Lamentable is the Autumn Picker Content with Plums

The Fool and Strength

The quiet snapping and cracking of the fire was all that filled the silence. A tired bitterness had settled in Astarion’s chest. He didn’t want to feel this way, hadn’t wanted to think about any of these people, and now the last two cards may as well have been boulders - he no longer had any interest in lifting them. Didn’t think how there could possibly be a point, either, and was about to voice that, when he and Asmodea were interrupted by Halsin emerging from his tent. The druid paused to light his pipe with a flickering flame rising from the tip of his finger, and headed to them.

“Am I interrupting a game?” he nodded at the cards.

“A reading,” answered Asmodea, “of Astarion’s love life.”

“With but a single deck?” Halsin asked with what appeared to be genuine surprise, to a vitriolic glare from Astarion. “Only a jest, friend, I meant no harm.”

“I’ll have you know, Astarion’s heart is a resolute maiden of high virtue, strict standards and immaculate moral integrity,” said Asmodea. “Would you like your own fortune read once we’re finished?”

The druid shook his head. “I will abstain. Those who look to the past and future do not see the life before them. Turning over the stones of the past muddies the waters one must wade through, and to know the future is to be trapped by it. I prefer to live in the present.”

“Wise,” shrugged Asmodea. “Boring, but wise. Suit yourself.”

“It was my intention to commence my watch, but… Shall I stay, or is this a private affair?” asked Halsin.

“It doesn’t matter whether you stay or go, these will be nothing but lies anyway,” Astarion gestured at the two remaining unturned cards. “The ‘Death’ card was the end of it. I know it was.”

“Aw, all that flirting ever since you tried to kill me, and you won’t pretend you’re hopelessly smitten by me?” Asmodea tsked, half-heartedly.

“I wasn’t trying to kill you,” Astarion said, patiently, ignoring an amused chuff from the druid as he settled to smoke his pipe next to them. “I was only trying to take you hostage. …And then I tripped.” Would he never live it down? “…Anyway, you don’t need it,” he added. “…Nor deserve it.”

“Thanks… I think,” Asmodea frowned. “But as for the cards - there’s still present and future.”

The notion was surprisingly distressing to Astarion. “Eternal youth and beauty, immortality, vampire charm and magnetism, and I’ve only two significant trysts ahead of me?!”

“Oh, now your heart isn’t enough of a whore,” Asmodea laughed. “The cards only see as far into the future as the circumstances you’ve laid with your actions will allow. Your entire life isn’t spelled out in the stars, you are the master of your own fate.”

“That’s not what other fortunetellers say,” said Astarion.

“Other fortunetellers are quacks,” retorted Asmodea. “If everything is predetermined, then everything is pointless,” she added, seeing Astarion’s quirked brow.

“So you think there’s meaning to everything?” Astarion prodded. His two centuries of slavery, the countless times he’d gone on his back for someone else’s amusement, his ruined life, his ruined soul - was there meaning to all of it..?

“Nope, no meaning,” Asmodea said cheerfully.

“But you just said-”

“No meaning, no predetermination, no carefully laid out divine plans - only absolute chaos, and we’re all flailing around like helpless rag dolls, caught up in each other’s whirlpools, trying to create our own.”

“How is that any better?!” Astarion scoffed.

“It’s not!” she smiled. “It’s not better or worse, it’s just utterly meaningless, completely pointless, positively inane, and that… that is what makes it all so beautiful.” She grinned, ignoring his scowl. “Are you going to turn that card?”

With an exasperated growl, Astarion turned the next card, placing it the correct way up this time. It depicted an oblivious youth that was about to step off the edge of a cliff.

“Ah, the Fool!” Asmodea nodded at the card as though at an old friend. “…I didn’t realise you loved yourself that much, Astarion.”

“Frankly, I hate myself,” Astarion grumbled. He immediately regretted the words that came out of his mouth, as they were met with a bemused stare and a silence that lasted several heartbeats too long for comfort.

The awkward moment was broken by Asmodea leaning forward conspiratorially, as though to whisper a secret. “What a foolish thing to say,” she said, with a wink.

Astarion’s momentary embarrassment once again replaced by the habitual state of mild vexation this woman kept him in, he shook his head and took another swig from his bottle. “Funny,” he said. “But really now, what does it mean?”

“It’s… similar to Death, in some ways, actually. Where Death was a rebirth, the Fool is a new journey and a clean slate. It’s infinite potential and possibilities. It’s optimism and freedom, spontaneity and courage, wonder and curiosity. It’s boundless joie de vivre.”

“It’s zhwah dewhat? What language is that, even?”

“I’ve got no idea.”

Astarion sighed with exasperation again. “Again, that sounds lovely. So what’s the catch? …Why is it called the fool?”

“Well just look at this idiot,” Asmodea gestured at the image on the card, “he’s got no idea where he’s going or what dangers lie ahead. One wrong step and he’ll fall to his doom.” Astarion looked more closely at the card. A little yapping dog was at the fool’s heels, whether trying to protect and warn him of the dangers ahead or spurring him on - he could not tell. “The Fool is completely unprepared for whatever is to come his way,” continued Asmodea, “but he will face it anyway. He’s diving in headfirst without knowing how deep the waters are. He simply believes that everything will always turn out fine.”

Well that settled it - the card wasn’t about Astarion. Nothing in his life had ever turned out fine, nor had he ever expected it to.

“How can the Fool be so sure of that?” asked Astarion.

“He’s not,” retorted Asmodea. “He can’t be sure of anything, he simply believes and takes risks anyway. He’s very little to lose, after all. All his worldly possessions are in that little sack. Nothing’s tying him down.”

“Great,” Astarion clicked his tongue. “So my next big ‘flame’ will be an idealistic, impulsive, air-headed idiot tramp incapable of forethought, precaution and basic planning. Thank you for the warning, I will be on the lookout.”

“The Fool is joy and adventure!”

“The Fool is a cretin.”

As the two continued to bicker, Halsin quietly smoked his pipe, flicking his gaze from one to the other, and wisely said nothing at all.

“I’ve had enough,” Astarion said, eventually. “Let’s just turn the last one so this can be over and done with.” He carelessly flipped the remaining card, making it land on top of the Fool card. The image he uncovered depicted a woman wrangling some kind of beast with enviable nonchalance. “What in the hells is that?”

“Strength,” said Asmodea. “You’ll appreciate this one. It embodies courage, inner strength and fortitude. Compassion and the willingness to help others even at one’s own expense. Patience. In other words, everything one might require in order to handle you.”

Astarion snorted, allowing her this quip. “Finally, something nice,” he mused.

“I know, isn’t it?” Asmodea sighed wistfully. She then pointed at the image. “The beast the figure is handling signifies fears, passions and desires. She’s not attempting to kill the beast, she is only restraining it until the right time for the beast to be unleashed. Until then, she is calm, collected and in control.”

“And when the beast is unleashed?”

“Depends,” shrugged Asmodea. “When it comes to enemies - wrath. When it comes to lovers - passion.”

“Well then,” said Astarion. “As much as I’d love to complain, I’m afraid I’m going to have to be content with this one.”

Halsin had risen to commence his watch, having turned into a bear to patrol the perimeter. Astarion and Asmodea continued to linger at the fire: Asmodea taking her time to pack away her cards and other items, Astarion simply gazing at the embers.

The reading had been accurate, he knew. Uncomfortably so. And none of it painted him in a good light: not the past itself, not his outbursts and admissions - it all threatened to ruin his carefully laid groundwork. What woman ever wanted to hear about her lover’s (however loosely that term applied to them) past, or, even worse, future affairs? He had to make amends before she became completely disenchanted with him.

“What about you?” he asked. “Were you reading your own fortune before I joined you? Do you know what lies ahead?”

Asmodea shook her head. “I was trying to make sense of the past, not looking into the future,” she said. “I agree with Halsin: I don’t want to know what’s ahead.” She had finished putting away her things, and stretched her legs before the fire. “I don’t think a reading would work for me anyway.”

“Why? What makes you so special?” asked Astarion.

She leaned back on an elbow, watching the dancing flames while Astarion watched her. She seemed to glow in the amber firelight. The effect was ethereal - so much so, Astarion could almost believe she was a creature truly capable of scrying his past and future with some divine gift, and hadn’t merely produce a series of coincidences.

“Fate can’t touch me, because I never let it know my next move,” she said, giving Astarion a wry smile. “It’s when you fall into patterns and fit into ruts and grooves that destiny catches you and forces you onto a path.”

“Not you, though,” Astarion cocked his head.

“Nope. One day I’m becoming a warlock and getting abducted by mindflayers, the next I’m pulling wizards out of portals, fighting goblins and fucking vampires. Fate wouldn’t even know where to begin with me.”

“And how much of that was by your own choice, really?” chuckled Astarion. “To me it seems more like fate is hurling any random nonsense at you and seeing what sticks.”

“Shhhh…” Asmodea shushed him, reaching to place a finger against his lips. “I don’t like all this sense you’re making.”

Astarion needed to get back on track. He took her hand from his lips, holding on to it.

“How about I read your fortune?” he asked.

“You?” she laughed. “Since when do you have the skill?”

“I can read a palm as well as any painted carnival gypsy, darling,” he said. “Shall I?”

Asmodea laughed again, but agreed, sitting up to let him observe her palm comfortably.

None of the thoughts that entered Astarion’s mind as he circled the palm of Asmodea’s hand were helpful.

For instance, there was the thought that for elves and their sensitive palms, in terms of intimacy and impropriety, suddenly grabbing and playing with one’s hand was only a few steps below casually pinching someone’s ear. That in turn was only marginally more acceptable than giving someone a casual tug or pat on the groin as a greeting. It simply was not done.

As for half-elves, one never knew which elven or human traits they had inherited. Though if one did not know - one could plead ignorance and not grant them the same considerations as one would an elf. And so Astarion pretended not to notice Asmodea’s face flush as he lightly traced the lines on her palm. Attuned as his vampire hearing was to it, he picked up on her heart rate rising as well. It was all extremely distracting. Now what in the hells could he say about her damned fortune..?

He cleared his throat. “My, just look at that broken, shattered heart line - are these your seven annual paramours?”

“That’s the fate line,” she corrected him, grinning. “I told you, fate’s got nothing on me.”

“And this ah…”

“Head line,” she helped.

“…Wait, really? This short little thing? Well that certainly explains a lot…”

Asmodea’s fingers curled into a fist, turning and leaving only the middle digit extended for Astarion’s perusal. He snorted and took her hand back into his, to continue.

“But never mind that, your life line - shh, I do know that one - certainly makes up for it… Deep, strong… Hmm, are there supposed to be two of them..? And as for this…”

“Love,” offered Asmodea.

“Yes, I know, love line. Long and curved. Almost like a smile. Well it’s good that you’re so optimistic, all things considered.” He snickered, narrowly avoiding the same hand rising to flick him on the forehead, before settling back.

“What else…” He was, however, rapidly running out of things to say. “…Oh. Oh no! Oh, darling!!” he said with mock horror, leaning in toward her palm.

“What? What??” Asmodea played along, also leaning in until they were both hunched over her hand, their foreheads nearly touching, as though trying to decipher minute text in an ancient tome. “What do you see?”

“It…” he held a theatrical pause. “It says here you’ve slept with a clown,” Astarion said, hushed, looking up at her.

“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” she whispered back without missing a beat, looking up to meet his gaze.

Caught off-guard, Astarion broke away, laughing. Asmodea’s hand was still in his, fingers now interlinked. He discovered he didn’t want to let go, though he no longer had an excuse or reason to keep holding it, and no longer knew what to do with it. He brought it to his lips to kiss the knuckles, looking into her eyes. Her gaze and smile had softened, somehow turning the moment intimate in a strange way he had not intended. Well. He could always steer back into more familiar waters.

“Come to my tent tonight?” he purred.

Some regret flashed on Asmodea’s features as she responded. “Tempting, but I am utterly exhausted and can’t wait to get to sleep…” she said.

A pang of disappointment stung him. “Of course… Well, we don’t have to-” he began to say before cutting himself off. Didn’t have to what? If it wasn’t for sex, then what in the hells would it be for? Meanwhile, Asmodea lifted a quizzical brow, waiting for him to finish what he was saying. “We don’t have to,” he said, releasing her hand. “Let’s not keep each other from our beauty rest.”

“Another time,” she said, getting up. “Good night, Astarion.”

It was as though a spell had broken. The night was cold and quiet, and he was alone. He had no choice but to get up and retire to his own tent.

Astarion tossed and turned on his shabby bedroll. What an absurd night it had been. The memories that had resurfaced had not been pleasant - it was all bittersweet, with an emphasis on ‘bitter’. Yet now that the initial shock of the memories returning had subsided, they no longer perturbed him. It was all done and dusted, the flames snuffed out so long ago that all traces of smoke had long blown away. None of those spectres seemed inclined to haunt him any longer.

What did haunt him was an image of Asmodea’s eyes, which seemed to be ingrained in his mind. Green eyes, the same colour as that of leaves when morning sunlight filtered through them - he knew what that looked like, now. Verdant even in the light of the fire. Speckled with flecks of gold, which seemed to flicker and shimmer in the light. The way they lit up her entire face when they laughed at him, those eyes, even when she tried to remain deadpan. He would have recognised them from a thousand.

He groaned and turned again, trying to chase the image from his mind.

Ridiculous, absurd, foolish thing...

Astarion’s own eyes suddenly shot open.

No.

A harrowing realisation began to sink and take root in his gut.

No, no, no, no, no, no, no…

It spread and washed over him, ignoring his feeble attempts to reject and deny it, knocking over the walls he had reinforced with hostility and resentment. It stayed deaf to his pleading as it carelessly trampled through the fields he had carefully sown with his bitterness.

It laughed at him with the sound of her laughter: explosive, nerve-grating, too-loud, and undeniably contagious. He did not join in this time, instead he lay, staring up into the roof of his tent, in what could only be described as resigned surrender.

“Shit.”

~~~~~

*roll credits*

Тhank you so much for reading! I hope you've had as much fun (or, you know, whatever other appropriate emotion given the subject matter) reading as I have writing this collection of stories. This work is part of a larger series, so if you enjoyed Astarion being at his wit's end with Asmodea - there's plenty more of that across my other writing here. Leave a comment and you'll make my day.

Thanks again. I love you. ❤

Death

Asmodea hesitated before allowing Astarion to draw the next card.

“We don’t really have to keep going if you don’t want to, you know,” she said.

“What? Weren’t you just boasting about how flawless your readings were? Why stop now?”

She bit her lip before answering. “This was supposed to be fun, but you’ve been growing more solemn with each one. And we’re getting closer and closer to the present with each one, making it hit closer and closer to home, and… are you sure you want to have those memories stirred..?”

It did feel somewhat like self-flagellation. Each turned card had been an old wound. And yet… And yet Astarion felt like it needed to be done. So much has been taken from him. But these memories were his, even if it pained him to unearth and acknowledge them, and he wanted them back.

“Yes, I’m sure.” He reached for the next card.

He knew what was coming. Each card thus far had signified a momentary lapse in judgment, a weakness, a vulnerability. Much as he had tried to steel himself after Taliesin, he’d slipped and failed again some decades later, and this failing - he still remembered. He didn’t even bother to look as he turned the card. Instead, he watched Asmodea’s face.

Asmodea looked troubled.

“Well?” he said, after a silence held a tad too long. “What’s the verdict?”

“Death,” she said, as Astarion finally deigned to look down at the card which depicted a skeleton and a scythe, “is actually a positive card. Its meaning is often misunderstood, but at its core, it is pure, indestructible, indiscriminate. It doesn’t signify an end, but a new beginning. A future full of possibilities. Transformation. The shedding of the old, to allow for rebirth and renewal.”

“Oh,” Astarion said, surprised. “Well that’s… that’s wonderful, isn’t it?” Perhaps he had overestimated his sentiment, and it was all nothing after all. “Maybe it’s my future.” Maybe there was hope. He looked at Asmodea, but she was shaking her head, looking at him sadly. “Well why the hells not - you just said it has a positive meaning!”

“Because you placed it upside down.”

His fingertips traced reassuring circles on the skin of her bare thigh.

The slit of the skirt had ridden up too high, again, and he’d had to fix it. Taking a sip of his wine, he lightly nuzzled the shell of her ear with the tip of his nose, before bring his lips to it, the perfect image of a sensuous lover lazily whispering sweet nothings to his belle.

“For hells’ sake, stop squirming - you want to leave something to the imagination.”

“My leg’s fallen asleep,” she whispered back.

“No, it hasn’t.” Catching an annoyed look, he leaned back and laughed, as though she’d said something funny, before returning to murmur secretively in her ear. “Your blood doesn’t circulate. No circulation - no limbs falling asleep - no pins and needles - no excuses for any discomfort. You, of all people should know this.”

Dalyria clicked her tongue, quietly, but resumed her position on Astarion’s lap. Scandalously-cut dress draped over her legs, just so, back arched, chest thrust forward, she leaned back against him, twirling a curl of his hair around a finger.

“Better?” she smiled sweetly, the smile never coming anywhere near her eyes.

“No.” He brought the wine back to his lips again and smiled. “You’re acting like a whore. Seduce, don’t advertise.”

Her grip on his hair tightened, just a fraction. “I am a whore,”she hissed, with a manic smile.

Astarion caught her chin with the tip of his finger, tilted it playfully to make her look at him. Tutted. “The way you are treated will depend on the way you are perceived, and the way you are perceived depends on the way you present yourself.”

He’d had to learn this lesson and many others some 150 years ago in a brothel. He’d never quite decided whether that had been a blessing or a curse. He supposed it was the difference between being given gradual swimming lessons, or being thrown off a boat in the middle of a deep lake. Regardless, the expectation was that he would swim, and swim he did. The same expectation was now being applied to Dalyria, Cazador’s newest spawn.

“You will be consumed no matter what,” he continued,“but as for whether you are savoured by a gourmand, or chewed up by a glutton - is up to you,” he said.

No, the brothel had been a blessing, he thought. There, he was an actor, a worker, a character. He played a role. Here, in this den full of couples looking to share and be shared, where he had taken Dalyria on seeing her lost and clueless, there was less protection from pretending they were anything but themselves.

“The couple by the bar,” he continued. “They’ve been watching us, with intent. Go talk to them.”

“And say what?!” she hissed, panicked, as Astarion sighed inwardly.

“Invite them to our table for a drink, but don’t linger, let them decide. Ignore the man, talk to the woman. She’ll make the call. Then come back.”

“Fine,” she said, tipping her own glass back for a generous mouthful of wine, for all the good it would do her - vampires weren’t immune to alcohol intoxication, but the intake had to be persistent and ample, else their bodies healed it faster than it could take.

“They look harmless,” he added with another reassuring squeeze of her leg, before sending her off.

Harmless, yes. That’s where he had started. Opting to search for malleable, trusting fools, who held no malice. Innocents with no bad intentions, who just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Then, once he hated himself sufficiently, he deliberately began putting himself at risk of harm, picking out those who would hurt and abuse him. And for a while, it was almost satisfying when he could deliver them to Cazador. It almost felt as though he was serving justice. His abuse was vindicated by their deaths. For a while at least, he could feel spiteful.

Then, eventually, he simply stopped caring one way or another. Innocent, thug, vagrant, whore, drunk. Anyone would suffice, as long as he could get his job done and be left alone in peace.

Dalyria would go through that full cycle, too. But she didn’t need to know it, yet. For now, she was still afraid of pain. Hadn’t yet dulled to shame. Still thought that she could avoid it. What a shock this all was for her, he thought. Physician General to the Parliament of Baldur's Gate turned vampire spawn. She was too good for this. Too smart, too educated, too proud, too dignified, too significant, too full of potential.

He had been too, once, he supposed. They had that in common. Among other things. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d shared anything in common with anyone, aside from all that made him despise himself. But Dalyria’s company - it reminded him that he was more than just that. He enjoyed it.

Cazador seemed to enjoy it also. For the past moon, ever since her turning, he had been toying with her. He’d dressed her in rich gowns, had the servants rouge and powder her, tend to her hair. He’d shared wine with her, engaged her in conversations as with an equal. Had even taken her to a masked ball as his companion - though he did take the precaution of compelling her to steer clear of anyone who might recognise her from her past life.

Still, at the end of each night, he deposited her in the spawn dormitory with the rest of her newfound ‘siblings’ - rattled, lost, yet unharmed.

This was the first time Cazador had ever sent Dalyria out to hunt. Why the sudden change - who knew? Perhaps he had grown bored of her already.

Oh, but there she was, returning. Behind her, the couple were exchanging excited murmurs. They better not come to their table empty-handed - Astarion had already spent all the coin he had pickpocketed earlier that night.

“Now what?” Dalyria whispered once she reached him. Poor frightened little thing, she looked like she was about to be ill.

“Just sit back, look pretty, watch and learn. I’ll do the talking.”

Astarion stood rod-straight, feeling a trickle of sweat trail down the small of his back. Cazador was too quiet. Sitting behind his desk, shuffling papers around, as though there was anything of importance in them. Pointedly ignoring him. All calculated gestures aimed to perturb him. Predictable bastard… It worked, though.

“You returned with Dalyria,” Cazador said, finally.

“Yes, Master.”

Agree. Play stupid. Don’t provoke him.

“I send her out so she can earn her keep, and you perform her duties for her.”

“We brought back a couple, one each.”

As soon as the words were out of Astarion’s mouth, he flinched. He knew better than to say anything that came across as an excuse or justification. Talking back was anathema.

“Do you think I cannot count, boy?”

“Of course not, Master, only… Only I fail to see the harm, as long as we each returned with a mark…”

Oh he was really digging himself a hole now.

“Yes, you never cease to exhaust me with your failings…” Cazador accepted Astarion’s meagre offering of self-deprecation. “But this is a new low, even for you. Despicable. Filthy.”

“…Master..?”

“Dufay saw you through the spyhole.” Ah, confirmation that the chamberlain does indeed jerk off behind some hidden eyelet at last… That still did not explain what Cazador had found so disagreeable. “He saw your incestuous perversions. Dalyria is your family, now. Your sister. How could you do something so disgusting?!”

Cazador’s hypocrisy had momentarily rendered Astarion speechless. So it was the family standpoint… All this posturing and pretence of a ‘family’ with Cazador at the helm as a ‘patriarch’ had not prevented Astarion being bent over the very desk Cazador now sat behind, only a few days prior, and countless times before. Was he not their ‘father’ in this caricature of a household..? The audacity of this man to throw stones in this glass house so freely.

Thankfully, Astarion’s stupefaction prevented him from sharing any of his thoughts - so much so that Cazador sought to draw them out himself.

“What have you to say for yourself?”

“I… I’m sorry, Master. I was only trying to… I did not think.”

“You never do.” For some moments, only the staccato of Cazador’s fingernails drumming against his desk filled the silence. “But Dalyria should have known better. Was this her doing? Did she lead you astray? Is that why you have disgraced your family so? Oh my gullible child…”

Traps within traps within traps… What appeared to be a lifeline could turn into a noose at any moment. Though this was no mere lifeline - Cazador was handing him the opportunity to shift the blame.

“No! No, it’s…” It’s what? His fault? His responsibility? One did not take the blame for anyone else’s wrongdoings in this ‘family’ - to do so was to sign a death warrant for both. “It’s shocking how useless and incapable she is, how pitiful,” said Astarion. “It was inevitable that she would fail, and I couldn’t stand the thought of it.”

“You and the other children stab each other’s backs for sport, yet you took pity on her.”

Empathy was weakness, to be exploited and punished. Still, perhaps Astarion could talk his way out of this. That was the trouble with Cazador. He would show lenience, on occasion, if one played his games. Rarely, but often enough that his spawn wouldn’t give up without first debasing themselves trying.

“I merely did not want you to be displeased, Master.”

Astarion had had his eyes trained on the ground at his feet throughout this audience. Usually, this was safe. It didn’t provoke, and it prevented him from having to look at Cazador - a sight that invariably made his stomach turn. Unfortunately, it seemed he would not be afforded such luxury this time. Cazador’s boots intruded on the space Astarion had designated for his eyes. A large, clawed hand tilted his chin upward, forcing Astarion to meet Cazador’s eyes.

These eyes now bore into Astarion, seeking and probing with the expertise for uncovering levers and triggers for pain, humiliation, dismay and hopelessness that could only come from having firsthand experience of having been on the receiving end.

From what Astarion had been able to piece together, Aurelia had known Cazador back when he was still Vellioth’s spawn. He’d also gathered that she had been thoroughly compulsed to prevent her from disclosing anything from that time. The most Astarion had been able to pry out of her was a brief shake of her head when asked ‘Was he always like this?’. This explained a lot about Cazador. It explained a lot about Aurelia, too, for that matter, not that Astarion gave a damn about her.

Regardless, for all of Astarion tribulations, all his manoeuvring, all his mental gymnastics, all his efforts at trying to be clever and say the right thing - within an instant he could tell that Cazador could see right through it. That he understood it all down to a ‘t’. That much was evident from the cold irony in his gaze. And still he made Astarion continue this pointless game.

“You sought to educate her, to prevent my ire.”

“Yes, Master.”

“It is not your place and responsibility to concern yourself with your siblings’ education.”

“I’m sorry, Master, I overstepped.”

“Roads to the Hells are paved with good intentions, my boy,” Cazador sighed. His hand left Astarion’s chin to straighten his collar, pick invisible flecks of dust from his shirt. The attention only made Astarion’s spine stiffen further. “But you are correct in your observations about Dalyria. She is lacking. I have been… negligent. I must now attend to her education personally. It is my burden to bear - educating, guiding and punishing my wayward children.”

Astarion wanted to howl. He knew it was written on his face - he had never been a good actor. Try as he may, he could not hide it from those prying, expectant eyes that were still boring into him. There was nothing, nothing he could do that wouldn’t only make it worse. Was this how Aurelia felt each time he was flayed for her..? He should beg for Dalyria, he knew. Admit his own weakness, but divert from her. Cazador would take pleasure in pushing him. He always did.

“Have you anything else to say, boy?”

Astarion swallowed, hard. Sought to find his voice.

“No, Master.”

A frigid hand rose to pat him on the cheek.

“You tried,” Cazador said with mock pity. “Now send Dalyria to me.”

“Yes, Master.”

Astarion hurried through the manor, searching. Dalyria wasn’t in the dormitory - a small mercy, that he wouldn’t be delivering the news before an audience.

He couldn’t fix it now. He couldn’t be anything but this small, cowardly, selfish, traitorous creature Cazador had always told him he was. Now the only thing that was within his control was preventing anything like this - this weakness - from ever taking hold of him again. He would never put himself in this position again.

At last, he spotted her in the foyer, studying the grim art that ‘decorated’ it. She turned, her face lighting up when she saw him. A bashful smile began to form on her lips, sending an ice spike through Astarion’s heart.

“Cazador’s sent for you,” he said before she could get a word in. “He’s in the study. Go now, without delay.”

“Oh. Alright then.” The naive thing, she expected it to be the same as the times he’d summoned her there for wine and conversation… “…Is something the matter? Why are you looking at me like that?” Should he warn her, or should he pretend ignorance and leave her blissfully oblivious as long as he could? “…Astarion?”

“…Whatever he says, agree with him, tell him you were wrong and that you’ll never do it again. Don’t pretend to be stoic, he’ll only make it worse. Thank him after.”

“Thank-” Dalyria blinked. “What are you talking about? Wrong about what..? Is he angry?”

“Go.”

And still she lingered, waiting for an explanation. This would, perhaps, be the last time she still asked “why?” instead of hopping when told to jump.

How would he look her in the eyes after..? He would have to, would he not?

Just tear the bandage off…

If he was to be the villain, then he would embrace the role.

“And one more thing… I hope you were paying attention yesterday, because you’re on your own from here on. Now do us both a favour and stay the hells away from me!” Please.

“But…” she said.

“But what?!” Astarion hissed.

“But what about… us?” she said, faintly.

“Us? US?!” Astarion exploded in a vitriolic guffaw. “Are you stupid?! There is no ‘us’! Never was, never will be.”

He wished she would shout and abuse him. Lash out at him, tell him he was nothing and no one, that she didn’t need him and couldn’t care less if she never saw or spoke to him again. Instead, he saw her blink back at him, a wounded look in her eyes.

“Of course, brother,” she said, quietly. Perhaps she understood, and all too well, after all.

Unable to look at her any longer, Astarion turned on his heels and fled.

Hours had passed and still she had not returned.

Astarion lay on his bunk pretending to sleep - not that sleep was possible in that racket. Violet was strumming, loudly, trying to figure out chords of a melody that continued to elude her. She played a segment, over and over, building it to a crescendo before inevitably flubbing in some way and starting over. The cacophonous result was positively maddening, and Astarion would swear she did it on purpose, if not for her genuine anger and frustration. Her skills had deteriorated since her turning - she had admitted as much herself. That which used to be effortless now took strenuous exertion. Trouble with songbirds and captivity, Astarion supposed.

To his other side, Petras was recounting a boring, pointless and frankly implausible tale of some pursuit to Yousen - another one of Cazador’s recent acquisitions. It baffled Astarion why Cazador had taken him - he despised gnomes and halflings. Perhaps it pleased him to kick a gnome around. Yousen’s addition to the family did alleviate some of the attention Cazador ordinarily paid Astarion. The gnome now brayed at Petras’s idiotic story. Unsurprising. Yousen was the only one who gave Petras the time of day, and Petras was the only one who didn’t treat Yousen as a footstool. The two had formed something that resembled if not an alliance then at least a truce.

Aurelia alone lay on her bunk, catatonically, without causing any disturbance, as she was wont to do. Though it had been a quiet time, Astarion did not miss the days when it was just the two of them. A viper’s den was more exciting than sharing a tomb with a silent corpse. Aurelia’s melancholy was contagious. Being exposed to it with no counterbalance made the difference between craving murder and craving one’s own death. Astarion knew where his preference lay.

He despised all of them. Dalyria was the first of Cazador’s spawn whom Astarion found even remotely pleasant. Intelligent, thoughtful, tactful, soft and sympathetic Dalyria. She was a timid ray of light in their dank serpentarium. How Cazador will enjoy snuffing that light out… How he is enjoying it right now…

Then a silence fell, pulling Astarion out of his reflections. Petras trailed off mid-sentence, Violet ceased torturing her lute. The very same moment, the scent of blood assaulted his nostrils. It held no allure, some putrid note prevented him from viewing it as food. He didn’t want to know, but he had to. He opened his eyes.

She clung to the wall as she shuffled forward. What little scraps were left of her dress only impeded her movement, threatening to trip her. Her slender back was a ruin of torn flesh, stripped and peeled to the very bone in places. If anything like this had been done to a mortal, they would have long died of shock. But Dalyria was no longer mortal, and so she kept shuffling along the wall, half doubled-over, and shaking with silent sobs. Silent until she had reached the dormitory, at least - perhaps because she had healed sufficiently, perhaps because a dam was breaking loose once more now that she had reached the company of her fellows - but a forlorn wail escaped Dalyria once she was inside.

This is my fault.

The next person to break the silence was Violet. “Oh shut your mouth before I give you more to cry about!” she spat, before returning to her lute, muttering about spoiled brats learning their place.

Yousen and Petras only stared at Dalyria, dumbly. Aurelia showed no reaction at all, barely even glanced at her sister. And as for Astarion, he was frozen with horror and indecision.

This is all my fault.

Should he get up and do something..? Do what? And what would be the point anyway - it wouldn’t change anything. No, it would only make matters worse. None of them ever comforted one another - not since Aurelia had finally learned that the best thing she could do was to simply stay away. That was the best, wasn’t it? Staying away. Or else the others would see, sense weakness, peck them both to death. No, he couldn’t, shouldn’t, must not…

This is all because of me.

Just as Astarion was on the verge of leaping off his bunk (though to do what exactly he had not yet decided), it was Yousen who broke out of his stupor and stepped forward.

“Hush, it’s alright, you can rest now,” he said gently. “Come on, let’s get you cleaned up.” He let Dalyria lean on him and led her away to the washing area.

Fucking gnome.

Astarion closed his eyes again.

The sound of sloshing water, Dalyria’s weeping and Yousen’s murmured nonsense came from behind the partition. On the other side of the room, Violet resumed the abuse of her instrument, now singing along to her strumming: no care or effort to her vocalisations, only volume, drowning out Dalyria’s cries. For once, Astarion was glad of it.

Attuned to minute sounds, Astarion’s ears still picked up another noise - a scurrying by his bed. He opened his eyes again, to see a rat. A rare treat to suddenly present itself. It paused within reach, stood on its hind legs, sniffed the air. He could’ve grabbed it, easily. Instead he only watched it skitter past, to be caught by Petras a few moments later. The cretin whooped, excitedly, eyeing his catch. Then some thought must have crossed the barren wastes of his mind, for he paused instead of sinking his fangs into the rodent. A crease formed between his brows as he contemplated the creature. He turned and walked over to the partition.

“Hey Dal… Dal! Here… It will help you heal a little faster. …But you owe me two, you hear?”

I could’ve done that…

Could’ve. Didn’t.

Some scratching at the back of his mind told Astarion that he was being watched. He looked up to see Aurelia studying him from atop her bunk - she likely had been for some time now. Her face as expressionless as ever, but he had long learned to distinguish different flavours of her melancholy in the 150-some years he had known her. This one was laced with a kind of understanding.

Astarion scowled and turned onto his side to face the wall. Fought the urge to curl into a ball. Lost.

Violet was still singing. Dalyria was still weeping as Yousen continued to pretend any of this could ever be washed away. Petras was using the rags that had been Dalyria’s dress to mop up the blood she had spilled on the floor of the dormitory.

Astarion began to idly claw at his own chest. The strength of a vampire spawn, at least of one that wasn’t starving, far surpassed that of an ordinary mortal. So did their pain tolerance and endurance. Suppose he could break through his own ribcage and tear his own heart out. Might that finally make this terrible ache stop..?

His claws dug in deeper, but the moment he drew a droplet of blood, his fingers refused to pierce any further. He giggled. ‘Thou shalt know that thou art mine.’ Silly, silly thoughts… Of course… What right had he to damage that which belonged to the Master? No, he couldn’t even kill himself if he’d tried.

“So what exactly does it mean, if it’s upside-down?” asked Astarion.

“There’s many ways to interpret this card, and all the others, but… What it comes down to, is missed chances and opportunities. Something that could have been, but never will be.”

Astarion hummed noncommittally. That much was true. He had been very thorough in enacting despise for Dalyria after that night. To do anything else would have been the same as laying his own neck, and hers, on the butcher’s block. Aurelia had pitied him, back when it was just the two of them. She had pleaded and begged on his behalf, and that had made it so much worse… He had known better than to make the same mistake.

“Was it ‘the one that got away’?” Asmodea’s question broke him out of him ruminations again.

“Not exactly,” he said. “…Actually, it wasn’t that at all, it wasn’t anything, really, and couldn’t be, anyway, because… Well...” He sighed. “…Because they died.”

Close enough.

Asmodea nodded and asked no more about it.

~~~~~

Next part coming in a week's time. It will be lighter, I promise!

Thank you for reading! If you liked it, you can find more of my writing here. Leave a comment and you'll make my day. ❤

The Magician

“Oh don’t look so smug,” said Astarion, after throwing a glance at Asmodea. “So there were three vague coincidences that happened to jog my memory. That doesn’t mean anything.”

“There will be four more ‘coincidences’ before the end of the night,” smirked Asmodea. “Deny it all you want - you’re still here, and you’re as curious as I am. So go ahead, pull the next one.”

Astarion reached and turned over another card. Sighed. Looked up to meet Asmodea’s eyes, as she fought desperately to keep a straight face.

“I am not in love with Gale,” he said.

She snorted and burst into laughter at last. “Pity. And are you sure? A sensuous vampire and a virgin wizard - what a romance that could be!”

“Virgin?” Astarion gasped, bringing a hand up to clutch non-existent pearls. “The man beds goddesses! Haven’t you heard?”

“Please,” Asmodea rolled her eyes. “But my, the two of you… Why it could inspire a thousand minstrels. A mountain of half-penny romances! One could write an entire series. What would we call it, hmm… Evocation and penetration. A mage hand and a vampiric touch. Fangs and fireballs.” Astarion groaned as she went on. “No, no you’re right, that’s too long… It needs a short and snappy name. Spell… blood? No. Blood… weave?”

“Are you done?”

“Power Word: Suck. …Alright, now I’m done.”

Astarion shook his head, refusing to give her any satisfaction. “You’ve had a half-decent run, but this card is a complete flop. I can assure you, I do not have any wizards in my past. …Perhaps if I did, I wouldn’t be in this mess,” he muttered.

“Jokes aside, this card isn’t literal either. The Magician, it’s ah… How can I explain it… It signifies the connection between the mortal and the eternal and divine.”

“So a priest..?” Astarion lifted a brow. “Not a single one of those, either. Most of them aren’t too fond of the undead, as you can imagine.”

“No, no, it’s actually more about… Art. It’s about the infinite possibilities of creation, it’s about taking potential and moulding it into reality. And using these creations to elevate the mundane, or make the sacrosanct more accessible. It’s about being a conduit between the two.”

Now Asmodea seemed to be the one with a wistful look in her eyes, Astarion thought. Unrealised potential..? Envy?

“Darling, you’re rambling… And now it just sounds like some charlatan guru that brings ‘enlightenment’ to the bovine masses.”

“I suppose it can be,” she said, “but it’s more about inspiration, not imposing one’s own will. …Does anyone come to mind? Someone full of energy and charisma? Someone who inspired? Think of someone with a big personality. Someone people flocked to. Someone who ignited passion, motivated, stirred strong emotions?”

Astarion scowled, sipping his wine.

He hated that idiot bard.

He hated everything about him. It was as though this lean, thin, fair, short little freckled, rosy-cheeked elven pipsqueak had been created by the gods for the sole purpose of vexing Astarion. From the way he was dressed: some might call it fashionable, but to Astarion it was gaudy - all those ruffles and pointy boots; to the way he moved, throwing his too-long mane of hair around as he played his violin. What kind of a colour was that for hair, anyway? Tarnished silver..? Astarion pulled on a lock of his own cropped hair, bringing it where he could see it with his own eyes - now that was a good, pure silver. Astarion turned his attention back to the bard, where he performed at the other end of the tavern. The way he strutted around reminded him of a booted bantam rooster. Astarion blinked at the thought, wondering how in the hells he knew what a bantam rooster was to begin with, and a booted one, no less - he had certainly never seen one. But never mind that. He hated roosters, too, harbingers of the dawn as they were. He hated all of it. Hated the dulcet chimes of the bard’s voice - no, no, that was a lie, the voice was quite pleasant, Astarion wasn’t above giving credit where it was due - but it was the only thing pleasant about this buffoon.

Taliesin Straeth. That was his name. The bard did not advertise being an heir of the Straeth house - filthy, disgustingly rich, tremendously wealthy merchants - Astarion had found all that out on his own. But no matter - the fact was, he had been born with a silver spoon in his mouth. Never had to work a day of his life. Any trouble he’d ever run into - a brief line to mommy and daddy, and at a snap of their fingers, all doors would be opened, all charges would be dropped, and all problems would go away.

Astarion despised him. But, as the dolt drew enormous, adoring crowds everywhere he went, Astarion followed Taliesin as he toured through the Lower City. Over the past month, he had hardly missed a night of trailing the bard, relishing and stewing in how much he detested him every step along the way. He had learned most of the bard’s songs by heart by then - against his will, of course. Even during the precious few hours that Astarion had to himself to rest, Taliesin continued to plague him, the melodies playing in his mind. He could not sleep, could not rest, without the bard riling him from somewhere in the back of his mind. And Astarion hated it.

It was yet another night in yet another tavern, with yet another giggling young woman whose name and face he had long forgotten on his arm, when matters which were already drab suddenly turned completely sour. Taliesin had already finished playing and Astarion was itching to lead his mark away to her doom, when the table Astarion had shared with a crop of other young, drunk, rowdy but malleable men and women he had ingratiated himself with, was joined by Cazador’s most recent addition to their little ‘family’.

Petras too seemed to exist purely to antagonise Astarion.

Like the generations of sycophantic maids and stewards who served Cazador of their own free wills for years before inevitably disappearing to be replaced with new fools - Petras had appealed to Cazador, asking to be turned. As for why Cazador actually granted the idiot his wish - it was completely beyond Astarion. Petras wasn’t particularly attractive, wasn’t charming, wasn’t remotely intelligent nor educated. He was, if anything, perfectly dull and average. And he was human. Perhaps that was the ‘why’ - the lowest common denominator could more easily wedge itself into more crowds, remain perceived as harmless and unassuming. The potential marks that shied away from Astarion, sensed some kind of deception from a too handsome, too cultured, too refined elf, took no such issue with Petras - he was, after all, just like them.

Petras hadn’t been a vampire for long, and still believed that if he was good and diligent, did his best to bring victims back every night - Cazador would reward him by granting him freedom. As though anyone would release a hen that laid golden eggs. Not that Petras laid any eggs, golden or otherwise. Astarion scoffed at himself, mentally - why was he still on the poultry trail of thought..? No matter. Petras was a fool, and not only was he a fool, but his failings were somehow Astarion’s failings according to Cazador, which meant that he had to endure and supervisethe nitwit, while all he wanted to do was throw him under a proverbial (and literal) horse-carriage.

“Astarion!” Petras beamed, sliding along the bench until he was next to Astarion, somehow mistaking his scowl for a smile of encouragement. “You will not believe who I’ve talked into joining us! The Master will be so pleased.”

Despite himself, Astarion was curious. Cazador was many awful, reprehensible things, but surprisingly ‘picky’ was not one of them. He hardly had any preferences. He only abhorred gnomes and halflings, but Astarion supposed that made sense - why should anyone be pleased with an appetiser-sized meal for a main course?

“Do tell,” he said.

Petras leaned in conspiratorially. “That minstrel,” he whispered, grinning “the one with the grey hair and the violin. I told him I could give him a tour of the manor, and he was interested. He’s just sorting his business with the tavernkeeper, and then he’ll head here.”

Astarion’s innards had turned to ice.

“Are you out of your godsdamned mind?!” he hissed. “You can’t take him!”

“What?” the surprise on Petras’s face quickly turned to indignation. “I can and I am. You’re just envious you couldn’t get him yourself and I will be the one to take him to the Master.” That remark had been enough to swiftly turn Astarion’s initial shock into white hot fury. Meanwhile, Petras had turned away from Astarion and raised a hand in a wave. “Tali! Over here!”

Before he could think, and before Petras could rise, Astarion’s dagger was out of its concealed sheath in his sleeve, and had pierced cleanly through Petras’s other hand, nailing it to the bench between them, out of anyone’s sight. Remarkably, Petras had the sensibility to only yelp quietly and grit his teeth, instead of screaming and drawing attention, as Astarion leaned in to hiss in his ear.

“Bards are off-limits, your cretin,” he ground through his teeth. “They are too high profile, too noticeable when they’re gone, especially this bard!”

“But Violet-” Petras whined.

“Violet was from another city, and was chosen by the Master himself, and still she is a risk. Why do you think he has me paint her like a doll each time he lets her out? She cannot be recognised.”

“But-”

“I said no bards, you incorrigible fuckwit!” Astarion spat, driving the dagger harder into Petras’s hand.

“Corellon wept!” chimed a too-familiar voice. “Have I intruded on a lovers’ quarrel?”

And suddenly there he was, across the table - so close, Astarion could smell him. Cedarwood, rose, black pepper. It had to have been custom-mixed, like Astarion’s own perfume oil, certainly not something produced and sold en masse by the local apothecaries.

Astarion’s blade disappeared back up his sleeve. Throat suddenly dry, he ignored the bard, instead whispering to Petras. “Get rid of him.”

“You get rid of him,” Petras whispered back, sullenly, rubbing his stabbed hand as it healed.

Useless… Well then…

Throwing Taliesin his best look of derisive contempt, Astarion turned back to Petras, speaking loudly this time.

“Did you invite the jester?”

Petras only gawped open-mouthed like a fish out of water in response, but that was all that was required of him. Taliesin, however, had taken the bait.

“Jester?!” he repeated with incredulity.

“Yes, jester,” Astarion pressed on, turning back to face the bard. His eyes, he now saw, were a most unlikely, unique shade of not-quite-pink. It reminded him of something. Rose quartz..? No, that wasn’t it. …I’ve seen a dawn that colour, he realised. “Jester, harlequin, fool, if you will. An inconsequential funny little lout that prances and makes funny little noises for the entertainment of his betters. That is what you are, is it not?”

Taliesin rose back to his feet, a storm brewing in those not-pink eyes that had been warm and smiling a mere moment ago.

“That is most certainly not what I am,” he said, looking down his nose at Astarion, a slight quiver in his voice betraying the hauteur he had suddenly assumed. “And you’ve some nerve speaking to me about my ‘betters’ - for you are assuredly not one of them.” Astarion had expected the bard to huff, turn on his heels and storm off then, and yet he was still there, glaring. In fact he had leaned over the table, placing his hands on it, so that he seemed to loom over Astarion, and continued. “Oh yes, I know exactly what you are.”

A rapidly growing sense of unease began to constrict Astarion’s chest. What did he mean? Why was he still there? Why didn’t he simply leave? What did he know?

“Yes, I remember you! Every night, I see you,” the bard continued. “Every night, you leave with a new person. Now I’m not one to judge how a man earns his bread, but the company you keep! Nothing and no one is below you, is it?” Heads turned as Taliesin continued his tirade. “And every night, I think to myself - what needs to happen to an elf, for him to fall so low, be that cheap? You know, a few times, I thought I’d go over and give you some coin myself - not for your services, I’ve no need to pay for that - but just so you could buy yourself a hot meal - but every time, by then you’re already gone with some scurvied sailor!” Astarion was frozen in place, transfixed by those malicious, not-pink eyes. Laughs began to sound from the crowd around them. “But then I realised: why even if I were to pay him, it would all go straight to fuelling his addictions. That is why you’re so desperate, no? What are you on, anyway..? Look at you - all pale and haggard. Is it blue sand? Deluge? Sharpsugar? Something worse? No? Or…” Taliesin brought a hand up to his mouth, theatrically. To Astarion’s ears, the crowd’s rumble turned into a maddening buzz, accentuated with Petras’s high-pitched guffaws as the asshole tried to blend in. “Oh gods, you’re not consumptive, are you? You are, aren’t you? You ought to be isolated, before you infect everyone around you!” The laughter around him had turned to worried murmurs. The girl that had been seated to Astarion’s other side shrank away from him, as did everyone else around him. Suddenly finding himself in an open bubble, he still felt like a caged, cornered beast, and yet was completely paralysed, a sheen of cold sweat dampening his skin. The damned bard looked triumphant, no doubt readying his killing blow, when something changed in his expression. Spite turned to suspicion. He tilted his head, slightly, frowning. “What’s wrong with your eyes..?” he asked, more seriously now.

That finally broke Astarion out of his stupor. His every instinct screamed at him to leap over the table and rip out the bard’s throat. Instead, he jumped to his feet, kicked Petras off the bench to get past him, and stormed out of the tavern, swearing and shoving at the simpletons who jeered at him as he passed, clutching to what little shreds of dignity he still possessed.

He stumbled out of the tavern, gasping for cold night air. Thankfully, no one followed.

Once his panic had subsided and was replaced by a simmering rage, he continued to lurk in the shadows for some hours. He couldn’t leave until he was sure Petras had kept his word and did not take the idiot bard back to Cazador.

He never heard Taliesin play again, though over the years he’d heard and recognised countless renditions of his songs performed by other bards. Even a century later, they still sang those songs, as though to spite and torture Astarion, though none of them could hold a candle to the original.

Cedarwood, rose, black pepper. Astarion had caught a whiff of it once, since. He immediately turned and walked in the opposite direction.

Words could not describe how much he hated that bard.

“Ah! I see that struck a nerve,” exclaimed Asmodea. “Let me guess… Now I don’t think it was a writer or a painter, that’s too subdued. A dancer - maybe. Or perhaps an actor, or a singer..? Or perhaps someone who was a bit of everything. …Aha, it was a bard, wasn’t it?”

Astarion clicked his tongue. “I can think of a bard that elicited some strong emotions, but those emotions were the very opposite of love.”

“Love and hatred are two sides of the same coin,” shrugged Asmodea. She looked up at him and smiled. “Oh don’t look so sour - there’s no shame in getting enticed by a bard. A good bard, at least, a true master of their craft. Everyone should fall for one at some point in their lives, else it’s hardly a life worth living.”

“What makes you say that..?” Astarion asked.

“Because they’re equally inaccessible for everyone. That renders the desire to possess futile. And if you can accept that, that leaves you with an unadulterated appreciation that you can share with others. No competition, no ulterior motives. Only pure love and joy that moves your heart in tandem with many others’.”

“You’re getting awfully philosophical on me, darling.”

Asmodea waved her hand in a dismissive motion, first looking away sheepishly. “So who was it, anyone I would know?”

“Oh, I doubt it… No one of consequence.” Perhaps, one day, he might spin the story of the famed Taliesin Straeth ousting Astarion for being a cheap whore in return for having his life spared into a humorous tale. But that day had not yet come.

“So do you believe in the reading yet?” Asmodea’s question interrupted his thoughts.

Astarion winced. The first card might have been an accident, the second a coincidence, the third - a fluke. But he wasn’t fool enough to insist that the fourth was anything short of a pattern. Three more remained… This was not a comforting thought.

“Yes,” he conceded. “I don’t know how you’re doing it, but you are. …But returning to bards, I’ve lost count of the nights we’ve spent on the road, and not once have you tried to strum ‘Golden Lyre’. I thought all bards took a vow to subject those around them to it at least once daily. Do you not know it?”

Asmodea snorted. “What, that trite, cliche rubbish? Of course I know it, everyone knows it. I make a point of not playing it.”

Astarion sighed with relief. Small mercies…

“Why, do you want to hear it?” Asmodea asked.

“Gods no… I’ve been subjected to hearing it every night for the past century. It’s nice to finally have some peace.”

~~~~~

Psst, behold, the wonderful Taliesin by @snowfolly. How could Astarion not be smitten?

Taliesin belongs to my multi-talented friend @snowfolly. Check out more of Tali's story (as well as Snowy's incredible art!) here, on AO3 or bsky. Thank you for letting me borrow him!

~~~~~

Next part coming in a week's time.

Thank you for reading! If you liked it, you can find more of my writing here. Leave a comment and you'll make my day. ❤

The Moon

A corner of Astarion’s mouth twitched upward in a sardonic smirk once he turned over the next card.

“Not literal, you say?”

The card depicted a path laid between two towers, a wolf and a dog separated by the path, and a half moon shining dim light over the scene.

“Ah, the Moon,” said Asmodea.

“The two towers,” Astarion mused, sipping his wine. “Is it like the previous card? Do they mean anything?”

“They can,” shrugged Asmodea.

“And the two mutts - which one am I?” Astarion pointed at the wolf and dog.

“You’re the crayfish,” said Asmodea.

Astarion took a closer look at the image - indeed, a crayfish was depicted crawling out of a pond and onto the path at the bottom of the card.

“You’re a bloody crayfish,” he muttered. “So, what in the hells does this mean?”

“It signifies duality. Complicated, conflicted emotions. Possibilities and choices, and the path we walk between these choices.”

“That doesn’t answer what it means for me. Choices…” Astarion huffed. “That is so vague, why that could mean absolutely anything and anyone!”

“Hardly,” Asmodea objected. “Have you, perhaps, met someone who walked a parallel path? Whose path converged with yours, to eventually split off into another direction again?”

“A ‘parallel path?’ Again, that could mean anything,” said Astarion. “Everyone I’ve ever met has ‘converged paths’ with me.”

“It will be more specific than that,” Asmodea said patiently. “Think. Someone who influenced you, who you had something in common with. Say… Another city elf… Another magistrate… Another hedonistic asshole who did nothing but bitch, moan and drink all the best wine. Another…” she was cut short as Astarion suddenly began choking, violently, on his drink. “…Are you alright? Go down the wrong pipe, did it? Well, not like you need those lungs anyway…”

“Vampire,” Astarion choked out, coughing. “It was another vampire.”

It wasn’t the first time Cazador hosted guests, but it was by far the most lavish.

A duo of drow vampire sisters and their large retinue had all but taken over the manor. A trade deal of some kind was being brokered. Astarion could guess what the sisters wanted: Baldur’s Gate had a port, and although Cazador had no rights to the said port, it was entirely within his ability to extend or deny other vampires the ability to use the said port unmolested. As for what the drow sisters could offer in exchange - Astarion could only speculate, though he cared not to.

What he did care about was that once he had surrendered his victim to Godey and his ghoulish assistants, he was expected to return to the city to find more marks within the very same night - the usual arrangements had been altered due to the guests and their appetites.

He hadn’t even seen them with his own eyes yet, nor did he want to, but they were making his life a more aggravating hell than usual. Their departure could not come soon enough.

He was on his way to the kennels to refresh himself when he was apprehended by Violet. His new sister was clad in scanty minstrel garb and carried a lute - the bitch had talents which Astarion had not, and had been permitted to demonstrate said talents instead of prowling the streets. It appeared she had just finished entertaining.

“Took you long enough,” she sneered. “I couldn’t rest until I gave this to you.” She tossed a velvet pouch at Astarion. It felt and sounded like it contained a hefty amount of coin. Gold..? Astarion frowned. Can’t be a tip… Am I to run some errand? “You are expected upstairs. Wash, perfume and oil first, and be quick about it. The Master wants you extra pretty tonight.”

“Does the Master want me..?” Aurelia’s voice sounded nearby, as Astarion stood extracting the contents of the pouch - some kind of tangled chain interspersed with gemstones.

“Has the Master ever wanted you?” Violet snapped, collapsing onto her bed.

Astarion released a weary, resigned sigh, having realised what he was holding.

Not coin.

A jewelled body harness.

Why he wasn’t even the most scandalously dressed attendant at the soiree. His attire, if the body chain could be called that, was, in fact, among some of the most tasteful and elegant.

Astarion observed the festivities, concealed by a drape by the grand hall’s entrance, awaiting instructions from Dufay. The hall was crowded with the drow sisters’ followers, servants, and slaves. Most of the mortals - at least the more heavily compulsed ones - wore nothing at all. Most of those now served as living footstools and other furniture, or were engaged in contortionist acts. Astarion noted a few familiar faces of his own marks from nights prior, with some satisfaction - not so haughty now, were they? The servants that still had their wits about them and were trying to please through their own volition wore unassuming liveries. The free guests that made up the drow entourage, on the other hand, would not have looked out of place attending a ball at a whorehouse.

Astarion caught sight of Cazador and the sisters, seated at the grand hall’s dais. The two drow were about what he expected - beautiful, minute, dressed in precariously draped wisps of spidersilk. One was engrossed in a female tiefling’s neck. The other lounged, sprawled over the seat which had been provided her, conversing with Cazador, her legs thrown over his lap. Astarion had to bite his lip not to laugh at the sight. Unlike the visitors, his master sat stiff and upright, the collar of his usual tasteful but unremarkable garb buttoned to the chin. He was completely out of place in this den of licentiousness, sticking out like a withered, crooked and sore thumb. And he looked positively miserable.

Astarion’s eyes continued to wander, reaching a small stage erected at one end of the hall. He watched with a revolted fascination an act put on by a trio of tumbling gnomes dressed in naught but spiked leather harnesses and dog muzzles. It was delightfully disgusting. It was a shame he was to be part of the evening’s entertainment, if not for that - he might even have enjoyed this flavour of debauchery.

“You’re up next,” Dufay appeared next to him.

“And just what in the hells does he expect of me..?” asked Astarion. A rhetorical question. He knew he was short on talents. An image flashed in his mind, a rare glimpse into his childhood: a memory of being made to stand on a stool before a faceless crowd and recite a poem, and of being so nervous he nearly vomited. The image dissipated, but not before he pictured himself doing the same now, in the midst of the drow orgy, naked but for the chains of gemstones and pearls. He giggled. Doubtful. Regardless, the gnomes were going to be a tough act to follow.

“You are to participate in a grappling, of sorts,” answered the chamberlain. Ever tactful even with the spawn, Dufay.

“‘Grappling’,” snorted Astarion. “With whom?”

“The sisters brought a champion of their own. There.” Dufay motioned to a man Astarion had somehow overlooked in the mass of nude and demi-nude bodies in attendance.

It was the largest drow Astarion had ever seen. Hells, he might have been the largest man he had ever seen, period, barring some half-orcs whose acquaintance he had had the misfortune of making. Slabs of muscle bulging beneath his blueish grey skin, straight lavender-white hair falling past his clavicles. He stood at the other end of the hall, dressed (if it could be called that) in a manner similar to Astarion’s, arms crossed, sheer boredom painted on his face. And he was staring, unblinking, at Astarion. Studying him, even. Having met Astarion’s eye, expression unchanged, he nodded and wagged his flaccid penis in greeting.

Astarion giggled again, and silently congratulated himself on having oiled very thoroughly.

“Go,” said Dufay.

And suddenly he was on a stage, trying to settle on the right balance between dazzling and sultry for his smile, giving a sensual turn and a spin for the benefit of the eyes now turned to him, all while the butterflies in his stomach made a determined rush for his esophagus.

“Ah, so this is the pearl of your collection!” one of the drow sisters exclaimed.

Is that how Cazador had described him..? Singling him out as his ‘pearl’? Conflicting emotions washed over Astarion. A sense of pride, immediately followed by a wave of disgust with himself for having felt the pride.

“Oh don’t feed his vanity,” drawled Cazador. “He pleases the eye, but he is good for one thing and one thing only.”

That settled the turbulence in Astarion’s mind, if not in his innards, his feelings once again settling in a familiar, dull hatred. 

“Oh? This refined specimen of a moon elf?” remarked the other sister. “Why I’d wager he’s of noble descent. Does he sing? Or perhaps he shall please us by reciting some classical poetry?”

Astarion barely suppressed another nervous giggle, the memory from his childhood flashing before his eyes again. For once he was happy that he had not had a single drop of anything that might have otherwise come up from the depths of his stomach.

“Cania will melt before I believe you give a mephit’s ass about poetry,” the other sister, the one whose legs dangled across Cazador’s lap, came to his rescue. She hopped off from her seat at the dais and moved to retrieve a decanter and goblet from a nearby table. “Let’s see just how good he is at something more interesting, shall we?” she said, filling the goblet. “Your master says you were hard at work earlier today,” she addressed Astarion, smiling yet managing to look down her nose at him despite her being a full head shorter. “…Were you? Hard at work?”

“Like steel, my lady,” purred Astarion. Always best to humour them.

“Velvet-wrapped, no doubt,” she laughed. Astarion resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the cliche. “Well, we can’t have your fatigue upset the balance. Let’s even the odds, shall we?”

Even the odds..? For what?

The drow woman sauntered to him and passed the goblet under his nose, playfully, letting him catch the aroma. A rich wine, mixed with… Blood. Thick and cloying. Teasing his nostrils. Blood.

“On your knees,” she giggled.

Though it took a monumental effort, Astarion’s eyes first flicked to Cazador. The Master gave him a slight nod, which to Astarion said “you may obey the deranged bitch”, a sneer, which Astarion interpreted as “do not embarrass me, boy”, and a (likely involuntary) slight flaring of the nostrils which wasn’t for Astarion’s information or benefit at all, but which indicated that Cazador could not wait for this night to be over either.

He sank to his knees without any further hesitation - Cazador could still dismember him later for being too eager, he did not care - the goblet was filled to the brim, and this woman would give it to him.

“Fresh blood of a displacer beast in heat. This will rejuvenate you. Now open your mouth…” His mouth was open before she even finished speaking, head thrown back in anticipation. Another giggle, and she tipped the goblet, letting the rich liquid flow between his lips.

Smooth, smoky velvet, so much richer than anything he’d ever had before. He drank, desperate not to allow even a single drop to spill, though of course it was impossible, of course she moved the goblet to make some of it pour over him. Most of it did end up making it into his mouth however. And gods, if the blood of a displacer beast was this good, then how would it feel to sink his fangs into a sapient creature’s pulsating neck..? No matter, that was a fantasy, while the liquid gold that poured from the goblet was reality, until the stream stopped, and it wasn’t. He would have grabbed the goblet from her hands and licked it clean, but she took it away, and ran a thumb along his lower lip and chin, where precious drops had spilled, and brought it to her own mouth instead. “Good boy,” she purred. How he hated her then. But then a heat began to settle in his groin, pushing away all thoughts of hatred, of fear, even of hunger, leaving only a pulsing need.

He staggered back up to his feet at a motion from the drow woman. Appreciative shouts and laughter, and even some applause from the spectators registered somewhere in the back of his mind. He paid them no attention, instead his eyes were drawn to the hulking mass of the drow ‘challenger’ which had apparently joined him onstage while he was gorging on the displacer beast blood. It was only now that the drow was within a few steps of him that Astarion realised that he was also a vampire.

Even the odds for what..?

“The rules are simple,” the drow woman’s voice rang in his ears. Did she always sound like a mosquito..? “The one to make their opponent climax wins.”

His head swam and his cock was on fire. It pulsed. It throbbed. It ached. It burned. And the only thing worse than touching it would be to leave it alone. He reached for himself.

“No, no, no, silly, you win by making your opponent climax, not yourself!”

Laughter from the faceless crowd.

Good gods, did they feed that mountain of a drow that blood too..? Is that better, or worse..?

“Incapacitate your opponent, pin them down, break something if you must. Whatever you need to get the job done. Oh, but you don’t have to stop at just one. The night is young - if you lose at first, you can always double down and bounce back.”

A gong must have sounded somewhere, either that or the ringing in Astarion’s ears reached a crescendo, but the next thing he knew was he had been lifted off the ground and was being spun around, hurled over the drow’s shoulder. Why? He had no idea.

“Focus,” he thought he heard the drow growl between gritted teeth. Focus on what..? Everything spun. Though the word was enough to break him from a stupor, so that when the drow hurled him back on the ground he managed to roll on impact and bounce back to his feet. Moments later they were circling each other like two tomcats, half-crouched.

“Work with me,” the drow hissed, unmistakable now.

Well then. He had never wrestled anyone this way in his life - he only hoped that his fumbling was more amusing than offensive to his spectators, as he tried to follow the drow’s lead. What followed was a crash course in pair acrobatics and feigned tussling. Astarion could only speculate what it all looked like, but he imagined that it might appear as though they were both using their individual skills and talents to their advantage: the drow’s forte was strength, size, and actually knowing what he was doing, Astarion’s - speed and being covered in oil.

And then, just as Astarion thought he was getting the hang of it, he found himself pinned down on the floor by the drow. It was finally time to retreat for the night, he supposed.

“What will he do to you for losing?” the drow’s question jolted him back to the present moment. The whisper was barely audible, their faces concealed behind a cascade of the drow’s hair that momentarily hid them from view.

Too surprised to think to lie, Astarion answered truthfully. “Flay me, probably,” he said.

Somehow, the drow was now under him. It might even have looked like it was all due to Astarion’s own efforts. The drow struggled, pathetically, as though he was locked in place.

“Why?” Astarion breathed.

“I’ll only go without dinner tonight. Thank me later.”

The rest of his recollections of the night grew ever muddier, as he slipped into his familiar thoughtless routines. The last thing he remembered before the memories crumbled to nothing was an image of the drow impaled on his cock, his absurdly big and absurdly blue penis in his hand.

“There,” the drow whispered. “Now no more posturing, be gentle.”

He was.

Astarion’s way out of the spawn kennels was impeded by a large chest. In his hurry, he ricocheted off it back into the chamber, nearly losing his footing. The chest was connected to two trunk-like arms, folded in front of it. Above that - a thick neck, and above that - a blindingly white, fanged smile, shining from a dusky-toned face.

“Didn’t recognise me with my clothes on?” the drow grinned, seeing Astarion’s confusion.

Astarion’s first, most natural instinct was to put on his charm and flirt. But of course this was not necessary - this was not a mark, nor was this an important guest that needed to be pleased. Rather, this was an equal, of sorts. Which prompted a secondary instinct in Astarion - one equally natural, which he employed every day in dealing with his dear darling sisters - which was to raise his hackles and speak from a place of preemptively defensive contempt. Only the drow’s smile seemed entirely free of mockery and malice, which Astarion didn’t quite know what to make of. He frantically searched for a third option.

“Erm…” he produced, though the drow was already looking over and past him, casting a curious look over the kennels.

“Lolth’s tits, is this where you sleep?” the drow asked.

Astarion turned back to survey the quarters he shared with Violet and Aurelia, as though seeing them for the very first time himself. It had never occurred to him whether he ought be ashamed of them. The question didn’t sound derisive, however, so he just shrugged at the drow.

“I suppose it’s different to ah… your accommodations?” he asked.

“The mistress usually keeps me on a cot at the foot of her bed,” he said. “Sometimes on the bare ground, sometimes in a cage,” he added, nonchalant, still looking around the chamber.

Astarion gave a polite acknowledging hum, as though this exchange was as normal as a casual chat about the weather or the latest news headlines. “…I think I prefer the arrangements Cazador has in place to such alternatives, to be honest.”

“Out of sight, out of mind,” the drow nodded, turning back to Astarion and grinning. Why did he keep grinning..? Astarion needed to be rid of him.

“Oh if only…” said Astarion. “But anyway. Much as I’d love to stand here and compare notes, I have some errands to run, so if you’ll excuse me…”

“Errands!” the drow laughed. “Yes, that’s why I’m here. I’m to accompany you on your ‘errands’.”

“What?” Astarion said, his tone curt. Babysitting this giant oaf was the last thing he wanted to do. He had worked out a system. A one man system.

“How do I look? Good enough for Baldurian watering holes?” the drow spun. Astarion finally took note of what he was wearing. Silk shirt in a dark purple, complementing his skin tone. Leather breeches that sat snug - very snug - on his ample haunches. A pair of well-made boots. He looked like a wealthy adventurer or mercenary out for a night of debauchery. Drow tailors and leatherworkers were impeccable in their taste and skill, and clearly the man’s mistress spared no expense in dressing her spawn, Astarion thought with a touch of envy.

“It will do in a bind, I suppose, but-”

“The mistress also gave me this,” the drow continued, retrieving a paper slip from a pocket and handing it to Astarion.

“‘No drow, druegar or deep gnomes! Tiefling (any age and gender), robust middle-aged male (human), female virgin (any), something heavily wine-drunk’…” Astarion’s voice trailed off, though the list went on. “…Is this a bloody shopping list?!”

“Obviously,” the drow shrugged like it was the most apparent thing in the world, plucking the slip back from Astarion’s fingers. “Is your master not as particular?”

“Well, no, I suppose,” Astarion stuttered, “but-”

“That must be nice,” the drow said, already turning and walking away. “Let’s get a move on, only got until sunrise. …Say, when is sunrise?”

His name was Ryldor. He had belonged to the sisters from birth, had been trained as a warrior and a pleasure servant, and had been turned once they had decided he had attained his peak physical form.

Astarion learned all this and more in the hours they spent ignoring their duties, deep in the wine at the Mermaid. Gods, but he couldn’t even remember the last time he had been able to sit around and gossip, freely, with anyone… He couldn’t remember the last time he’d enjoyed himself half this much. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so carelessly drunk, either, whether on the wine or the pretence of normality - he did not know.

“He makes you fuck them first?” Ryldor snickered into his goblet. “Why?!”

“Who knows why that sadistic bastard does anything… A humiliation ritual? Honestly, it’s just a drag.”

“Have you ever seen a mortal chef prepare a tough piece of meat? You know, when they smash it with a mallet, to tenderise it? Is that what Cazador thinks he’s got you doing..?”

And again, they burst into laughter, loud and genuine, if a bit desperate. Still, how refreshing to find himself on the right side of laughter for once… Ah but these moments were so fleeting… With every passing minute, it felt as though a chain constricted tighter around Astarion’s neck.

“Listen… I don’t know how lenient your mistresses are with that little list of yours, but I will be skinned alive if I fail to turn up with prey for Cazador, so…”

Ryldor seemed to sober up then, immediately, perhaps realising that Astarion meant that literally.

“Right… Of course… Let’s get to it.”

There was a shift in him then, which Astarion observed with curiosity. He had expected to witness the appearance of a mask, something similar to what he ordinarily did himself, but surprisingly it was more of an unveiling. Everything that Ryldor had already appeared to be, became more. Effortlessly so. Not even a bell later, admittedly aided by the gold the drow sisters had generously supplied him with, he was the life of the party, riling up the entire tavern. A few bells later, half the tavern left with him, never to be seen again. Every item on the list had been ticked off, and then some. Astarion understood how all those poor unfortunates had been so hopelessly enchanted - after all he was, too.

The drow party stayed at the manor for about a tenday.

The night after their joint escapade, Astarion hoped that Ryldor would be sent to accompany him out in the city again, but he wasn’t. He had hoped that there would be another orgy, to entertain or serve at, but that didn’t happen again either. He found himself lurking on the upper floors of the manor during daylight hours - something he ordinarily avoided. He hoped, and he waited, and he yearned, not even sure exactly what it was he craved. Every day was a mixture of hopeful anticipation. The chain felt ever tighter around his neck, but he ignored it as best he could.

There weren’t many opportunities for him and Ryldor to exchange words - his mistress kept him close - but on one of the occasions when they did, the drow told Astarion that his mistress had requested to borrow him, but that Cazador had refused. Astarion was shocked with his own disappointment at this discovery.

Then, one day, as Astarion was preparing for another night serving as bait for Cazador’s dinner, Aurelia walked into the dormitory.

“They’re leaving tonight,” she said.

Astarion stiffened. After what felt like an eternity and a plunge into an ice bath, he willed himself to continue his preparations. “Good,” he said. He thought he heard a quiet scoff.

“He’s in the east wing.”

“…Who? The Master..?” he looked up to meet her eyes. Aurelia started back at him with something bordering on pity.

If she insinuated that- …How dare she- …Well if she thought that he was about to- …He wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of-

Moments later, he had already brushed all those thoughts aside, and was rushing upstairs, shirt still unbuttoned, without having as much as run his fingers through his hair.

The east wing was empty.

Cruel… So pointlessly cruel… He would have expected this from Violet, but Aurelia… Perhaps she did mean Cazador, and he would appear at any moment. That, or he was too late, and…

These thoughts too were cut short, as an arm pulled him into a dark alcove beneath a staircase.

Another flash of those stupid white fangs on that stupid, dark grinning face, and Astarion was on his toes, pulling the drow down by his ears, also stupid, into a kiss. The first kiss Astarion remembered wanting to give. It felt defiant, somehow, to take a kiss for himself and not for the sake of Cazador. Defiant, desperate and ultimately futile. He began to mourn it before it was even over. Just as nothing was sweeter than the moment of trepidation just before their lips locked, nothing could fill him with more grief than knowing that he could never experience it for the first time again.

Somewhere far, a voice called for Ryldor, and he broke away, with a gasp and a tremble. The tremble passed, and he leaned back toward Astarion. “I’ll come back for you,” he whispered, barely audible, in Astarion’s ear.

“What..?” Astarion managed, with shaking breath.

“By Vhaeraun, I’ll find a way to dispose of those two lecherous, vapid cunts, and I’ll come back for you. I pro-”

Ryldor’s words were cut short as Astarion pressed his lips against his again. “Don’t,” Astarion whispered, once he pulled away again. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

The drow inclined his head to touch his forehead against Astarion’s, and held it there for some moments, until his mistress repeated the call with more shrillness in her voice. He clenched his jaw, and then he was gone.

In the ensuing silent stillness, Astarion sank with his back against the wall. The chain constricted tighter around his neck until it cut off all promise of oxygen, again. It was fine. Everything was fine and back to normal. He didn’t need air, but good gods did it taste sweet to breathe it, even if only for a little while…

Some years later, Astarion overheard that the drow house had been annihilated by its rivals. The sisters had been staked, impaled, and taken to the surface to burn. Their courts had been massacred as a warning to others. Whether a certain vampire spawn had survived the carnage or had perished alongside his mistress - Astarion never learned. Regardless, no one ever returned for him.

“A vampire? I thought your kind detested each other. I always imagined a meeting of two strange vampires to involve arched backs and a lot of hissing and spitting.”

“A safe assumption,” said Astarion. “Though there are some occasional exceptions to the rule.”

“Don’t tell me you enter each other’s territories to mate.”

“Plot, scheme and trade, usually. And throw the occasional grand ball to showcase one’s wealth and influence, of course.”

“Of course.” A silence held. Asmodea observed as Astarion contemplated the card with an almost wistful expression. “So what happened?” she asked.

“Hmm?” Astarion looked up, his reminiscence broken. “Oh, nothing much… It’s been so long, and was so meaningless I’ve all but forgotten, until now.”

“Can’t be that meaningless, the cards picked up on it and you almost immediately knew who it was.”

“What happened, was…” Astarion paused, searching for words, but ended up shaking his head. “Have you ever had a torrid affair with someone who was in your life only for a brief moment..? Say, someone who was passing through town, who you knew would disappear in a matter of days? Leave you with nothing but memories, a racked up tab, a forgotten handkerchief and a bout of chlamydia?”

Asmodea nodded. “I’m usually that person. The one that leaves. …And no, I don’t leave chlamydia in my wake.”

“That’s all it was,” said Astarion. “A little… ‘dalliance’, if you will.”

“A vampire passed through the city and took a piece of your heart with them,” Asmodea concluded.

“Now let’s not go that far,” said Astarion. “It wasn’t love.”

“What was it then?”

Astarion took a thoughtful sip of his wine before answering. “Childish naivety… Daydreaming… A bit of make-believe. In other words: nothing. Just wishful thinking.”

~~~~~

Next part coming in a week's time.

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