Mermaids, Medicine, and Moody Men...

When the Master left, he tossed the spawn to the floor, kicked his ribs, and slammed the doors of the main hall closed, ordering him to get up and go find new victims; he was behind his siblings. The night was almost ending, but he couldn't care less if he burned in the sun coming back.

And yet, Astarion didn't move.

He will be punished for that.

His whimpers and pathetic noises have died down already, and he has stopped trying to get up. Something in his chest says that he needs to, he has to, or he will spend another year in a crypt.

And yet, his legs don't move.

His wounds don't heal: he hasn't been 'fed' in a tenday. His brothers and sisters have received this exact same treatment, but they have responded better to the torture. In an hour or two, they caught a bird or a cat, and they were all better, ready to resume the day. But Astarion, as usual, was unable to follow suit.

The runt of the litter, Petras called him. Gods, how he despised that pathetic fool.

In front of him, a singular line of light appears. It's the morning sun, greeting him like a promise.

An hour passes, and it inches closer. Astarion panics for about a second, but then… Then he imagines how it would be to just… stop being. It would hurt, yes. But would it be worse than this? Vampires are immortal, and he has already given up the hope of being liberated by a righteous hero.

This is all he will be. A husk of a person he doesn't even remember.

Astarion watches it approach him. He watches it tickle his fingertips. He watches the sun run up his forearm, his stomach, his chest. He feels it land on the fresh wounds of his back.

Don't move. It'll be over soon.

The disgusting scent of burning flesh fills the room, and he closes his eyes for the first time since he was thrown to the floor. The compulsion his master has over him to keep him from ending it all begins to pull its threads on his body, getting stronger as the pain increases. An uncontrollable shaking takes hold of his muscles.

Astarion moans. He is too weak to move.

Gods. Let it be quick.

A sudden squeak echoes in the room. Astarion's eyes open wide, his eyeballs flickering in front of him as he searches for the rat that made the noise. He finds it, lifting its head in the air, seeking for the delicious decaying flesh that should be somewhere in the room.

Astarion swallows, blinking rapidly, but stays put. If he moves, he'll scare the animal away. He needs to let it get closer. He needs it to trust him to be dead.

So he closes his eyes. While the rat approaches him, his flesh burns. He wants to scream, but he forces his throat silent. The sizzling sound and the awful smell tense his body, but he is diligent in his intention.

He waits.

Soon enough, a soft tickle appears on his lips. The rat's tiny teeth are sinking in the soft tissue, tugging and trying to feast on them.

Now. It's time.

Animalistic instincts kick in, and a snarl leaves the spawn's throat as he lunges forward, sinking his fangs in the fur of the stupid rat. Its squeals echo in the room, but Astarion is relentless. Soon enough, a pool of fresh blood explodes in the vampire's mouth, and he drinks until the animal stops screaming. He drinks until it stops moving and fighting. He drinks until it dies and he is strong enough to roll away from the sun.

He crawls into a corner, claws digging into the fur of the rat, keeping it against his bloodied face. Eyes wide as the full moon, staring into the space as he sucks and bites and growls until his wounds heal and his blood stops pouring out of the cuts on his back.

Ten minutes later, he stands up and dresses up, not a sign of the animal he has been.

He leaves the room, his walking as elegant as ever, to try and steal Leon's sponge to clean off the rat's guts off his chin.