath a scum of brackish water, but Lucas’ boots proved water-tight against the calf-high wet. He mouthed a silent thank you to his lord for the boots, and to Wyll for the purloined purse that financed Lucas’ armor. He gathered his cloak and draped it over one arm to keep the hem from the water, and let his disguise melt away with a sense of relief at being himself inside and out once more.

That initial sense of excitement faded a little as they trudged through hallway after hallway of quiet stone, Lucas easily following the sound of footsteps. He wondered if there were anything else in these halls to hear, so Lucas decided to make his own noise.

“He Who Was,” he whispered, almost a hiss in the still air. The shadow elf grunted noncommittally so Lucas took that as permission to proceed. “How is it that you can read?” The next few moments were quiet save for their shuffling feet and a single muttered curse from Geraldus.

“I am not certain, but I have a guess,” He Who Was finally answered.

“Well guess away, then,” Lucas encouraged him.

“When my Queen creates for us a new body, she withholds our memories, adding them to her trove,” He Who Was began, speaking slowly, searching for the right words. “When we are sent out, I believe my Queen gives us the memories of skills we will need. The common tongues we will speak and read, in order to serve her properly, though I do not know if that is true.”

“Wait, you get a new body?” Lucas asked.

“Our souls are bound to the Shadowfell and to the Raven Queen,” He Who Was explained patiently. “When these bodies die, our souls are gifted new ones.”

“Is that why there’s no fucking in your village?” Lucas said. “Even though you’re all grown-ups?”

“My home is in a city, not a village,” He Who Was corrected. “And we have no drive to couple. We do not…” he hesitated, then continued as if breaking a taboo, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “The Shadowfell is nothing, and within it, we are nothing. It’s only when we venture to other realms in service to our Queen that we can feel these things.”

“Begging your pardon,” Geraldus said politely, “but why do any of you stay, if it’s so empty?”

“We have no desire to remain here,” He Who Was said, and Lucas could almost hear him shrugging, the soft sound of leather against leather. “We have no desires at all. Perhaps that is by her design.”

“Then how are you here?” Lucas wondered. “Did your Queen tell you to follow that Wyll around?”

“The Shadow Curse gave me its own desires, red and grim and violent,” He Who Was whispered. “When the curse released me, I was left wanting more: to stay, and to yearn.”

“So Wyll didn’t really save your whole life,” Lucas suggested. “He saved this one.”

“An apt description,” He Who Was agreed.

“If you get killed, you go back to the Shadowfell and get a new body and what, you won’t remember any of this?” Lucas asked, frowning at the thought.

“Yes,” He Who Was said.

“What number are you on?” Lucas asked, and He Who Was chuckled. “Oh, you probably don’t remember.”

“I do not,” He Who Was confirmed, and Lucas was glad he didn’t seem offended by the questions. They continued along in silence until Lucas conjured another theory.

“Do you think it’s better?” he began, then hurried to explain. “I mean, when I died, the place I was didn’t feel like anything, and I didn’t really remember anything or feel bad or sad or anything. If you remembered all the lives you lost, and all the people in them, maybe it would drive you mad.”

“Perhaps that is what has befallen my Queen,” He Who Was said. “She remembers everything from many lives, and she is…all of them at once, and more. It is difficult to explain, but maybe it is better to forget.”

Lucas pondered that strange immortality as they splashed through puddles and kept heading east. He had a good idea of where they were, judging by his knowledge of the streets above their heads. He wondered why his adventures were nearly all walking, when his lord’s adventures were all mindflayers and giant brains and cults and hags and dragons. He wouldn’t mind a cult, so long as it was a small one with only a few members. He thought on it again and decided he probably would mind a cult, since how would he tell who deserved a stabbing and who didn’t? He’d rely on Geraldus’ judgment, since Harpers were generally good, if nosey.

“How long ago did the Eomanes buy this warren?” he asked, keeping his voice low despite the lack of discernible threat and the calm of his companions. “Maybe they aren’t using it for anything yet?”

“We were warned to bring allies,” He Who Was pointed out, his voice as dry as the walls.

“For what?” Lucas complained. “I don’t even hear any rats,” he added, knowing as he did so that his purposefully inept statement would draw correction.

“An absence of rats is never a good sign,” Geraldus commented, and Lucas smiled to himself.

“You told me that yourself when we traveled through the sewers,” He Who Was said. “Should I doubt your previous instruction, or are you bored? Wyll has a habit of babbling nonsense to fill a silence. Perhaps it is a human trait.”

“I suppose I’m nervous,” Lucas admitted, finding it easy to talk to these men in the dark, not having to manage his expression.

“I’d love to tell you there’s no reason to be,” Geraldus sighed. “But Amrik Vanthampur isn’t the type to give warning unless it’s warranted. He’s not concerned for our well-being, he’s worried we’ll fail.”

“Fail at what, though?” Lucas whined, kicking at a puddle he sensed beneath his feet. “You said them adventurers are long gone.”

“As far as I know they remained in Elturel, though I doubt they’ll stay put for long, not that type,” Geraldus said, and Lucas could picture him shrugging even if he couldn’t see it. “But they’re the ones that cleared this place, and found Amrik’s mother the Duke harboring Thavius Kreeg and worshipping Zariel with a Hhune in her dungeons.”

Only their footfalls echoed in the darkness after that, then Lucas voiced his thoughts.

“I don’t understand any of that,” Lucas admitted.

“Those words have no meaning,” He Who Was chimed in.

“It’s just,” Geraldus groaned. “It’s just politics, is all. Amrik thinks the way most patriars think: if his family didn’t succeed in their schemes, no one else’s should, either. It’s not revenge, exactly, it’s more…”

“…spite?” Lucas ventured, and there was a moment of silence where Geraldus was likely nodding where Lucas couldn’t see him.

“Yeah, exactly,” Geraldus said sheepishly. “His mother made a move and failed. Someone’s making a move against Astarion, and if the Eomanes are part of it, he’ll set as many obstacles as he can in their way, so long as he doesn’t have to stir himself off that couch.”

Lucas wondered just how big this strange complex was. They passed through rooms that smelled of crypt dust with its distinctively bony bouquet, so Geraldus told them what he’d learned of the former denizens. “Bhaalists, Baneites, and Myrkulites,” the Harper said softly, as if describing such could conjure them back from the dead. “These crypts were full of zombies, there were skeletons aplenty, and the youngest Vanthampur brother, if I recall correctly. I think he washed his hands of it, though; haven’t heard a peep from him since.” They turned north and passed through a larger, wetter room, then into another hallway.

“Maybe he moved back in,” Lucas said, feeling lucky he’d stumbled upon the green miracle and the lair of his vampire lord and not some drowned passages full of less elegant undead.

“Doubt it,” Geraldus said. “Hold up,” he added, before stopping in the middle of a small square room with a blessedly dry floor. “Listen,” he whispered, and Lucas heard first the rustling of the Harper unslinging his bow, then he heard the low sounds of someone or something speaking. The faintest of glows outlined the edges of a door in the west wall of the room and Lucas focused on it. He crouched low and moved carefully and silently toward the doorway, sensing as much as hearing his companions allow him to approach first. He pressed himself against the wall to one side, and could see He Who Was across from him, a slice of light falling across one side of his face, his stoic expression easing the tension in Lucas’ guts. Geraldus crouched a few feet from the door, all three of them listening in the hopes of making out the conversation beyond.

“…look stupid just empty like that,” a high-pitched voice said.

“Wouldn’t have liked them, anyway,” a lower voice answered, louder with authority. “Made you do things. Better smashed.” A third voice grunted in assent, then only silence.

Geraldus held up an index finger, and He Who Was nodded to him, then held up two of his own. The Shadar-kai then crooked those two fingers and held them up to his lips in a crude imitation of fangs, and Lucas felt a shiver run through him. The dark eye he could see held such a look of focused anger it calmed Lucas’ fears. Geraldus reached behind him to finger the arrow fletchings in his quiver, drawing forth a wickedly barbed arrow on a long wooden shaft. Lucas saw the Shadar-kai grin, then, a sneer of contempt directed at their foes. Geraldus pointed the arrow at Lucas, then at the door, and Lucas nodded. He Who Was mimed turning a key in a lock at the door handle, then shook his head, and Lucas nodded again.

Lucas took a deep breath and held it as Geraldus nocked the arrow to his bow and drew back his arm. The Harper stood to keep the bow from scraping the ground even at full draw, and Lucas slid one dagger from its sheath. He reached for the handle with his free hand and replaced one deep breath with another before twisting the handle and yanking the heavy door toward him with as quick a motion as he could.

Geraldus shot, the bass thrumming of the bowstring shattering the silence. Lucas peered out from behind the door to see the Shadar-kai crouched across from him disappear, and Lucas blinked and uttered a gasp of surprise. Geraldus nocked another arrow and stepped into the dimly lit room, turning his bow to the left and right, then up and left and right again to quickly map the room and take stock of their assailants.

Lucas pulled up his hood and slipped into the room behind him, blending into a shadow in the right-hand corner and wondering if he would be help or hindrance. He wouldn’t mind watching, like he did when his lord did hero things. So long as the things got done, Lucas didn’t have to be the one doing them, especially if they were dangerous. He did want to help, though, so he looked for his chance.

The room was the first Lucas had seen clearly, with torches burning in sconces at intervals along the stone walls. The room was large, its western end dominated by three strange squat pillars of reddish stone. Two of the pillars were empty, but a body sprawled face-down across the third, Geraldus’ arrow buried in its back, still vibrating from the force of its short flight.

Remnants of shadow like black cobwebs clung to the Shadar-kai in an open space before the pillars. As Lucas watched, a man in brown leather collapsed to the ground, the sweep of a halberd having sliced off his feet at the ankles. The man howled in pain, his screams almost forming words before He Who Was twirled the halberd and brought it down on the man’s head in an overhand swing. The blade buried itself in the man’s forehead, his mouth gaping open to reveal the bright gleam of fangs, wisps of dark hair drifting from his head, cut as neatly as with a barber’s scissors.

A slim woman with short dark hair shrieked in rage and launched herself at the Shadar-kai from behind, her hands crooked into claws that reached for his shoulders. She tried to sink her bared fangs into the elf’s exposed upper arm, but she failed to pierce the skin even as Lucas threw his dagger instinctively. It struck her in the shoulder, sticking deep, and she turned to Lucas with another shriek, this time of pain.

“Don’t kill her!” Lucas blurted out, even as He Who Was freed his halberd from the vampire’s skull. Lucas wondered if the elf would heed him, but the Shadar-kai casually struck backward with the butt of his weapon’s shaft, striking the girl in the sternum. She doubled-over with a grunt and he whipped the butt end up, catching her in the chin and knocking her backwards onto her arse. She scrambled back to a corner of the room, trickles of blood running out of the sides of her mouth where the blow caused her fangs to dig cruelly into her own lips and tongue.

“Serves you right!” Lucas yelled, drawing another dagger and advancing on the woman, who bared bloody fangs to hiss at him from her familiar face. Her defiance was short lived, and she almost whimpered when the hilt of Lucas’ dagger in her shoulder hit the stone wall. “Leave it!” Lucas barked, taking on his lord’s commanding tone as best he could.

In order to reach her, Lucas had to walk around the two neat rows of three coffins each squatting at the sides of the long room.

He gritted his teeth at the sight of those coffins, those wooden cages, those prisons. Maybe they represented rest to these vampires, but he would never see them as anything but punishment. For him, and for his lord, each in their own way.

“Look who it is,” the woman said, a blood-drenched smile painted across her delicate face. “I thought I’d never see you again when I wasn’t picked to go.”

“Who is she?” Geraldus asked as he joined them, inspecting his bowstring for damage though he’d fired only the once. He Who Was kept his halberd at the ready, scanning the room around them for any other signs of movement. He spared a few steps and two swings of his blade to lop off the heads of the fallen vampires, then returned.

“Varderola,” Lucas answered, and the woman almost giggled at the sound of her name. “She was one of the old servants. So you found some git to make you a vampire, eh?” he sneered at the woman, beating down another flare of jealousy, angry at himself for being even a bit envious of the battered creature before him.

“They’re spawn only,” He Who Was corrected him, sounding almost disappointed. “A true vampire would become mist rather than take a blade.”

“What should we do with her?” Geraldus asked. “Take her somewhere for questioning?”

“If you have questions, ask them here,” He Who Was warned. “And ask them quickly.” He turned to Lucas, who hadn’t looked away from the spawn’s red-eyed gaze even as he knew it was a danger to him. He wasn’t alone this time. She couldn’t hurt him even if her eyes went pink and she tried to make him love her. She was going to answer him and then she was going to die. Well, die again, he supposed. He didn’t feel a bit badly about it.

“Where are the rest of you?” Lucas demanded, gesturing behind him at the other coffins. “What are you after? You got a master now, don’t you? Why are you here?”

“That’s a lot of questions, little lord,” Varderola said sweetly. “Here’s your answers: everywhere. Your lord. Oh yes, and to feed and grow strong. See how helpful I can be when I get what I’ve earned?”

“Does it matter who her master is?” He Who Was interjected, even as Lucas seethed. “End her and let us go. We are vulnerable here.”

“Grab her corpse and we’ll question it,” Geraldus advised, and He Who Was nodded even as Lucas protested.

“I want to know why she did it,” Lucas said, taking a step to one side until he realized he’d been about to start pacing. He drew himself up tall as he could in the flickering torchlight and tried to be reasonable. “I want to know why she did it,” he repeated, looking down at the spawn, who’d risen up on her knees as if to pray or beg. Her expression turned curious as she stared at Lucas intently.

“After all that,” she breathed. “After everything we did to you, he still didn’t give you the gift, did he?” She laughed loudly and Lucas started toward her, only for Geraldus to block his way with an outstretched arm.

“Don’t listen to her, Lucas,” Geraldus said. “All the gift bought her was this early death. You’re better than her. Now, and always.”

Lucas searched the Harper’s face and found nothing but sincerity. The earnestness in that expression made Lucas a bit uncomfortable, so he mumbled false words of agreement and walked away. The spawn’s laughter subsided to a low giggle, and Lucas wondered if his companions were waiting for his word to end her. He thought and thought and realized he didn’t care if she died. It would be enough revenge for her to be a spawn for so short a time. He could get answers from her corpse. He hoped corpses couldn’t laugh.

He raised his head and took a deep breath to give the word when a loud scrape of stone presaged the opening of another secret door in the west wall, behind the red stone blocks, another hidden staircase. Two figures leapt from the stairs through the door’s widening mouth, landing in the room even as Lucas heard his companions ready their weapons behind him. He began to turn his head, catching a glimpse of Geraldus drawing his bow with an arrow at the ready, He Who Was raising his halberd behind him. Then he heard the words and his head stopped mid-turn, Geraldus stopped at mid-draw, and He Who Was froze in a half-crouch.

Ad Lapidē, were the words that rang out, and they had that pink-edged power Lucas had felt from the spawn that bit him, yet somehow greater, more inexorable, impossible to disobey. He couldn’t even close his eyes, he realized, sliding toward panic until his lungs allowed him at least a breath, proving he wouldn’t smother as he stood there.

Varderola pushed past him, his dagger forgotten in the flesh of her shoulder, and fell to her knees in front of the staircase. A man emerged from the shadows there, first elegant yellow slippers, then a tailored robe of yellow and orange trimmed in golden thread, then a broad chest covered in jeweled medallions hanging from thick gold chains looped around the robe’s high collar, then a well-groomed beard of dark brown, shoulder length hair swept back in a knot secured by a jeweled hairpin, then the gleaming red eyes that reminded Lucas of his lord. Those eyes in that youthful and cruelly beautiful face ignored the spawn groveling at his feet and focused instead on the hapless trio. A genuine smile creased that face and the vampire clapped his hands together in delight.

“Splendid!” the vampire said in a rich tenor tinged with mirth. “Not the prize I seek, but a treat nonetheless.” He clasped his hands behind his back and ambled toward them, uttering a little sigh at the sight of two headless bodies. He flicked the arrow in one’s back, setting it to trembling, and identified Geraldus as its source, the half-elf still holding his drawn bow. “Nasty arrow, that,” the vampire said, clucking his tongue. “Not a common armament unless one is stalking our kind.”

“He’s a Harper, master,” one of the newcomers said, stepping up to stand behind his master. “One of Jaheira’s.” The spawn seemed comfortable in his fighting leathers, daggers sheathed at his hips, his red gaze intelligent and unafraid despite the bodies of his brethren strewn throughout.

“Oh, the High Harper and her flock of busybodies,” the vampire said, frowning as if he’d tasted something sour. “We’ll send him back to her minus a few fingers, maybe a foot.” He waved one hand dismissively and approached He Who Was with a mew of surprise. “What is this? What is this?” he cooed.

“Came to town with the Grand Duke’s son, that’s all I know,” the spawn said with a shrug. “Stayed at the Elfsong a few days, down with a sickness of some kind.”

“Master!” Varderola cried out, turning on her knees and crawling toward the vampire. Lucas could barely see her at the bottom of his field of vision, but he could clearly see the second spawn – a slim wood elf with an eerie resemblance to Lucas’ earlier disguise – gesture at the woman with his chin, one hand on his knife. He must have received an answer, for he let the woman continue unmolested. “Master! He appeared out of thin air in a dark cloud! I tried to bite him for killing Mirk and my fangs couldn’t even scrape him!”

“Interesting,” the vampire stroked his beard thoughtfully. “Could you be one of Her servants?” He wondered aloud, inspecting He Who Was like he would a statue. “I see no raven, but still.” He turned to the spawn at his side and lectured him like they really were in a museum. “Jornah, note the signs. I’ve not seen a Shadar-kai in centuries, but this one has the facial tattoos, the pallor – they delight in pain like one of Loviatar’s, but they serve a very different mistress, the Raven Queen, a fascinating…” he stops with a chuckle. “Well, I could go on at length but suffice to say, unless I miss my guess, he is a very rare type of elf, almost never spotted outside the Shadowfell, and I must say, never so well-formed.” He stroked an appreciative hand down the elf’s bare arm and gave his bicep a squeeze. Lucas wondered if He Who Was would explode from rage at a vampire touching him. “No fun to torture, though,” he added. “No fun at all.”

“Do you want him, master?” Jornah asked. “We can bring him, if you want to feed in more comfortable surroundings.”

“Hmm,” the vampire seemed to consider the idea for a moment, then smacked the Shadar-kai on the arm and turned away with a sigh of regret. “No time, no time. Blind him, though. They are slippery as eels, but they can’t port when they can’t see. Now then,” he clapped his hands together as if saving the best for last and approached Lucas. Out of the corner of his eye, Lucas could see Jornah draw a knife, then the spawn’s back blocked his view and the vampire lord’s red eyes moved closer until they were all he could see. Breath sawed in and out of Lucas’ chest, the only motion he could manage.

“Oh,” the vampire said, smiling as if he’d just found something precious. He reached out a hand and tugged Lucas’ hood back to reveal his blonde curls. “I didn’t lose my bet after all,” the vampire laughed, somehow managing a giggle that wasn’t childish. “Oh I have missed you, in my own way,” he said, stroking Lucas’ hair as if petting a cat. “I followed their foolish rules – I am a guest in this city, after all – but I should never have agreed to send you away like that, wasting all that blood.” As the vampire’s smooth thumb brushed the skin beneath Lucas’ eye, he realized his eyes were watering, or that the spell’s hold on him didn’t prevent tears of fear and anger from falling. The vampire drew back his hand and licked the salty drops from his thumb.

Jornah appeared beside his master, wiping his knife clean with a rag and grinning, his fangs glinting. “So he made it back alive after all,” the spawn said approvingly, as if proud of Lucas. He sheathed his knife. “Those pretty eyes still blue as the twilight sky,” he said, clucking his tongue in mocking dismay. “Sure you want this ‘vampire ascendant’s’ power, master? Seems to have robbed him of his balls, like the whelps said,” he inclined his head behind him where Varderola must be kneeling.

“Perhaps it’s his mind that’s soft,” the vampire said thoughtfully. “I’ll find the truth of it when I dissect him.” He regarded Lucas with curiosity. “What is he waiting for with this one, I wonder. So young,” he twisted a lock of Lucas’ hair around his finger. “Is he waiting for you to ripen?” he asked Lucas, as if the boy could force an answer out from between his frozen lips. “What a fool. You’re ripe enough, aren’t you? Now that I think on it, my promise was to spare you on that one magical evening we spent together. This is a new night, and I am bound by no such vow.” He inclined his head to Jornah. “Put blades to throats, if you please. While I drain him, my concentration will lapse. Try not to kill them if you can avoid it. Living victims tug at the heartstrings far more than corpses.”

Jornah and the other spawn moved away to enact their master’s orders, and Lucas saw the tip of the vampire’s pink tongue dart out to moisten his lips. The vampire unfastened Lucas’ cloak and let it fall away from his neck. Those red eyes searched the boy’s tear-stained face and neck as if looking for the perfect spot.

Lucas stared into those glowing red eyes, let himself fall into them like a fiery tunnel boring through his fear into the seething rage beneath. He remembered his lord’s eyes glowing when the coffin lid slid shut over him, and he remembered them gleaming in the monster’s face when the lid slid back. Lucas pulled that fury upward, rode its roaring wave until he felt it could shoot forth and burn this monster’s eyes right out of its skull.

That monster’s head moved toward him and Lucas drove his dagger into its left eye.

The monster stumbled backward, its mouth an O of surprise, as Lucas flipped back and up and over to land atop one of the coffins, his body humming with anger and adrenaline. Geraldus’ bow sang out and the wounded vampire burst into a gray cloud of mist, the arrow clanging off the stone wall behind him and Lucas’ dagger dropping to the floor. He Who Was leaned back at an impossible angle, arching over the wood elf’s arm while gripping the halberd’s shaft just below the tang of its blade, sliding it between the elf’s knife arm and his own torso, punching the spike at its top upward. The wood elf spawn dodged back to avoid the spike, then leapt backward to avoid the short sweeps of the halberd’s blade He Who Was used to defend himself.

The spawn moved toward their master’s retreating form, saving their energy for dodging arrows. Geraldus shot unceasingly, taking careful steps backward as he fired. The spawn disappeared in the shadows of the staircase, Varderola lagging behind the others.

Lucas saw her leaving, saw his dagger – his lord’s dagger – still jutting from her shoulder, and he decided he wanted that dagger back. He dove from the coffin lid and somersaulted forward, picking up the fallen knife as he rolled and coming up behind her with blade swinging. The sharp steel cut through the tendons at her ankles, causing her to collapse and begin to slide down the stairs, her hands reaching for her master even as any trace of her allies disappeared into the darkness at the top of the stairs.

Lucas grabbed her short curls and yanked her backward, straddling her sprawled form, his knees on her chest, avoiding the knife’s point protruding from one shoulder. He gazed down at her as she struggled, trying to throw him off, her legs kicking uselessly, leaving smears of blood on the stone tiles.

Lucas couldn’t think of anything he wanted to ask her, didn’t want to hear anything she had to say. He just wanted her to stop shrieking, so he stabbed her between those dull red eyes, leaned on the dagger’s hilt until the blade struck stone beneath her head, then twisted it, making a bloody ruin of her face. She stopped shrieking. Lucas withdrew his dagger, then flipped her limp body over and retrieved the second one, wiping them both on her tunic to clean them. He sheathed the daggers and stared at her motionless back, dreading looking up.

“Are you hurt?” He Who Was asked, his voice the same calm rasp it always was. “Did it bite you?”

Lucas looked up to see the Shadar-kai holding his halberd with both hands, its spiked blade protecting his stomach from foes he could no longer see. It was as if the black inked leviathans beneath his eyes had unfurled their tentacles, extending down his pale cheeks in deep red streams that dripped off his chin and onto the floor.

Geraldus held an arrow nocked to his bowstring but pointed downward. His chest heaved with exertion, and a thin red line scored his neck above his armored collar. “He’s unharmed,” he panted, and He Who Was relaxed with a visible shiver of released tension. He put the butt of the halberd’s shaft on the tile and leaned on it in such a familiar pose that a sob burst from Lucas’ throat.

Lucas looked at his companions, then at the bodies and the bloody footsteps tracing patterns of movement on the floor, then at the coffins lurking in the flickering torchlight. He stood up, his muscles threatening to cramp from the movement. Before his legs could fail him, he fled up the staircase, Geraldus’ shouted protest echoing off the stone walls and dying away behind him.

He’d left his cloak behind, crumpled on the floor like another lifeless body. Heedless of the potential danger above, he found himself emerging from the basement of a modest Heapside house, its wooden floor empty, its walls bare. He burst through the front door and left it unlocked and swinging behind him. The night air was cool on his sweat-damp skin, his tear-stained cheeks, and he ran through the streets, uncloaked and undisguised.

He sped through the yellow pools of lamplight, the deep blue pools of shadow. He pushed through the strolling throngs, heedless of the angry cries that trailed him through the Lower City. He reached the Heap Gate and saw the two guards of the Watch step forward to stop him. He gritted his teeth and ran between them, even as one held the other back with a hand and the words, “It’s that boy, isn’t it? Let him go home.”

He knew the trick of opening the doors of his home without a key, turning the knobs just so in a pattern that took scant seconds. He ran through the foyer, hearing the low hum of conversation from the kitchen. He scaled the stairs and ignored his bedroom, rushing through the passage to the older part of the house. His pace slowed at the first signs of destruction, the smashed and slashed artwork, the ruin of it all. He turned to the ballroom, the airy ceiling of calm blue and fluffy white looking out of place with its false sunlight shining down on a floor slick with blood and gore.

He stopped in the doorway, panting, and marked the familiar bodies, one sprawled and covered with the marks of fang and claw, the other pinned to the wall like an insect.

A squelching noise drew his attention, and he turned his panicked eyes to the corner near the training room door. An enormous mountain of a man-like monster sat there, its head bald and sweating, its fingers and features thick and blunt. It was holding a limb in its hands, and it was chewing. Perhaps talking with its mouth full would be impolite, so it raised the severed arm and jiggled it so its hand flopped limply back and forth in a wave of greeting.

Lucas sprang for the nearest pillar and swung himself around in a desperate leap, landing at the edge of the blood, slipping on its slick surface just a little. He left crimson footprints of his own on the floor as he raced for the door to the study.

It wasn’t until he knelt in the green miracle, his forehead pressed to the cool stone and his arms wrapped around himself that he let out a deep, shuddering breath and screamed into the darkness like his lord used to do.

Chapter Text

“There you are,” Astarion said, though it didn’t seem to Lucas like he’d put any effort at all into sounding glad to have found him. Why would he be glad to see a sniveling boy, dried blood crusted on his pathetic costume, streaks of it across his face from wiping his nose with blood-smeared hands? He’d even lost his cloak, and no one had told him how miserable it was to be sad and angry and needing to piss at the same time. Lucas didn’t bother to look up at his lord. He pressed his cheek more firmly against the green-and-gold stone pillar and closed his eyes, hoping his lord would just go away.

“You couldn’t have chosen a lovelier spot,” his lord continued, as if Lucas weren’t ignoring him. “I spent months here wallowing in… well, too many regrets to recount. Then a certain someone insisted I redecorate, and I must confess, I haven’t felt the need to revisit the old place. I’m glad it’s getting some use.” Lucas heard him slowly pacing, not the fast pacing of anger or anxiety, but the leisurely stroll he liked to take when he was waiting for Lucas to take whatever conversational bait was on offer.

Well, he’s the immortal one, Lucas thought. Let him wait.

It was that thought, that word immortal that tore a choked sob out of Lucas’ sore throat. His lord’s footsteps stopped but the silence remained, and Lucas wondered if he’d stumped his lord again, like he occasionally had; presented him with a situation so confusing he couldn’t figure out the right lies to tell. Curiosity warred with shame until Lucas opened one eye and caught his lord looking at him with an expression of such sympathy Lucas’ other eye popped open in surprise.

“Acknowledgement!” Astarion crowed, that mournful look tucked behind a pleasant mask in an instant. “Now that the first step’s been taken, shall we take another?” He tilted his head to regard Lucas with affection, so Lucas decided to smash that undeserved sentiment to bits.

“Bugger off,” he barked, screwing his face up into a frown.

“I’m afraid that won’t be happening,” Astarion said with a smile, crossing his arms. “Why don’t you yell at me instead? Or you could simply tell me why you decided to return ahead of your companions?”

Lucas pressed his face to the pillar again with a groan that rattled his throat into a cough.

“Oh ho, guilt!” Astarion chuckled. “Well that I think I can manage. If you won’t spell it out for me, shall I guess? And when I’ve hit the right answers, you can moan or groan, perhaps pull at your hair which, by the way, needs a good washing?”

“Fine!” Lucas said, scooting around to put his back against the stone, crossing his arms in imitation of his lord and glaring up at him with a stubborn pout. “I’m the one that led them into a trap and I’m the one that buggered off when they got hurt.”

“Are you hurt?” Astarion asked, his red eyes inspecting Lucas even as he sniffed. “None of that’s your blood.”

“No! None of it’s my blood!” Lucas sneered, throwing his arms wide to display his gore-soaked armor, then crossing them again in a huff.

“Would you feel less guilty if it were?” Astarion ventured.

“Probably,” Lucas grumbled. Astarion walked a few steps closer and Lucas noticed that his lord was armored as well, clad in the matte black leather straps and broad sculpted shoulder pads of Drow armor, though not the set from the adventuring room. Two wickedly carved sword hilts bracketed his lord’s face, their sheathes strapped crossways on his back. “Are you hurt?” he suddenly thought to ask, thinking of his panicked flight across the bloody ballroom.

“I am not,” Astarion said. “But it’s kind of you to inquire.”

The sound of his lord’s polite reply brought tears to Lucas’ eyes and his mouth opened as if he wanted to tell his lord everything but at the same time ask his lord to tell him everything but there was too much of it for words so he just sat there and let the tears fall and his lord’s expression didn’t change, it was just that familiar steady look of quiet confidence that told Lucas it might not be so bad as all that.

“Now,” Astarion said, sitting down cross-legged in front of Lucas at the edge of one of the gilded stone steps. “I will begin, and you may interject as you are able.” Lucas watched his lord’s hands with a sudden surge of anxiety, hoping he wouldn’t rest them on his knees the way the shadow elf did when he listened to Lucas’ memories; the pale-skinned, white-haired elf that Lucas left behind, bloodied and blind.

“I had made inquiries regarding Cazador’s servants, but it seems your visit to the Low Lantern proved fruitful first,” Astarion said, crossing his arms to Lucas’ relief. “Rather than return to the manor to share your information, you persuaded your erstwhile allies to investigate the bathhouse.” He paused as Lucas winced. “Allow me to put it another way,” he continued, in a matter-of-fact tone. “You suggested to a veteran Harper agent and an immortal Shadar-kai ranger that you explore an empty dungeon for clues.”

Lucas frowned, feeling like his lord was mocking him somehow though he wasn’t using his most obvious sarcastic voice.

“I’m paraphrasing, of course,” Astarion admitted. “Extrapolating, if you will, from your spontaneous declaration of responsibility for ‘leading them into a trap’ and subsequently ‘buggering off’. Did I get that right?”

“I don’t want to say ‘yes’ because…” Lucas began.

“…because I am reframing the situation from my own extremely experienced perspective,” Astarion finished.

“What is your perspective?” Lucas asked, suddenly hopeful his lord would explain it in a way that wouldn’t hurt so badly.

“That our mutual friends did not go anywhere they did not wish to go,” Astarion said calmly. “And that any adventure you can walk away from is a successful one.”

“How was it successful?” Lucas whined. “The vampire got away.” He couldn’t suppress a shiver at the very thought of the creature’s touch, the uncanny smoothness of its fingertips.

“Darling, knowing that we are dealing with a vampire at all is no small discovery,” Astarion said. “Describe him to me if you would. I would have my suspicions confirmed.”

Lucas closed his eyes and described the monster, its robe and silks and jewelry, its oiled brown beard, its warm tenor voice contrasted and the coldness of its skin. He opened his eyes again at last and Astarion gave a curt, satisfied nod.

“It’s as I thought,” Astarion said with an irritated gleam in his red eyes. “One of Cazador’s long-time acquaintances, a vampire lord by the name of Mrel Alkam who hails from Athkatla.”

“It was his spawn that you squished?” Lucas asked, remembering the icy bite of fangs at his wrist, the inexorable lassitude spreading through his body, and the high-pitched shriek of the spawn as his lord smashed him like a bug until his head popped off.

“Indeed,” Astarion nodded. “A spawn that was given to me as a gift by a certain noble family that has a habit of playing parlor games with the nobodies of Baldur’s Gate, including releasing them into the Upper City at night, where they suffer further humiliation at the hands of the Watch.”

“So them Eomanes gave you the spawn,” Lucas said slowly, trying to piece it together, “but maybe this vampire lord let them have it? And then they used the cambion to get me, and that Mrel monster was definitely there that night, by the way, he said so. He said he’d promised no biting.”

“Of course,” Astarion sighed. “His bite would have ended their game rather too quickly, and what would be the fun in that? That he kept the spawn from you as well was likely to hide his involvement for a little longer. That’s the bigger question though, isn’t it? Why attack the manor and give the game away?”

“I don’t exactly know,” Lucas admitted sheepishly, “but I’m guessing that he was just testing the manor’s defenses. He also didn’t know I was alive, lord. He said he’d won his bet after all.”

“High praise from a vampire lord,” Astarion said. “You must have impressed him with your stamina.” His eyes flickered away from Lucas, gazing out at the green-tinged misty darkness of the depths.

“I think I understand better now why you told me not to talk to the spawn,” Lucas said, “and why the old servants were how they were. Once the monster came, we couldn’t do anything. We just froze there…”

“At first,” Astarion said. “Then you – a nobody, a nothing, a vagrant, a…”

“…a Szarr now, your vampire lordship,” Lucas said with a sniff, raising his head to look down his nose at his lord haughtily. He could tell his lord was teasing him a bit, so he teased him right back, glad the name of his former master didn’t make him flinch anymore.

“Yes, a Szarr,” Astarion said with a satisfied smile, savoring the sense of irony he felt would last as long as he did. “So there you stood, helpless, until through sheer force of will, you broke a vampire lord’s spell and stabbed him.” Lucas grinned at how pleased his lord sounded at the thought.

“It wasn’t so brave,” Lucas said, ducking his head bashfully. “I just got mad and scared and…” he bit back the words as if admitting to some sin. “He tried to make me a spawn, lord.” Lucas frowned angrily at the monster’s audacity. “Nobody gets to do that but you,” he said firmly, as if making a vow.

“I feel so privileged,” Astarion said, and though he rolled his eyes, Lucas could tell he was at least a little bit flattered. “Now that you’ve seen more of my kind,” Astarion asked, “is that still your wish?”

Lucas shook his head. “I know it would make me stronger,” he sighed, “and if it was you, I’d trust you not to do anything mean, especially not with your Wyll around. It would probably keep me safe from that monster trying to make me his spawn, and he maybe couldn’t control me so easy, and…”

“Are you trying to talk yourself into it or out of it?” Astarion interrupted, and Lucas laughed at his own tangled thoughts until his lord laughed with him.

“I know it would be different with you,” Lucas tried again, “but I still don’t want it, if it’s okay with you, lord.”

“It is quite all right with me,” Astarion confirmed, and the matter felt closed. “Now, as to the condition of your companions, the Harper informed his superior in advance of your plans. We descended upon the bathhouse in force, only to find the two of them bloodied but mostly whole and thankfully alive. Diamonds are desperately expensive.”

“Were they…” Lucas hesitated, not sure he wanted to know the answer to his worried thoughts, “…were they mad at me?” he finished in a rush, looking at Astarion sidelong as if expecting to hear the worst.

“Not at all,” Astarion said firmly, then sighed and adopted a lecturing tone. “My dear Lucas, why do we train?”

“What?” Lucas blinked. “To get better, I guess?”

“To ‘get better’ at what, exactly?” Astarion prompted.

“Not dying?” Lucas ventured.

“And what else?” Astarion said, but Lucas only shrugged. “We get better at killing, darling. ‘Run, hide, run-and-hide’ is all a wonderful plan until you can do neither. Then you fight. Then you kill.”

“What does this have to do with them being mad at me?” Lucas frowned in confusion.

“They are adventurers, Lucas!” Astarion said, as if his point were obvious. “How did they look when first alerted to the spawns’ presence?”

“They looked excited,” Lucas offered, and when Astarion waited expectantly, he added, “and calm.”

“Have you ever seen the way Wyll Ravengard smiles in anticipation of a fight?” Astarion asked, and his gaze turned soft and dreamy in a way that made Lucas a little uncomfortable. “That rakish grin, that upright posture…”

“Not yet, lord,” Lucas said, hoping to nip the ‘ode to Wyll’ in the bud.

“Well, once you do, you will never again rob your companions of their honor by suggesting they are only there by trickery, and not by choice,” Astarion said, focusing once more on the conversation at hand. “He Who Was in particular was glad of the opportunity to shed vampire blood, and I do believe I saw a glimmer of pride in Jaheira’s eye when she took Geraldus by the ear and dragged him off to make his report.”

“But lord,” Lucas said softly, “they cut out his eyes.”

“They did, yes,” Astarion said solemnly. “But Shadowheart has him well in hand, and when next we see him, he will see us quite clearly, have no fear.”

“That’s good,” Lucas said, looking down.

“If it would make you feel better to assign blame,” Astarion said, “you may throw it at me, for in the end, the fault is entirely mine.”

“What?” Lucas said, looking up with alarm, ready to protest his lord’s innocence.

“Come now! It was foolish of me to think I had only my own selfish nature to fear,” Astarion explained. “That so long as I behaved, these ill-gotten powers of mine wouldn’t attract other vampires like moths to a beautiful flickering flame.”

“That monster did say he was looking for you,” Lucas admitted.

“Of course he is!” Astarion agreed. “Vampires are greedy and what’s more, they are bored. Any hint of something different, something powerful, and they’ll scheme and plot and plan to make it their own. So, at least one vampire and his cadre of servile spawn, a noble family with money and cruelty to spare, and my good self, the world’s only living vampire as the target of all their avarice.”

“What are you going to do?” Lucas breathed, his lord’s brash confidence infecting him like a drugged perfume.

“Why do we train?” Astarion asked, one gleaming fang exposed by his wicked grin.

Lucas’ own smile was his only answer.

Chapter Text

“You should leave,” Astarion says, leaning on the balcony railing outside our bedroom, the swords crossed on his back like a bulwark between us. I smile, because I’d anticipated this conversation after listening to him speak with Lucas. I relish being calm and prepared for once, unrufflable. I get to play the role I’d described to He Who Was. Why did I strive so long to reach this point if not to be strong when the omnipotent vampire ascendant doubted himself?

“Should I?” I ask casually, resting a hip on the rail a few feet from him. I can see the line of his jaw as he leans his forehead on his clasped hands as if in fervent prayer, the way his soft curls fall across the tips of his ears. “What happened to my rakish grin?” I tease. “My honor?”

He pushes up from the railing with an exasperated growl. “Of course you were listening!” he mutters, placing his hands on his hips and turning to face me with the wall at his back. “That bird is a menace!”

“He is,” I agree affably, crossing my arms and legs for want of a wine cup to hold. “Yet after such a heartfelt speech, we’re back here once again, with you urging me to leave.”

“I never sent you away,” he protests. “I asked you to stay, if you’ll recall.” Even as he says it his eyes flicker to the side, knowing how different the circumstances were; that my staying might have meant the end for both of us. Certainly wouldn’t have resulted in our having a spat on our bedroom’s balcony while the moon hung low and full in the pre-dawn sky.

“Is that what you want?” I ask. “Shall I kneel at your feet and offer you my neck? Spend my nights chained to your bed and my days plotting to destroy you?”

“Don’t be stupid,” he grouses, though as with most of his insults when he’s in this frame of mind, it carries no real sting. “Chains are so tawdry. Ribbons…”

“I’ll choose my own bindings, should it come to that,” I laugh. “I know it’s difficult, love,” I add softly.

“It’s not just difficult! It’s impossible!” he whines. “And it is all my fault! I should have a legion of spawn, a horde of bats, an army of murderous thugs. Instead I have an ogre gorging in my ballroom!” He makes a disgusted face, though I’m not sure if it’s the ogre or his defenses that are the cause.

“I meant to ask you about that,” I say.

“He is on retainer,” Astarion sniffs. “I bequeathed him a magic ring. When he uses it to shrink himself and dons proper attire, he’s the very image of a bald dwarf, if I do say so myself. I put him up in a modest flat in Stonyeyes.”

“There you go!” I say with exaggerated encouragement. “You have the beginnings of a horde already!”

“I refuse to allow you to cheer me up, Wyll,” he says, rolling his eyes. “Can’t you see that you have done enough? I tricked you into aiding me in the ritual, I seduced you into slaughtering seven thousand…”

“Again,” I interrupt, pointing an index finger at his guilty face, “you ignore the advice that you yourself gave the boy. I was not tricked and your wiles played no part in my decision. None of us can know the damage so many monsters might have done, either out of malice or ignorance. My deeds are on my own, on my honor.” I keep my finger aimed at him until he rolls his eyes, tosses back his hair and tries another tactic.

“Be that as it may,” he drawls, “you should take your shoddy replacement elf and quit the city. I rescind my invitation.” He raises his chin haughtily and I burst out laughing at his stubbornness.

“First off, He Who Was is not your replacement, shoddy or otherwise,” I chuckle, shaking my head and crossing my arms, my behind planted firmly on the railing, as I’ve no intention of moving until this is settled. “Second, my things are already ensconced in your closets, and I loathe both packing and moving, so here is where they – and I – shall stay. Third,” I say more gently, the stricken look of hope and helplessness on his face bringing an ache to my chest, “I will not leave you here alone.”

“I won’t be alone,” he says, waving his hand dismissively even as he fails to control the longing in his red eyes. “Lucas will stay.”

“Of course, I can picture it now,” I chide. “You’ll play the strong hero, dispensing drops of wisdom you glean from books, and when he’s asleep in his bed, you’ll descend to the depths and scream your fears for him into the mist.”

“I will do no such thing,” Astarion protests. “I will scream at Mizora.”

“That won’t work, love,” I say affectionately. “It won’t work and it won’t last.”

“Then what do you propose!” he demands. “Since you have all the answers!”

“I propose this,” I say, approaching him and taking his hands in mine. “We will vanquish these particular foes, together. We will watch each other’s backs, and we will never,” I raise one of his hands to my lips for a kiss, “ever,” I raise the other and press my lips to his delicate fingers, “be apart.”

“That is, ahem,” he dissembles with a feigned cough. “I suppose that will do for now.”

“That will do forever,” I say, grinning at his discomfiture and folding him in my arms, the leather of his armor creaking under my embrace. “Now shall we see if your ogre’s finished his meal, or shall we shed our clothing and cement our pact?”

“There was an awful lot to eat,” he says, his breath warm on my ear. “We have time.”

Chapter Text

Shadowheart spiraled slowly upward out of sleep, her eyes snapping open at the last moment as they always did. Even dreamless sleep triggered a final moment of panic, that slow drowsy wakening reminding her too closely of the malaise following a session before Shar’s mirror, that cloud of confusion, only emptiness within her skull. The ceiling above her was unfamiliar, plain white paint crossed with dark wooden beams, but the quilt draped over her had a reassuring softness to it, and the sounds of the city filtered in through the closed windows, so her mind shuffled through its blessedly present memories to remind her gently where she was: lying in a bed in a rented suite above the Elfsong. She listened for the faint sound of the ghostly ballad that was this inn’s hallmark, but it appeared even ghosts took momentary breaks.

She half sat up, resting back on her elbows and taking further stock of the room. She remembered joining her friends on their raid of the bathhouse only to find her martial skills unneeded and her healing skills desperately so. It was nothing to seal the line of parted flesh at Geraldus’ throat, but the restoration of the Shadar-kai’s eyes she knew would drain her, leave her vulnerable – her least preferred state – so she’d taken the elf in hand and lead him to the Elfsong, promising to restore his sight if she had to beg Selûne to do so. She hated begging. She also hated the doubt that filled her before casting any spell of aid, the fear that no power would answer her, that this time would be the time Selûne tired of her recalcitrance, the time she found her prayers answered by no one.

Luckily for her, the Moonmaiden was not so fickle as her sister, and the reassuring glow of blue-tinged silver flowed forth at her command, coaxing those eyes to reform beneath ravaged eyelids. He Who Was had sat patiently throughout, indeed, he hadn’t made a sound from the moment she took him by the wrist in the bathhouse.

She admitted to herself with a soft sigh that it hadn’t been her finest moment, especially not as a healer. The sight of his gore-smeared face, the deep red vivid against his pale gray skin, had reduced her to an angry harridan. She hadn’t spared a glance back at him as she tugged him through the streets, reserving her glares for the innocent passers-by in their way. What must those people have thought, a cleric in full battle dress, spike-headed maces strapped to her back, leading a clearly wounded comrade and berating him non-stop? She couldn’t seem to help but excoriate him with her every breath, branding him a reckless fool for putting himself at risk. She’d given no thought to the missing Lucas, almost less to the wounded Harper. She’d saved all her scolding for the hapless Shadar-kai, and he’d remained silent beneath the barrage of her words. Even the stairs to the Elfsong’s upper story hadn’t slowed them. They’d ascended rapidly after reducing the busy common room’s clientele to a stunned silence by their entrance.

Shadowheart had thanked her Lady – and Wyll’s purse – for retaining the suite. She knew Wyll no longer needed it, and He Who Was seemed content to haunt Astarion’s library like a ghost, but maybe Wyll had recognized her need. Maybe Nocturne had mentioned it to him, or Astarion had guessed it, since both Astarion and Wyll seemed sensitive to her plight, to the restless loneliness that kept her away from her own home and brought her to linger on the doorsteps of her friends.

She’d pulled a sturdy stool to the center of the suite’s living area, releasing her grip on He Who Was’ wrist, wincing inwardly at the deep red grooves her fingers had left behind. She’d wrested his halberd from his hand and let it clatter to the floor, maneuvering him by the shoulders to stand in front of the stool, then pushing him down to sit, all the while barking directions at him. She’d taken his head between her hands and exhorted her goddess in a far louder voice than necessary, the words stumbling on her tongue. She’d felt that rush of gratitude at the outflow of healing magic, that thankfulness that her goddess still felt her worthy, that gladness that prayers weren’t as precise as a wizard’s spell, that her goddess could understand her need, her desire to heal though she often mangled the words of the invocation when urgency filled her mind.

When it was done, she’d finally allowed herself to look, really look at his face. His eyelids had lifted with effort, flakes of crusted blood sifting down at the breaking of scabs. When he’d looked up at her with those whole black eyes she was finally able to release the tension that had driven her from the bathhouse. “Thank you,” He Who Was had murmured, and her shoulders slumped with the onset of exhaustion that channeling so much energy brought. She could barely nod in response, fumbling at the catches of her armor. He’d stood, helping her with the buckles and lifting the adamantine bulk over her head, arranging it on a convenient armor stand – a fixture of every well-off adventurer’s room.

She’d trudged to the bed and fallen across it face down, her last thoughts as she drifted off to sleep were thankful, to her goddess for her grace, to her companions for their friendship, and to the stubborn shadow elf for not dying.

Now, as the soft quilt fell from her bare shoulders, she looked for her most recent patient, uttering a soft sigh of relief when she saw that he’d stayed. He sat on the same sturdy stool on which she’d healed him, though he’d moved it to a windowed corner of the room. The sky outside was the deep blue of midnight, and Shadowheart could feel the comforting tug of the full moon on her senses, an awareness of her goddess’ watchful presence. He Who Was must have bathed while she slept, his long white hair spread in gentle waves down to his shoulder blades in its unbound state, and she had a strange but not wholly unwelcome desire to touch it, to slide her fingers through it in search of tangles, to salve them like she’d salved his wounds.

He must not have had access to a healer while in the Shadow Curse. The flesh of his back was mottled with scars, thick and thin, a twisted map of past pain – though to hear him tell it, even pain was a welcome experience, something to be savored, a bright flash against the dullness of the Shadowfell. She remembered his laugh, maniacal and almost surprised, as he’d drawn a thin-bladed dagger from his gut after their ‘judgment’ of a woman’s guilt-ridden spirit. How he’d called Wyll a sadist with the kind of approval a parent showed a talented child. She had a sudden urge to see him from the front, to know if that prior meeting had left similar scars.

“Are you reading?” she asked, concerned at his preternatural stillness, his facing away from her, convinced somehow that he’d turn and bloody sockets would have replaced his gaze, that she’d somehow failed. He moved his left arm and she could see the edge of the book open on his palm. She cursed inwardly and tried to think of a query he couldn’t answer without turning around.

Had she found such a query, He Who Was would have racked his brain to avoid the response she sought. Though his vision had been restored and the book lay before him, he hadn’t read a word. His eyes had been shut tightly against the room around him, his will focused on solving a problem particular to this situation, the problem of control.

Centuries spent in the Shadowfell had given him nothing to control. He existed, he served, he died, and he served again. He’d told the boy he wanted to know his own desires, that he wanted to yearn. Now that he did, he had no idea how to proceed.

This body had meant less than nothing to him, a long string of flesh created for another’s purposes. He’d cared little for its maintenance, less for its healing. When he’d lay trapped in the cave with only the raven for company, he’d considered lopping off his offending limbs, but this form would never have survived the loss. So he’d used the raven’s twisted mind to keep him alive with food, the cave’s spring to give water. He’d kept his own waste away from his wounds to forestall infection, and he’d waited and waited until the raven had lured Wyll to him, a sacrifice, or so it thought. That was his first experience with control, with taming the savage instinct to trade that man’s life for his Queen’s pardon and a new body. He’d succeeded then, and he vowed he would succeed now, though his instinct was not so murderous.

This body was no longer a disposable shell, and even as the Harper had led him through the catacombs to the bathhouse, even as the cleric dragged him through the city to this very room, he’d fought to care as much as they seemed to. Then the cleric had healed him.

It wasn’t the first time this form had required healing; the druid’s magic had revived his crushed legs. The experience had been novel at the time, but necessary: he needed to walk and fight. He couldn’t be a burden to Wyll or he’d be left behind without knowledge, without purpose, with no one to serve. Until this latest injury, he’d ignored most wounds and scratches, though Wyll had handed him potions from time to time and he’d quaffed them dutifully. He was slow to learn to care for this flesh.

This time was different. This time he’d spent that time in darkness, wounded and blinded, thinking of all he would lose along with this body, all of the memories and experiences and the promise of more. He would lose the taste of food and drink on this tongue, the sound of laughter in his ears, and the sight of welcoming smiles. He would lose the himself he was building. Should he fall and return to his Queen to be stripped of his memories and born anew, his name would be a prophecy, the ‘he’ who was gone.

As the cleric’s healing light enveloped him, the silver shining behind his ruined eyelids and knitting his ravaged flesh back to whole, he’d opened those newborn eyes to see her standing before him. He’d raised his head and seen her strength and her power, felt it aimed at him as if he were someone worth preserving, and he’d tucked the memory away, shoved it as deep as he could as if to hide it from even his Queen’s piercing gaze. Then he’d helped the cleric shed her armor and when she’d given in to exhaustion, he had been touched by her trust, to lie vulnerable with him, as if he were a protector worthy of the role.

He’d lifted her carefully and laid her in the bed, pulling the covers up to her shoulders, brushing a lock of hair away from where it tangled with her eyelashes. Then he’d availed himself of the bathing tub, scrubbing the filth away from this body, washing every inch of flesh and at the same time, learning it, trying to feel as if it were his, a part of him, not just a casing. He knew he remained abnormally thin for his height, despite his delight in the flavors of food and his adoration of alcohol in all its variety. He knew this body bore the scars of his neglect, wounds ignored and even their sources forgotten. He loosed his hair and thought of the laughter of children as they twisted Wyll’s hair into braids, wondering what it would be like to be subject to such attention. He stood dripping before the mirror and tried to regard himself objectively, to measure himself against the men he knew and the heroes of the tales he read.

Realizing he had no way in which to judge, he abandoned the effort. He pulled on his trousers and returned to the room, noted the way the cleric’s lips parted and the soft sounds of her breathing. He retrieved a book at random from the shelf and repositioned the stool to sit facing the windows, putting his back to the bed. He opened the book and closed his eyes and spent the time seeking control over this body, his body, and the want that neither food nor drink would sate.

“Are you reading?” he heard her ask. He’d known the moment she woke, the change in her breathing, the sound of the bedcovers sliding down her skin. He answered her with a gesture, letting her see the book in his hand. He lied to her by omission, since dissembling with words was not a skill he possessed. Then he heard her feet touch the floor, the first steps of her approach, and he realized she might touch him with the kind of casual familiarity that Wyll often did, and that the touch of her hand might destroy the fragile mastery he’d spent an hour gaining.

He’d only had an hour, after all. It was no wonder it took only the thought of her touch to rouse him.

He closed the book with a snap and dropped it to the floor. Then he stood and turned and advanced on her, not caring if he looked menacing. She retreated before him until her back reached the wall but he didn’t stop until mere inches separated them. He raised his arm and placed his palm flat against the wood, looking down at her, watching the emotions flicker across her face, the surprise, the excitement. He stared down at her, waiting for some instruction, waiting to be told to go or told to stay.

“Are we having another staring contest?” she quipped, but her voice was breathy and low, not the sharp tone she reserved for others, so he waited.

Shadowheart looked up at He Who Was, his frame boxing her in as her chest rose and fell rapidly, not with fear or panic, but with anticipation. When he’d stood and advanced on her, she’d seen the scars she’d expected, seen the way the leather pants rode low on his hips, the way he hadn’t bothered to fasten them. The surge of arousal caught her off guard, like a twist in a story she’d written, a character refusing to stay in its place and fighting its way to the fore.

“You’re looming,” she whispered, but his expression didn’t change and he didn’t move away.

His eyes bored into her, never moving from her face, those eyes she’d helped restore now devouring her with the intensity of their gaze. Was that it, she wondered? Was it gratitude? He wouldn’t be the first to see her healing as an overture, to offer passion as some sort of recompense. She grew distressed at the thought. She didn’t want to be a debt, someone owed. She wanted to be herself.

“You don’t owe me,” she said sadly, looking down, hoping he wouldn’t see the disappointment on her face, not wanting to see the relief in his eyes when she waived his debt. “I didn’t heal you to obligate you, I…”

He Who Was sensed it before she spoke, felt her interest wane, but it had never occurred to him she might see his actions as some kind of reluctant repayment, something offered in gratitude. What did he have of value to offer? This body, this scarred neglected thing? These thoughts, these desires he struggled to control? These feelings he’d tried to deny when he’d never had urges to deny before? The thought that she would doubt him filled him with an irrational anger, not on his behalf but on hers. Didn’t she see his gratitude for her healing was because these eyes allowed him to see her again?

So he crouched to lower himself so he could capture her lips with his own, trying and failing to gentle the action. Their breath mingled, her lips were soft and pliant, unlike anything that had touched his. The angle frustrated him, so he reached down to grasp her by the hips and lifted her up. He slid his thigh between hers and pressed the hot core of her against his leg, delighting in her gasp.

Shadowheart’s reticence fled, her senses overwhelmed by the sensual onslaught, the fierce strength of him as he lifted her, the clean scent of his skin, the pressure of firm muscle between her legs. She wrapped her arms around his neck, trusting him to ware her balance. One hand buried itself in his damp hair and she slid her tongue between his lips, uncertain whether he’d venture there himself. His hands rocked her against his thigh, a steady rhythmic pressure that urged her toward climax. He broke off their kiss, taking in the dazed softness of her expression, the swollen pink of her lips, the panting breaths. He watched her, quickening his movements as her breathing quickened to match until at last she threw her head back with a loud cry and shivered in his arms.

He cradled her to him, her head lolling on his shoulder. He turned to lay her on the bed and felt a sharp pain in that shoulder, the sting of teeth clamping onto his flesh, then the soothing wash of a tongue salving the bite. His lips curved in a grin at the unexpected move, and she lifted her head to look at him, her own grin playful. He lay her down on the rumpled bedclothes and held her gaze while he tugged the bindings from her breasts. He bent his head to capture one tip between his lips and gloried in the way her back arched toward him. Images flickered through his head, all the passages in the books he’d studied, all the tactics he’d learned in anticipation of this longed-for opportunity. He laved her breasts with his tongue, his hands roaming lower to find her slick and warm.

He trailed kisses down her belly, lifting first one leg and then the other to settle them over his shoulders. He devoted himself to her, the feel and scent and taste of her. He listened to her moaning cries, he felt the tremors in her thighs, slid his fingers inside her and felt the greedy clench of the passage there. He closed his eyes and lost himself in a soft vivid darkness he had no desire to leave.

Shadowheart could barely think, her body continually urging her not to, to lie back and accept. As she looked down heavy-lidded at his curtain of white hair, at the curve of his buttocks, at the flex of his muscles as he lapped and touched and stroked, she realized she missed his eyes. She needed to see him looking down at her, needed that dark gaze that seemed to see everything about her but her fears.

She lifted her legs, her thighs pressing against her chest. He Who Was took it at first for an invitation, and took advantage of the change in angle to venture lower and deeper. His ministrations almost distracted Shadowheart from her goal, but she placed her bare feet on his shoulders and pushed, gripping his hair with one hand and tugging, at first gently, then more forcefully as he proved difficult to budge.

Finally he looked up at her, his eyes dazed at first but clearing as her inspected her face. She smiled and his eyes dropped to her mouth as if memorizing that smile. She pushed back with her feet, forcing him to rise up to his knees, the sight of his cock bobbing swollen against his belly bringing a hungry look to her eyes.

He Who Was glanced down at himself and shook his head to clear it. He hadn’t thought past her pleasure, had yet to connect the stiffness of his erection to the activities at hand, but her expression reminded him of other acts, of other stories. He shoved his trousers down just enough to take his cock in hand, squeezing at its base and fighting for some semblance of calm. Shadowheart took his wrist and guided him to her. He hissed at the feeling of her warmth welcoming him inside. His hips snapped forward instinctively and he groaned even as she arched to meet him, her legs wrapping around his narrow hips, her ankles crossed at the small of his back.

He braced himself on his arms, staring down at her though his eyes wanted to close with every exquisite slow stroke. She looked up at him, then down to where their bodies joined, then up again as he tried to gauge her reactions, to give her the rhythm that would please her. He reached down with one hand to find the nub of her pleasure but she batted his hand away with a growl and he found himself barking out a surprised laugh. He considered reaching again if only to duplicate the look in her eyes, the confidence and dominance gleaming there, but thought better of it. Instead he braced himself and redoubled his efforts, his hips slamming into her softness, the sounds of their coupling challenged only by her cries.

Shadowheart didn’t mind her partner’s silence, not when she could see the avid way he looked at her, not when she could feel the implacable pounding of his cock. Let him be silent if he could, she thought, she would give herself up to the frenzy of it and let her moans be the only accompaniment.

He did make a sound, in the end. His back arched and the muscles of his neck strained but a loud low groan managed to push itself from his throat and Shadowheart welcomed him afterward, wrapping her arms and legs around him as he shuddered, his breath hot and panting against her neck. When at last he slid out of her, she could see the subtle difference in his once inscrutable gaze. She could see surprise and delight and hunger and something unnamable, something neither of them had known, something new.

Shadowheart turned to the side, fitting herself into the curve of the elf’s larger form. He pulled the covers up and over them, glad she did not object, enjoying the anticipation of resting with his arms around her, the feeling of drifting off to sleep exhausted and sore and yet somehow full, sated, content.

Even as he relaxed, he felt the woman in his arms grow still, and he wondered at this, wondered whether she meant to slip away while he slept.

Lying in his arms, Shadowheart wondered the same thing. Now that they were done, when would he leave? Would he wait for her to sleep, or was he even now thinking of the right words to say to minimize it, to relegate it to an experience he could’ve had with anyone and only happened to have with her? She sensed him begin to speak and expected those words, to feel that small. “Shadowheart,” he said, and she couldn’t remember if he’d ever said her name before.

“In the book that you like,” he whispered, the normally rough baritone of his voice softened with affection, “the hero was confused about his feelings, and after making love, he left his woman alone to wonder.” His arms tightened around her possessively. “I tell you that I am not confused, and I will not leave.”

She turned in his arms and decided she wasn’t so sleepy after all.

Chapter Text

“I refuse to use the word ‘family’,” Astarion declared, raising a glass of wine. As he stood at the head of the long dining table and addressed the small gathering, none of their faces reacted to his statement with confusion. Shadowheart shared a solemn look with Wyll, who nodded from his seat at Astarion’s right hand. “One cannot choose one’s family, after all,” he continued. “Though some do try. They select their candidates and twist and mold them into the shape of a family, but such a shape can never hold as firm as a group of true companions. A group of friends.” He smiled graciously, the sweep of his hand including everyone at the table.

“I am luckier than most,” Astarion said. “We are luckier than most. Though we have suffered to reach this point, we have indeed reached it. We have our latest trio of unfortunates returned to us hale and hearty,” he nodded to Geraldus, who quickly wiped his mouth with his napkin and smiled; then Lucas, who beamed up at his lord with a strange mixture of hero worship and embarrassment at the sentiment; then He Who Was, who looked to Wyll almost panicked and, at his nod, said, “Thank you,” after a long pause where he seemed to be searching for the words. “The manor is well on its way to being restored to its former splendor, now that all the bodies have been properly disposed of, and we have identified our adversaries. Much as some of us struggled in the throes of confusion before the Dead Three’s plot was revealed, so have we wandered in the darkness these past few weeks. But no more.” He settled back into his chair as Wyll stood and raised his own glass.

“Since we friends now have our targets in mind, we need a plan to proceed, which is why Astarion is sitting down,” Wyll said with an indulgent grin. Astarion rolled his eyes and crossed his legs with a haughty sniff. “Firstly, Mrel Alkam, the vampire. He’s extended an invitation to Astarion to parley in a public place. An invitation we’ve accepted. We will dine together tomorrow evening, and…”

“You’re just gonna sit down to supper with him?” Lucas interrupted, lunging half out of his chair before Nocturne’s hand on his arm gentled him enough to sit back. “After what he did?”

“I know him,” Astarion said softly, but his tone carried an undercurrent of steel. “What’s more, I know his type. While what he did to the three of you, and his wasting of spawn in their abortive attack on our home, may seem personal, to him it is not. Nothing is. Were I to refuse to meet with him and discuss terms, he would undoubtedly try less straightforward means. Would you prefer I simply wage war against him, heedless of the destruction it might cause to the city and its people? Because I assure you, even in his own city, he would not hesitate to spill rivers of blood to get what he wants.”

“He’s right, Lucas,” Geraldus said ruefully. “If Astarion and Wyll can talk him into leaving, we’ll all be better off.”

“Vengeance against someone who cares nothing for you is wasted energy,” Shadowheart said quietly. “It’s why I could face the Mother Superior in battle, but only free myself from Shar.” She glanced at Nocturne, who heaved a sigh.

“I have some inkling of what he desires, thanks to your encounter with him,” Astarion continued. “As with any negotiation, he won’t get the entirety of what he wants, but I’m certain I can convince him to return home and to sell out his noble allies to us in the meantime.”

“That’s where it becomes both simpler and more complicated,” Wyll said, though the intensity of his voice hinted that it was simple to him. “The Eomanes are patriars, one of the noble families of this city. My father would say we should extract some fee from them, some fine for what they did to Lucas, and chastise them in the courts, set the Watch to watching them and keep the peace.” Lucas opened his mouth to protest but Wyll pinned him with a look. “That’s a politician’s answer, and I am no politician.”

“Cazador had long known of Nysene Eomane and her siblings’ coarser habits, had even participated with glee,” Astarion added in that nonchalant way he had when paving over with words the deeper trench of his own hurt. “He would have continued to hold that knowledge over them, a blackmail and a bargain. That’s a patriar’s answer, and I am no noble.”

“Then what are you?” Jaheira asked, a smile playing at her lips as she looks around the dining room, noting its high ceiling, sumptuous décor, and the half-eaten banquet spread before them even as servants bustled back and forth refilling glasses and exchanging empty plates for full.

“My dear, I am the Vampire Ascendant,” Astarion said, standing and raising his chin proudly. “I am the first and last of my kind, and I shall define what that means.”

The servants paused in their actions and the diners were silent until the bright peal of Shadowheart’s laughter broke the nervous quiet, joined by Jaheira’s approving chuckle. Lucas grinned and winked at Geraldus, who rolled his eyes, and He Who Was looked to Wyll’s broad smile before offering one of his own.

“Oh come on!” Astarion pouted. “You’re guests in our home! You could at least humor me! Is that too much to ask?” He slumped back in his chair and Wyll patted him consolingly on the shoulder.

“Begging your pardon, saer,” a black-haired serving girl asked Wyll, holding an empty tray on her way back to the kitchens. “Will that Mr. Hob be joining us?” She nodded toward an untouched place setting at the far end of the table. “He still seemed hungry when he left.”

“He shan’t, my dear Rachel,” Wyll said. “And if you could see his table manners, I’m sure you’d agree we’re all the better for his absence.” She curtsied to the accompaniment of Astarion’s snort and left with a sigh.

“Too bad,” she said over her shoulder. “He was such a pleasant little fellow.”

“Is she talking about that monster?” Lucas whispered, leaning forward.

“Mr. Hob is adept at ingratiating himself with kitchen staff,” Astarion said with a malicious grin. “He knows on which side his bread is buttered.” Lucas sat back with a shudder.

“If we’re done discussing your pet ogre’s habits,” Jaheira began.

“Not a pet, darling,” Astarion interjected. “An employee. We should be respectful.”

“If we’re done respectfully discussing your employee’s habits,” Jaheira corrected, amused. “We’re agreed we have no politicians and no patriars at this table. What we do have,” she glanced around her, “is a curious cohort with a common enemy. So what is our common plan?”

“With the vampire, it’s to send him packing back to Athkatla, whether whole or in pieces, depending on our negotiating skills,” Wyll declared. “With the Eomanes…” his grin grew decidedly more grim, and Lucas saw its twin on his lord’s face. “…we will bring their influence in this city to an end.”

“Their influence,” Astarion added, “and their presence.” Wyll sat down and nodded emphatically.

Lucas looked around the table and saw no dissenters. He saw a group in their casual finery continuing to eat and drink and laugh with one another. He saw Nocturne to his left whispering to Shadowheart, who giggled and smacked her companion lightly on the arm though a blush tinged her cheeks. He saw the Shadar-kai across from them take small bites of his food, closing his eyes with every mouthful and tensing as if restraining some exuberant reaction to the flavor. He saw Jaheira and Geraldus engage in a serious conversation regarding tactics, her expression approving, as if the Harper were doing well on a test. He saw Wyll squeeze his lord’s hand, the looks on their faces so intimate Lucas coughed to cover his own blush.

He thought about Amrik Vanthampur holding court in a seedy tavern, uninterested in the plotting that sent his mother to her early grave. He thought about the adventurers that brought about that end, that didn’t think of politics or plunder or personal gain; who just saw monsters and slew them and moved on to bigger monsters.

He thought about all that and concluded that his lord had been smart to let the monster hunter do the planning.

Chapter Text

“But why him?” Nocturne asked, trailing after Shadowheart as they headed for the library. “A year ago it was Halsin. Is it an elf thing? I don’t see any resemblance between them.” Her tone was teasing though duly curious.

“Why do I have to know?” Shadowheart whined, throwing her hands up in exasperation. She tossed her long bi-colored braid back over her shoulder to stop its thick plait from blocking how nicely her tailored shirt framed her cleavage. “Why am I of all people expected to know everything? Can’t I just shag like a normal person?”

“I suppose,” Nocturne sighed indulgently, though the two dissolved into giggles at the topic. “I just like to gossip with you,” she smiled, brushing back one side of Shadowheart’s bangs. “I miss it.”

“How can you miss it when we’re doing it right now?” Shadowheart asked innocently, and Nocturne shrugged. Shadowheart stopped, turning to face her friend but not so abruptly as to cause a stumble. “I truly don’t know,” she admitted. “It can’t be only that he knows me as I am now, not as some misguided Sharran or sinister spy. If it were only that, any random nobody would do.” She frowned. “At first I thought he was an overbearing arsehole, always trying to protect me as if I couldn’t protect myself.”

“Isn’t he, though?” Nocturne chided, but Shadowheart shook her head, braid swaying from the crown of her head down her back.

“Not entirely,” she said thoughtfully. “His people don’t protect themselves. Their bodies don’t mean anything to them, their lives just keep going, as empty as my head after a session before Shar’s mirror. He said he wants to protect me because I wasn’t protecting myself; that I reminded him of his people.”

“Oh no,” Nocturne said, pulling her friend into a quick hug before holding her by the shoulders. “The healer’s dilemma, is it? You’re worth more than just what you can do, you know.”

“Am I?” Shadowheart asked with a rueful smile. “I like to think so, but it can be difficult.”

“Well, if he helps you believe it, then shag away, I say,” Nocturne said approvingly. “Though I’ll add that your goddess seems to believe it as well, or she wouldn’t answer your prayers.”

“True, and I’m not shagging my goddess,” Shadowheart laughed.

“I’d be worried if you were!” Nocturne warned, releasing her friend’s shoulders and crossing her arms. “I’m happier when none of us are all that crucial to an immortal’s plans.”

“As am I,” Shadowheart agreed with a nod. “I’ll see you later on. Bring something scandalous of your own to gossip about!”

“I’ll think of something,” Nocturne grinned, leaving Shadowheart to continue on.

As her bootheels thudded along the carpeted hallway she knew the sound would announce her presence. Sure enough, when she paused in the doorway to the library, those dark eyes were trained on her, an open book forgotten in He Who Was’ lap. She leaned against the jamb and couldn’t help but smile at his self-imposed control; the way he refused to come to her first no matter how strong his desire. She enjoyed the sight of him, the soft candlelight caressing the severe angles of his face, the patient way he waited for her to give her reason for seeking him out, as if the act of her seeking were enough for him.

“If you can tear yourself away, there’s something I’d like to show you,” she teased, and he startled a laugh from her when he immediately stood, letting the book slide to the floor with a thump. She backed into the hallway as he came toward her, then headed away at a leisurely pace, perhaps giving her hips an extra sway as she walked. Why spend precious minutes finding the perfect pair of pants if you didn’t flaunt your success?

“I do not see anything of interest,” He Who Was said after stepping through one of the few doorways in the place only to find himself inside a storage closet stacked with wooden crates.

“No?” Shadowheart asked, closing the door behind her to settle them in soft darkness, the light shining around the door’s edges giving them enough for their purposes. He turned toward her and she walked slowly into the small room. Where once she couldn’t have guessed at his thoughts, couldn’t read the subtle signs in his glittering black eyes, now she recognized the way he looked at her, the mixture of longing and surprise, like someone who hadn’t dared hope for the gift they’d been handed; who didn’t trust it was theirs until it was within their grasp.

With each step she considered a jest, something teasing she could say, something sultry and mysterious, but as he backed away to fetch up against one of the crates, she abandoned her own wariness, her own need for dissembling. That was the old her, to pretend to be empty of desire lest her enemies leverage her own wants against her. If she was sure of nothing else, she was sure this man would hold her feelings in trust, her desire for him like something precious, and that security quickened her steps.

She pushed at his shoulders until he sat down on the crate, then climbed astride him with a fierce sense of urgency. Their mouths met with a fervid crash, hungry and searching. He yanked the tail of her shirt from her waistband and slid his hands beneath the taut fabric of her trousers to cup her behind and grind it against his hardness. She reveled in the way this position put them at equal heights, tugging at his tied-back hair to lift his chin, letting her lips quest along the smooth column of his throat where she could feel the vibration as he swallowed heavily, feel the groan he tried to hold back.

She fumbled at his belt, tugging his pants down to free his erection to slap against his belly. She shimmied her own pants to her knees with his help, and watched him closely, her mouth open, lips swollen, as she sank down onto him, luxuriating in the slow slide inside her after such an initial rush. She pushed against his chest until he leaned back, bracing his arms on the rough wood of the chest, his gaze rapt as she rode him, the way he watched her take her pleasure as much a goad to her desire as the warm length of him filling her. Their sex was like a pantomime, a performance for a captive audience of two, a play at pretend falsehood purposefully burst asunder by true passion. Even after the shuddering cries of their release, she clung to him, both dragging needed air into their straining lungs, him with one arm around her waist to hold her tight.

She kissed him almost gratefully, smiling against his lips, then stroked the side of his head as she looked into that formerly inscrutable gaze. She laughed and looked away, her blushing almost unnoticed in the residual red flush of their exertion.

“Why do you blush after being so brazen?” he asked, grinning and lifting his hips a little to remind her they were still far too closely connected for embarrassment.

“It’s the way you look at me,” she said, wrinkling her nose shyly. “It’s almost worshipful,” she admitted.

“I worship no gods,” he said thoughtfully. “I do not know how I look at you, only how I feel when I do. Should I try to stop?” he asked, then he ducked his head to try and catch her eye playfully. “Should I blush and hide my face as if I’m ashamed to crave your touch?”

“No,” she laughed, smacking him lightly on the chest and rolling her eyes in resignation.

“Are you afraid I will see some flaw should I look too closely?” He Who Was wondered. “Something unworthy?” Her breath caught a little before she could shake her head at the unwelcome truth of his guess. “When you feel these fears,” he grinned, “shall we pray at this altar together until you are too tired to doubt?” He slapped at the wooden crate for emphasis and she hugged him tightly, her shoulders shaking with laughter and relief.

“You know, I have a friend who slept with a goddess,” she said a few moments later, as they helped each other adjust their clothing back to a semblance of normalcy.

“Should I ever meet your friend, I shall tell them we have something in common,” He Who Was said, leaning down to plant a kiss on her forehead.

Chapter Text

“Promise me,” Astarion said to Wyll as they approached the twin buildings of the Helm and Cloak, weaving through a throng of workers returning to the Lower City from their work rebuilding High Hall.

“Anything,” Wyll responded, exchanging nods and smiles with the men and women covered in the dust of their daily labor.

“You always say that before I’ve told you what you’re promising,” Astarion complained. “That’s how you get yourself saddled to a fiend’s pact, you know. Have I taught you nothing?”

“You’ve taught me a great many things, Astarion,” Wyll chuckled. “Only one of which is to promise nothing until I’ve heard the terms; not to anyone but you. Now tell me what fiendish contract you have in mind for our supper.” They paused near the cloaked entrance of the tavern, in no hurry to enter as the full weight of night settled upon the city and the streetlamps flared to life.

“He will expect a vampire lord,” Astarion said seriously. “He will expect power and arrogance in equal measure. I shall be obliged to give him what he wants if I’m to convincingly threaten him. Promise me you won’t take it to heart.” Astarion’s red eyes crinkled with uncertainty.

“You are a vampire lord,” Wyll said reassuringly, adjusting Astarion’s collar and smoothing his embroidered jacket over his shoulders. “You are powerful and arrogant and very, very threatening. I’ve already taken it to heart, so there’s no room for any doubt. My heart is crammed full.” He smiled charmingly at his lover’s discomfiture.

“That’s not precisely what I was getting at,” Astarion sighed, though he preened a bit at the flattery nonetheless.

“Let me hazard a guess, then,” Wyll said. “You’re afraid I’ll see how tempting it is. How much you enjoy that feeling of power, especially in front of someone who’s seen you powerless. You think I’ll judge you for it, that it will mess up things between us.” He cupped Astarion’s face between his callused hands. “That monster doesn’t deserve your truth, and I will never fault you for your strength, not when I aided you in obtaining it.”

Though Astarion dissembled with his usual skill, Wyll’s guess was unsettlingly close to the mark. Astarion thought of his anger, his fear at finding Lucas gone when he’d returned to the city. He remembered the casual cruelty he found at the Hhunes’ when he’d sought only information, the threats of the Grand Duke to bring him to justice when justice for the boy was what he’d sought in the first place! He thought of the summoning, of rising above the High Hall’s ruins buoyed by a wave of infernal power. He thought of reaching out further with that power, not calling, but destroying, burning out the ones with the audacity to call him the monster. “Fine,” Astarion said curtly, “but don’t say I didn’t warn you. I plan to be insufferably pompous.”

Wyll watched his lover’s eyes glow fiercely, watched the emotions play across his features, watched him battle that temptation and win, for now, the soft red of his gaze returning.

“I look forward to seeing it,” Wyll smiled, pinching at Astarion’s cheeks before ushering him inside the tavern.

“Place already stinks of spawn,” Pech complained to Wyll as he winged to a perch above the tavern’s main door. Wyll acknowledged the spirit wordlessly with a mental grunt of resignation, scanning the early evening crowd in the common room and finding his familiarity with the telltale signs helped him spot at least six vampire spawn scattered amongst the patrons. The area by the long wooden bar was boisterous in the loud yet polite way only Upper City scions could manage, and Wyll winced a bit recalling his own days patronizing the Helm and Cloak. Less than a decade ago, he would’ve been at that bar himself, regaling his companions with some high-minded philosophical treatise whilst nursing his perpetually full tankard of ale. He almost envied the youths their naivete, their exuberance, their sense of invulnerability, and he felt a surge of protectiveness narrow his eyes and bring a grim twist to his lips. He and his party had saved the city in part so these young people could keep that precious ignorance, and if he and Astarion succeeded in their efforts tonight, they would never know they entertained themselves mere feet from the undead.

The two of them climbed a curved wooden staircase to a balcony open to the room below, then walked down a short hallway to a private dining room. Though Astarion had reserved the room, their guest and his coterie were already making use of the space. A rectangular dining table of polished dark wood offered seating for six, but only a single well-dressed elf sat at the table, the uncommon pallor of his complexion a tell-tale sign of his identity. As the two entered the room, the vampire stood and approached Astarion with a welcoming smile above his trimmed brown beard.

“Astarion, what a pleasure to see you again,” Mrel crooned, at first holding out his hands as if he intended to clasp Astarion’s, then thinking better of it and executing a half-bow of greeting, the acknowledgement of a peer. Wyll closed the door behind them and noted the vampire’s gaze never even flickered to him. A tall man in tasteful leather armor did smile at Wyll, his eyes a dull red glint in an otherwise handsome face, his own skin less pale than his master’s, a warm olive hue even undeath hadn’t cooled.

“The pleasure is all mine,” Astarion said, though his tone belied the sentiment. “Shall we dine and discuss your presence in my city?” He gestured at the table and smiled a particularly dangerous smile.

“Why leap straight to business?” Mrel asked, disappointed, though he did return to the table. His spawn pulled his master’s chair out and Mrel settled into it without glancing back. “It’s been years since I saw you last, and I’ll wager we have a great deal more to discuss than my little visit.”

Wyll considered playfully pulling Astarion’s chair out for him, but decided the jest would be lost on their Athkatlan guest and might give him all the wrong ideas, so he approached and sat at the table on the side opposite the vampire and towards the table’s foot, leaving the space directly opposite for Astarion. Wyll noted the candles in the wall sconces were unlit – whether left so by the staff or extinguished by their guests he couldn’t guess – and a young woman sat on a cushioned bench in one corner of the room, her face hidden in shadows, her dress serviceable but plain. Unlike the vampire, he noted. Mrel Alkam wore an embroidered doublet of yellow velvet, though much of the embroidery was hidden beneath brooches and medallions. The fingers the vampire drummed on the tabletop were festooned with rings and Wyll wondered how he managed to cast spells with so heavy a weight on every digit.

The vampire spawn remained standing, behind and to the right of his master. Though he seemed watchful, he didn’t tense as Astarion approached to take his own seat facing Mrel. If the spawn was surprised at Wyll’s sitting, it didn’t show in his expression.

“Words can’t express how relieved I am to see you well, Astarion,” Mrel said, and Wyll wondered if the vampire was being honest or simply lied so well it was beyond Wyll’s skill to detect. “This entire year has been one calamity after another. When you disappeared, Cazador reached out to me for help. I’ve never heard him so worried about another’s welfare. You were always his favorite, you know.”

“I wasn’t aware,” Astarion said dryly. “I certainly didn’t enjoy any perks of the position.”

“I of course agreed to assist him in his search,” Mrel assured them. “I left no stone unturned in Athkatla. We spent our nights scouring the Sword Coast, and our days praying for your safe return.”

“I’m sure,” Astarion said, and Wyll commended him on the restraint he showed by not rolling his eyes. “And your prayers were answered, as return I did.”

A slight knock at the door presaged its opening, two waiters escorting a maid pushing a laden tea cart into the room. The waiters bowed, then began arranging dishes from the cart before the seated men. They removed the stoppers from carafes of dry red wine, popped the corks on bottles of lighter vintages on ice, and laid out a lavish spread of upscale tavern fare: battered fish fried to a golden hue, fluffy white smashed potatoes glistening with butter, green peas like emerald pearls.

When the waitstaff had finished and bowed their way from the room, leaving behind the food and the heady aromas swirling above the table, Wyll was gratified to see Mrel Alkam’s nose wrinkle a bit in distaste. Wyll picked up an artfully folded cloth napkin and snapped it open with a crack, laying it across Astarion’s lap. He portioned food onto Astarion’s plate and poured him a glass of the lighter iced wine, eschewing the red, highlighting so nonchalantly the differences between the two sides of this table.

“Thank you for agreeing to meet at the Helm and Cloak,” Astarion said, sipping the wine as Wyll filled his own plate in turn. “Though my kitchens produce a wondrous variety of dishes, they have not perfected the art of frying fish so well as this place. I can assure you the flavor is nowhere near so humble as its presentation.” Astarion smiled graciously at his companion’s discomfiture.

“Of course,” Mrel said, gesturing with one bejeweled hand at his spawn, his initial reaction smothered beneath a veneer of politeness. The spawn took a goblet from the table and approached the young woman seated in the shadows. The darkness was no barrier to Wyll’s vision, so he clearly saw the woman draw aside the flap of a high collar to reveal some strange metal implant. Then the spawn’s armored back blocked Wyll’s view, and when the spawn returned to the table to set the coppery contents of the goblet before his master, the young woman was calmly rebuttoning her collar.

“Didn’t Minsc once say fish should be every vampire’s favorite?” Wyll quipped, raising his wine glass. “’All neck’, I believe was his reasoning.” Wyll sipped at the wine with an indulgent chuckle.

Astarion took a bite of the fried fish, closing his eyes as he savored, then he sat back in his chair and raised his wine glass as if to toast his guest. “I am no longer limited to necks,” Astarion said, sipping at the wine.

“Then the rumors are true?” Mrel said, leaning forward with an eager curiosity.

“Which rumors?” Astarion sighed. “There are so many.”

“That you confronted Cazador and emerged changed in some fashion,” Mrel seemed unable to stem the flow of his questions, and Wyll was reminded of Gale’s fervor in pursuit of some bit of knowledge. Wyll glanced up and saw the spawn’s eyes fixed on his master fondly as the vampire babbled. “I knew Cazador had been planning something grand – he’d been hinting at it for centuries – but he was always very secretive, like his sire. Always plotting and scheming,” Mrel rolled his own red eyes as if contemptuous of the very idea of plots. “Imagine my surprise when you laid claim to the manor, with Cazador nowhere to be found! Had you slaughtered him the way he did his own master, that would not explain these… changes,” he gestured at the food spread out on the table before them.

“I will not explain ‘these changes’,” Astarion said firmly. “I will, however, confirm that Cazador was ended by my hand.”

“I hope you enjoyed it,” Mrel said unexpectedly. “He had it coming, in my opinion. The way he tormented you and the other spawn.” He shook his head regretfully. “I always told him it was foolish, but he had those idiotic rules ground into him by Vellioth and rather than hew a new path, he kept straight on playing the villain. I’m glad to see you breaking with tradition. Cheers to you and your…” he made to raise his goblet before tilting his head and staring intently at Wyll, almost as if just noticing his presence. Mrel leaned forward, then sat back with eyebrows raised in a slash of surprise. “I am at a loss, Astarion. Who is this human sitting at table with us?” Wyll regarded the vampire flatly, not believing for a second that his surprise was genuine.

Astarion seemed to agree as he sighed in annoyance and took a sip of his wine. “Surely you know my partner and erstwhile companion, Wyll Ravengard, Alkam?” Astarion’s tone was unamused. “Have you brought nothing but ill-informed ramblings to our tete-a-tete? I expected more from you.”

“Ah, the Grand Duke’s son, then? Him?” Mrel peered more closely at Wyll with a frown. “I had heard he served you, I simply thought…” Wyll sipped his own wine calmly in the face of the vampire’s disdain.

“Perhaps you hit on the answer in your own lecture,” Astarion suggested. “Cazador conscripted his slaves. I have chosen a different path.”

“Astarion needs no compulsion to keep me by his side,” Wyll added.

“Just so,” Mrel nodded agreeably. “I have always found my spawn more eager to serve when I indulge their nature, isn’t that so, Jornah?” he asked the spawn without turning to look, as if certain of his answer.

“Yes, master,” Jornah replied with a hint of adoration in his tone.

“What were those foolish rules again?” Mrel wondered aloud. “Don’t drink the blood of persons? Wasn’t Cazador always tossing rats at you like a dog trainer? Ignorant in the extreme! Spawn should be strong and virile in their own way. Cazador gained nothing by keeping you so weak. One should not demand gratitude for so poor a gift! That only leads to resentment and, as you say, a line of spawn plotting their master’s demise.”

“All by design,” Astarion said. “It was never his intention that we serve him as willingly as your dogs seem to serve you.” Jornah didn’t bristle at the comparison, looking at Wyll with a strange mixture of sympathy and scorn. “But it certainly was foolish of him.”

“So you rebelled,” Mrel guessed, “stole whatever grand transformation he’d planned, and took his holdings as recompense for centuries of mistreatment?”

“An acceptable summary,” Astarion shrugged.

“I’ve heard tell you went hunting outside the city, as well,” Mrel said cautiously, taking a sip of the warm blood in his goblet and cleaning his lips with a delicate swipe of his tongue. “The estate put to the torch, not a vampire left alive?”

“They weren’t really ‘alive’ to begin with, were they?” Astarion quipped. “Their lineage, their traditions…” he shook his head ruefully. “They existed merely to exist, with no further ambition.”

“I always wondered why Cazador didn’t aspire to more,” Mrel remarked. “Perhaps that was his intention with this transformation of his, to finally step out of the shadows and take the city as his own.”

“Why don’t you rule in Athkatla?” Wyll asked amiably. “I’m sure my father would tell you that leading a city is more tedium than it’s worth.”

“Yes,” Mrel said thoughtfully, a flicker of annoyance flashing across his features at Wyll’s addressing him. “Well, Athkatla has no shortage of vampires, while Cazador was always careful to keep Baldur’s Gate free of others’ influence. I am content to be prosperous outside of politics.”

“Are you?” Astarion observed. “So your visit here, your abortive attempt on my palace, your torment of my ward, those weren’t attempts to probe my power?”

“Of course not!” Mrel protested. “I was rightfully curious about what transpired with my old acquaintance, and when my inquiries only prompted more questions, I felt obligated to investigate. Surely you understand!”

“I do,” Astarion nodded. “I understand you better than you think, Alkam. I know you’re insatiable when it comes to knowledge, and I know your curiosity is fueled by the utter boredom of immortality. Why else would you risk yourself by meeting with me in person, knowing I have grievances of my own I might seek to address with you?”

Jornah did tense at this, his fingers twitching toward his knife, but he relaxed when his master only shook his head ruefully.

“Was pleasing me so onerous a task?” Mrel said with a hurt sigh. “I thought my visits were more of a respite for you from your master’s depredations. Should I have rejected his offers? Would he have blamed me for being fussy or you for your failure to serve?”

“I did not see you as a potential savior, if that’s the role you’re imagining for yourself,” Astarion scoffed.

“I don’t seek such flattery,” Mrel said. “But meeting with you was worth any risk, even if you held my past attentions against me. You eat and drink in front of me without a wince of distaste,” he continued, the light of eager curiosity bright in his eyes once more. “My contacts tell me you stroll in the sunlight with humans at your side, that you play the hero with swords and spells instead of this power you claim to have stolen. That it took threatening that human boy to push you to display even the smallest bit of a vampire’s might, and then you sobbed to the papers to take it all back!” Mrel seemed offended on Astarion’s behalf. “Now you sit here without a single spawn to serve you, any revenge you might plan to wreak on my good person held at bay by the spawn ready to do violence below us in my name. What’s happened to you, Astarion? Are you even a vampire anymore?”

Wyll glanced sidelong at his partner as that bright gleam of infernal red flared in the vampire lord’s eyes. Astarion slowly raised his glass and sipped at the wine, its surface reflecting crimson until the cool liquid seemed to douse that flame. “Do you wear yellow so often as an affectation, Alkam, or do you long for a sun you haven’t seen in centuries?” he asked casually, setting down his glass. “I am not a vampire,” he added. “I am far more.”

“Then why these humans?” Mrel asked, frowning in consternation. “I can understand the novelty of frolicking in the daylight, but surely you know we are all wondering what you’re about here. The others won’t seek to treat with you out of concern, as I am. They will see weakness. They will see opportunity.”

“Isn’t that why we’re all here?” Astarion asked innocently, gesturing at the room around them. “So I can assure you that the rumors are true? That I am the only one of my kind, and my power is dedicated to protecting this city and its inhabitants against your kind?”

“My kind,” Mrel mused. “And yet you couldn’t even protect your little ward.” Astarion’s eyes flashed again in reaction and Wyll placed a gentle hand on his partner’s arm. “When I was first approached, I discounted the idea. The thought that you would stir yourself on a human’s behalf,” he shook his head. “I’ll admit your summoning of the vermin was quite the entertaining spectacle, but any one of us could duplicate such a feat, were we so inclined. So febrile a motivation calls your puissance into question, don’t you think?”

“Cazador played at being a patriar for centuries,” Astarion pointed out. “You never questioned his power absent some grand public demonstration.”

“Well, he had the reputation of his line to fall back upon,” Mrel shrugged. “And he had spawn aplenty. Yet here you sit with the Grand Duke’s human son, and the boy you hold so dear remains feeble as well.” He leaned forward and spoke more softly, as if sharing a distasteful sentiment. “Did the bargain neuter you?” he asked in a whisper. “Do you eschew the creation of spawn because your fangs lack the potency to procreate properly?”

Wyll’s peal of startled laughter diffused the petty gossip’s impact. “Astarion is quite capable, I assure you,” Wyll said, and Astarion rolled his eyes with amusement. “He needs no slaves to prove himself.”

“I prefer partners,” Astarion confirmed with a nod. “They’re far more powerful than an army of your spawn.”

“Are they?” Mrel wondered, sitting back.

“If I prove myself to you,” Astarion offered, “will you return to Athkatla secure in the knowledge that Baldur’s Gate has its full complement of vampiric masters? Will you go back to your own domain and squabble with the other covens, and leave me and mine in peace?”

“I shall,” Mrel said affably. “I’m not overly fond of this place or my conspirators, truth be known.”

“Few are those who enjoy the Eomanes’ company,” Astarion agreed. “What proof then do you require? Shall I bend your favored spawn’s will to mine?” he gestured at Jornah. “His mind might collapse, but it would be an interesting experiment.”

“It would,” Mrel agreed, ignoring Jornah’s mew of dismay. “But I’d prefer to keep him intact and loyal while I sojourn here, far from my preferred crop of replacements. I don’t suppose you’d agree to a thorough examination?” he ventured hesitantly. “I can hear your heart beating from here, you know. I should so love to see it with my own eyes.”

“I’m afraid my days of displaying my internal organs are over,” Astarion said.

“Some blood, then?” Mrel asked. “Blood would be a good start.”

“A quantity of my blood in exchange for your leaving the city and describing to me every detail of your plots here?” Astarion offered.

“Hmm,” Mrel pursed his lips thoughtfully. “What of the boy? If you’re not planning to turn him, I would be happy to give him a home. If you can sway my spawn away on a whim, surely he can spend a few decades with me and return to you well trained and docile and none the worse for wear.”

“I don’t think that arrangement would work out as you intend,” Astarion said with a smile that stopped short of his eyes.

“It’s his willfulness I find intriguing,” Mrel said, shrugging. “But if you’re determined that he stay mortal, perhaps I could host him at one of my farms.” He gestured behind him to the young woman in the corner, the slump of her shoulders and soft snores indicating she’d fallen asleep. “My stock could need some freshening. I know it’s difficult to breed blue eyes true in humans, but I am confident I could succeed in time. A few years at most. I’m sure he would enjoy his time with us. There are entire herds of humans his own age.”

“I doubt he would enjoy it overmuch,” Astarion said, his smile growing more vulpine. “In any event, my blood should suffice for our bargain. My blood, and my allowing you to leave, of course.”

“Very well,” Mrel said with an exasperated huff of breath. “Jornah,” he directed, “fetch the containers we brought.” His spawn nodded and slipped out of the room, closing the door behind him. It was Astarion’s turn to place a comforting hand on Wyll’s arm at the prospect of blood-letting taking place and the vampires casual discussion of herds of humans. Mrel noted the gesture and chuckled at the sight. “How adorable,” he murmured. “Don’t fret, young Ravengard,” he said reassuringly. “My interests are clinical, not sadistic; your master won’t feel a thing. What a pity you had Cazador as your sire and not someone less cruel, Astarion,” he sighed. “You’d have flourished in Athkatla under my hand. I’d never have wasted your potential as he did.”

“You flatter me,” Astarion retorted, though he sounded less than flattered. “Shall we discuss the Eomanes and their allies while we await your apparatus?”

“Certainly, certainly,” Mrel nodded, steepling his fingers, jewelry glittering in the candlelight. “Were you aware you’d made an enemy of the god ‘Bane’?” he began. “However did you manage that?”

Chapter Text

“He wanted me to do what?” Lucas sputtered, his mouth a wide ‘O’ of confusion and disgust.

“Astarion, why did you tell him that?” Wyll said, shaking his head with a chastising cluck of his tongue. They stood around the dining table, its long wooden surface unadorned save for a scroll and several heavy candlesticks, its chairs pulled back out of the way to line the walls. He Who Was regarded the vampire lord with a curious tilt to his head; not scolding, simply wondering at the topic of conversation. Geraldus coughed lightly into his fist and looked at the table then the ceiling then the walls, seemingly anywhere but at Astarion’s frown and his ward’s outrage.

“I thought he deserved to know!” Astarion said defensively. “Should I have refused the offer for him without consulting him? Am I to be a tyrant or not!” he exclaimed. “Make up your minds!”

“It’s not tyrannical to have some consideration for the situation,” Wyll said, softening his tone to sound less scolding and more reasonable. “You did make it sound a bit like an adventurous outing among friends and not…”

“…like being sold to stud?” Geraldus muttered, still avoiding meeting anyone’s gaze. He began picking at imaginary bits of lint on his lapel. Wyll accepted the interruption with grace and looked meaningfully at Astarion, receiving an exasperated roll of the vampire lord’s red eyes in return.

“I am confused,” He Who Was admitted. “In the books I am reading, a child is a cause for celebration in your culture, yet you reprimand the vampire for telling the boy he could sire countless babes at this ‘farm’?”

“No, that’s not…” Geraldus attempted, then looked to Wyll helplessly.

“A child conceived out of love, with mutual agreement, is surely a cause for rejoicing,” Wyll explained patiently to his companion. “What this Mrel Alkam proposed is… not that.”

“I still think you deserve to make your own decision,” Astarion said to Lucas. “I won’t apologize for that. And it’s not like these are slave camps, you know,” he added with a glare at Wyll. “Though there are such hovels, these particular establishments traffic in volunteers, many of whom come from circumstances similar to young Lucas’ here. He could be among people his own age.”

“No offense, lord, but I’m not inclined to meet people my own age just to fuck them,” Lucas said dryly. “If I wanted to, I’m sure I could’ve managed it on my own in this city just fine.”

“Of course when you say it like that,” Astarion scoffed, then his shoulders sank a bit. “Well, no matter how you say it, I suppose it is distasteful. I do apologize, Lucas,” he sighed. “I may not have thought it through.”

“It’s okay,” Lucas grinned, patting his lord on the elbow. “I’m glad you told me so I could say ‘no’ on my own. Although,” he said, his grin turning mischievous. “What if I were to take him up on it, and we had a signal, like Wyll’s bird could carry messages, and then we could bust out the whole lot of them and put an end to it!” He glanced eagerly between Wyll and the vampire lord, frowning as they exchanged more sober looks.

“Shall we put off starting a war with the vampire covens of Athkatla and concentrate on the task before us?” Astarion said genially, unlooping the ties around the tall scroll.

“Fine, but I won’t forget,” Lucas warned.

“Don’t let Jaheira hear of it,” Geraldus said. “She’d probably infiltrate the place with you as your pet cat or something equally dangerous.”

“It wouldn’t be so dangerous if I had a pet cat druid,” Lucas pointed out, but Geraldus frowned at him.

“It would be dangerous no matter what,” Wyll chuckled. “But I like the way you think.”

“Maybe that’s because we’re close in age,” Lucas said with a wink. “My lord wants me to hang about with my peers, when he doesn’t have any friends his own age at all!”

“Oh stop it!” Astarion pouted. “You make me sound like a doddering old fool. I’ll have you know that I do not consider the years I spent under Cazador to have matured me any more than they physically aged me! We’re here talking of friends and children and romantic drivel when I spent the past two centuries with none of it, just trying to keep knives out of my flesh.”

“He makes a fair point,” He Who Was said. “I am the oldest here, by thousands of years if we’re going by that measure, yet I know less of these things than the vampire.”

“Well, since Lucas and I are the youngest here, we’ll just have to keep sharing our sage-like wisdom with the rest of you,” Wyll said, returning Lucas’ wink.

“Deal,” Lucas said, nodding. “So it goes on record that I said ‘no’ to breeding a passel of kids in some vampire harem, and let’s take a look at the map instead.”

“I feel I’ve missed something important!” Shadowheart said, entering the room just in time to catch Lucas’ quip. “When did Lucas get a harem?” She approached Lucas and gave him a disapproving glare.

“Never, m’lady,” Lucas vowed. “If you want more than my word, I’ll tell you the rest later.”

“You’d better,” Shadowheart warned, nudging him in the side and taking the place next to him at the table. “I’m sorry I’m late but it was unavoidable,” she said, her tone businesslike.

“We’re glad to have you, late or not,” Wyll said with an appreciative smile. “And glad that you’ve decided to join us.”

“I’ve no love of tyrants and no sympathy for their followers,” Shadowheart said grimly, then she ruined the effect by tousling Lucas’ hair.

“I’ve not encountered the followers of this Bane,” He Who Was said, frowning.

“They’re stuck-up arseholes,” Wyll said matter-of-factly as Astarion unrolled the scroll and placed candlesticks at the edges to weigh them down. “Though they do have some power to back up their arrogance.”

“We cleared many of their nests when we toppled Gortash,” Shadowheart added. “Most of the leaders fell with him at Wyrm’s Rock, more at the factory and the prison, and Astarion did toss a ball of flame into a fireworks store without warning any of us what he was about.” She glared at the vampire lord who grinned unapologetically.

“They offered me a job there once,” Lucas said, wide-eyed at the thought of being even tangentially connected with an explosion of that fiery magnitude. “I could tell they weren’t right, though. Shifty, even for the Gate.”

“I’d compliment you on your instincts,” Wyll chuckled, “if you didn’t also stay with this one,” he nodded at Astarion.

“He’s not so bad once he stops yelling,” Lucas said with a shrug. He perused the unrolled scroll before them and began to trace some of the pictured lines with one finger. “I know this place,” he murmured thoughtfully.

“Really?” Shadowheart asked. “That will help! What do you remember of it?” Lucas pointed to areas on the simple map and described what he knew, very pleased with himself for knowing something the others did not.

“This big main part is under the cliffs south of Blackgate,” he began, tracing a large rectangle at the left side of the map. “It looks empty but it’s really full of giant stone columns, hundreds of them, almost like they’re holding the whole mountain up.”

“Something has to,” Wyll said. “With all we’ve seen beneath the city proper, I’ve no idea how it hasn’t collapsed.”

“Hollow like a sucked egg,” Lucas agreed with a grin. “There’s a bunch of smaller chambers around the edges,” he said, pointing them out. “Probably plenty of ways to get in.”

“This is a Baneite stronghold?” Shadowheart asked.

“It’s nobody’s stronghold, that I can reckon,” Lucas said, putting his hands on his hips and glaring down at the map like it’s wronged him. “Unless they moved in after the brain thing and their God’s Chosen getting killed. I’ve only been there the one time, a few years back.”

“And you didn’t claim it for your own like you did my domain?” Astarion teased.

“It’s empty, lord,” Lucas said, more solemnly than the discussion seemed to warrant. “Like, creepy empty. No bugs, no rats, no bats, no cobwebs, not that I could see, but no mess or dust or droppings or nests, neither. That’s not a temptation, that’s a trap.”

“Well, that’s where they’re planning their little ceremony,” Wyll said. “Nysene Eomane may have found favor with Bane, but her siblings don’t seem so keen to join her, if it’s taken them this long to pledge their loyalty.”

“Nysene is a sadist,” Astarion said flatly. “The others are merely indifferent. Their paying lip service to her newest affectation is likely the price they pay to continue with their jaded lives unhindered.”

“How do we get in, Lucas?” Shadowheart asked, nudging the boy with her elbow. He started a bit, staring at the map with the unfocused eyes of someone lost in memory.

“Not the way I did,” he muttered. “You’re too big and it’s too smelly.” He pondered for a bit, then indicated a spot at the northeast corner of the spiderweb of tunnels leading off the largest area. “Take the Citadel Gate and there should be an entrance here. Might take some spotting, though. If it were obvious, maybe the place wouldn’t be empty.”

“If you like, I’ll go right now and spy it out,” Geraldus offered.

“Thank you,” Wyll said, nodding to the Harper. “Be careful.”

“Broad daylight right beneath the Watch’s Citadel?” Geraldus chuckled. “It’s probably less dangerous than standing here with you all right now.” He bowed a bit to those assembled and headed off to fetch his gear.

“We’ll enter from there, then, and proceed down this corridor,” Astarion decided. “If we can keep your friend from chattering, Wyll,” he nodded at He Who Was, mocking his habitual silence, “I’m sure we’ll hear a mass of Baneites clomping around.”

“We might hear them, lord, but it’ll be tough to see them from any distance,” Lucas cautioned. “Them pillars are really big, like big as this room,” he said, spreading his arms wide to indicate the sizeable room around them.

“Pech can scout forward,” Wyll said, and the raven cawed his agreement from his perch atop a candelabra.

“It’ll make it less likely they’ll detect us,” Shadowheart added. “I’ll eschew the mail for leather, I think,” she said thoughtfully. “I haven’t forgotten the tricks I learned in Shar’s temple. I can be as sneaky as this one,” she grinned, nudging Lucas again.

“Want to bet on it?” Lucas asked. “Any gem you like from my collection if I’m quieter than you? I’ve been practicing a lot, you know, and I was really good even before.”

“You have a gem collection?” Astarion asked, but Shadowheart interrupts Lucas’ reply.

“Deal!” she said, offering Lucas her hand to shake.

“Don’t make that bet just yet,” Wyll said, glancing worriedly at Astarion’s frowning face. Lucas looked up at his lord, concerned.

“I don’t doubt your skills,” Astarion began, focused solely on Lucas, his words calm for all he drew them out as if expecting to be contradicted at any moment. “But you won’t be accompanying us.”

“Like hell I won’t!” Lucas yelled, his face reddening. “You said this is what we’re training for!”

“It’s not your training that’s at issue,” Astarion explained. “It’s the nature of our foes.” He tried to keep his tone calm and businesslike, but the boy’s anger always gave him a little twinge in the pit of his stomach, a twinge of guilt at being the cause of so many of these outbursts.

“They serve a tyrant God, Lucas,” Wyll said. “They can twist your thoughts with a spell as easily as any vampire spawn. These three and Geraldus, they have some protection from that.”

“Comes with the pointy ears,” Shadowheart teased gently.

“Oh, so it’s being a regular human that makes me the weak one?” Lucas complained. “Aren’t you one, too?” he barked at Wyll belligerently.

“I haven’t been a ‘regular human’ in years,” Wyll said, enough regret in his tone that Lucas banked the coals of his anger. “But I also have experience in fighting these cultists, and it’s that experience that makes me advise against your going with us.”

“I’ll hang back in the shadows,” Lucas said, folding his arms. “I’ll stay out of trouble, but I’m going. If that Nysene and her pack are there, I want to see you deal with them. Don’t I deserve it?” he asked the vampire lord directly.

“You do,” Astarion said reluctantly.

“And you won’t do any of your tricks to stop me?” Lucas asked with narrowed eyes.

“I will not,” Astarion promised, though the tension in his shoulders indicated his dismay.

“Then I’ll go gear up,” Lucas said defiantly. He aimed a glare at each of the companions in turn before stomping his way out of the room, deliberately making all the noise his feet could muster.

He’d cleaned his armor, painstakingly scrubbing at every stitch until it gleamed, and he felt safer with it on. He’d lost his cloak, so he perused the racks in the room for adventuring, fingering the different fabrics until settling on one of a simple black velveteen with a deep hood he liked, though he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to keep pretending he was dead or not now that the vampire knew. He donned the cloak and pulled up the hood and stared at himself in the mirror, unable to shake the uneasy feeling in his gut. He turned quickly upon hearing a noise and saw He Who Was looking at an open chest full of rings that stood on the low side table. He suspected the noise had been made deliberately to alert him to the elf’s presence, as even the normal sounds of breathing weren’t all that audible when it came to the Shadar-kai.

“Are you here to talk me out of going?” Lucas asked accusingly, ready to start a row.

“I am not,” He Who Was answered, and Lucas realized he’d never seen the shadow elf really angry, so maybe an argument wouldn’t ensue.

“Do you want a ring?” Lucas asked, pulling back his hood and approaching the table. “I know what most of them do, if you’re looking for something in particular.”

“I am unsettled,” the elf said, and Lucas frowned in surprise. “I am looking for quiet.”

“Oh,” Lucas said. “Should I stop talking then?”

“No,” he said softly. “You could tell me why you wish to go with us so badly to face these followers of Bane.” He Who Was looked at Lucas and the boy could swear he looked a little sad, even though it was difficult to tell at the best of times what he was really thinking.

“They hurt me,” Lucas said, but the expression on the elf’s face didn’t change so he tried again. “I want revenge,” he said, but it came out sounding like a question.

“Do you not trust your master and Wyll to put an end to their plots?” He Who Was asked. “Is it so important that you strike a blow, even now when you are free of them?” His tone wasn’t judgmental so much as searching, and Lucas wondered at it.

“I didn’t really think about it like that,” Lucas admitted, reaching into the chest to sift idly through the rings there. “Hurting them that hurt you just seems to be what I’m supposed to want.”

“There are so many wrongs that go unnoticed, so many voices unheard,” He Who Was mused. “In the depths beneath this very room, there are thousands of spirits with such stories, so many that I cannot venture there without being overwhelmed by the memories of their torment.”

“All them spawn that got sacrificed?” Lucas asked, eyes wide, and He Who Was nodded solemnly. “Maybe that’s why it never feels empty.”

“Yet your master told your story to the entire city, made certain you were heard,” He Who Was said. “Is it not vengeance enough to have the city’s sympathy? When these culprits are struck down, will it not be enough for you?”

“He’s not my master,” Lucas pointed out absently, annoyed at having his thoughts tripped up by this quiet elf. Why’d he pick now of all times to become so chatty? “I’m not scared to go, if that’s what you’re implying. I thought you said you weren’t here to talk me out of it?”

“I am scared,” He Who Was said earnestly. “I do not wish to go. I want to understand your reasons, so that I might share them.” His black eyes looked down at Lucas almost hopefully, so Lucas searched his mind for a better reason than revenge and came up short.

“You’re such a good fighter and you’re too stubborn to get magicked into anything,” Lucas reasoned, “why would you be scared to go?”

“My Queen allowed me to stay here at Wyll’s side,” He Who Was said, hunting for the words to describe unfamiliar feelings. “When he is in the wilds, his purposes are clear, his thoughts are clear. It is easy to follow where he leads, to be certain of my purpose.”

“And the city’s confusing, eh?” Lucas guessed. “If we didn’t fight, the city would just let everything go on like normal. If them adventurers hadn’t killed Amrik’s mum, the whole city might’ve gone to hell, and here she was being a Duke the whole time. My lord’s old master got to have parties just like anybody else, all while making all them spawn and cutting people open for fun.”

“And had Shadowheart not left the city, she might be a Sharran still, with her parents in bondage,” He Who Was continued. “I do not begrudge the necessity of fighting this cult. I do not like the futility of it. I do not like the risk. Had I the option, I would stay behind, but I can think of no excuse save cowardice, which I will only confide to you.”

“I won’t tell anyone,” Lucas promised. He sighed heavily and decided he could confide something of his own. “I never used to be scared, either,” he said softly. “Just being alive was dangerous enough, but if I fell or got murdered or eaten or something, it wasn’t personal, really. Not ‘til my lord stuffed me in that box.” He looked up and stared into the elf’s dark eyes, conjuring the image in his mind in case he could share it, like before but without all the ritual. “I get scared a lot now,” he confessed. “It makes me angry, just like my lord. Backed into a corner like a rat.”

“I did not fear before, either,” He Who Was said. “Though it does not spark anger.”

“It makes you sad instead,” Lucas said, “because you have to go even if you don’t see the point. It’s not your home you’re defending. I wish sometimes it weren’t any of our homes, that there were a nicer place to go.”

“The lands where I was cursed,” He Who Was said thoughtfully. “Where the druid works to cleanse the shadow. That was a good place. Or the land where Shadowheart dwells. She has a peaceful home, or so she tells me.” The distant look in his eyes softened a bit, and Lucas could swear the elf almost smiled.

“Maybe we’ll all go there after,” Lucas said, brightening. “My lord says she’s got an owlbear as a pet, and that druid Halsin can turn into a bear, and there’s a whole ruined town to explore. I’m good at exploring, and I bet…”

“I find it reassuring that you agree so readily,” He Who Was interrupted, and Lucas was sure he could spot an actual smile from him now, however small. “There are many people there, and many memories trapped by the curse, memories I could gather for the Raven Queen.”

“Real adventurers wouldn’t stick around here anyway, would they?” Lucas scoffed. “If my lord doesn’t want to be a noble, and that Wyll doesn’t want to be a Duke, then why should we spend all our time going to parties and gossiping when we could be riding bears and finding treasure?”

“You are wise beyond your years,” He Who Was agreed. “We shall convince them to quit the city and journey elsewhere, though I would rather walk than ride. I did not enjoy my time atop that horse.”

“I don’t know how to ride, so I’ll look all pitiful like this,” Lucas said, giving He Who Was his most mournful look, his blue eyes wide with dismay until he dissolved into laughter. “Maybe we can take a ship! My lord fought smuggers on a ship, and I watched from another one, but it didn’t really go anywhere.”

“I have never been sailing,” He Who Was said. “I like your plan.”

“I’m good at plans,” Lucas grinned. “Let’s shake on it.” He spit into his palm and offered it to He Who Was, who hesitated only a moment before spitting into his own palm and clasping Lucas’ hand firmly with his larger one. Lucas was glad to see the worried lines beside the elf’s eyes less pronounced than before their talk, and he felt a touch of relief on his own behalf. He took off the cloak he was wearing and hung it carefully back on the rack, then rushed for the dining room, taking the steps two at a time in his haste.

“Lord!” he exclaimed, bursting through the dining room door (after listening quietly at it to ascertain his lord was still in there to witness his declaration), “you can leave off your worrying! I’m staying here to guard the house! Stab them Eomanes a couple extra times for me, would you?”

Lucas could hear his lord’s exasperated sigh all the way from across the room.

Chapter Text

Lucas sped across the rooftops, leaping with the same type of reckless abandon he’d always used to feel, fueled now by the urgent edge of a panic he fought to suppress. Rooftop to rooftop, tile to slate to wooden planks, until he slid down a slanted roof to shimmy down a corner drainpipe and wrenched the heavy cover from the nearest sewer entrance with adrenaline-augmented strength. As he sped through the sewers, slipping in the slime in his haste, he knew he’d be too late, knew he’d be of no help even if he did arrive, ill-equipped as he was in plain pants and a plain tunic. Still he hurried, unarmed and unarmored, through the filthy tunnels until he reached at last the crack in the wall he sought. He squirmed through the tunnel, scraping his chest and back against the rough stone and wondering how long before he’d grow too big to fit. The entire journey took place in darkness, and he emerged in more darkness still, relying on memory and instinct, feeling the change in air pressure from the tight squeeze of the tunnel to the soaring expanse carved from the mountain’s guts. He dropped to the stone floor and kept his left hand in contact with the wall, running as fast as he could toward the muddled sounds of shouting and the sharp clanging echoes of steel against steel. As he grew closer, his chest wet with blood from scratches and heaving from the effort to draw breath after panting breath, he realized he could see, that the darkness was softer, the shadows cast by row after row of enormous columns larger than windmills, larger than towers. His left hand fell into an opening, one of the side rooms he remembered from his discovery of this place, and a beam of the brightening light fell on the edge of a bedroll. Lucas doubled his pace on aching feet. The light grew brighter and brighter, white and red and searing hot, until Lucas dove behind the nearest pillar and used the last of his breath to add his terrified scream to the roar of flames surrounding him.

“There must be countless ways in,” Geraldus said, waving his hand to indicate the mountainside rising above them, the Upper City’s outer wall slumbering in its shade. “No sign anyone’s been using this one.”

“Well done finding it,” Wyll said, clapping the Harper on the shoulder. The entrance itself was a small stone door in the shadow of a larger moss-covered boulder, the grass before it an un-trampled lush green, the trees nearby soaring overhead and shading them from the noonday sun.

“Wasn’t too difficult,” Geraldus said, scratching at his head shyly as if unused to praise. “Getting it open was a trick, though. There’s glyphs here and here if you look closely,” he pointed out almost indiscernible scratches Wyll didn’t recognize. “It’s dark inside but the way is clear and the passage opens up.” He stood from his easy crouch and pressed one hand to his back to stretch it. “Is this all of us that’s going?” he asked, glancing at the small party that included Wyll and Astarion, Shadowheart and He Who Was, but no sign of others.

“We anticipate facing the followers of Bane, primarily,” Astarion explained. “So stealth, a sharp eye in darkness, and a certain resistance to their charms will be key. Of course, I could handle this myself, but I was outvoted,” he sniffed.

“As if the rest of us don’t deserve to get our licks in,” Shadowheart scolded, shoving lightly at his shoulder. “The fewer cults we leave running rampant in the city, the better.” She ducked through the opening in the cliff face as if to end the discussion by acting. He Who Was followed her without a word, his halberd at the ready in his right hand.

“There you have it, Astarion,” Wyll said indulgently. “Don’t tell me you don’t feel even a bit of nostalgia at the idea of our small band ending yet another would-be tyrant?”

“I suppose,” Astarion sighed. “Let’s be about it, then.”

Geraldus had spoken true, as the passage was narrow for only a short distance before leading them into an open space so enormous it beggared the imagination. Even Wyll’s magically enhanced sight couldn’t plumb the darkness above them, and as Pech took wing, dodging the immense columns that seemed to support the entire mountain, the spirit indicated their immediate surroundings were empty as a tomb.

“He Who Was, do you sense anything?” Wyll asked, concerned. “It’s not like the depths beneath the manor?”

“It is not,” He Who Was said quietly. “I hear no cries, no artifacts of pain or pleasure, no spirits. I believe we will be safe from their influence here. It is a dead place, but not hungry. Not like the Shadowfell or any plane I have visited.”

Aside from their soft footfalls, no sound greeted them. The darkness wasn’t welcoming, wasn’t frightening, it wasn’t anything but empty of light. Wyll moved to the fore, quickening his pace as if eager for the endless cavern to divulge some antagonistic secret, to give him something at which to strike.

“There’s no rhyme or reason to the spacing between these columns,” Geraldus noted in a low voice. They’d moved toward what he judged to be the center of the vast space, but there was no aisleway or dais or discernible gathering space. “A dragon’s lair, maybe? With an entrance too high for us to note?”

“Perhaps,” Wyll murmured. “Though it’s nothing like the Wyrmway. This part of the mystery may remain unsolved.” They continued onward for a pace before Pech hissed a mental warning for them to ‘stop stomping about’, as he phrased it. They could see the soft glow of light far ahead of them curving around the columns, and a few gestures sent the party to take positions around the edges of the light, the pillars providing abundant cover.

“I bet your boyfriend will love this,” Pech sneered in Wyll’s mind as he circled high above the light. Wyll stopped walking, concentrating on the view the spirit sent him. Then he drew his rapier.

“Astarion and I will confront them,” he directed. “You’ll know when it’s time to strike.” The two of them strode forward, though he noted Shadowheart crouched closest to the light, as if obeying only begrudgingly. He didn’t blame her. Conflicted about her past though she might be, she did serve Selûne faithfully, and he didn’t imagine the ancient Moonmaiden had any fondness for upstart gods like the Dead Three.

The villainous tableau they confronted was strangely silent, the only sounds the cracking of whips, their barbed tails raising gashes on the pale skin of a naked woman strapped spread-eagle to a torture rack. The victim grunted softly with each impact, her teeth gritted. Two men in plate armor with long, crimson cloaks wielded the whips, while a third man knelt at the victim’s bare feet, licking at the rivulets of blood dripping off her toes in an obscene parody of foreplay. Wyll recognized the woman on the rack as Rusorra, the youngest Eomane daughter, while her brother Irenteller stood off to the side, watching with dispassionate eyes and crossed arms as his sister submitted to the lash.

“This looks familiar,” Astarion drawled, stepping into the light cast by wrought-iron torch stands flanking the group. “A helpless victim and poor technique adding to the torment. Could you find no torturers more skilled than these for your beloved baby sister, Irenteller?” He clucked his tongue in feigned dismay.

“She deserves no better than I had,” the man answered with equal nonchalance. “I grant you it’s all a bit droll, but Bane’s adherents insist upon their little traditions.”

“This is disgusting even for your family,” Wyll spat. “We’ll tolerate you no longer, no matter your station.” He heard Pech screech loudly from overhead in response to his master’s growing fury. So many years, so many victims, all hand-waved away by the Watch after an exchange of coin and favor. Wyll had never felt so certain of his decision to meet evil with steel and magic instead of words. What place for the law did such scenes as this leave? Irenteller rolled his eyes in response to Wyll's threats with all the affected boredom of a jaded noble.

The two Baneites left off their lashing and turned to face the interlopers, their eyes hidden behind skull-shaped masks. The kneeling man, his long dirty blonde hair stained with crimson, looked up at them with a wide fanged grin and a triumphant gleam to his dull red eyes.

“Is that you?” Astarion asked, head tilted, making a show of searching his memory. “Vilhelm, yes? Are you the last of Cazador’s castoffs to be cursed and now abandoned by your newfound master?”

“Cursed?” Vilhelm asked, licking at the blood on his lips and standing to face them boldly. “Abandoned?” His confusion seemed as feigned as Astarion’s memory loss.

“It doesn’t matter why you’re here, only that you are,” Wyll threatened.

“You should have followed your master back to Athkatla,” Astarion said, reaching for the sword hilts over his shoulders and drawing both blades in an unhurried motion, as if this small group were too little a challenge to rouse him.

“Why would I, when that’s not where she is?” Vilhelm asked, his clawed fingers crooking with eagerness. Rusorra panted on the rack behind him, the look of triumph in the spawn’s eyes the counterpoint to the look of resignation in hers. Wyll wondered with some alarm whether she was the supplicant she appeared to be, or was a sacrifice. He reached out to Pech with a mental command just as a sharp pain bloomed behind his eye and a spattering of black feathers drifted down from above, dissolving into shadow as his familiar burst with a squawk of protest.

Knowing hesitation might cost them any advantage, Wyll unleashed a torrent of blasts, the potent red beams tossing the two Baneites back into the shadows, a single beam striking Irenteller square in the chest, his expression of outraged surprise disappearing into the darkness with the rest.

Vilhelm sprang at Astarion, fangs bared, but the vampire lord’s eyes flared red and the spawn stopped in mid-leap. Astarion closed the distance between them, staring intently into the spawn’s eyes as that triumphant grim faded to a howl of anguish, trickles of blood flowing out from the spawn’s ears, his face slackening to mindlessness. The spawn collapsed in a moaning heap at Astarion’s feet as a slow rustling sound built in the darkness around and above them.

“They’re coming,” Astarion said grimly to Wyll, and Wyll nodded to him and took the moment to wreathe himself in an icy fog. The deep bass thrumming of Geraldus’ bowstring sounded before he emerged from behind one pillar, releasing arrows upward to where the shadows writhed and vampire spawn swarmed like insects down the pillars’ sides.

“Too many to count,” he reported, the rustling of hands and feet around them building to a roar punctuated by snarling. He picked his targets randomly, smokepowder explosions thinning the emerging onslaught only to have a legion of glowing red eyes race forward over the bodies of their brethren.

“Take this,” Astarion said, handing a scroll to the Harper. “Choose your timing well, it won’t hold for long.” The Harper took the scroll and jammed it beneath his belt as the vampire lord vanished, whether invisible or relocated, Geraldus couldn’t tell.

“Damnit,” Shadowheart cursed, running swiftly to Wyll’s side. “I brought the wrong gear for this.” With a mace in each hand, she rued leaving Lathander’s light behind. He Who Was appeared next to her in a burst of shadow, the blade of his halberd already stained with blood, his expression grim. “Ira et dolor!” Shadowheart cried, encircling them in a swirling golden mass of luminous spirits. She didn’t even glance behind her as the body on the rack burned away with a scream of pain, caught in the radiant circle.

“We must retreat,” He Who Was said. “There are full vampires among them, and more spawn than we can safely defeat.” He swung his halberd to topple the torchstands, leaving the spirit guardians the only source of light surrounding them.

“This way,” Wyll said, lashing out at the encroaching horde even as he backed away. “Search out the entrance the Baneites used. The Eomane will be fleeing, so follow him. Shadowheart and I will guard.” Geraldus turned his bow toward their rear, scanning for openings or targets. Wyll wondered after Astarion, but saw ripples among the mass of spawn, pockets of some swift death walking among them. Wyll echoed Shadowheart’s cry but to different effect, summoning a groaning mass of shadow and cold before them, smothering the spawn caught within it.

“Go,” he heard Shadowheart order. He glanced to his left to see He Who Was warding their flank, his halberd stabbing and sweeping to keep the encroaching spawn wary of its length. The Shadar-kai turned his head to respond, the words dying unsaid on his lips as his body is yanked backward and upward, his halberd dropping to the ground with a clatter. Shadowheart’s cry of alarm was wordless, a scream of pain and rage that grated on Wyll’s ears. He saw his friend’s body strike one of the pillars, the force of the impact throwing his arms and legs in a wide graceless sprawl, the wet thwack of his head hitting the stone audible even above the ravening crowd. He Who Was fell, boneless, into the swarm below and disappeared from view as the spawn turned their fangs to the new flesh in their midst.

Shadowheart ran, the spirits around her flickering as her concentration wavered and reforming with renewed brightness as she screamed a new, stronger casting. Wyll faltered, his own spell dissipating like smoke as he stared, stunned, at the space where his friend had stood mere seconds before. He ran to follow Shadowheart, feeling the whispers of arrows hiss past his head from the Harper behind him. With a final flight, he saw Geraldus appear where the arc of his last arrow landed amidst the swarm of spawn. The Harper grimaced as claws and fangs tore at him but he managed to shove them back long enough to drop his bow and tear a longsword from its scabbard, raising it above his head and crying out the words to a spell Wyll didn’t know. The longsword burst into the bright white light of day, setting the spawn around him to shrieking and sending a shimmer of mist fleeing for the shadows.

Shadowheart reached them next, cutting through the stunned mass with her weapons even as the luminous guardians burned at their flesh. Wyll stumbled forward, cursing his own memory, the sight of a torn and bloody body crumpled at Geraldus’ feet, the Harper himself bleeding from bite and claw, it was too much, too similar to that night in the Elfsong when fangs tore at his flesh while they dragged his lover away. Yet here he was, unscathed, his own fears rendering him more impotent than he ever was.

“Wyll,” Geraldus yelled, laying about him with the glowing steel of his sword, “take this!” He tossed Wyll the scroll Astarion had given him, and Wyll caught it, unrolling it and using his own sword to clear a path to his companions. He read the words of the spell, the scroll crumbling to nothing as its power unspooled and a shimmering barrier enclosed them.

The few spawn left alive were reeling from the pain and its abrupt surcease, and Wyll shoved and blasted them out of the protective dome to experience daylight’s burn anew. He sensed Shadowheart dropping to her knees behind him, the spirits still circling, a keening wail rising from her throat as the Shadar-kai’s black eyes stared sightlessly from his ruined skull, his face frozen in a look not of terror or anger, but of wonder, as if his last living vision had been of something beautiful.

Wyll sensed the heat before he saw its source, turning from the pietà before him to see Astarion standing some distance away, his eyes glowing with the searing red of infernal magic, his form wreathed in an umbra of flames that kept attackers from approaching. Astarion’s lips parted, he bared his fangs and the flames flickered inside his mouth and in his throat. The light around Astarion flared brighter and brighter, dimming even the glow of Geraldus’ enchanted sword. The vampire lord rose into the air without a word of spell or command, and Wyll’s heart sank. The rapier in his hand shook with the force of his grip as a wave of white-hot fire burst outward from his lover’s hovering form, rushing past and over them in an argent conflagration that tore a fearful scream from his throat even as the globe protected them from the searing heat.

It seemed to last forever, that flood of hellfire washing their enemies away and eating at the stone columns like gnawing teeth. A small corner of Wyll’s mind wondered if their barrier would fail before Astarion stopped his assault. A small calm corner of his mind wondered if they would die at Astarion’s hand, melting away, casualties of his madness. In the end, it was a near thing. As the flames surged and then faded around them, as he blinked to clear his sight of blindness and smoke, a last wave of inexorable heat threatened to smother them in the aftermath of fire.

Astarion stood before them in a depression melted into the stone. Wyll looked into the bright flare of the vampire lord’s red eyes and saw an all too familiar gleam of condescension there, of arrogance that cut sharper than any knife. Astarion dropped the swords in his hands to the ground with a sneer of disgust. Wyll saw no soft emotion there, no relief that his companions had survived, no concern over their welfare, no grief at their terrible loss. He only saw a monster flush with victory over its foes.

He heard the creak of Geraldus drawing his bow, turned his head to see the Harper kneeling on the ground, an arrow aimed with admirable steadiness at the vampire lord even as the half-elf’s teeth chattered with an audible clacking.

Wyll gestured guardedly to him to lower his weapon, but had to call his name softly to get his attention. “Geraldus,” he whispered gently, “hold if you have a care for our lives.” Perhaps it was Wyll doing the asking rather than the ask itself that impressed upon Geraldus the futility of his actions. He lowered the arrow and relaxed the tension on the bow, his fingers slick with blood from his own open wounds. Wyll turned back to Astarion, who was looking around the scorched area with an air of smug satisfaction.

“Why not let him loose it?” Astarion called, his voice thick with authority. “Let me show him what weapons are worth against me.” He looked up toward the ceiling and laughed as if the headiness of his own power still filled his veins with joy.

“It’s over, Astarion,” Wyll said cautiously, measuring his words. “You’ve won us the day and we are grateful.”

“Are you?” Astarion asked in a mocking sing-song. “Are you glad I played along like a good little companion? That I threatened and waved my swords and fought just long enough for one of you to fall? I I told you I could’ve ended this in an instant!” he yelled. “I could’ve slaughtered them all if I hadn’t listened to you!”

“You’re right,” Wyll agreed readily, trying to placate, to soothe. “The fault is mine.” He held up his hand, palm toward the vampire lord, and stepped slowly forward as if approaching a frenzied beast.

“No it ain’t,” a voice hoarse from smoke and screaming said from beyond them, emerging from the swirl of ashen debris. Wyll almost groaned aloud when the boy stepped into the daylight glow of Geraldus’ sword. Lucas’ shirt hung in bloody tatters, his skin scorched a ruddy red from heat, his nose and mouth ringed in grime, his face streaked with furious tears. “It’s his fault and he knows it.”

“Right as always,” Astarion said approvingly, as if complimenting the boy on his cleverness. “I thought you weren’t coming?” he asked, as if they’d met by chance in the market square instead of surrounded by blood and ash.

“I came to warn you,” Lucas said, “though I shouldn’t have bothered.” He shuffled toward Wyll, shoulders hunched with exertion, his blue eyes red-rimmed with a look of helpless resignation. “He’s going to leave for a while,” Lucas said, not caring if his lord could hear him. “He won’t stay like this.”

“Why would I?” Astarion said scornfully, ignoring the twinge of hurt he felt seeing Lucas join the others instead of coming to his side. He could see them clearly, hear their words and their breathing and the frantic beating of their hearts, could feel their fear like a red fog, its scent invigorating. The power still vibrated in his limbs, barely contained, a hum of static he could call upon in an instant. He looked at them, really looked with hellfire in his eyes and words of power on his tongue and they were pathetic. So frail and so mortal and so insufferably young. So weak. A meaningless diversion from his true purpose. A stumbling block to his true place.

“Go on then,” Lucas said, his jaw set stubbornly. “You can just go without making a speech about it, you know.”

“But I’m so good at speeches,” Astarion boasted. “However, if you insist, I shall be succinct. You may keep the manor,” he informed Lucas. “It’s more to your taste than mine, after all. You need not trouble yourself about the plotters; I shall end their threat to the city and restore the peace. Your father should appreciate that,” he said to Wyll, who stared back at him without reaction. Astarion faltered for a moment at the reproach in those mournful brown eyes, then let the power burn the sentiment away, let it put the torch to the last remnants of his conscience.

He took a step toward them, then another. “You see it now, don’t you? My mistake?” His tone was cajoling, reasonable, instructive, inhuman. “This army of spawn should have been mine. I should never have stopped myself, should never have listened to the babbling of babes.” He smiled, the magnanimous smile of a father bestowing presents upon his children, his red eyes still glowing with diabolical intent. “If you wish it, I will grant you the gift you wanted, Lucas. It’s not too late to stay with me.” Astarion focused on the boy, knowing his words would be wasted on Wyll, knowing it and gritting his teeth against the remembered anger of being scorned in the full flush of his power, being denied, being rejected.

“No thank you, lord,” Lucas said quietly. “I don’t want a master, not for all the power in the world.” Fresh tracks traced down his cheeks as he spoke, gleaming wetly amidst the dull soot coating his face. The two stared at each other for a long, tense moment. Lucas knew his lord could force him, could likely force them all if he wanted, and maybe the monstrous light radiating out from him would force him to do it, too.

“You don’t need our help, Astarion, so just go,” Shadowheart said, standing up to face the vampire lord, her lover’s body at her feet. “Go and slaughter them all. I’ll toast to your health afterward.” Lucas felt a flare of alarm at her words, but he recognized it, too, that rage, that desire for vengeance. He didn’t blame her, even if his lord would damn himself to earn her that prize. Shadowheart just stared at the vampire lord expectantly, as if he’d already tarried too long.

Astarion smiled and nodded to her, then turned and walked away from them, disappearing into the darkness without a backwards glance at those he left behind.

Chapter Text

“Little Lord, there’s a visitor here for you,” Lucy said with a wink. Lucas looked up from the book he was reading – he’d found it on the floor of the library for some reason – and gave her his most winning smile. “He’s in the foyer, saer,” she added, then flounced off in the saucy way Lucas suspected only she could.

He set the book on the bench beside him and stood, taking a moment to stretch, a stretch accompanied by a yawn. He wasn’t sure why he was so tired; perhaps it was the tension in his sinews, a low hum of anxiety that increased in volume whenever he thought of his lord venturing out to confront the Baneites. He’d asked Wyll what they were like and what it was like to fight them, since he’d had a taste of fighting vampires and didn’t think he liked it very much, and Wyll had told him of the tyrant, the Black Hand, and their need to enslave everyone around them. Wyll had showed him a picture in this very library, in a book Lucas planned to ignore forever and ever. The metal mask, the jawless skull had shrieked at him from the page and made his heart pound. Wyll had noticed the hitch in his breath and asked him if he was all right. Lucas had nodded, then shook his head, then nodded, then looked up at the man’s sympathetic eyes and shrugged.

“I know exactly what you mean,” Wyll said, but he didn’t say it with pity. He said it like he understood, and the sadness in his wry smile made Lucas think that he did. So the book of Bane went back on the shelf and Lucas washed himself and dressed in comfortable casual clothing and walked around the manor busying himself as best he could while the rest of them went to confront the tyrants on his behalf.

He thought long and hard about whether he minded missing out on avenging his own death, and he decided that he didn’t, not one bit. He imagined seeing those masks on robed faces, pondered the things they would say, the sound of their laughter, and he shook his head to clear it of images he’d conjured on his own. He didn’t want to be there, didn’t want to hear or see them, and once his lord and Wyll and Shadowheart and Geraldus and He Who Was had killed them all, he would never think of them again.

And now, a little past noon, he had a visitor waiting in the foyer, and apprehension plucked anew at his sinews. He trudged up the steps, wondering who would visit him. Jaheira, maybe? Nocturne? But neither of them would send for him, they’d just walk right in and do as they pleased. Who else did he even know? His face was twisted in a frown when he emerged onto the balcony overlooking the foyer and looked down to see a tall man with long brown hair standing in the sunlight that streamed down from the skylight above. A man that wasn’t a man at all, and certainly shouldn’t be standing in the sunlight with his face tilted up to greet it and his eyes closed, a blissful smile hiding the sharpness of his teeth.

Lucas walked slowly down the stairs, though his heart thumped more quickly in his chest. He hadn’t thought to grab a weapon, never imagined a vampire spawn could come inside his home, let alone bathe in the light like his lord. He thanked Tymora none of the servants were about and approached the man cautiously, while striving for a semblance of calm. At least Lucy had seemed unafraid, so maybe he shouldn’t be afraid, either.

“You asked for me?” Lucas said cordially, his smile warm and utterly fake. The man turned toward him, his smile far more real, the joy lighting his red eyes unexpectedly genuine.

“I did!” Jornah replied, striding forward and grasping Lucas’ hand between his cooler ones, bowing his head over it three times as if performing a ritual of gratitude. He released the purloined hand and stepped back with his own hands raised in a gesture of peace. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to surprise you. I have come with a message, but I could not help but express my thanks to you and to your master. You will thank him for me, no?” Jornah glanced upward, then back to Lucas.

“He’s not my master,” Lucas said instinctively.

“I do not understand, but I will not trouble you for answers you do not wish to give,” Jornah said with his deep voice and soft accented speech that Lucas filed away to try imitating in future. Lucas noticed the spawn kept looking up, then at Lucas, then up, as if he knew once his message was delivered he would have to leave the circle of multicolored light shining down through stained glass onto the marble floor.

“How are you doing that?” Lucas finally asked, relatively certain the spawn wasn’t there to hurt him, and that if he intended a kidnapping, he was being very slow about it.

“This?” Jornah asked, raising one hand and letting the light play over it in reds and blues and greens and golds. “It is a gift from your master, and an experiment from mine.”

“What kind of gift?” Lucas asked, frowning. “My lord’s not much for giving.”

“True,” Jornah chuckled, hooking his thumbs in his belt. “A bargain, then. It seems the magic in his blood bestows many benefits. I meant it when I said that I am grateful, not just to see the bright sun again after centuries in darkness, but that my own master’s test did not destroy me; that the blood was no trick.”

“How could blood be a trick?” Lucas asked, crossing his arms uncomfortably at the thought of this one’s fangs at his lord’s neck. Did his Wyll agree to that? Lucas wondered if he should’ve pressed the two of them before to find out the details of this ‘bargain’.

“In many ways,” Jornah said, as if lecturing an eager student. “Poison, disease, feats of necromancy, a god’s blessing whether good or profane. I have heard tell of a shopkeeper in this very city who has learned the trick of making blood which explodes. My master has initiated a correspondence with her.”

“He wants to write to an exploding blood lady?” Lucas asked skeptically.

“My master has a very curious mind. If he did not, I doubt he would have struck the bargain he did with your master,” Jornah admitted. “As it stands, he is fascinated by the properties of your master’s blood, its richness and its hint of the infernal. I felt it myself when first I drank, a sort of ‘cold fire’, as inadequate a description as that is. Then, I discovered I could do this,” he tilted his head up to the sunlight again, closing his eyes.

“For how long?” Lucas asked, watching the light play over the angles of the spawn’s upraised face.

“I do not know,” Jornah said in his soft, accented tenor. “I will stay in the sun until the pain returns. Perhaps I will stay longer, even then.” His voice held such an ache of longing that Lucas thought he might mean it, that he might let himself burn away to catch one final glimpse of the light.

“Want to try some wine?” Lucas asked hesitantly, and the spawn’s eyes snapped open to fix on his face with a look of nearly feral excitement. “I think that’s a yes,” Lucas grinned, then squinched his face down to keep it from grinning, remembering this same spawn cleaning his dagger after blinding Lucas’ friend. He didn’t like this mixed-up feeling inside of him, the way this spawn reminded him of his lord when he moved his couch over the course of a day to follow the beam of light inching across the carpeting, and the way that softened his resolve to hate. He thought back to the first spawn he’d met, to the soothing words and sharp fangs, but this spawn’s eyes were the same dull red as his lord’s when he was calm. Though the spawn had weapons at his hips, he’d made no gestures toward them, and instead looked at Lucas expectantly, eagerly, ready to follow.

So Lucas led him into the small lounge with its deep brown leather sofas, its enormous stone fireplace, its wood paneling and its thick velvet curtains. He saw the spawn’s expression grow hesitant stepping into the darkened room, and watched that expression light up again when he threw the drapes open with a flourish and secured them with silk cords, letting the noonday sun flood the room. He moved to the small bar to pour two glasses of wine as the spawn stepped toward the pool of light as if drawn irresistibly.

“I thank you,” the spawn said, executing a small bow as he took the glass of wine from Lucas’ hand. He sipped at it cautiously once, twice, then drained the glass in a gulp and returned it to Lucas, a trickle of red at the corner of his mouth from his haste. Lucas grinned again despite himself, and refilled the glass.

“You’ve been here a bit and you haven’t tried to sweet talk me or kill me,” Lucas began, handing the spawn his wine. “You say you’ve got a message, but you could’ve dropped it at the door and been on your way.”

“I was curious,” Jornah said, sipping at the wine, his hand trembling slightly with the effort to restrain himself. “As my master was curious to meet your master in the flesh, so I am intrigued by how he chooses to live, by his companions.” He tilted the glass toward Lucas. “May I sit?” he asked, and at Lucas’ nod, he sat on the edge of one of the couches, leaning forward with his elbows on his thighs. Lucas sat opposite him and crossed his legs in a practiced imitation of his lord’s casual elegance. “This place, it is nothing like the dens I have known since I left the light.”

“It used to be a mask,” Lucas said with a shrug. “My lord said it helped Cazador pretend everything was normal so the city would ignore all the evil shit he was doing. It was empty and dusty before my lord moved in.”

“Is it not a mask still?” Jornah wondered. “Is your master ‘normal’? Is what transpires here not this ‘evil shit’ you speak of?”

“It sure isn’t,” Lucas frowned. “In fact it’s a lot less evil than what them Eomanes are doing, or the other nobles, or your master, even.”

“Just so,” Jornah agreed. “I have heard that your master no longer needs to feed; that he can subsist on mortal food.” He gestured to his wine glass. “If he wishes, he can be as normal, as good even, as he wants to be, no?”

“Can’t your master do that?” Lucas asked. “You don’t have to kill everyone for blood. Don’t you have all those people farms where all the orphans frolic around all happy? Wasn’t I supposed to want to go to one?”

“That’s a lot of questions,” Jornah laughed. “My master and myself, we do not have to be evil in the way you describe it, as if killing is the only form of evil, but do not mistake us for mortal men; there is a pull for us, an instinct to be predators, to feed. Even when we do not kill, it is not because we think it wrong. It is a matter of pragmatism. One does not slaughter a cow while it still gives milk, but that does not make the cow the farmer’s equal, does it?”

“Cows and farmers can both go outside during the day,” Lucas replied, and Jornah chuckled wryly. “So is your instinct just an excuse to do what you want? To hurt who you want?”

“Likely so,” Jornah said with a shrug. “There is a shadow on our souls that never relinquishes its hold.” He hesitated, before sipping his wine. “Or at least, never before I tasted of your master’s blood. But I ask you this: did your master not exchange one shadow for another?”

“What do you mean?” Lucas asked warily.

“He has become something new, something unique; a vampire to rule all vampires, should he so desire,” Jornah explained. “How long will he be content playing at being mortal?” He glanced around him at the room with its comfortable furniture, a room whose like could be found in any normal manor. “If you are not his spawn, will you not be left behind when he tires of all this?”

“He already tried leaving us behind,” Lucas said. “And he got left behind himself. We’re happier all together.”

“Then I drink to your health,” Jornah said, watching Lucas over the rim of his glass as he drank. “Though I do not know what would be worse: that you and the Duke’s young son hold your master’s interest, or that you do not.”

“Why’s that worse?” Lucas asked, not certain he wanted to know the spawn’s thoughts anymore. Not liking the sympathy in the spawn’s tone, not liking somehow being the object of his pity.

“He cares for you, that was clear from how he spoke of you,” Jornah said, sitting back and crossing his legs. “He cares deeply for his lover, that was evident when we met. Should he grow to care too little, likely he will abandon you for his own pursuits. Should he care too much, well, we may revisit this conversation in another century.” Jornah smiled and it was full of more pity and Lucas didn’t fight the scowl it brought to his face.

“He wouldn’t do that,” Lucas protested, squashing down the tickle of doubt in his stomach. “Not without asking.”

“I am sure that is true, for now,” Jornah nodded. He set his empty wine glass down on the end table next to the couch and stood up, smiling down at Lucas with a small, sad twist of his lips. “I thank you for your hospitality, and for these moments of trust. I will not forget, but I must go.” Lucas set down his own glass untouched and stood as well.

“I’ll see you out, saer,” Lucas said politely, still unsure whether being polite had been the right thing to do. He led the spawn back to the lobby, increasingly unsettled by the familiar way the spawn walked, the graceful way he gestured, the uncanny magnetism of his charm that reminded him far too much of his lord. When they reached the manor’s entrance, Lucas opened the door to the shaded porch beyond and held it open while the spawn stepped over the threshold and turned to face him, producing a folded piece of paper to offer.

“My master is well pleased with the bargain he made, and abides by its terms. We shall be returning to Athkatla this evening,” Jornah said as Lucas took the folded paper. “You and your master and his household have nothing to fear from us.”

“He don’t want to try walking home in the light?” Lucas asked, and Jornah shook his head.

“He will conduct his experiments on others before he risks himself,” Jornah said with an indulgent grin. “He is cautious by nature, and protective of his own life above all else.”

“He risked you, didn’t he? Doesn’t he like you?” Lucas wondered.

“He cares for me in his own way,” Jornah said, shrugging. “And the choice to drink your master’s blood was mine. I felt this worth the risk,” he gestured toward the sunlit street. “In exchange for your kindness I will offer you my counsel. Your master may be free of the darkness, but something else pulls at him; it cries out from his blood.” He stepped back from the door. “Though the message you hold is for your master, you may wish to read it for yourself.”

Lucas frowned at the piece of paper in his hand. “He’s not my master,” he muttered absently.

“Not yet,” Jornah said, and stepped off the porch into the sunlight.

Lucas closed the door and after a moment, he locked it, too. He walked to the center of the foyer where the colored light shone down upon his blonde curls and unfolded the paper. The handwriting was crisp and elegant, the strokes bold.

It was a pleasure to meet with you, Astarion; a far greater pleasure than ever in the past. How delightful to see you flourishing out of Cazador’s shadow. I thank you for our meeting, and as agreed, my servants and I are returning to Athkatla.

It is a pity I cannot speak for the others. I look forward to word of how you choose to deal with them. I suppose I should thank you in advance for the elimination of my rivals. I promised them they would have the opportunity to meet you in due time. Give them my regards, should you leave any alive to hear them.

Lucas read the message three times before he turned to run, leaving the paper to flutter gently to the floor in the breeze from the open door.

Chapter Text

“Is there nothing you can do?”

Lucas could hear the grief in Wyll’s plea, the hopefulness in his voice. Knowing what Shadowheart’s answer would be, Lucas walked slowly toward the base of one of the stone columns and lowered himself painfully to sit, resting his back against the pitted surface that still felt warm to the touch, like a stone in the sun.

“I’m doing it,” Shadowheart said calmly as she arranged the body of He Who Was to lie on its back, as she folded its arms on its chest, as she closed its eyelids and held them still for a moment so they wouldn’t snap back open.

Geraldus limped over to Lucas and sat next to him, the blood from bites and scratches dried in streaks down his face like tears. He handed Lucas a stoppered bottle and took a sip from another, the healing potion closing his wounds but leaving behind their bloody evidence. Lucas held the bottle, turning it in his blistered hands, his burns making his skin feel shrunken, tight like a suit of ill-fitting clothing he wanted to wear a while longer.

“You can’t…” Wyll gestured toward Lucas, then looked at Shadowheart helplessly. She looked at him, her expression grim and her green eyes alight with banked rage.

“Come on, Wyll,” Lucas said, sparing Shadowheart making a response. “He’s not dead, he’s just erased,” he continued, recognizing the brutality of his honesty but refusing to temper it. “She can’t give him the choice she gave me because he’s not there to choose.” Though he spoke at normal volume, his words echoed in the dead, silent space.

Wyll’s shoulders sagged, his head drooped as he searched his mind for arguments and found none. What he did find was guilt, settling over him like an old familiar cloak. Guilt for the innocent lives he’d taken at Mizora’s behest, now guilt at leading his friend to his death in a fight for a city that wasn’t his. “I promised I’d keep him with me,” he croaked. “I brought him here, when he could’ve lived a thousand years anywhere else.”

“Do you really think he’s forgotten?” Geraldus asked softly. “I know that’s what he said would happen, but that Queen of his likes you, Wyll. Maybe…” he trailed off with a shrug, having reached the end of his string of knowledge on the subject.

“Why don’t you ask your bird?” Lucas added, and Wyll raised his head, frowning thoughtfully.

Wyll tugged at the tendril that connected him to the sentinel spirit, an act more familiar to him now than when he’d first been blessed – or cursed, depending on the spirit’s capricious mood – with a raven companion. He’d learned quickly that the spirit was particular to him; as He Who Was had explained, he was stuck with Pech whether he wanted to be or not.

Pech burst into their plane a few feet away, a shadowy ether that coalesced as a flapping bird, loudly cawing its disapproval while screeching curses into Wyll’s mind. The raven set down next to the body’s head, peering at it with its head tilted to focus a single beady black eye. Pech stalked closer to the head and when its sharp beak came a little too close to those vulnerable eyes, Shadowheart shooed it away with a muttered, “don’t you fucking dare.”

The raven dodged back and flew to settle on Wyll’s shoulder. Wyll could feel his awareness expanding, his vision sharpening, as the spirit lent him its senses. Wyll spoke his questions aloud for the benefit of the others.

“Where is he now?” Wyll asked, and Pech made his chortling sound in response.

“All safe!” Pech told Wyll jovially, and Wyll imagined he would be smiling if the beak allowed for it. “New and smooth and pale like a baby. Our Queen is pleased with you! She gives you a reward!” Wyll translated the first part for the others, who looked varyingly discomforted. He spared them the knowledge of his reward, of the powerful spell unfurling itself in his mind. He didn’t spare himself from the guilt, from the memories of other boons, the robes for murdering Karlach, the rapier for freeing Mizora instead of leaving her to rot. He’d never do enough good to make up for his transgressions; he’d have to keep trying. And now this spell in exchange for his friend’s life.

“Can you go get him then, Wyll?” Lucas asked, and he noticed Shadowheart’s shape intake of breath, the way she bit at her lip as if to still her own hopes.

“Can I?” Wyll asked the bird. “The Raven Queen can take back her gifts, take back this power, all of it.”

“Nothing to get,” Pech said, almost bewildered. “He’s new, not this rotting thing.” He cawed and nodded at the body lying cold on the stone floor. “Why would he come with you? He doesn’t know you.”

Wyll searched for an argument, for another offer, when the bird tilted its head and Wyll sensed that fluttering of a million dark wings in the periphery of his vision, that harbinger of the Raven Queen’s own words. “What does she tell you?” he asked the bird urgently.

“She said you can’t go,” Pech replied, and Wyll’s heart sank further. “That one can go. That one wants to go.” It was Wyll’s chance to be confused, until Shadowheart stood and raised her head to look him in the eye.

“I can’t help you here, Wyll,” Shadowheart said calmly. “If Astarion means to burn the city to ash, I don’t know that I’d have it in my heart to stop him. I know it will be difficult for you, probably an understatement,” she continued with a wry twist to her lips. “I know you’ll do what’s right. You’ve always been willing to sacrifice to do what’s right. I’m not willing to do that. I’ve lost so much, I won’t lose more without a fight.” She fixed her gaze on the bird on Wyll’s shoulder. “You can tell your Queen I’m coming.”

Despite her stoic words, she welcomed Wyll’s strong embrace, his arms tightening around her in a wordless affirmation. Shadowheart walked over to Lucas, who looked up at her with resignation in his eyes.

“He told me you have a nice home,” Lucas said solemnly. “Maybe we can visit when you get back there.”

“You’ll always be welcome,” Shadowheart said, and she mussed his curls, beamed a smile at Geraldus, then walked off into the darkness.

“Can I eat the eyes now?” Pech asked, flexing his wings and launching himself into the air.

“You absolutely cannot,” Wyll ordered. “Even think of it and I’ll never summon you again.” Pech calmed his thoughts into a low grumble of complaints. When Wyll turned to face the two men sitting at the stone column’s base, Lucas decided he may as well sip at the potion and ease what hurts he could.

“He’ll likely go back to the manor first,” Lucas said, and Wyll nodded. “He’ll want to look his best.”

Chapter Text

The entire city looked different from the sky. The entire city looked small, dwarfed by the distance as Astarion skimmed beneath the clouds on enormous black wings. He could almost see his winged shadow covering the buildings, the city’s people tiny insects scuttling about. It looked right.

He flew in steady passes, almost mapping his domain in broad sweeps. The joy of flying that always filled him when taking flight was greater now, swollen with fire and ice, buoyed by the knowledge that he could drown the city below him in that fire, choke it on that ice until it ground to a halt like gears in winter. That the city was thriving, climbing its way back from the Absolute’s depredations, was only because he’d allowed it. Because he’d let his own fear chain him to his master’s mansion, to his master’s weaknesses. If Cazador had lived to ascend, he’d have mocked Astarion’s simple ambitions. Love, friendship, contentment. A coward’s goals.

Even thinking the words threatened his resolve, so he reached for the power, for his power, and burned his doubts away to ash. He remembered the rules, Vellioth’s lessons intended to mold his spawn into vampires strong enough to continue his legacy. Cazador had given to his spawn different rules, had never intended them to succeed him, had made them only to be consumed. He’d intended no one to succeed him. He’d thought to be where Astarion was now, winging his way across a city that by rights belonged to him.

Allow none to be your equal. Well Astarion had fucked that up, hadn’t he? He’d taken his place among the other idle rich, playing their petty games. He’d suffered their insults, been the target of their plots. He should have treated them as he had the other Szarrs; should have ended them in blood and pain. That would be his first step now, to put their pride to the torch and build his castle on their bones. None would sit the throne but him. He knew it could be done. Vampires had ruled Elturel, a city with strong defenses, not the war-torn mercenary bulk of the Gate’s Fists and Watch, and even if Zariel strove to send a second Companion to thwart him, the sunlight was no threat to him. So long as he ruled benevolently, the city would welcome him. If it didn’t…

To share with others is to be weak, and to be weak is to fail…and die. He’d had nothing for centuries, not even his own body, yet he’d shared that nothing with Wyll, and in that sharing, hadn’t he failed? Fighting at a human’s side with knives and fangs and magic tricks, agreeing to share a single paltry lifetime protecting the city instead of ruling it. Why did he not crush Alkham’s throat at their meeting, steal his spawn and slaughter any who threatened him? Why did he instead lie supine while his precious blood and power drained into glass bottles in their pathetic bargain, a bargain that earned him nothing in the end. Why did he agree to attack with friends at his side instead of an army of his own minions? Why did he listen to their words, participate in their plotting, hold back from taking his place at the fore?

He knew why, could feel it even now growing through his heart like a weed that refused to die, spawned the moment he asked Wyll to become his forever. The moment Wyll had refused. He shouldn’t have asked. He shouldn’t have offered to share his power, to temper his vision to fit inside the hero’s narrow dogma. He shouldn’t have asked, shouldn’t have heard ‘no’. Wyll had only seen Astarion as a spawn, seen him weak and fearful. Wyll hadn’t seen how powerful Astarion would become, how much pain he would’ve avoided had he only knelt and said ‘yes’. Their love had been like a flower blooming red and vital through Astarion’s veins, growing strong as his fear fell away with the death of his master, and withered into nearly nothing when Wyll spurned him.

He’d watched Wyll wither as well. Watched his despondency when the dragon proved a meaningless myth. Watched his torment at the hands of the incubus, seen the pain and terror in his eyes turned on Astarion himself in the aftermath of the attack, turned on the very person who saved his life, only to watch that life end scant minutes later. He’d dragged his lover’s corpse home twice, paid the god’s price to reanimate him, watched him stumble about like a marionette, no light behind his eyes. A puppet playing at being a hero. And then Wyll had left him for good. All because Astarion had heard the word ‘no’ and listened. Those months apart, those lonely, angry months, all because Astarion thought to share his power rather than impose it. He had shared, it had made them both weak, and Wyll had died. Astarion would never hear ‘no’ again.

A near immortal has time to plan, time to act, only when others will pay the price of action. The last of Vellioth’s lessons, the one that balanced atop the other two, that was only possible once the others had been mastered. Because while he had tried to absent himself, he had failed, unwilling in the end to stay calm and shut up in a box berating himself for his failures while time did what he should have done. And because he wasn’t willing to dominate, wasn’t willing to be alone, he hadn’t thought as an immortal should; he had continued to care, and when others paid the price for his actions, he had shrunk back in dismay.

Wyll torn and bleeding and afraid. Wyll’s body heavy and unmoving in his arms. Lucas’ corpse crumpled in the muck. Lucas’ torn flesh under his cleansing hands. The Shadar-kai’s body smashed and lifeless on the cold stone; a life that began and ended in darkness. He who should be king of the undead, reduced to an undertaker ferrying the dead to their biers where others breathed new life into them. No more.

The power filled him from wingtip to wingtip as he circled back toward the mansion. As a vampire’s spawn there was always a hunger, a dark uncaring hunger that sucked at him like a leech, pulling at his wants, his desires, draining them away and leaving emptiness and avarice behind. Since his ascension, that vacuum had ceased its draw, replaced by a swell of infernal might that he’d shied from facing. No more.

Now he would dominate, and the white-hot fire flared in approval. Now he would stand alone, and the deathly cold crackled with applause. Now he would be immortal, and the hellfire surged within him as he streaked homeward, leaving a streamer of power in his wake like a banner across the sky.

He transformed with a thought, his boots heavy on the stone of his balcony after hours spent in flight. He threw open the glass-paned doors and strode across the bedroom carpet, shedding his armor as he went, shedding that protective shell that only weaklings wore, until he stood at last naked before his mirror, ready to see himself truly, the vampire lord, powerful and perfect, prepared to bend the city to his will.

He saw eyes blazing bright above hollowed cheeks. He pressed his fingers to them and felt the flush of heat, realizing with a start that no one would ever mistake him for a mortal again. The lines at the sides of his mouth – the lines Wyll had said crinkled when he laughed – were deeper, starker slashes. Though his skin remained flawless ivory, it was stretched taught over his ribs. He ran his hands over them marveling at his thinness. His shoulders hunched forward, and he caught a glimpse of something gnarled, some misshapen lump on his back, something like a scar in the shape of an infernal rune. He spun, his back protesting with the effort to straighten his posture, but the scar wasn’t there. His back was smooth and unblemished, the knobs of his spine a protruding path from nape to tailbone. He spun back to face the mirror, snarling in fury and cursing his own foolishness.

Why had he been denying himself the blood that was his due these last tendays? To prove something to himself? To Wyll? To deny that he was still a vampire? To subsist on mutton like a common serf? No wonder the old servants had fled, no wonder they’d mocked him. He should have drained them dry the moment he ascended; drained them and turned them and left them to hang in the depths below until hunger drove them to madness and their screams turned to music in his ears.

He should have drained the boy and set him to guarding them, let him leap and jump amongst his master’s growing army of spawn, let those blue eyes turn red; the look of adoration would’ve been the same, earned or not. He should have taught him the true lessons Vellioth imparted, used the tried and true methods, the rewards and punishments that worked. Instead the boy was nearly drained himself. Astarion remembered that surge of anger and terror he’d felt at seeing another’s fangs buried in the boy’s wrist. He remembered every bite of his family’s fangs into Wyll’s flesh the night they assaulted the Elfsong. He remembered that first night, Wyll’s nervous trembling as he lay back on his bedroll and offered Astarion his neck, his first taste of a person’s blood, the tentative hand Wyll rested on his back, that idiotic trusting fool.

He drew in a deep breath and forced himself upright, calling on the flames to burn the fear and the memories of fear from his mind, to scorch that flowering vine of affection that clung desperately to its coil around his heart.

Robes, then, to mask the emaciation until he descended upon the Eomanes and slaked his thirst. They would be the first, but far from the last. Every noble that used him, that mocked and shunned him, they would all suffer.

He opened the door to his dressing chamber, gritting his teeth at the sight of Wyll’s things just in there. Wyll’s shirts and jackets askew on their hangers, his pants lumped together in a pile on the carpet, his boots and shoes tumbled in a heap. Astarion struck his chest with his own fist, a sharp blow to dislodge the painful lump there. He struck his chest again, harder, feeling a rib crack, welcoming the newer pain, the strange numbness as it regenerated in the span of a heartbeat. He turned away, focused on his own clothing, tried to picture an ensemble that best projected power, that would best instill fear and awe. He flipped through the racks of elegant clothing, considering, rejecting. He caught himself slouching and forced his shoulders back, his spine straight. It hurt.

As his hand touched a simple robe with diagonal orange trim over gray, his ears twitched at the sound of footsteps approaching outside. He quickly slipped the robe from its hangar, glad he’d spared it from Lucas’ reorganizing, glad it was here to cover him rather than down in the rooms below. He belted the robe, pleased with its drape, its full sleeves and leather armguards. He pulled on a pair of soft pants and stuffed his feet into slippers. He emerged from the dressing room, closed the door, and managed to position himself in front of the open balcony doors, draperies billowing around him in the encroaching breeze. He reached for the reassuring glow of his power and it responded, comforting him, steeling him as he wondered who it would be.

He guessed by the heaviness of the footfalls a moment before Wyll entered the room. He clenched his fist, forcibly restraining himself from striking at his own chest again, letting the power burn away the pang of pity at the sight of the young man’s grim visage, the dirt and blood and sorrow that streaked a face already sorely scarred. Wyll turned to look at him with grief and resignation writ clearly in his gaze.

Wyll wasn’t surprised to find Astarion here. He’d expected there were things he meant to gather, perhaps a bath, though now that he looked at him, it appeared the infernal fires had burned him clean. Those flames still flickered in his lover’s eyes, a brighter, crueler red than ever before. At first, he barely recognized him, he seemed somehow both less and more, as if fire had burned away more than filth; had burned away something essential, something that made him real, leaving behind only a monster. Wyll felt like crying at the sight, but he had cried so much that day he couldn’t summon a single tear. Perhaps the fire had burned away that solace from him, as well.

“You’re not surprised to see me?” Astarion asked, not sure what answer he wanted, not sure he was prepared to hear Wyll’s voice at all. He gripped tightly to the inferno inside of him and faced his former lover as he would an enemy.

“I am not,” Wyll said wearily, his hands steady as he began to shed his own equipment, his own useless protective outer shell, the shell that would not have saved him from the flood of diabolic flame.

“I suppose you do know me well enough to know I’d want something more suited to my station,” Astarion said, every line a piece of bait, every word a hook. When Wyll only nodded absently and pulled the robes from his broad shoulders, revealing the toned strength of his torso, the scars old and new that marked him, Astarion clamped his lips together to bite back a snarl of irrational anger. Why did this nothing, this no one, this weak and short-lived human appear so alive, so full of health, so virile and sure of himself despite his obvious grief? Astarion had suffered under flaying knives to rid himself of his scars, yet he emerged more haggard than this battered wretch of a man. Astarion felt an ache in his fangs, a fervid desire to sink them into flesh, to steal every drop of blood, to watch that brown skin shrink while his own grew full and flushed with vigor.

Wyll lay his discarded gear across the bed, eyeing the rumpled sheets still unmade from their last occupants; two people who felt like phantoms, like another of his dreams, a bubble of safety that had quite abruptly popped. He wondered if he had been living in that dream, refusing to see how fragile the vampire lord’s hold on his sanity could become if like Wyll, his bubble of safety were breached. He wondered if he had really slain the demons that spawned his dreams, or if he had come to rely too much on having He Who Was at his side, listening, observing, commenting in his snide way on the foolishness of doubt, of regret and blame. Now that his friend was gone, Wyll tested the space where he had been, felt the emptiness, the void of uncertainty into which he might tumble without that stalwart support. He tested it, and instead of falling, he stood upright and looked into his love’s flame-bright eyes and waited for the assault.

“It’s not too late,” Astarion said, voice half-cajoling and half-commanding. “I will grant you this one last chance to join me. I will tarry for so long as it takes if this ends with you at my side.”

“Two steps behind you, more like,” Wyll said, feeling no need to dissemble, to pretend he didn’t know exactly what was being offered, that it wasn’t so much less than they’d had before. All or nothing, and he would choose nothing, would choose it again and again if that ‘all’ came at the cost of his freedom; at the cost of both of their souls.

“Well obviously,” Astarion drawled, smothering his unreasonable hurt beneath a veneer of indifference.

“Never,” Wyll said firmly, yet not unkindly; confidently, his breathing steady, his expression calm. Astarion railed inwardly at the insult, that the chest on which his head had rested would dare to rise and fall no faster at the thought of spurning his offered power; at the thought of losing him forever.

“Will you stand with your father, then?” Astarion asked, his own chest refusing to still though he had no need of the air drawn in by his angry inhalations. “Will you fall by his side when you could rule at mine?”

“Is that your aim, then?” Wyll replied. “Why kill to do it? Surely you can be more persuasive with words than with…” he waved his hand at the vampire lord dismissively and Astarion’s eyes flashed.

“I haven’t decided,” Astarion nearly snarled, tendrils of infernal flame seeking escape from the fist of his feigned nonchalance. “While I do enjoy the chaos conflict brings, humans are so easily led, so easily molded. Shall I show you?” He took a step toward Wyll, a single step laden with intent. “Should I show you how easily I could make your ‘no’ into a ‘yes’? Your ‘never’ into an ‘always’?” He took another step. “Shall I make you serve me until you come to see how wrong you were, how short-sighted, how pathetically human?” He took another step, incensed by Wyll’s unchanging expression, by the hardened look in his eyes that rivaled the former sending stone for inflexibility.

“Astarion,” Wyll said softly, his words girded with iron. “It will be the last thing you ever do.”

“Is that a boast you can make?” Astarion said, a manic laugh bursting from him.

“My love, I have killed you a thousand times, in a thousand different ways, in a thousand dreams,” Wyll said, his voice heavy with regret. “It will always be me who brings our story to an end.”

“Is that so, my love,” Astarion sneered, making of his power a wall of crackling flame to drown out the wailing of that withering flower twined around his heart. “Straight to swords, is it? No honeyed words to tempt me back? No lectures laden with lovelorn laments?”

“It’s not words you trust, but actions,” Wyll said. “If I can love you best by stopping you, I shall.” Despite the finality of his words, the grim future he painted, his hands, those rough palms, rested easily at his sides, open, as if they would offer an embrace or a deathblow with equal effort.

“You don’t understand,” Astarion accused. “You don’t know what it’s like to have this power at my command and chain it, to suffer the insults of insects that should be grateful I’ve spared them. You did that to me! You convinced me to play the little hero, to be no more than an escaped slave, when I should – and will – be the master.”

“What don’t I understand?” Wyll retorted, far too reasonably. “Helplessness? Fear? Loss? Rejection? Having just enough stolen power to save one while hundreds of others fall?” He raised those open palms toward the vampire, who flinched away as if the sympathy they represented were a weapon. “What I know is that it never ends, love. There is always another. You can kill and kill and kill again until you reach Mephistopheles himself and it will never be enough.”

“What is enough?” Astarion asked, his voice crackling with more warring emotions than he knew to name. “Not you. Not me. Not the boy, and not the years I could waste waiting for you all to die. You say there will always be another and you’re right. There will always be another striking where I am weakest, and where I am weakest is right here, in this place, with you.”

“Do you truly believe that?” Wyll asked, and the compassion in his eyes forced Astarion back a step to stop his knees from trembling.

“I do,” Astarion insisted, even as he reached for his power to burn away the screams at the back of his mind that howled in protest. “I will rule,” he vowed. “I will do it alone, and I will not suffer another moment of affrontery, not for the paltry span of years you can offer me. I will mourn you when your time is over, and then I will endure for a thousand years and more. You promised me forever, and you knew it was a lie when it left your lips.”

Wyll nodded, resigned, too hollowed by the losses of this day to argue, to deny his own culpability. Too exhausted by grief to fight the trickle of arcane power newly placed in his head by his patron, the words to a spell he knew would foreshorten his love’s own ‘forever’ to match the most limited human life. Hadn’t he dreamed it over and over, seen it play out across his nightmares? He knew how they would end, the only question was whether this fractured creature before him would thank him as he breathed his last, as he had in every sweat-soaked vision.

“I am tired, Astarion,” Wyll admitted, his hands dropping to his sides. “I have buried my friend today. If you insist that I bury another, I will do so, but I would rest if you give me that grace.”

“Need a nap, do you?” Astarion mocked, lips twisted in a contemptuous sneer. He felt powerless to stop stabbing at Wyll’s weak points, no more able to abstain from viciousness than when he’d taken knives to his own flesh at Cazador’s command. “How long do you need? An hour? Two? How much rest do you require to restore this vaunted prowess you’ll use to end me?” Wyll looked down at the pile of discarded gear on the bed, looked away so he wouldn’t see the fierce glee on his lover’s face, the way his body hunched forward and his hands twisted like claws. “I’ll give you nothing,” the vampire spat. “I’ve wasted enough time with you, playing pretend. Come for me if you are able, and we shall see whose dreams prevail.”

The curtains swirled with the speed of Astarion’s passing, the sound of leathery black wings beating against the air loud as he launched himself from the balcony. Wyll opened the door to the dressing room and rummaged through his things until he found the pack he sought, a bag that clinked and clacked as he lifted it to the light. He retrieved the potion, its golden vial heavy in his hand, and went back to the bed.

“Is he gone, then?” Lucas asked from the bedroom doorway, his face somber, his blue eyes reflecting the same stunned sense of emptiness Wyll felt in his gut.

“Physically, yes,” Wyll said, sitting on the edge of the bed and staring down at the vial in his hand. “As to his mind, I can’t say for certain. I’d hoped his blood would cool once he left, but I fear he took what time he had to convince himself of all the wrong things.”

“I’m sorry,” Lucas said, not sure why he was apologizing but feeling the need to say the words just the same. Though his wounds were healed, his face remained smeared with grime, his clothes ragged with burns and tears and scorch marks.

“You’ve done nothing to apologize for,” Wyll said, shaking his head. “I do not doubt he would have succumbed far sooner without you to temper him.”

“Do you think…” Lucas began, then hesitated before stumbling onward. “Do you think if I let him make me a spawn, it would be enough? If he could boss me around and make me call him ‘master’, do you think that would be enough?” Lucas hated the hopeful tone in his own voice, hated that he knew the answer to his question as soon as Wyll turned his soft brown eyes upon him.

“I don’t think it would, and I would never suggest such a sacrifice,” Wyll said gently. “I asked myself the same question for months, plagued as I was by hallucinations, seeing the monster he could be and wondering if my leaving had doomed both him and his victims. If he’s to fight past this power, to win over the temptations it offers, it won’t be by handing him our liberty in exchange. He’ll have to choose, not just you, not just me, but himself.”

“Are you going to save them Eomanes from him?” Lucas asked after a moment of resigned reflection.

“I don’t give a fuck about the Eomanes,” Wyll said bluntly. “Astarion can slaughter his way from High Hall to the Sea Gate if he wishes.”

“That’s not very heroic, have to say,” Lucas said with a frown, though he liked the honesty of the sentiment.

“You’re right, it’s not,” Wyll agreed. “I’ve only one good deed left in me, I fear. One final feat. However it ends, I will follow where he goes.” He pulled the stopper from the potion vial with an audible pop, the scent wafting up was redolent with warmth, soothing and mellow and laden with lavender and forgetfulness.

“I’m sorry,” Lucas said again, and Wyll nodded again and gave him a sad smile before draining the golden vial of its contents and falling backwards into sleep.

Chapter Text

Pech soars over the Manor Gate, circling lazily to stay tethered to me as I see through his eyes. Eomane house was close enough to High Hall that the surrounding buildings shook loose stones from the eaves, but the palatial home itself had been spared real damage in the Absolute’s rise and fall. Spared until now.

I stand with my back to the gaping entrance to the home, wisps of smoke and noxious vapor wafting out to bring tears to the eyes of any nearby. I stand just close enough to escape the vapor’s toxic effects, while using them as an excuse for the redness of my eyes. I have no desire to explain to my father the miserable resolve clogging my throat. He never understood my pact with Mizora, my love for Astarion, my bond with those companions his faith tells him to shun. Choosing the good isn’t something he can demand; not an order he can give. It has to come from within. What’s good has to be personal to each of us. With the manse smoking behind me, faint screams mixing with the fetid plume, I will not spare the time to persuade my father to my way of thinking. I will instead persuade the people who stand with him.

The street isn’t a wide one; the area is too old for that. Some tens of Flaming Fist patrols mill about where they can find the space, an equal number of the Watch foregoing their usual arrogance to side with their Lower City mercenary brethren. Pech returns, not to my shoulder, but to the head of a statue of Balduran at the street corner. I murmur my appreciation to him and he flutters his wings, preening. A young man stands in the shadow of that statue, his posture erect and proud, his coat of midnight blue and silver decorative but not flashy, setting off the brilliance of his blue eyes. Astarion told me the boy had been lame from an assault in his youth, that he’d compensated quite admirably to become, as he put it, ‘the second sneakiest devil in the city’. I’ve never seen him with that injury, and though he has the smaller stature of a boy who grew up hungry, the months spent at Astarion’s side have given him a stubborn pride that reminds me of myself before Mizora crushed that conceit flat beneath her heel.

The way he looks at me now from the shadow of a fallen hero’s statue, his hopeful expression even as the City’s forces array against us, makes me vow to repay his faith in me. He thinks I can save Astarion, can talk him back from the brink of the abyss, and though I have a thousand reasons of my own to do just that, it’s this young man’s desperate confidence that steels my resolve the most. There is a palpable strength of will to him that I pray will carry him through this day.

I look to my father, his own commanding stance enhanced by the armor he’s donned. I cross the space between us, the hem of my ornate robes swirling at my booted ankles. I’d put these robes aside when I left the city, my Warlock power frozen in stone. I feel no shame in wearing them now, the bright colors, the breast embroidered with metallic thread and sparkling with gems. The robes were a gift and the power they give augments that of my patron, a patron I’m not ashamed to serve, a patron that let me keep my friend by my side for so long as he lived. The Raven Queen bears witness to tragedy, gathers the memories of mortals to her, hears their cries and mixes her tears with theirs. I hope this drama won’t end in tears, but if it does, at least someone will know, at least someone will mourn. I’ll offer up my memories gladly.

“Surely you don’t contest our right to respond to this provocation, Wyll,” Counselor Florrick says, her reasonable, persuasive tone grating on my ears.

“I do,” I say defiantly, glancing to her, then to Cordula Eltan at her side, then back to my father. “This is my fight. Stand down and let me fight it.” I leave the consequences unsaid.

“Your judgment is flawed,” my father states, and I can tell he’s trying to gentle his voice. Trying, and failing. “There is no defense for these acts of vandalism and murder.” He gestures with one gauntleted hand to the edifice behind me.

“There is, actually,” I respond, and let my contempt for this martial display color my voice. “The noble sons and daughters spawned and succored in this lair are murderers, villains who conspired with foreign fiends and assaulted the city.” I stare directly into my father’s eyes. “They murdered my friend. They tried to murder us all. If Astarion spares them, I will end their lives myself.”

“That isn’t justice, Wyll,” my father grumbles, though he at least looks away for a moment. There are so many years and so much distance between us my own name still sounds uncanny coming from him, sounds like a stranger’s at first meeting. “If they are guilty as you say, we will affect an arrest. We represent the law. This vampire cannot wreak havoc in the city, and neither can you.”

“Oh we most certainly can,” I boast, backing away a few steps and crumbling a bit of honeycomb between my thumb and forefinger. “Who here trusts the city government — what’s left of it — to bring justice in this matter?” I ask, a simple spell carrying my voice clearly to the gathered crowd, even to the edges where servants running errands find their way blocked. “The Eomanes have played their games with the city’s people for years. Their parties are legendary for their cruelty. Everyone knows what a seductively scented red envelope means: a chance to endure humiliation, to suffer for sport and the promise of reward.”

I regard the Watch, see them shifting uncomfortably in their finery, their armor more for show than use. “How many innocents have you dragged to the jail, finding them beaten and bruised on these very streets with no pass and no safe way home?” I ask. “When you took your oath to protect the patriars, did you agree to play a part in their schemes? Is it my judgment that’s clouded or yours?”

I turn to the Fists, their battered, ill-fitting gear giving testament to the toll Gortash’s tyranny took from their ranks. “What even is this city you’ve sworn to defend? These stones? These mansions? These patriars who’ve preyed upon you? Or is it the people? The people you knew suffered behind these walls. The people used as pawns, with you few faithful servants of justice just as guilty.”

I address my father, then, while behind me I hear the faint rustling of clothing, the creaking of leather, the sound of boots on stone, and I know my own allies have arrived. “Just a few days’ journey to the South, a black curse spread across fertile land, blocking trade along the river and drowning its people in shadow. What did this city’s leaders do? They built a road around it. When cultists kidnapped people from the streets of this very city, members of the Flaming Fist and the Watch, it was Harpers who gave their lives to answer that threat, to investigate, and to fight.” I turn to smile gratefully at Jaheira as she steps to my side, glance behind me to see her Harpers in no discernible formation. Archers perched on ledges and rooftops, swordsmen standing arms’ length apart along the crumbled courtyard wall, Geraldus at their fore, their faces set with grim determination.

“Starting a war, are you, Wyll Ravengard?” I hear a deep voice ask with wry humor from my right. The cocky tilt of Niram’s head, the long white braid down his back and the glint of mischief in his dark eyes remind me of another elf I have known and lost.

“Trying not to, my friend,” I reply, keeping my words for him alone. “What brings you here?”

“Some of my men missed their home,” he says, looking around him. “Can’t say I understand why. It’s a shithole.”

“I’m here to polish this part of it a bit,” I promise, my smile fading as I silence my father’s protestations with a glare.

“We’ll see you get your chance,” the Drow says, the small force behind him nodding in agreement, the motley band of Drow and half-ogre, half-elf and dwarf and gnome all bound tightly by the shattering of their shared delusion at the Absolute’s hands, now bound by their oath to protect the land the Sword Coast abandoned to its fate.

“Father,” I say softly to him as a man. “Grand Duke,” I say softly to him as a leader. “You knew. You all knew. You bear responsibility for everything that’s happened here up to this day. I will bear responsibility for what happens inside this house from today on. I will let no one here, no one in this city, forget what has happened here. The city is rebuilding. It’s on all of you to rebuild it clean.” I turn my back on him before he can reply, letting the spell fall away with my final words.

I stride toward the house and the yawning smoky darkness past its portal. “I thank you for your help,” I say to my companions, nodding to Geraldus who returns my nod gravely.

“We’ll see you’re not disturbed,” Jaheira says. “Are you sure you want to go alone?” I can tell from her tone that she doesn’t really need an answer but I do give her a smile.

“He might see others as a threat,” I explain anyway. “He’s retreated so deeply into this power, I fear any menace might only push him further away. I will save him, if I can,” I add, and she sighs, her eyes warm with understanding.

“We’ll see you when it’s done, then, abbil,” Niram says, squeezing my shoulder, ignoring the rueful goodbye in my gaze.

I look to the statue of Balduran and Pech caws loudly, launching from its stone head to settle on my shoulder. The statue’s shadow lies empty beside it.

Chapter Text

Lucas exchanged glances with Wyll’s raven before slipping away, padding lightly through the narrow passage between Eomane house and its nearest neighbor. Seeing all those glowering faces, those hands tightening on the hilts of swords, those bullies he’d never seen help a single person, well it gave him an uncomfortably angry feeling in his gut. He was glad that Wyll had scolded them, pointed out how it looked from the other side of the gates. Lucas had spied two familiar members of the Watch himself, the sunlight dimming around him as he heard a remembered crackle of thunder, felt the cold rain and warm blood both flowing down his trembling shins, the chattering of his teeth as he begged to be let through the gate, to go home. He remembered the faces that turned him away, though he’d forgotten for a bit when he was dead and all. He didn’t think he’d ever forget again.

He headed for the back of the house where the stone wall turned to wooden railings painted an innocent white. The nickering of horses told him it was the right spot, so he vaulted over the fence to land among neatly stacked hay bales next to the stable itself. It was the smell that sent the shock of memory through him, the smell of fresh hay and horses and manure. He’d been led through those smells toward a wooden door he entered now, stepping into the dark hallway beyond, walking in the footsteps of his former self.

New smells enfolded him, a bit of smoke that made his skin itch like the aftermath of a burn, a bit of dog that told him his lord may have called the wolves to him again, and a hint of cloying sweetness and pine, the scent of Nysene Eomane’s wrist at a party, the scent of red paper and ink. He wondered how his lord had stood it, stepping inside this place again. Had he summoned the flames to burn away his fear? With no Lucas to sit with him while he was lost in his terror, had his lord turned to that devil power? Lucas crept silently down the hallway to a staircase leading down, wondering what his lord would choose in the end, the comfort of arms around him or the safety of his enemies’ necks beneath his boot.

He hoped his lord would just kill them and be done with it. Would burn them to nothing and then come home. He didn’t need his lord to apologize. Lucas knew what it was to be so angry and scared only burying the whole world in fire would calm him. His lord had so much more rage and so much more fear, it was only right he had infernal flames to burn it all.

At the bottom of the staircase was another long hallway lit by thick candles in wrought-iron sconces. The hallway warped in Lucas’ eyes, swelling and shrinking like a living, breathing thing. He walked unerringly to the third door, a plain wooden door, and the room beyond welcomed him with a headier scent, a calming scent wafting upward from couch cushions and a rack of costumes. Lucas left his hand on the doorknob to still its trembling, to keep him upright when his knees threatened to give way. He recalled it in flashes, unkind hands tearing his clothing from him, harsh voices delighting in his helpless stupor as they dressed him in rags, their stench settling on his skin like he’d never washed it clean. They’d led him like a sacrifice down to the dungeon room, his pain their payment for the boons they’d been promised. Who he was didn’t matter; only that his torment would transfer to his lord. They’d all wanted to hurt his lord. They couldn’t do it with knives, so they’d hurt him with cruelty, struck him a blow he couldn’t dodge. Lucas was just the favorite dog they meant to put down as a warning, to ensure his lord abandoned any attempts at vengeance. To make sure he learned his place.

Leave it to rich people to think there weren’t limits to how far down they could crush you; that there wasn’t a place too small, a position too low. Leave it to them to try to shove everyone into a box without any room to breathe.

At the end of the hallway was a thicker door, an iron-banded wooden door with locks to keep it shut fast against anyone who thought to run. The door was half-open, and Lucas smelled the scent of blood from beyond, saw the prints of bloody hands on the knob.

He knew the labyrinth of rooms beyond before he stepped inside, knew them in an unfurling knot of anxiety tickling at the base of his spine, the nape of his neck, the places where rough hands had guided him, shoved him stumbling on rag-wrapped feet into the vast, low-ceilinged collection of quarters. Of all the catacombs, the dusty tombs, the slimy sewers, the coffin-filled haunts he’d seen, none had put that coil of fear in his gut like being led into these rooms had. He put his hand on the doorknob and pulled the door fully open, breathing shallowly in and out through his mouth to keep the stink of perfume and peril from his nostrils. He took one step over the threshold and stopped, one tailored shoe inside and one out.

Maybe he would just leave. Wyll had said himself that Lucas couldn’t help, that he didn’t need to be a sacrifice, not again. He could turn his back, go down the long hallway, through the Upper City streets to the calm green depths with their spirits he couldn’t hear, the empty dangling cages and those smashed on the rocks below. He thought of the bare place on the tourmaline floor where a sarcophagus once sat absorbing curses, swallowing screams as his lord railed against the master he’d only managed to kill once. Now that he knew about the spirits, knew the cause of the screams, could he really turn back? Could he go back to not knowing, continue to call that place his home if his lord wasn’t there?

Wyll meant to follow his love to the hells if he had to; shouldn’t Lucas at least shove his fears aside and follow into this dungeon?

The fluttering of black wings startled him out of his confusion, interrupted his war with himself. Wyll’s raven landed in front of him and tilted its head to watch him with one beady eye. Lucas couldn’t understand the thing — and He Who Was had told him there wasn’t much use in listening anyway — but the raven made a croaking sound halfway between a cackle and a caw, then flew away as quickly as he’d arrived. Lucas let that decide him. If the raven were brave enough, Lucas wouldn’t come second to a bird.

He left the door open behind him, though.

The maze of rooms would be confusing to anyone who hadn’t seen them before, even if that seeing were through a haze of drugs and terror. They were almost like a house within a house, like the sinister back of his lord’s mansion squatting behind the cheerful front, only these rooms sat below their formal face. All the room doors stood open, as if frantic hands had sought refuge behind each and found none. Some of the rooms were small, some were large, some had beds and some had tables and some had crossed wooden beams and others square wooden racks. There were cabinets and wet bars and comfortable cushions and couches. They were all pockets of normalcy papered over with malice, settings for smaller, more personal dramas, not the grand festival of sadism that had lain at the end of Lucas’ path that night.

The largest room was the center of the space. Other hallways led to other rooms and other exits. Grander entrances featured cloak rooms where guests could exchange their finery for costumes of their own, trade their public façade for private peccadillos. Lucas could hear the crackling of flames as he approached, though not the shrieks his lord’s hellfire had made streaking through the cavern. These were the snaps and pops of wood in enormous braziers he knew were set at intervals around the octagonal room. Archways opened to the other hallways, and a raised platform like a stage dominated the center. There were other racks there, intricate contraptions that articulated and locked, twisting their occupants this way and that, displaying them for the guests’ enjoyment.

That fire roared in his ears and he paused, gulping in a deep breath, closing his eyes and willing his heartbeat to settle, to accept that it wasn’t he who was on display in that room, wasn’t him adding his screams to the patrons’ laughter, to the clinking of glassware and low hum of casual conversation. It wasn’t him, and he prayed it wasn’t his lord. He prayed it wasn’t Wyll or anyone they knew or cared about. He even prayed it was no one at all, but when he continued on, he heard the voices and abandoned his prayers.

Chapter Text

“The things you can do you with your tongue, oh, they are marvelous. Worrying at my cunt like a starving dog, whimpering with servile pleasure. You know the humiliation of it made your cock rock hard. The smell of blood everywhere in the air, but only quim for you. Why do you persist in pretending at ruling when we both know you prefer being on your knees?”

Lucas could hear the woman’s voice practically purring as he crept silently toward the raised dais, invisible in the deep shadows cast between roaring braziers. He recognized that voice, the steel under silk of it, the malice and the arrogance. He’d heard it echoing in his ears as he fled stumbling and bleeding in the rain, heard it laughing while he struggled for one last breath in the sewers, heard it in his nightmares since returning from the dead. He’d kissed the woman’s hand at a party, smelled the pine and sandalwood, scented the copper of blood.

He was approaching from behind her, he saw. The woman’s slim frame was bent forward over a richly padded saddle-shaped cushion, her limbs locked to its sides, elbows supported, the curves of her ass and thighs bare and smooth and pale and presented toward him like an offering, above him like an idol to worship. The whiteness of her skin reminded Lucas of a snake’s belly, and his fingers curled with a desire to mar that blank canvas, to add some evidence of her sins, to brand her and cast her out so she’d know what it was like to be abused and discarded.

He swallowed that urge and moved to the left along the dais’ edge. A pair of upright racks bracketed the restrained woman, the figures they held sexless under dark robes. Lucas quickened his steps, suddenly desperate to complete the picture, to let the trickle of returning memory in his mind become a flood. When he saw the mask, it happened. The metal skull mask, crude metal and leering grinning fangs and tiny twisting horns swirling to wicked points. Suddenly there wasn’t one mask, but tens, hundreds, thousands, all leering and laughing and drinking from narrow fluted glasses that clinked against the metal mouths.

Lucas shook his head like a dog to clear it, to draw his mind back from the past to the present, to disperse those crowds and focus instead on the single figure in the rack closest to him, arms locked upstretched, robe hanging limply, blotches of dark stains sticking the fabric to the figure’s skin. Beneath that metal mask was a jaw dripping blood and emitting wordless moans, its mouth a dark and tongueless cavern.

“I didn’t think you were the torturing type, lord,” Lucas said, more to himself than to the creature busy with the third robed figure. The vampire lord turned away from his work, a slim bloody scalpel in one hand and a severed tongue in the other.

“You were always the exception that proved the rule, boy,” his lord said indulgently, tossing the scrap of meat into a brazier where it sizzled and popped. He dropped the scalpel into a glass vial of alcohol on a table laden with similar tools and wiped his hands on a towel. Lucas thought his smile looked a bit like the masks’ cruel fangs. “Why are you here?” his lord asked, as if Lucas had stopped by for tea.

“I thought you might need some help,” Lucas said, shrugging. He hopped onto the dais and felt better without the scene looming over him. Up here he could see Nysene’s face, elegant and strangely serene despite her predicament, her hair flowing in two perfect red-blonde waves to the sides of her neck. Her smile grew wide and her pine-green eyes sparkled with delight.

“So he lived after all!” she said, her hands twitching in their shackles as if struggling to clap. “Astarion, there’s another saddle in the cabinet, a lower one. Fetch it and put it there so I can see clearly.” Lucas frowned in puzzlement at her entitled words, the way she issued orders as if she weren’t trapped herself, the way she inclined her head to indicate her preferred placement.

“If you’re here, I suppose Wyll won’t be far behind,” his lord said, walking toward him, his flame-bright eyes unwavering from Lucas’ face. It was as if he didn’t even hear her commands, and Lucas wondered how far down he’d shoved that cowardly part of himself, the part that would’ve shrank from her words. Lucas wasn’t sure what his lord could hear and what he couldn’t, what would reach him and what wouldn’t, so he ignored the Eomanes, ignored the woman and ignored what must be her brothers robed and stretched on racks and gobbling and drooling from tongueless mouths and looked only at his lord, talked only to his lord. “He doesn’t know the ins and outs of this place the way we do,” his lord said, going down to one knee in front of Lucas. “He’s been neither entertained nor entertainment at one of their little parties, not like us.”

“Suffering ain’t a contest, lord,” Lucas said. “Not one you’d want to win, anyways.” Lucas thought of being cruel, thought of sneering at the whole proceedings, at how mean and petty this vengeance looked, this mere turning of the tables, this tired old trope of the slave becoming the master. Looking at his lord now, though, at the feverish hue of his skin, the way it clung to his cheekbones, the way his lips shrank back from his sharp teeth, the heat of those glowing red eyes scalding him, he couldn’t do it. He could feel tears threatening to fall, a desperate ache of sympathy knotting itself in his chest.

He remembered what Wyll had told him before they’d left the manor, had said matter-of-factly after donning thickly embroidered robes and a diadem of chains with a jewel sitting centered between his soft brown eyes. “If I hesitate, I will fail, and if I fail, he will kill me. I don’t know what that will do to him, but it will be nothing good.” If there was anything left of his lord in there to save, Lucas would have to do it before Wyll came.

“That devil set a trap for you, didn’t he, lord. Made it too tempting. Made you want more and more. You’re too smart to fall into a trap like that, aren’t you? How could it happen so quickly?” Lucas said, his voice heavy with empathy.

“Everything that’s happened is because I listened to you,” his lord said, the blame in his words at odds with his expression, with the kindness there, the affection. “You were the true trap, you and Wyll. My power is the key that’s sprung me free of you.” He took Lucas’ hand in his and his expression didn’t change while he slipped a soft leather cuff onto the boy’s wrist and cinched it closed. Lucas felt the weight of a chain on it and let his hand fall to his side, felt the gentle insistent tug as the cuff’s twin went on his other wrist, the two connected by a chain, with a longer, stronger one leading back to a sturdy lock on the rack. Lucas glanced up at the robed figure on that rack, saw the mad eyes behind that metal mask crinkle with mirth at the tether linking them.

“Free to do what?” Lucas asked, spreading his hands, the chains clinking softly. “Of all of us here, why do you look the least free?”

“I waited too long,” his lord said, standing and looking down at Lucas with glowing eyes. “I fought against my nature, fought to stay the weakling, the wretch. Fought to stay small just the way the world likes me.”

“You were never weak, Astarion,” Wyll’s stated, stepping to the top of the dais opposite them, not sparing a single glance for the figures arranged in their passion play, looking only at the man he loved. Lucas felt a surge of relief despite his fear, grateful for the strength that radiated from him, wondering why if his lord were the most powerful of all of them, he looked the most pathetic, his eyes glowing like a rodent’s hiding in the dark, shying away from the light of a hero’s torch. “Never.”

“You don’t know him,” Nysene interjected, disdain dripping from her words. “He was always too docile, too willing, too eager to please. There was no challenge to him. Neither his cries of pain nor his moans of ecstasy sounded at all genuine. He was always acting. Not like the boy.”

Lucas could see his lord’s back hunching at her words, his shoulders slumping as he almost seemed to shrink. When his lord was the only one to hear them, her words were nothing. Now that others were here, her barbs had weight, a weight that pressed down on his lord’s shoulder-blades like a block of stone. Wyll looked at her then, amazed at her affrontery but wise to her game. She would spit venom at anyone who would end her, bullying them into murder so she could die still in command; her own death a last act of domination. Both Wyll and Lucas knew it wouldn’t work, but Astarion didn’t.

“Don’t touch her!” Astarion barked as Wyll took a step toward Nysene. “She’s not for you!”

“What’s she for then, lord?” Lucas asked, unafraid even when his lord turned those blazing eyes to him. “You gonna cut out her tongue, too?” The racked figures moaned as if in accord.

“Of course not,” Astarion sniffed, straightening his back with a crackle of effort and tossing back his hair. Lucas could see streaks of blood in it stiffening the soft curls. “The brothers are experiments I’m conducting. She will face a different fate.”

“Let her face justice instead, Astarion,” Wyll suggested. “There are gallows aplenty and a crowd risen up against her to drag her there. Let the city end her; you don’t owe her the satisfaction of doing it yourself.”

“The city had its chances,” Astarion said dismissively. “They coddled her from the cradle on. My city will coddle no one.”

“Why do you want it, then?” Lucas scoffed, irritated by the spectacle of nobles nattering on about justice and the city this and the city that when none of them grew up in its bowels. “It’s shit, lord, all of it shit. No one smart would stay.”

“Are you insinuating that I am an idiot, Lucas?” Astarion drawled. “I tried it your way, now you will try it mine. I will rule and the city will have no more need of heroes.” Lucas wondered if Wyll could hear it like he could, that slick of snake oil underlying his lord’s words, that tell-tale sign that he was lying, if only to himself.

“Where are all those heroes you hate so much, lord?” Lucas demanded. “The ones that killed Andrik’s mum the Duke? The ones that yanked Elturel back out of the hells? They could’ve ruled just like you, could’ve come back and finished the job, strung up all these sickos and stopped your master in his tracks. Why didn’t they?”

“I’ve no idea,” Astarion said, rolling his red eyes. Lucas wondered if the heat burned inside his skull when he did that. “I do believe I was languishing inside a mindflayer pod at the time, weak as a kitten. Now I have the power to do what they did not. This city won’t be ruled by heroes.”

“Too late, lord. You’re already a hero,” Lucas declared, and Wyll nodded in agreement.

“You’re already a hero,” Wyll echoed. “Ketheric Thorm, Gortash, Orin, the Netherbrain. You saved thousands of people. I’ve met some. I count some as friends. You helped thwart a curse that lasted a century, you freed an entire land from darkness. You defied gods. You are so much stronger than you know. You’re stronger than those villains were. You’re stronger than I am. You can use this power for good; don’t let it use you.”

“You lie!” Astarion accused, striding toward Wyll, finger pointed in blame. “This is what you wanted! To see me strong! To see me powerful! That’s why you helped me!”

“You were always strong, my love; it wasn’t the ritual that made you so.” Wyll tried to speak to that spark of doubt in Astarion’s eyes, that part of him he could see was struggling, was trying to listen. Wyll kept his hope, his love and acceptance at the forefront of his mind even as the words of a spell danced at the back.

“I’m glad you think so,” Astarion sneered. “A pity you’ll never convince another soul. Not these sadists,” he gestured to the Eomanes relegated to their respective restraints, “not your father the ‘Grand Duke’, not the true vampires. It’s on me to show them my power, to crush them under my boot, to make them serve me, to pay their debts at last.” With every word Wyll felt that spark dim, that hope withdraw while the words of the spell grew more insistent in his thoughts.

“You told me once how much it hurt to become a vampire, to feel your heart beat its last,” Wyll pleaded. “I don’t know what you’re becoming now, Astarion, but I can see that it hurts.”

“I’m becoming everything I ever wanted!” Astarion almost shrieked, spittle flying from his lips, hell’s flame flaring in his eyes. “I will have everything I ever wanted!” He turned his back on Wyll and stalked back to Nysene, who tittered madly at the sight of their futile attempts at persuasion.

“You’re becoming an arsehole,” Lucas wailed, angry and frustrated and despondent and grief-torn all at once. “Leave that bitch alone and get out of here. It’s dark down here, lord, it’s dark and outside of here it’s sunny. It’s bright and sunny. It’s too nice a day outside for you to die down here!” Lucas’ confusion built to a crescendo. He could see Wyll’s eyes, the fear in them, but he couldn’t tell if it was fear for the vampire lord or fear of waiting too long, of hesitating, of dooming them all.

“I’m not the one who’s going to die down here, Lucas,” Astarion said, his voice suddenly eerily calm, the mania erased from his features, only his still-blazing eyes betraying him. “I’ll begin with the brothers. Thanks to Wyll, Irenteller is halfway dead already, though I could tell the blast was less potent than usual.” He clucked his tongue as if chastising the Warlock for holding back. “I can’t wait to see whether their limbs grow back, or if they’ll face eternity as my mute slaves.” His smile was a cruel curve as he stood gazing down at Nysene. He stroked at her jaw with thin, bonelike fingers. “Then it will be her turn.”

The words of the spell pounded in Wyll’s skull like his own pulse. He looked down, closing his eyes against the sight, feeling that old familiar helplessness, that lack of will he felt during the profane ritual, the thousands of nightmares where he’d been a part of its sacrifice, where he’d begged Astarion to spare him and been denied, bursting in a shower of gore and waking to the echoes of his own screams. He knew if he opened his eyes again, he would cast the spell. He would send his lover to the hells, then he would follow him there.

“I will drain you of every drop of blood,” the vampire lord crooned, petting Nysene’s hair like he would a pampered pet. “I will grant you a single drop of my own and raise you as my spawn. You will know hunger. You will know fear. You will know pain. You will control nothing, not even your own body. You won’t speak a word unless I allow it. You won’t flinch under my knives. You will carve out your own organs at my command, and you will do it for millennia.” His voice was thick with intent, with promise, with desire, with inevitability.

He gripped Nysene by the hair and lifted her head, her neck slim and straining and exposed. He bared his fangs and leaned toward her. Wyll drew in a deep, tortured breath and held it at the ready, opening his eyes and raising his hands, fingers crooked to cast a final spell.

“Master, no!” Lucas wailed, wrapping his arms tight around Astarion’s thin waist from behind and dragging him backward with all the might of his scrawny frame. “I’ll do it, master. I’ll stay here in the dark with you, I promise. Do it to me, not her! You can cut me, I won’t fight. You can put me in the cage, master. You can… You can…” he fell to his knees, run out of ideas and words and hope, his arms an iron band around his master. What good would he be without him, anyway? What good could he do sitting in that mansion alone with his master gone and Wyll gone after?

Astarion looked down at the hands clasped above his belt buckle, saw the ferocity of their grip, the white of the straining knuckles. He could feel the weight of Lucas’ body dragging at him, the shock of Lucas’ words warring with the roar of power screaming in his ears. He took a careful step backwards and placed his hands on Lucas’ wrists.

“Master, don’t do this, master,” Lucas sobbed. “Don’t let them keep hurting you. You can hurt me instead, you can, master, you can…” He yanked at his master’s waist, yanked harder when his master took a step back. Forced him backwards another step, and another, until he felt hands like talons grip his wrists and pull them easily apart despite his struggles. His master turned, releasing his wrists, and Lucas looked up at him from his knees. It will be okay, he thought. His master will have good days and bad days, just like before. Hundreds and hundreds of bad days but maybe just as many good, if Lucas listened, if he just gave himself up, then Wyll wouldn’t have to kill anyone, and his master wouldn’t have to kill anyone else.

Wyll stood stock still, the spell’s words dead on his tongue, and waited to see what his love would do.

“Did you…” Astarion began, his voice a tangle of confusion. He shook his head violently, his teeth grinding together, the red whispers of his power congealing in his veins. He looked down into that face wet with tears, those blue eyes bright with pain. “How did you get free?” he wondered, tilting his head to the side.

“I slipped the cuffs, master,” Lucas said, frowning. “You taught me how, don’t you remember?”

“Did I?” Astarion asked softly, shaking his head again. Lucas nodded, searching his master’s face for some sign of sanity.

“You taught me lots of things, master,” Lucas said. “You can teach me all the things, all the rules and all the tricks. If you won’t leave the city, at least come home with me. You can put the whole house back the way it was; I’ll help you. We’ll put everything back the way it was and you’ll be the master this time.”

“Why would you do that?” Astarion asked, the power pulsing in his ears, planning punishments, plotting penalties, but when he connected them — the power and the promises of the boy before him — they didn’t fit. The knives and the screams and the bruises and the boy didn’t fit. “Why would you do that?” he asked again, watching Lucas’ lips as they formed words, picturing them torn and bleeding and then closing his eyes against the thought, a shudder of revulsion running through him.

“It’s the only thing I have to give you, master,” Lucas said, and Astarion’s eyes flew open. He recognized that tone, that willingness, that sacrifice. He’d heard it from Wyll when he’d offered his soul to Mizora to save his father. He’d heard it from his own lips when he’d offered coin to Withers and begged for Wyll’s life. He heard it from this boy now, but for what? For him?

“I don’t…” Astarion stuttered. “I don’t want it.” He stepped away and Lucas followed him on his knees.

“You can’t stop it, Astarion,” Wyll said tentatively, moving closer to them. “You can’t stop us from loving you; there’s no infernal power that can.” He saw Nysene open her mouth to speak and he acted before she could shatter their momentary truce. “Te Astringo Lingua,” Wyll cast, and was satisfied by the look of frustration on her face as he silenced her bitter tongue.

“He’s right, master,” Lucas said solemnly. “I won’t leave you here alone.”

Astarion knelt, the red glow of his eyes searching the boy’s face, looking for some trick, some evasion, some falsehood and finding none of it. He turned his head to look at Wyll, saw that same resolve, that bullheaded, ignorant, unreasonable, unexplainable, and undeserved affection. He saw it and the whispers of his power fell silent in his ears as surely as if he were part of Wyll’s spell.

A smile bloomed across Wyll’s face, all of his doubts dispelled, washed away by the wave of love he felt for this beautiful unbroken man before him. The infernal glow in his lover’s eyes faded to a dusky rose color and those lips started to smile before a startled scream burst from between them.

Astarion clutched at his head, the pain streaking like lightning through him, ice cold and white hot and furious. He fought it, trying to contain it, to suppress it, to jam it back into his guts where he could handle it, but it thrashed and threatened to burn every thought away.

Allow none to be your equal.The lesson pounded at his ears like the buzzing of hornets, stinging at him with the sharpness of regret. He gasped, gritting his teeth against the pain and the images it conjured, the parties he’d thrown, former patrons in their finery, sneering at him as he bent to kiss their hands, playing the courtier, playing the fool. The diabolic flames of his power swelled in his throat, seeking egress, seeking vengeance. So, so easy it would be to turn them all, to strip them of their riches and have them kneeling at his feet.

But there were other images the fire couldn’t char, where the heat was cooler, comforting. He’d hovered unseen above a different gathering in a ballroom reborn from a boy’s imagination. There was laughter, horrible music produced by orphans sawing away with the brightest of proud smiles. There was a ceiling of clouds and sunlight and bright lightning. Later there was a long dining table laden with food and drink, with jokes not at his expense, but with his gleeful participation. There was a warmth there that was healing, and he held it close as a crueler fire fought to destroy it.

To share with others is to be weak. He had held himself apart, let the power console him when everyone else was gone. His last words with Wyll at the Elfsong, letting him believe he was a monster that tricked him, that lied. Before that, the look of adoration in Wyll’s eyes, a look he crushed with his arrogance. He chose the power over a man that loved him when he deserved none of it. A man that held him close, that gave him gifts, that danced with him on a sandy beach under a curse-darkened sky and claimed only a kiss, a man who offered to share his life with a wretched, weak creature.

And what had he done? Thrown that gift away, discarded it as unworthy when he was the worthless one. What good was fire when nothing was left but ashes? There were other fires not born of his stolen power. A fiery sword in a devil’s hand cutting down the man who loved him, cleaving his flesh while he stared wide-eyed and unmoving before the death blow. Other fires licking through the mansion’s attic rooms while the boy who had trusted him screamed in a rage so potent it filled his eyes with blood and drove him away.

Act not in haste. He had tried. He’d shut himself up in that mansion, strove to convince himself it was his sanctuary, the place to plot and scheme. But it was just a tomb as cold as the hellfire itself, filled only with his own screams. He’d cursed the coffin where his master used to sleep, then he’d taken his place, lying with only stone and wine for company, swearing to wait, to sulk there until every light in his life had gone dim. He’d shut himself away in the darkness, away from anyone he could ever love. So many paid for the power that brought him into the sun, and he’d cheapened their sacrifice, squandered it, scorched away his conscience.

And yet… and yet… Wyll had come back to him. Lucas had come back to him. Wyll had offered him a life. Lucas had offered his life to save him from this place, from himself. There was light and love if he could only contain the fear that threatened to burn it all. Wyll was right: if he stayed in the darkness he would be alone, he would be alone and it would never, ever end.

Hellfire built behind his teeth and he swallowed it back with a choked scream. It surged through his limbs to his fingertips and he clenched them until the nails drew blood from his palms. He kept his eyes squeezed tightly shut against the room around him, another dungeon, another place of pain and torment that he refused to let trap him, not again. Not ever again. The power thrashed and fought and he strove with all his strength, with all his desperate will, to contain it.

Lucas threw himself onto his master’s shivering body, holding tightly to him and murmuring a litany of encouragement, exhorting him to be strong. He felt Wyll’s arms enfold them both, felt that warmth that wasn’t fire, that steadiness, that strength. Together they knelt on the dais in a room where pain was made spectacle and pleas ignored. They knelt there and kept the vampire lord safe in their embrace, whispered words of love to him while he shook and sobbed and gasped and screamed and struggled and won. They held him close until at long last he grew still and quiet and hugged them back.

Chapter Text

Lucas led the two men through the labyrinth of rooms beneath Eomane House and out to the stable yard. Lucas was less tired than he thought he’d be. Maybe he was getting used to these bouts of emotional overload, these periods of whipsawing back and forth from happiness to rage to sorrow. Maybe he was maturing. Maybe he cared much less or maybe he cared much more. Right now, watching Wyll and Astarion cling to each other, watching them hold each other like they’d never let go again, he thought maybe it was much more.

He left them there to talk about love and kissing and nonsense and hopped over the fence and scooted down the alleyway toward the main entrance, smoothing down his hair as he went and wiping his face clean as best he could. Wyll’s raven soared by overhead, circling the crowded street where the former standoff between Wyll’s allies and the city’s defenders had become more of an informal gossip session. Small clusters of people exchanged information in low tones, glancing toward the house’s open front doors. The smoke had petered out for the most part, wisps of it drifting upward and leaving behind only a sharp rotten smell.

Geraldus spotted Lucas first, though he wasn’t really trying to hide seeing as he walked right up to the Harper. Lucas grinned at him and Geraldus’ normally woebegone expression brightened measurably.

“Is it done, then?” Jaheira asked, glancing between the two of them.

“Almost, mum,” Lucas answered, and though she rolled her eyes at his form of address, he knew she secretly liked it, she was just good at pretending she didn’t. He approached that Grand Duke, glad to have Jaheira and Geraldus follow him, glad that Rolan and Cal and Lia were there to lend their support, as well, and that Wyll’s friends remained, their black garb and sharp steel weapons reminding him of He Who Was, though these elves were dark and less creepy. Even with this much backup, he still halted a good dozen yards from the Fists, but it wasn’t wholly out of fear.

“You have news?” the Duke demanded, his shoulders slumping a bit in relief at Lucas’ nod.

“Wyll Ravengard and my Lord Astarion have subdued the criminals,” he began, choosing the word ‘subdued’ as more politic than ‘left tied up and missing some limbs’. “It’s safe for you all to go in and arrest them and whatnot. It’s pretty obvious they’re guilty, if you even care about that sort of thing. They tortured me pretty bad, if that counts at all, which it should. Should’ve counted the whole time, come to think of it,” he saw the Duke frown while he rambled on, and he frowned right back at him. “I’ll lead you inside.”

Lucas turned and entered the house, leading a group of Fists and Watch clanking through the hallways to the fancier entrances to the dungeon downstairs. He noted the damage as he went, and all told, it wasn’t that bad. Clean up some blood, get that Mr. Hob to eat up any bodies, slap some paint on the smoke-stained walls, and it could be a nice home for a nice new family.

Or it would be if Lucas didn’t fully intend to burn it to the ground before he left the city.

He watched the Grand Duke throw a blanket across Nysene Eomane’s bare shoulders before his men freed her from one prison only to drag her to another. Her brothers’ wounds didn’t earn them much sympathy, but at least they were quieter. Her undignified shrieks made Lucas wish he’d learned Wyll’s shutting-up spell.

“Gods this place is gross,” Geraldus complained, looking around him from atop the dais, trying to find a safe place to rest his gaze and settling for Lucas’ wry expression, as the whole dungeon made him feel sick to his stomach.

“It is that,” Lucas agreed. “Know what else it is?” Geraldus shrugged so Lucas shoved an empty sack into the Harper’s hands and gestured for him to follow. “Unguarded.”

In the stable yard, Wyll considered releasing Astarion from his embrace, and Astarion considered releasing Wyll from his, and neither did so for a long time. When at last they clasped hands and pulled back a bit to regard each other fondly — at least until Astarion rolled his eyes at his own sentimentality and quite broke the mood — they agreed they would return to the Szarr manor for now. That all was forgiven between them, and that they would pack their things and put this city behind them as quickly as they could. Given their experience at breaking down a camp, they figured it wouldn’t take long.

“I am content in this moment,” Wyll said. “Are you?” When Astarion nodded, Wyll pressed their foreheads together and promised him softly, “Then we will cherish it, and add to it the next and the next, and string together as many of these moments as fate allows. I have chosen to be by your side, and I will never leave you while I draw breath.”

“It never ceases to amaze me how you can pull poetry right out of your arse,” Astarion said, smiling and softening his words with a kiss. “I couldn’t dream of a better life. I could, however, dream of a bath. Let’s get out of here.”

They pushed open the wooden gate and Pech flapped down to land on Wyll’s shoulder. As they walked hand-in-hand to the east, Wyll told Astarion the culprits were in his father’s custody, and their executions already in the planning. “You should probably know Lucas is currently looting the house,” he added.

“Of course he is,” Astarion said proudly. “Though it’s not much of a challenge.”

Some few days later, Astarion tapped his foot impatiently on the ship’s wooden deck and disparaged his ward. “He’s late,” he complained to Wyll. “What’s keeping him?” The rising sun colored the sky a pink that almost matched the vampire lord’s eyes. Wyll had asked him why he didn’t hide them behind his glasses or use a spell to alter them, and Astarion had said only that he needed to leave the city with something to gossip about or they’d forget him the moment a new crisis erupted.

“He’ll make it, love,” Wyll grinned, squeezing Astarion’s shoulder. “Shall I send Pech to check on him?”

“No, no, don’t send your stupid bird,” Astarion grumbled. “Every time he does something useful he won’t shut up about it. I won’t have you setting him off again.”

“Lucas said he had a few loose ends to tie up, that’s all,” Geraldus assured them. He stood a trifle unsteadily on the deck, still getting the feel of the ship and its swaying. The crew scurried about with last-minute preparations, eager to impress their passengers, especially since one of them — the maybe a vampire one — had subdued an entire ship full of smugglers for them once. When two heroes of the Gate ask you to set sail for Reithwin Town, and offer to pay you handsomely to boot, you don’t argue too much!

There was plenty of room on the ship to return the Moonrise Militia to its barracks, so those who were Baldurians waved goodbye to their loved ones from the railing, while their leader — a certain Drow with no sailing experience — struggled to keep down his breakfast on the other side of the ship.

“There he is!” Geraldus said, pointing down the pier to where a blonde head weaved through the crowds. That slim blonde figure made quick work slipping through the press, skipping up the gangplank, and dropping his heavy backpack at their feet with moments to spare.

“Sorry, yeah?” Lucas said, panting a bit from exertion. He couldn’t suppress the gleam of excitement in his eyes, couldn’t stop the smile from spreading across his face. He looked up to the barefoot sailors scrambling across the rigging, some of them hanging by their toes, others dangling from one hand to free the other to wave down at him. A chorus of ‘hullos’ welcomed him back like an old friend, though they’d shared but a single day’s adventure. Now they would have a week or more! He tore his eyes away from those dizzying heights and the sailors’ acrobatics to attempt to look as contrite as possible. “I didn’t hold you up, did I?”

“Not a bit,” Wyll grinned. “This one worries like a mother hen whenever you’re out of sight, though.” He nudged Astarion in the side, producing another dramatic roll of the vampire’s eyes.

“I’m used to it by now,” Lucas laughed. “Always nice to have somebody notice when you’re gone, innit?”

“I suppose,” Astarion allowed, trying to sound stern and failing miserably. “Now that you’re here, can we please go?”

“Yes!” Lucas answered with a cheer, turning to the railing and waving both hands merrily at the strangers on the pier. “’Bye Baldur’s Gate!” he yelled to any who could hear. “Don’t explode while we’re gone!” The hands he waved were stained a bit blue with ink, which only added to the festive nature of their departure, the immense sailing ship shoving off and beginning to creak its way up the river.

“Are you going to eat any of those seagulls, lord?” Lucas asked.

“Absolutely not,” Astarion said with a shudder. “They’re just rats with wings.” He looked up at the brightening sky, at the wheeling, screeching gray-and-white gulls, at the dark shape of a raven darting among them, and he smiled. “Maybe we’ll become friends instead,” he said, and with a flapping of leathery wings, a great white bat shot into the sky to join the birds in their pinwheels. Wyll and Lucas watched him circle, spinning lazily, diving and recovering, then their eyes met and for once, Lucas winked first. Wyll’s delighted laugh drifted along with the ship’s wake, leaving the city behind.

At the Szarr manor, a little framed sign hung crookedly from the front doors, its block lettering blue and smeary and far from Lucas’ best efforts, but it got the point across.

“GONE ADVENTURING,” it read. “ALL THE VALUABLES ARE IN THE BANK SO DON’T EVEN THINK OF TRYING IT. THE VAMPIRE ASCENDANT AND HIS MATES WILL BE BACK WHENEVER THEY BLOODY WELL WANT.”

Chapter Text

“Do I dream?” he asks, but the darkness surrounding him swallows his words. Maybe they aren’t words at all, but thoughts. He has no sense of his body, no feeling in his limbs, just the spilled ink of darkness and a shimmer of golden light so small and so distant it’s a mote of gleaming metal in a sea of inky black. He tries to strain toward it but can’t move a form he can’t even feel. The light approaches on its own and he would smile with joy at its beauty if he had lips and a mouth. He would hear it singing if he had ears. His heart beat would quicken with elation if he had such an organ. The light swirls, closer and closer, bigger and bigger until it’s all he can see. Ethereal forms like birds flying, their wings leaving trails of spirit and sun behind. Brighter and brighter and closer and closer the birds and the light and a beauty that builds and builds until he’s glad he has no body to burst from the pressure of such rapture.

And then it’s gone and he is himself again, cold stone beneath his bare back and a wadded cloth beneath his head. The light is gone and it is so dark behind his eyelids.

“Did I dream?” he asks, before opening his eyes to more darkness. He can see the ceiling above him is musty thatch, turning his head he sees walls of unadorned gray stone, pitted in places. The dimmest of lamps burns with a glare that barely registers as white against the black, all the more pitiful compared to the golden glow of his dream.

“Possibly,” a woman’s voice croaks in response. A lump of gray rags betrays itself as living by shuffling toward him, a wrinkled face beneath a tattered hood, eyes glittering blackness above a smiling mouth that conveys neither comfort nor welcome, as if her smile were just the natural set of her lips, unintentional. “What did you dream?” she asks, eyes narrowing with suspicion above that meaningless smile, and he narrows his own in response.

“I don’t remember,” he lies, hoarding his vision away as if it were made of true gold, valuable, to be protected.

“You will if you need it,” she says with a shrug that lifts her formless ragged garb. “I am Cloven. I wait for you.” He wonders at her words even as he clings to the name, the first name learned of his new life. “I wait for you all, but you most of all…” she trails off with another shrug. “Your guide is late. Wait for them.” She turns to busy herself with a basket of roots, rasping a dull knife’s blade across their surface to peel them, the strips of flesh falling to the stone floor like sloughed-off skin.

He sits up, pleased with the strength of his form, the smooth and supple vigor of it. He turns to let his legs hang over the side of the stone berth, his bare feet touching the floor. The air in the room is chill but not cold, inert, without a hint of breeze despite the empty holes where windowpanes should be. He stands, his height dwarfing the old woman in her shapeless shreds of clothing. He strides naked to one of the openings, looking out to see a wall of stone close by across a narrow alleyway, its gaping dark windows echoes of the one through which he stares. He waits, staring through the window hole at a dark place where nothing moves. His thoughts are empty, as silent and dark as the alley. His thoughts are waiting, too.

“You’re late,” Cloven says tersely, and he looks to see if her words are meant for him. He follows her gaze to a darker corner of the room and sees only shadow until a mask of painted porcelain emerges from the gloom, its pale shape dotted with spots of black, seeming to hover there until the slim figure that wears it steps silently forward.

A torrent of long white braids surrounds the mask like a chaotic crown. The mask’s image is solemn, its black lips full and flat and lifeless. The figure is nearly as tall as he, thin, with bare arms corded with muscle like leather wrapped wet and tight around a sword’s hilt then dried to shrunken hardness. They wear scraps of leather too piecemeal to be true armor, swathes of their skin vulnerable to the open air – though no more vulnerable than he is with nothing to cover him. The wicked point of a spear sticks up from behind their shoulder, and he feels a trickle of jealousy. He wants a weapon as well.

“This is your guide, Lorindil,” Cloven says to him, nodding to the masked figure. “They have known you. They will show you to your home.” She turns back to her peeling as if her task was concluded now this guide had arrived.

Without word or ceremony, Lorindil turns and makes for a larger opening, an exit. He follows them, murmuring his thanks to Cloven for giving him her name, for being there, for waiting. She startles at his words, knife stilled in her hand, her smile seeming almost real for an instant.

He follows his guide. They lead him down twisted streets through rows of tumbledown houses of stone and dark wood, the houses sometimes crowded together, sometimes edging an empty lot where wisps of weeds grow, weeds he doesn’t know to name. Some stark glares of light like Cloven’s lamp shine deep in the shadows of the houses like the eyes of great beasts lying in wait. He wishes he had a spear like his guide. Like Lorindil, the second name he’s learned of his new life. He wishes he had a name.

A stinging pain prods at the ball of his foot and he hisses, surprised at the suddenness of the hurt, relishing the difference between mundane step after step and this wicked flare of discomfort. He stops and lifts his foot, picking a jagged rock from his flesh. He drops it to the ground and it makes a clinking sound both the shadows and his ears gobble up eagerly. A bead of blood black as pitch wells up from the wound. He puts his foot back down and hurries to catch up with his guide, pleased at the thought of his blood marking this place. His first wound of his new life.

He does not know how long or how far they walk. His hurt has healed and the streets around them haven’t changed. They pass an open lot and his guide stops before the wooden door of the stone house beyond, a little one-story house with gray stone walls and a slate roof of darker gray. Another open lot lays just past, as if the house resists the encroachment of other structures. His guide folds their arms, their mask’s impassive gaze somehow conveying impatience. Then they gesture toward the door with a jerk of their head. More impatience.

He pushes at the door and it scrapes inward, no latch or lock securing it. He steps inside, ducking at first as the ceiling seems too low, then straightening to his full height, the slate giving him an inch to spare. Were he to grow his hair wild and high like his guide, it would scrape along this ceiling, he thinks. He walks to the center of the single open room. He doesn’t hear any footsteps behind him, and his eyes widen in panic. Was this all of it? Did his guide show him here and then abandon him, leave him alone without a name? He turns, dreading the empty room and the empty streets. He turns and his guide stands behind him, the cool porcelain of their mask mocking his fright.

He turns away to hide his relief, looks around the room. A low cot with a frame of wood and woven rope supports a cloth pad for resting. A small square table holds an unlit lamp, canted at an angle caused by the uneven lengths of the table legs. A simple stool is the only seat. A few sheets of parchment are pinned by a corner of the lamp, a pot of ink and quill at the ready, and he wants to read whatever is on that parchment. He wants to read it very badly, but he doesn’t want the guide to know. He wants to wallow in that wanting until the guide is gone. He clings to that desire like he clung to the pain of a rock in his foot.

A wooden cabinet, as lopsided as the table, sits in a corner. Next to it, a weapon leans against the wall, a halberd with a long wooden shaft, a sharp axe blade to the fore, a thrusting spike atop, and a straight fluke for the rear hook. He takes an eager step toward the halberd, his hand reaching up instinctively to grasp it. He stops himself, forcing his hand to lower, adding another want to the lump in his throat, choking back another longing to fulfill later, to sate at a time when he has nothing else to need.

His guide waits, black eyes behind white painted mask, and he turns to them at last.

“Is this mine?” he asks, and the stone walls absorb the words as if they are hungry, too. He gestures with his hands toward the room, the cabinet, the weapon, the pages.

His guide nods.

“My home?” he asks, and again they nod. “You knew me,” he says, remembering Cloven’s words. The mask nods to confirm. “What is my name?” he demands, suddenly angry, suddenly tired of this game, of having so few secrets to keep while this other must have thousands. “Your name is ‘Lorindil’, yes? What is my name?”

“Here you are Irrek,” his guide answers after too long a silence, their low voice thick with scorn. “When you go forth, you are called ‘He Who Was’.”

He catches the names before the walls can take them, catches them and shoves them deep to the place where he keeps his dream.

“Who gave me those names?” he asks, wanting to string his names to another name and another until he knew more of himself.

“Irrek has always been your name,” they answer. “Our Queen named you ‘He Who Was’.” A flash of red at the corners of his vision, deep red lips and pale skin, the fluttering of black wings.

“Tell me more,” he demands, frustrated by their miserliness, the meagre crumbs of knowledge they grudgingly share.

“Why the hurry?” Lorindil says, their voice almost taunting him, making light of his irritation. “You’re here now, Irrek. You’re back. You have centuries to piece yourself back together, and right when you get close, she’ll send you out, and you’ll fuck it up, you’ll fuck it up and lose it all. Again.”

He clenches his fists and adds another desire to his hoard, the desire to punch that mask until it cracks. “Did I wrong you?” he bites out, hoping the answer is yes.

“You wronged us all,” they spit from behind that emotionless porcelain façade. They turn to leave, calling over their shoulder, “I’ll be back tomorrow to train.”

“Lorindil,” he calls, and they pause on the threshold. “Do you hate me?”

Their head snaps to look at him, whether out of anger or surprise, he cannot tell with the mask between them.

“Sometimes,” they say, and leave him alone in the house that is his, his first home in his new life.

Chapter Text

Before I close the door, Astarion strides across the room, throwing open the wardrobe to reveal the bound figure slumped at the bottom. “You put him in here,” he hisses, kneeling to gather the limp man his arms. He carries him quickly to a bed and lays him on his back, his bound wrists resting on his stomach. “He doesn’t like enclosed spaces.” He turns to glare at me. “But I’m the monster.”

I turn the lock, not bothering to hide the action, and slowly approach the bed. I recognize the bindings, but not the lanky, slim youth that lies there. His hair is brown curls loosely brushing his ears, his lashes a slightly darker brown against the smooth roundness of his tanned cheeks, that are lightly sprinkled with freckles. “Who…?” I begin.

“Don’t be a fool,” Astarion snaps. “Do you think a spawn of mine wears his true face in public?” He brushes a lock of hair back from the man’s forehead, then reaches for the ropes.

“Leave him,” I warn. “I’ll hear your explanation before he’s awake and free.”

“My explanation of what, exactly?” Astarion sits up, giving me his profile and sidelong glance filled with scorn. “You’re the one with a man tied up in his wardrobe. I’d say I’m the one owed an explanation.”

I tilt my head to the side. “He’s there because he tried to kill me.” If Astarion’s surprised, it doesn’t show. He merely closes his eyes in one long blink and heaves a sigh before standing and walking to the low cabinet. He touches one fingertip to a carafe of wine and drags it slowly from the carafe to the bottle beside it and the bottle beside that before finding one to his liking and pulling the stopper with a loud pop.

He turns to face me, half-sitting on the cabinet, and raises the bottle to his lips. “I don’t believe you,” he states, flatly, before taking a swallow. His expression doesn’t change. I wonder if it’s still a novelty, the taste of wine after two centuries of vinegar.

I walk toward him, nodding slowly, thoughtfully. “You don’t believe your spawn tried to kill me, or you don’t believe he failed?”

“Please,” he scoffs. “I don’t believe he tried. Why would he? He doesn’t know you. If he did he likely wouldn’t have made the attempt. You may be a fool, but even without your powers, your mundane skills remain formidable.” He smirks. “At least formidable in comparison to my devotees.”

I meet his smirk with a brighter smile, one I’ve perfected in the year since we last met. “Who says I don’t have power?” I ask, the picture of innocence. I raise my hand and let a shiver of fey magic flit across my fingertips.

He frowns, then heaves another sigh. “More fool than I thought.” His voice holds the slightest hint of anger. “So you refused my offer and threw your soul away again?” If his voice is angry, his expression is pure bitterness. He takes another swallow of wine from the bottle, then sets it down. “Pact-bound slave or talented mortal man, you’ve made your point. We’ll be going now. Congratulations on surviving such a vicious assassination attempt.” He stands and I move to stand between him and the unconscious man. No, not man. Monster. Killer. Don’t forget.

Astarion regards me coldly. “I didn’t send him to kill you, Wyll, and in any event, he failed. You remain unscathed. Let’s say our goodbyes before that changes.”

“I can’t just let you take him, Astarion,” I say, my own voice calm but firm. “I’ll hear his reasons for coming after me, and then I’ll decide his fate. He put it in my hands when he tried to end my life. He’s lucky to be, well, not alive, exactly.”

Astarion’s eyes gleam, a flicker of power in their crimson depths. “You can’t stop me, you know,” he almost croons. “But I would love it if you tried.”

I tense, readying words in my mind but keeping them from my tongue for the moment. “I’m sure you would.” I’m glad my voice remains steady as Astarion steps closer to me, a genuine smile teasing at his lips.

“Poor Wyll,” he pouts, exaggeratedly. “You had your chance a year ago, when my power was new to me.” He steps closer, head tilted, and it’s so familiar to me, a predator’s way of observing, of assessing. “Or six months ago, surrounded by your friends,” he drawls, “your comrades.” Another step and I can almost feel his breath as he speaks, feel the warmth of his body, radiating in that new and disconcerting way. Gods, I think, he’s so alive. “I’m more than I was,” he says softly. “You can’t stop me. If you move to touch him, I will tear you in half. You will die here, in the very room where you rejected my offer. It will be poetic,” he emphasizes the popping sound of the syllables.

“I can’t let you take him, Astarion,” I repeat my ultimatum. “I’ve come back to the city to stay, and I won’t spend the rest of my life dodging an army of your slaves.”

His eyes flash. “I told you I didn’t send him. There will be no more attempts on your life, not from him, not even from my ‘army of slaves’, as you so eloquently put it.”

“What else should I call them?” I say, unable to stop my voice from rising. “All those times you lamented your fate, the loss of your will, the unending torment, the torture. How could you do that to even one free soul, let alone raise a host of sycophants?” I can’t seem to stop the words from spilling out. “Was this your grand plan? Your spies scuttling through the city like rats bringing you back crumbs of gossip, all while you sit like a fat spider in a web, lounging about, pretending all that power you gained, all those lives lost to give it to you, were worth you becoming worse than the master your slew?”

“Yes!” he spits out. “It was worth it. Every useless tormented soul damned to the Hells so I could live again, every soul enslaved so I could be free. All worth it.”

“You may have grown in power, but your heart’s a shriveled, blackened thing. It might beat in your chest, but it’s not blood it pumps, just malice,” I grit out.

“So that’s why you came back? To kill the black-hearted monster?”

“Yes, that’s why I came back. To end you.”

“To kill me? Now? When you don’t have a chance? When I can end you with a thought? When I can freeze you in place and tear out your throat while you beg me to keep going?”

“Yes! You’re a threat to this city and everything I’ve sworn to protect!” I yell.

“Then why didn’t you kill me before!” he demands.

“Because I fucking loved you, you insufferable arsehole!” I scream at him.

He falters, anger and confusion warring in his expression. “Then why did you leave?”

I’m certain the confusion on my face mirrors his own. “Because you wouldn’t have stopped.” I gesture toward the bed, the windows, the city beyond. “All these schemes, this scrabbling for power, this dominion, these spawn, this… evil,” I shake my head helplessly. “You would’ve done it, right in front of me, would’ve commanded me to help, and I don’t know if I could’ve stopped you, but…” I shrug, defeatedly. “I would’ve tried.” My voice is heavy with sadness. “It would always have ended like this. I would always have tried.”

Whatever he intends to say is interrupted by a loud groan from the man on the bed. “Please could you kill this tosser so we can go, Astarion?” The man has scooted himself back to recline against the headboard. “All this yelling is giving me a headache.” With his appearance restored and his eyes open, I can see the dull red of them, the glint of fangs when he speaks. His accent is thick with the choked vowels of the lower city, like his throat holds begrudgingly onto the sounds themselves.

“He’s awake,” I say, awkwardly.

“Of course he’s awake,” Astarion snaps.

“I’m good at playing dead,” the man grins at me. “Half there already, ain’t I?”

“Not half far enough,” Astarion mutters, pushing past me to stand at the bedside. “What in the Hells were you thinking, coming here?”

“Not his usual hunting grounds? Too high class? Too many questions?” I jeer. “I remember your master’s warnings. What’s this one get for breaking the rules? Kennels still open for business?” I’m not sure why I continue to taunt him, the words feel like poison dripping from my lips, but I can’t stop them. “Flaying? Buried alive? He looks thin. Are the rats not filling enough for him? Can’t you fetch him a bear?”

“Hey, you! Shut it,” the man snaps at me. Astarion doesn’t even turn. I can’t see his expression. “I came here to kill you, you’re still alive. You want to kill him? Then give it your best try so him and me can go home and you can go to the Hells where you belong.”

“You didn’t talk like that before. Did I hit you too hard?” I shake my head.

“You still sound like a cunt, so maybe you didn’t hit me hard enough,” he sneers.

Astarion rubs at his forehead. “Lucas, go home.”

The man raises his bound wrists. “Can’t. I’m all tied up,” he sighs. I still can’t see Astarion’s expression, but apparently his look is direction enough for the man. “Fine, fine,” he grumbles, and snaps the ropes with a flexing of his forearms. “Now kill him and let’s go. I can’t stand that stupid song.”

I bristle. “No one’s killing anyone until you tell me why you tried to seduce me.”

Astarion turns toward me, eyes wide, then back to the man, who regards him unapologetically. “Lucas, you did not.”

“What? I laid some choice words on him, a few glances, some drinks,” he shrugs. “It worked, too. He was sweet as honey ‘til we got into the room. Then the bastard hit me with some spell nonsense and I woke up in the wardrobe.” The man — Lucas, apparently — has the nerve to look put out.

“Are you alright?” Astarion asks him, softly. “The wardrobe wasn’t…”

“I’m fine,” Lucas cuts him off. “That don’t bother me anymore.” He glances sharply at me, and I sense he’s more bothered by my knowing his potential weakness than by the experience itself.

“Why would you do such a stupid thing?” Astarion scolds him. “You don’t even know this man, why would you come here disguised, and try to lure him up here to kill him? Where would you even get that idea?”

“I was working the crowd back home like usual, and they were all atwitter about some Blade coming home, setting himself up pretty at the Elfsong, drinking and laughing with his friends,” Lucas explains.

“And instead of informing me, you…” Astarion gestures to him to continue.

“I came to see what’s so special about this bloke you’re always on about,” Lucas says. “You’re always muttering and cursing and complaining about him when you think no one’s around to hear you, but I heard. I heard plenty.” He fixes his gaze on me. “He’s the right bastard left you high and dry in that crusty bone pile, picked you up and dropped you right on your arse. I hate him and I came to kill him for you.” My eyebrows rise in surprise. “What?” he spits at me. “You think you’re some big hero, abandoning your friend to skip off to the woods and play with faeries?”

“My friend,” I bite out, “was doing just fine when I left, and he certainly didn’t have any complaints six months ago when he regaled anyone who could stomach it with tales of his power and scheming.”

Lucas snorts. “I guess he was right about you being stupid, too.”