#asidian

Answering is a trap. Not answering is a trap. If Astarion still had his fingernails, he’d dig them into his palms; as it is, clenching his fists only sends raw bolts of pain shooting up his arms, and he bites his lip to keep from crying out. It doesn’t matter, really. This is going to go the same way that it’s gone the last – however many times. Astarion’s lost track of how often Cazador’s gone through this cycle of compelling answers out of him, punishing Astarion when the answer displeases, and then, once Astarion’s screamed enough to satisfy him, returning to the same damned questions as before.

If Cazador wants a different answer, he should let Astarion bloody lie about it for once, but then Astarion wouldn’t be bringing all these punishments on himself, now, would he?

Cazador seizes Astarion by the hair, yanks his chin up from the table, forces Astarion to look into the red depths of his eyes. “I ask you again,” he says. “Do you still love Wyll Ravengard?”

The command hooks itself in his chest, drags the answer out of Astarion’s unwilling throat. It isn’t fair that Cazador gets to hear this, over and over, when Astarion never got the chance to tell Wyll –

“Yes,” he says. He can’t look away. He swallows, braces himself as best he can for Cazador’s next eruption of fury. (He can never brace himself enough, even after all these years.)

A cold smirk curls on Cazador’s lips, this time. “Perhaps we should go about this lesson a different way,” he says. “I cannot help but think back to the last time you fancied yourself in love. It was during our first decade together, was it not?”

No. Not the tomb. Not again – “Please, Master,” he begs, “please don’t make me go back there, please, I’ll be good, I promise, I swear I’ll obey –”

“Your promises are as empty as your head,” Cazador snaps. “But you misunderstand me. I was thinking not of the tomb, but of that darling boy of yours. You were dreadfully fond of him, I recall.”

He – yes. He had been. He remembers fragments: warm, callused hands; a dark mop of curls; the softened consonants of southern Faerun. His trade had something to do with travel, didn’t it? A sailor, perhaps, or a merchant, or a caravan guard? 

“What was his name, again?” Cazador’s eyes glitter with malice. He gives Astarion’s curls another wrench. “Surely you remember, don’t you? You gave up so much for him, after all. He must have been important to you. You must have cherished him, in your way.”

Astarion furrows his brow, runs through the ruined corridors of his memory for any sign, any signal. He would have known the boy’s name. He must have known the boy’s name. 

“Perhaps there is some pity left for you in me yet, boy,” Cazador says, in a tone that indicates anything but. “Tell me that man’s name, and I shall allow you to return to the dormitories for the night.”

Astarion swallows, his throat working soundlessly. There must be more he remembers. He forces himself to cast his mind back. His name began with a P, didn’t it? Or a V, maybe. Was it a T? And he had freckles across his nose. Astarion can’t recall their color, or the exact tone of his skin, but he kissed those freckles, and the boy laughed. Or does that memory belong to another man, another year?

“You’ve forgotten, haven’t you? Say it.”

“Yes, Master,” Astarion whispers. “I’ve forgotten.”

At last, Cazador releases his grip on Astarion’s hair. Astarion presses his cheek to the table, stares at a bloodstain on the walls.

“Oh, my child,” Cazador says. He strokes the curve of Astarion’s cheek with his thumb. “We are eternal, you and I. For creatures such as we, who know true permanence, these fancies cannot last. That boy from centuries ago is dust now, forgotten to all who knew him – including you. And so, too, shall Wyll Ravengard fade, until he is but the shadow of a thought.”

Astarion wants to deny it, wants to shake his head, wants to slap Cazador’s hand away. But with the weight of time bearing on him like this, it’s impossible to move.