MeMoiAndY

But like... Even after 200 years of "pure shit" he's able to recognize what he's doing to the player and why, and once he cares for them he feels guilty enough to explain it to them. If you give your body to Haarlep he's the only character who recognizes how violating it is to have your body used without your consent, even if the player thinks they'll enjoy it at first. If you don't ascend him, and then set all the spawn free, he says they don't deserve to suffer just because he lured them into Cazador's clutches and recognizes that they deserve the chance he got as well.

He always respects others taking their freedom for themselves, which is a great display of empathy really. When Lae'zel or Shadowheart fight against their own oppressive masters he recognizes how difficult that is and he's proud of them.

I don't think it's just what he's learned from seducing victims for Cazador either, personally. Whatever he learned from doing that is more the kind of stuff we see from him in Act 1, the flattery and physical intimacy used to get the player on his side.

I don't think deep introspection would have been particularly helpful in his situation. Realizing how broken down he's becoming would only make it worse, it's better to delude himself that he's fine or that he deserves what's happening to him- but he doesn't. He never believes he deserves Cazador's treatment, he stays angry, angrier than any of the other companions about how they were abused. Even angrier than his siblings, which is probably why Cazador treats him especially poorly.

I think that's because he is aware the whole time that he doesn't deserve it, and it's happening anyway. That's why he's so bitter about power and heroes.

"Heroes didn't save me, Mindflayers did."

Because like... Yeah. He's right to some extent. A typical dnd hero probably would have "saved him" by killing him.

I don't think he ever truly lacks empathy or a moral compass, even in the beginning. I think it's more like he sees right and wrong perfectly clearly, and has decided from his observation of the world around him that it doesn't matter.

Power supercedes morality and justice in the end and I think that must have been hard for him. Which is why he's angry when the player tries to make him see it doesn't have to be that way.

Basically ...I've been writing a lot in Astarion's POV lately and the more I try to get in his head the less I think he was a corrupt magistrate when he was alive. I'm beginning to think he actually cared a lot about justice, and that's why he became one in the first place. My headcanon now is that instead of some unfair ruling leading to his death, it was a ruling against the powerful, and that's what got him killed.

Plus my tags from last year.

Yes, he is very emotionally intelligent, he can read people so easily and can recognize how they feel, what they want. He was just forced to use it against them until it became a habit.

It occurs to Astarion sometime during their tramping around the city. Perhaps because it's quite something, watching Lora. She stops a Fist harassing a family and, when cheerful negotiation fails, slams an elbow into the woman's nose; foolish bravery and savagery all at once, lying just enough to get the Fist off guard and then, bam, fountaining blood and his disbelieving delight. She frees the pitiful undead slaves from their master, destroying the jar that could have given her power and immortality and killing the crumbling bastard instead; she tells the zombies good luck and she shakes a rotting hand without a flinch in sight, and he loves her. 

He loves her? 

He loves her! 

He tests the idea in his head as he walks back to the Elfsong with her, his eyes on her back: tall and brave, hair a riot of colours. How are passers-by not all staring at her the way he is? Don't they know art when they see it? Idiots.

…Is this love? Is this what it feels like? He doesn't even know what it is, not really. Surely it's just gratitude that she's agreed to help him kill Cazador, that she's seen the state of him and for some reason, she's stayed.

This can't be love. Love makes people stupid. It's what he's peddled a million times while it makes people fall into Cazador's arms. Love is for the naive and the hopeful, an old lie that's long grown stale for him. He's not even capable of it, is he? Men love, and is there enough left of him to be a man? He doesn't even have a heart, not really - not one that works. He's a hastily-assembled set of old lines and cheap tricks, a used rag hiding himself in gaudy silks. There's nothing to him, not when you truly look.

But sometimes people thank him in her wake - they see him, just for a moment. He likes a cross hilt to hold and a dry red, even though it tastes like ash and vinegar. Karlach and Wyll and even Gale laugh at his jokes. It's fun to mock awful, tacky romance novels, and he knows a bad contract when he sees one. He likes softness - an ancient frayed blanket, velvet under his fingers that he chooses for a doublet, Lora's breasts against him and her plush mouth and the padded flare of her hips under his hands. 

He thinks he might be real, sometimes. More often, these days. Apparently real enough beneath the dust to fall, stupidly, for an absurdly tall bard. 

He thought they were careening vaguely in the direction of something more serious. It's just another thing to think those three little words when they're not part of a script. He knows she stayed; knows one of them sneaks into the other's bedroll every night; knows his heart lightens when he sees her. Sometimes she'll kiss him - a gentle peck on the cheek, neither like he's a dirty little secret nor pointedly proprietary - and she happily lets him take her arm while they look at market stalls. He realised as they walked along the city streets… They weren't so strange, or so different. He snuck a hand around hers, tentatively, and caught another perfectly boring couple doing the same. Room quietly made at his side, in his life.

Is that what love is? His fingers twined with Lora's, squinting at carrots he doesn't care about and doesn't remember the taste of because she needs them? 

Apparently so. 

My love, he says, carefully casual - an old nonsense endearment, but now his whole body sings with it. Fixing a shirt with one of the new needles she bought him and seeing her across the fire: Lae'zel bought her hair beads and they catch orange in the firelight, shining, like Lora's a sun all of her own. He pricks his finger and curses. Beside him, Karlach snorts and says, “Gods, I wish someone'd look at me like that,” while he glares at her. 

And Lora, of course, buys him thimbles, not realising she's the cause of his pathetic predicament, little gold-edged ones that match his shoes. She's ridiculous, she's absurd, he's never felt anything like this in his life; he wants to kiss her, he wants to lay her down and do utterly filthy things to her without two hundred years of nonsense in his head - 

Astarion always wakes just before sunset. Never with an alarm, never late. It’s as if the sky itself whispers his name when the light fades.

He can’t sleep in silence. There’s always a candle burning, a clock ticking, a sound - something alive. Absolute quiet unsettles him.

When he cleans his weapons, he hums softly. It’s not a melody anyone recognizes; maybe something he made up. Maybe something from before.

Astarion has found himself a small hobby. He collects scents. Once, after completing a contract to slay some monster, he spent all his reward money on new fragrances crafted by renowned perfumers.

During his travels as a hero through distant lands, he often speaks with herbalists and seeks out new, unusual scents on his own. Clay, plain little weeds with peculiar aromas, rare woods - the world is full of smell

In every region and city his adventures lead him to, Astarion finds a favorite place - a quiet park or a busy street where he can watch countless people going about their lives. Over time, he’s created his own personal map marking the spots he loves, the dull ones, and those that reek horribly. He could easily sell it as a tourist guide.

He also has separate, detailed opinions about the inns where he sometimes stayed for a day or two. He has met many innkeepers: a stout man who spoke with the volume of ten people, an elderly woman as quiet as the gentlest cat. Each place had its own story and style of service, which Astarion carefully recorded in his journal for future reference.

Astarion refuses to sleep in beds with plain sheets. He carries his own, always made of silk, neatly folded in a black case. “Some indulgences,” he says, “are non-negotiable.”

He collects local sayings. Half the time he doesn’t understand them, but he enjoys repeating them dramatically at the wrong moments.

For @arzen9 ❤️

Models: doublenyl.bsky.social

BG: @/bhaalbaaby

He not only has a huge target on his back as a new vampire lord but hes also so full of himself that his guard has been lowered so dramatically. If you dump him before he tries to turn you hes SHOOK when you kick him in the nuts. If you're Karlach he cannot COMPREHEND that she could possibly burn him when he tries to turn her and when she does it's a fault with *her* and not *him* because "hes perfect".

Its like when Durge betrays him at the end and a simple stab and shove sends him to his doom. Hes less mad at Durge but rather hes shocked and in denial. Basically a "but you cant do that?" reaction.

I think post game A!A would meet his end FAST. A long living Vampire Lord moves slowly. He plays the long game and has some caution about him. Astarion goes from 0 to 100 and has his eyes set on world domination. Its that cartoonishly evil mindset that's going to get him iced within 10 years at most.

But it also breaks my heart.

Decades of anger and frustration bursting out the moment he sees his siblings. The resentment for their past quarrels, the memories the meeting brings back, Petras' arrogance (which might remind Astarion of his own) and his blindness when it comes to Cazador. How Petras is determined to fall into another of the master's traps.

"...my old master Cazador, taunting his slaves with hope when he knew the game was rigged.” Astarion says in Act 1, and here he realises Cazador did again. And that it worked. Again.

But not with him.

Not anymore.

But there's also fear in Astarion's violence.

He sees himself in them, he sees who he used to be, who he could become again.

Seeing his siblings almost feels like a threat, even if they didn't attack him (yet), even if he was expecting to meet them.

And the cruelty he displays...

He's hurting Petras - with a weapon he used to fear: sunlight. And it does look terribly painful.

But it doesn't stop Astarion. I wouldn't say he's enjoying inflicting pain, but he doesn't seem to mind torturing Petras.

Because that's torture.

A display of power too. He shows them what he can do now: stepping in the sunlight, which gives him a great advantage against them, against Cazador. He wants them to envy him, to fear him.

He wants them to tell Cazador to fear him.

There's something very satisfying in watching this scene, I won't deny it.

But It's also sad, with Astarion falling back into his old bias. Those of a world divided between the strong (the abusers), and the weak (the victims).

Forgetting all that he's learned during the past weeks with the group.

Forgetting that maybe the world isn't that binary, that there are other ways, good people and hope for something else.

Forgetting that strength doesn't have to rely on cruelty and power over others.

But here, he wants to prove them - and prove himself - that he has joined the side of the strong ones, of those with power.

He is no longer a victim, therefore he becomes an abuser. Because there's no other way. That is, at least, how he's been perceiving it for so long.

And that's where meeting his siblings brings him back to. To a world in which abuse is the only language, and violence the only way to exist among others.

Control or be controlled.

Astarion is merciless in his raw pain. He thinks he has to use the abuser's techniques to be respected and to keep himself safe.

Therefore he treats his sibling just like Cazador would.

It's hard to blame him. Because his violence is understandable. This display of power makes sense when you know how powerless he felt for son long.

His anger is valid, his frustration is valid. His raw desire to impress and threaten his siblings is understandable.

But we also know he's more than that. He's not just that.

It's painful to watch him tumble back into that old bidimensional world of abuse. But it's also a warning.

It's not a coincidence if the mask is back on right after his siblings have left.

How can so much pain and anger subside so quickly?

WeIl. They didn't.

Those painful feelings are still there. He just swallowed them back. Because he feels like he needs to be in control again. He cannot allow himself to feel miserable.

Cazador is too close. Astarion can't let him become a threat.

Astarion feels like he has to be the threat. Because he thinks that it's the only way to feel safe. Hence the attempt at manipulating you again concerning the ritual.

Because after such a ravaging emotional turmoil, he cannot even imagine that there's another way, another world. A world in which he doesn't need power to be strong.

I saw the art on the bottom (made by @andsylphy) a while ago on Pinterest, and I really wanted to write something about this. To be honest, I wanted to keep it short and only focused on one scene, but somehow the dialogue happened, and it grew much longer than I intended.

Astarion hasn't said much. Not since the crypt.

He isn't triumphant, nor devastated. Just... tense. Pensive.

And still covered in blood. Cazador's blood.

The sky is bright, but the day is turning in, making the narrow streets of the Gate slip into dusk quite too eagerly.

It doesn't hide your dishevelled state from passersby, who flinch and cling to the opposite walls, quickening their steps as they fix their eyes on the ground or stare with fear, or even with shameless curiosity. Blood isn't a rare enough occurrence in this city to cause panic. Especially these past days.

But none of you cares.

You keep by Astarion's side – not too close, but enough that he can feel your presence nearby. But you don't talk, and even your friends only exchange brief remarks with hushed voices. Everyone can feel that thickness in the air when too many things have happened to try to put them into words just yet.

You reach the Elfsong's tavern, and the heavy steps on the stairs quiet down as everybody retreats to their corners with exhausted exhales.

Everybody except one. Astarion carelessly drops the weapon on the floor, runs his hand through his messy, silvery hair stained with dark red. Starts pacing the room, stopping to crawl out of the leather armor and toss it near his bed, only to keep measuring the lodgings with his restless steps.

You stand there, watching him helplessly, then carefully settle your weapon against the nearby wall. Your companions exchange worried glances with you, but you just answer with a little, tired smile and nod. There is a quiet understanding between you. They keep to themselves; some leave the room, like Gale, who heads over to the doors, muttering something about checking the supplies.

Astarion finally halts mid-step and wearily sinks onto the edge of his bed, elbows dug against his knees and chin pressed against his hands, staring into the silent space in front of him.

You squeeze the fabric of your shirt over your heart, as if trying to physically make it quiet and stop hurting so much. If you feel that way, how must he feel right now?

But Astarion needs you now, and you can deal with your emotions later. You cast another glance at your beloved elf, wondering what you can do for him right now. Does he want to be alone? Should you give him space or try to talk? And what can you even say?..

Your loving eye follows his features, so familiar and dear now. And still tarnished with blood. You swallow and turn away before the ache in your chest can overwhelm you.

When you return, a basin of warm water weighs heavily in your hands, steam curling faintly in the light. A soft cloth rests across the rim. If words are failing you, perhaps your hands can help you reach him right now.

Your steps are soft and deliberate as you approach Astarion – the last thing you want to do is to startle him.

He doesn't move as you lower the basin on the bed beside his thigh, then carefully climb onto the bed yourself. You sit there for a little while, legs neatly curled under your lap, until he finally shifts his attention to you.

Astarion blinks as he straightens and looks at you; weary crimson meets the soft concern in your gaze.

You smile just with a corner of your lip, and he answers with a still tired yet warmer look. Then his gaze drops down to look at the basin. The water faintly glistens in the dim light of the inn.

His fingers brush over the rough, brittle smear on his cheek absentmindedly, and realization flickers in his darkened red eyes. But the intention slips away, as if even the thought of cleaning himself feels too heavy right now. You pick up the cloth from the rim, squeeze it to rid of the excess moisture, and bring it up, showing it to Astarion with a somewhat inquiring wave of your wrist. The vampire nods, his body shifting ever so slightly toward you.

You stroke away unruly curls from his face and softly press the warm, damp cloth to Astarion's temple, tapping it lightly. Water drops run down his skin, caressing it along the way. He closes his eyes and tilts his head closer. Your hands move with more confidence now, but your rhythm and movements remain gentle, with little pauses to confirm he still doesn't mind your ministrations.

It's not even about washing the stains away. You want to be there for Astarion and remind him he is not alone, even if he is not ready to talk about what happened in the castle yet.

The cloth's caress is almost reverent as you slowly make your way through all the dried blood and start to see the pale skin underneath. Your thumb carefully grazes the skin under Astarion's eye, and he lets out a soft sigh, slightly nuzzling in your warm palm, as if grounding himself in your touch, your scent.

The light gradually returns to his crimson eyes - lighter, more present. 

“I... This is not how I expected to feel.” He finally breathes out, watching you rinse the cloth in the lukewarm water.

You hum in acknowledgement, not interrupting, just listening. You haven't even noticed how helping him has soothed you as well. How the air has enveloped the heaviness into something intimate and hushed, shielding you both in your own little world.

As you trace his neck, washing away the droplets of blood, Astarion continues.

“Wasn't I supposed to feel... victorious? Elated, even. Finally free of that wretched Cazador. We should be celebrating right now. And here I am, sulking and brooding yet again. Pathetic, am I?..”

There is a trace of familiar resentment in his voice, yet his rounded eyes are trembling with vulnerability, both hopeful and terrified to hear your verdict.

“I don't think so,” you reply with soft firmness in your voice; your hand never stops moving. “You can just be, Astarion. No one tells you what to feel. You can just be, my sweet. And I'll be right here. If you have me.”

You feel his shoulders relax as the tension starts leaving his body. Astarion lets out a sound that reminds a tired laugh.

“If I have you... This ought to be my question, my dear. Isn’t it?” The vampire spawn narrows his eyes slightly, his chin pointing up in that defiant gesture of his, challenging your kindness over and over again.

“Was I too dreadful back then? Stabbing that bastard again and again. A monster in the flesh – the resemblance couldn't have been more striking.”

There is that bitter humor in his voice that cannot mislead you. Astarion's eyes are piercing yours as he waits to hear what you say yet again.

You take his hand, the one that was clenching the dagger just a while ago, and start meticulously cleaning the dried blood from his forearm and fingers, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. And it is, because it is him. The man you love.

“You were terrifying.” You say with a warm yet sad smile hiding in the corner of your lips. Isn't that something he would usually be delighted to hear? “But the monster lies on that floor. Defeated by you.”

“I wanted him to feel everything. Every damn year, everything he took from me.” He continues, watching you take care of his other hand. Astarion's voice is even, almost indifferent, but you can hear a painful strain in it. He doesn't seem to feel regret, but it must still be weighing him down, the picture still too vivid in his memory.

“...You did what you needed to do. To be free. To let go.” You feel your heart pounding in your chest as you settle the washing cloth away and carefully cup his face. You wish you had all the right answers that could make him feel better. But the words felt like helpless sounds flowing from your lips in a desperate attempt to comfort and soothe, all while knowing perfectly well that it isn't so simple. “You walked away from that horrid ritual and saved thousands of other spawns, Astarion. You are still here. Still you.”

“Then why do I feel so empty?..” Astarion groans and leans forward, resting his forehead against your shoulder as he pulls you closer.

You drop the cloth and wrap an arm around his frame, your other hand sinking into his curls. He trembles faintly, overwhelmed after everything, after release. So you rub his back, vaguely feeling the raised lines of old scars through the thin fabric of his shirt.

The moments pass, and Astarion raises his head, his eyes studying your face, as if he is seeing you for the first time in a while.

“You are still here,” he says, quiet but pensive.

“I am.” You simply confirm, your eyes meeting him without a flinch. 

He leans in closer, red eyes half-lidded, and lightly – almost tentatively – presses his forehead against yours. You shift slightly closer, your eyes shut as you feel something soft tremble inside of you, savoring the moment of connection. 

Later, Astarion lets you coax him to lie down on the bed. You curl into his side, and he settles his head upon your chest, your legs cozily intertwine.

For a while, you just stay like that, your fingers lightly threading through Astarion's silvery white hair in soothing and affectionate caress. You know he is still awake, his thumb brushing patters on your skin mindlessly as he is listening to your heartbeat.

After a while, turning his words around in your mind, you whisper a sudden thought that comes to you.

“Maybe it feels empty because it's a new page.”

You don't explain it further – he understands what you are trying to say. You know it because you feel how Astarion freezes for a second, and then you feel his weight sink more fully against you. He places a soft kiss – barely a touch even – on your chest and closes his eyes. 

“You always know what to say, do you.” He mumbles quietly against your skin.

“Not even the slightest idea.” You murmur with a smile and rest your chin against his head. “But I'm glad if it's working.”

You hear him – or rather feel – chuckle softly as he holds you tighter. Slightly possessive but tender grip.

“Apparently it does, for me.”

“Good.” You kiss his hair.

Your hand never stops moving – across his back, along his shoulder, the side of his neck – every gesture whispering ‘you are safe.’ And slowly, his body begins taking it in. The stillness in him isn’t numb anymore, but restful.

Astarion lets out a soft breath – more a sign of contentment rather than need. He’s asleep. And soon you follow, your eyelids close with comfortable heaviness as you drift off to join him.

Maybe tomorrow you'll be ready to start clean, from the new page. But tonight you just hold onto each other, because for now this is enough.