"You've got to be kidding me."

Here’s the line I was looking for — the fateful statement from AA about what he’s become, about what, in his own words, was created through the ascension ritual at the cost of 7,007 souls.

A new monster.

Yes, exactly that — said plainly, without preamble or euphemism. Monster.

I repeat it because it’s a strong word. And in Astarion’s journey, it’s a key one. Fundamental.

Before moving on and explaining myself better, I want to make a small premise. I’ve always said — and I’ll say it again — that Astarion is a tragic character.

And in a certain way, he remains so no matter which ending you choose. Whether Astarion ascends or not, he can’t have everything. He must give something up.

The tragedy is inherent in his condition and in his internal conflict — in his ambivalence between light and darkness, between good and evil, between humanity (in the broader sense) and vampirism.

So, while on one hand he clearly says he wants to ascend — and that’s true — let’s take a look at what else he says, just as clearly and explicitly.

It all starts… well, right at the beginning of our story with Astarion — the moment we meet (and clash with) him on the beach. After exchanging just a few lines, the vampire spawn immediately asks if we know anything about what happened on the Illithid ship and the tadpoles. And right after we explain the possible transformation…

There it is — his dark humor, his biting sarcasm that throws the truth right in our face. Of course! What else could he possibly become? A monster. Again. Just his damn luck.

And that laugh? The laugh he directs at himself — the bitterness that seeps through as he mocks his own misfortune, how fate keeps cruelly piling on him. And the irony in it all, since he’s already a monster — or at least, that’s how he feels.

Now, setting aside the horrifying way my Mac takes screenshots — completely overexposing Astarion, who’s apparently too dazzling for its taste — it’s clear that the vampire spawn doesn’t like being a monster.

Let’s remember that Astarion, in his final version — the one we actually meet in BG3 — never chose to become a vampire. He was forced into it by circumstance, meaning that Cazador quite literally stripped him of his “humanity.” It’s something he lost and, perhaps — much like his reflection — something he misses. Because it was part of who he was. Of his identity.

But let’s move on — let’s see how this continues. Let’s see just how important the concept of monster versus elf (or humanity in a broader sense) is to Astarion.

We get another example of this the night Astarion tries to bite Tav/Durge — the first major revelation, the first time Astarion finds himself exposed, stripped of all pretenses. Here’s what he says in the moment he feels judged, perhaps even feared.

I want to emphasize that here he isn’t pretending just to get what he wants — blood, protection, and so on. I know it’s easy to think that, given the precarious situation, but he says it because the idea of being seen that way genuinely hurts him.

Astarion suffers when he’s seen or treated as a monster.

In fact, the next morning — even after earning Tav/Durge’s trust, protection, and blood — when Shadowheart shares her thoughts, pointing out that considering the tadpole and the looming prospect of turning into Illithids, they’re all monsters, more or less, look at how Astarion reacts to that comment. Just look at his expression.

Every time someone points out that vampires are monsters, Astarion feels cut off. Different from everyone else, incapable of belonging anywhere or to anyone. Alone. Marginalized, despised, feared. A danger and nothing more — something without feelings or any kind of rights. And for most of the world, that’s exactly what he is.

Here are two clear examples of how vampires are perceived, shown through the words and attitudes of two characters directly tied to Astarion and his story — to his arc of transformation.

The first is Gandrel. To him, vampires are monsters to be killed. Period. There’s nothing more to say, no real reason even needed to justify it. You don’t ask vampires questions — about why they do what they do, or what led them there. You just drive a stake through their heart and move on.

It becomes even more evident during Astarion’s origin run, when Gandrel is told that the vampire spawn he’s hunting isn’t actually responsible for the kidnapping of his children. But to the hunter, monsters are monsters — nothing else matters.

The second example is Araj, of course, who sees Astarion as an object — more precisely, an object of pleasure. To her, he’s a thing, not a person with feelings, much less with rights. In fact, the drow even assumes he’s Tav/Durge’s property by default. And when she’s told that Astarion is a person, her response is truly awful — she doesn’t even consider it a possibility.

It follows that, although vampires and their spawn may indeed be “ferocious creatures,” as Astarion himself describes them when Tav/Durge finds the drained boar, the world is just as dangerous for them.

Ferocious. Hostile. Filled with eyes that watch them, despise them, and judge them as something less than people — mere threats to be eliminated.

It’s no wonder Astarion is terrified at the thought of being outside Cazador’s tight circle.

He’s the victim of prejudice, because Astarion believes he's and wants to be more than what he was created to be — a sacrifice, first and foremost. A monster, second.

And what does Cazador have to say about that?

Astarion is a monster. Period. No one would ever see him as anything else. He drinks blood and prowls in the shadows. His fate is to be feared, despised, and treated as something less than a person by everyone around him. To be excluded, to belong to nothing and no one, to be utterly alone — except within the only thing he’s ever known: vampirism.

BUT is it really so? Is it truly the way Araj, Gandrel, and Cazador see things? Astarion doesn’t want to be a monster — he wants to be seen differently. But he’s also afraid. Terrified. And this is where Tav/Durge comes in, which is incredibly powerful — narratively, emotionally, and in every other sense.

Tav/Durge is the person who makes all the difference in the world for Astarion — the alternative perspective. I’ve talked about it too: HERE.

Anyone who thought the mirror scene was just a lighthearted interlude to poke fun at Astarion’s vanity was completely mistaken.

Anyone who thought it was merely a way to flirt, earn approval points, or learn a bit more about what our beloved vampire spawn remembers of his past only got part of the picture.

I’ll never stop saying this — that question, in that scene, is the watershed moment between Astarion’s two possible paths. What Tav/Durge’s gentle gaze reflects is fundamental. It’s the way Astarion will begin to see himself, to perceive himself — he who has no reflection of his own. It’s pure symbolism. And it’s poetic.

But let’s take a closer look for a moment.

He worries about how others see him precisely because he feels separate, othered, like a monster. It’s not a matter of appearance—Astarion knows he’s gorgeous. He’s heard it thousands of times over the centuries. But he’s insecure about his place within the group, within society, within the world.

That’s why he appreciates it when Tav/Durge reassures him on the two things that trouble him most—his piercing gaze (the red eyes of a vampire) and his dangerous smile (the sharp fangs of a predator). He relaxes because, in that moment, he feels accepted. Because he realizes his defining traits aren’t the insurmountable barriers he thought they were. Because the person in front of him sees him—not through the lens of prejudice, but for who he really is.

Let’s not forget that the theme of what Tav/Durge sees in him continues all the way to the end of the story from this point onward. And being seen is perhaps one of the most intimate and fundamental desires of every human being on this earth.

Astarion keeps repeating it again and again, in different moments and contexts throughout the game — but always with the same meaning.

“I can’t be what you see in me,” he says after the encounter with Dalyria and Petras, just one step away from the ritual and from Cazador. In the moment when his vampiric nature, his fear, and the pressure of the situation all push him toward what seems like the safer path. (And let’s be honest — it’s quite a fitting revenge against his tormentor: to snatch away the work of a lifetime just a breath away from the finish line.)

“But you saw something in me,” he says the morning after giving up the ritual. "Someone else I could be."

Someone different from the monster described by Gandrel, someone different from the object seen by Araj, someone more heroic than Cazador could ever imagine.

And if you’re in a romantic relationship with him, during the love scene in the graveyard he echoes the same truth once more:

“With you, I feel safe. Seen.”

Fuck, I’m crying as I write this.

The same happens here, when during Astarion’s confession in Act II, Tav/Durge might make the mistake of misreading him and pushing things a little too far — but can make amends by explicitly asking how he wants to be seen.

And this is his answer.

A person. Like everyone else. Like the hundreds who live in Baldur’s Gate and across Faerûn — same rights, same responsibilities.

Not a monster. Not an object. Certainly not someone’s property or an evil vampire lord who sees everyone beneath him.

Simply a person, equal to all the others; to whom we normally attribute all the values and dignity that come with being human.

But what does it mean to be a person? What does it truly imply?

Being a person is not merely a biological or legal condition. It is, first and foremost, a recognition. It means that the world — that others — see you as a subject, not an object. That they attribute to you will, voice, desires, and boundaries.

On the level of rights, being a person means having control over yourself — a body that belongs to you, a mind that cannot be imposed upon, a freedom that no one has the authority to grant or revoke. It means equality before the law, inviolable dignity, and the right to respect, regardless of strength, origin, or form.

But on a deeper, ontological level, being a person is also a quality of being. It means being aware of yourself — of your limits, your pain — and, at the same time, of the pain of others.

It means to feel: empathy, fear, love, shame, desire. It means knowing that you exist with others, and that your worth grows the moment you recognize theirs.

That’s why the line “I want to be seen as a person” is so powerful: because it is the universal plea of someone who wants to become "human" again — and who asks the world to acknowledge them as such.

From the very beginning of the game — from the very first encounter — Astarion has been saying that he doesn’t want to be a monster.

That he doesn’t like being a monster, or being seen as one.

He wants to be more than what he was created to be.

And he’s not just talking about his condition as a slave or a ritual sacrifice. No — that would be too simple, too superficial, at least in my reading.

In fact, the moment Astarion kills Cazador, rejects the ritual, and frees his brothers and sister, he’s quick to reaffirm exactly that point.

It’s worth noting how Astarion revisits the concept using the very same word Gandrel used back in Act I: parasites.

It follows exactly from this: his brothers and sisters can go on hiding in the darkness and feeding on the blood of others — an existence built on surviving at the expense of others, like parasites.

The very same kind Gandrel spoke of: despised, feared, and hated.

Or they can choose to be more than that — more than mere monsters driven by bloodlust, the kind Cazador created, who could never be anything else, let alone heroes.

Now Astarion has hope, and he invites the others to follow his example, giving them hope as well.

And it’s filled with hope because he has seen and recognized the change within himself.

Because, thanks to Tav/Durge, he has experienced firsthand that not everyone thinks like Araj, or Gandrel, or Cazador — and that Tav/Durge is not the only one, not the exception, but the rule.

There is a place for him in the world, among people. And others can truly see him too

Because it is no longer his vampiric nature that defines him as an individual — not anymore.

He can manage it, even go against his own instincts, control them, and be better than how the most imagines creatures like him.

He can be a person again.

Like everyone else.

In this context, the letter from the Gur — the very vampire hunters who once called vampires monsters, beasts, and parasites back in Act I — is extremely significant.

It represents the farthest extreme, and yet even they have shifted their stance, changed their point of view.

It’s an immensely important acknowledgment — the first step toward a new era for vampires who wish to prioritize their human side and live alongside other people. No longer treated as something other. No longer alone in their condition.

I know I’ve already shared it elsewhere, but let me do it again — because it’s just beautiful.

"To the spawn Astarion,

Greetings from the family of Ulma, hunters of monsters and keepers of peace across Faerûn. We know this letter finds you well, for although we hunt you no longer, we do sometimes keep a watch. Your restraint and control over your bloodlust has been admirable. Indeed, it has been an inspiration for our children, who have struggled with their own hunger. These last months have been a difficult time for our people. We have protected and nurtured our children as best we can, and we have learned much. Herbs we once used to dull our foes' minds are now sedatives to ease hunger and pain, restraints built to hold the undead now protect them from themselves. There has been a lot of pain, but a lot of progress too. Our children learned discipline and control, while we learned compassion and patience. You saved our children first from Cazador, and then from us. For that, we thank you. We will watch you still, but with more admiration than fear.

Walk in peace, Astarion."

Astarion has made the impossible possible.

It’s an immense act — he’s given back dignity and humanity to those like him. Now he is no longer a monster, nor is he seen as one. And who knows what other wonderful things he might do in the future.

That’s why, when I place these two lines side by side, I feel a pang in my chest.

In the first line, he’s talking about the other vampire spawn who didn’t make it, mourning their deaths the morning after giving up the ritual.

He says it plainly: I went out into the world, I fought my nature, and I became more than a bloodsucking monster.

In the second, he defines himself as a monster.

To me, that’s something profoundly painful. It hurts. I don’t know how else to describe it.

It carries a deep sense of defeat — as if, in that moment, Astarion has completely yielded to prejudice, offering the world exactly what it expected of him.

The monster.

Exactly what Cazador, Gandrel, and even Araj were talking about. And now it’s him who says it — from his own vivid lips. The very same elf who, from the beginning of the game, has screamed — directly and indirectly — “I’m not a monster.”

The same one who once said: “I want to be seen as a person.” I find it all very, very sad.

To conclude, I want to say a few words about the cemetery scene.

It’s no coincidence that, in his Radiant Hopeful path, Astarion brings Tav/Durge there.

It’s a deeply intimate, profound, human act.

That is where his mortal life ended and his unlife under Cazador began. And now, in the same place, his unlife as it has been until this moment comes to an end — and something entirely new begins.

It is a symbolic rebirth.

Cemeteries have never truly been for the dead — they exist for the living.

To give them a place to reconnect with those who are gone, to remember them, to feel them close again, if only for a moment.

And that’s exactly what Astarion does. He visits the version of himself that once was — to acknowledge him, to remember him, to grant him dignity and a farewell.

Like one would with an old friend, long lost yet deeply loved, who once gave meaning to one’s life.

At the same time, he does it to anchor himself to his own mortality — to reclaim a sense of continuity, of belonging to an existence interrupted but not ended, one that reaches back into the past and now stretches toward the future.

Because, in some way, he is still the person who was once buried there.

He begins anew from that place, and that’s why he marks his own gravestone: a gesture both tender and devastating.

An act of great — and profoundly fragile — humanity.

And when he says he wants to live again, he means it in the most mortal, human sense of the word.

Until now, I have lain here — now it’s time to reclaim my life, whatever it may hold for me.

He has finally taken back what Cazador had stolen from him from the very beginning — the night of the Gur attack — his being alive, his being a person, his being human.

In the broadest and deepest sense of the word, since he is still an elf. And a vampire spawn, of course.

This is what I feel compelled to call a victory — regardless of what it may cost, even something as great as the loss of the sun.