#shadow plane

“I’m done with your games,” Church declares into the Raven Queen’s halls as he slams another door shut, his voice echoing back at him. “Show him to me!”

“Come closer,” a child’s voice whispers excitedly. “Come and see. What will you do?”

Church hurries down the hall. He turns around the corner and yes, he sees it —

A lonely tomb — out of place as it sits in the middle of this vaulted, glassy room.

He hears nothing from within. 

“Astarion?” Church breathes, taking in its sealed stone door — shimmering with the barest trace of red magic. “ASTARION!”

He races up to the tomb, pressing his ear up against the cold stone and somehow, just somehow…

…he hears the smallest, softest sound.

… scrrrtch… scrrrtch… scrrrtch…

“Gods. Oh gods — I’m coming, love!” Church stammers frantically. The shadows dance around his fingers as he calls upon the magic to wrap around the sealing stone of the tomb and pull. “I’m here. I’m here!”

The tiefling grunts as his shadows flare and writhe around his crackling arms, vibrating the stone. As he strains to break the seal, the Raven Queen manifests back into the corner of his eye, watching him with that impassive porcelain face.

“I have seen your possible fates, child,” she murmurs. “If you let me finish the ritual, then you will be free from them.”

Church tries to ignore her.

“I know that in a possible future, he will hurt you,” she informs him. “So terribly. Possibly even kill you. He will betray you. And you will betray him. Or is it the other way around?” she muses. “No matter. But you are destroyed by him, or you destroy yourself, child. And I would not like to see you destroyed.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Church growls. “It’s just one future. Fate’s always in motion.”

“Yes,” the Raven Queen says, her soft voice distant. “But I promise, dear child. Letting him go will only reduce your possible futures of pain and grief. I will not see you lost to Shar’s domain.”

Church ignores her, channeling his shadows into the stone until it begins to crack…

“You are going down a dark path,” she warns him. “I know that you both seek answers from a devil. But the answers are the key to his downfall, and yours.”

Her hand settles to rest upon Church’s as it contorts with magic. And Church can’t help but look up to meet her hollow eyes.

“You are at a fork in the road,” she murmurs. “You hold a butterfly in your hands.”

“...then I’ll let him free,” Church whispers.   

With an explosion that echoes throughout the fortress’s endless halls, the shadows disintegrate the stone into dust. Church waves away the smoke, coughing as he ducks inside.

“Astarion—?”

His heart nearly thuds to a stop.

“Oh, love,” he breathes, tears burning in his throat. “Oh gods. Oh…”

He steps carefully towards the pale, emaciated figure curled up upon the floor facing away from him. 

He is so, so still. 

At last, with almost imperceptible movement, Church sees a frail, skeletal hand stretch slowly towards the ribbon of light cast across the wall opposite of him. His fingers… gods… his fingertips are nearly completely gone — ragged and blackened by old blood as they reach to caress the intangible light.

Church doesn’t think any further. He reaches in and carefully pulls the poor thing out, muttering apologies and reassurances until the prone elf is out of the tomb and back onto the smooth, crystalline floor.

“Astarion?” Church murmurs. “Can you hear me?”

He slowly lowers to his knees, crawling cautiously around to face Astarion so as not to startle him.

“I’m here,” the tiefling whispers, reaching towards the elf before pulling his hand back apprehensively.

On the other side of that disheveled, but familiar head of limp silver hair Church finds a gaunt face with blazing red eyes — wide and dancing as they take in the sight of him. He has bitten his thin arms bloody, and his fangs are perpetually extended over a rabid, panting mouth. 

“It’s me,” Church whispers, forcing his mouth into a shaky smile. “It’s Church. It’s—”

The vampire spawn launches himself at the tiefling with a feral snarl, smashing him back against the glassy walls with surprising speed and strength. Wind knocked out of him, Church slides down the wall with barely a groan. But before he can make any other move, the spawn’s bloody fingers grapple the tiefling down — pinning him against the cold, hard floor as the emaciated elf lets out an otherworldly, rattling shriek.

“Astarion! N-no…! No!” Church struggles against him, and though the spawn is starved and weak he still manages to overpower him in his unnatural rabid fervor. Even with his muscles dehydrated and sinewy, he still manages to bash the tiefling’s head back against the ground before wrenching it back to expose his neck.

Vision swimming, Church shouts — bracing himself for the fangs to tear out his throat. 

But they do not come.

The vampire spawn instead presses his chapped mouth desperately to the tiefling’s throbbing jugular, moaning and whimpering. He buries his nose helplessly into the warm flesh, breathing in the forbidden blood that pumps tantalizingly beneath. His paper-dry tongue licks hungrily at the skin but his teeth, his fangs…

Thou shalt not drink the blood of a thinking creature.

Astarion had told Church of his master’s commandments during one of the watches they shared, soon after when the spawn bit the tiefling for the first time. Church forces himself to relax beneath the starved spawn’s desperate attempts to feed — the mere memory of a thrall somehow enough to keep Astarion from tearing the tiefling’s throat out entirely. 

Church won’t let himself feel grateful to Cazador. He only feels more rage, more determination to destroy him as painfully and violently as possible. But that is a thought for later. He needs to help Astarion now. 

The spawn’s grip loosens enough for Church to breathe easier and relax a bit. It’s a struggle to keep himself from wrapping his arms around the feeble elf, or to keep himself from stroking his hair and kissing away the bloody tears that leak from those flickering, glowing red eyes.

“It’s me, love,” Church whispers instead, nuzzling gently against the starving spawn’s matted curls — almost afraid to see the hungry, gaunt face buried against his neck. “I’m Church. You’re Astarion. We were both kidnapped and infected by mind flayers. We’ve been traveling together for months now.”

Astarion groans so softly with a voice disused.

Church continues. “You make lockpicking look easy. Sewing, too. You’re deadly with your daggers and bow. You can walk in the sun. You can bathe in the river, and as much as you complain I think you secretly love it.”

Despite everything, the tiefling smiles softly into his hair. 

“You’re ruthless with your enemies, but to me, at least… you’ve got gentle hands. And you don’t dare admit it, but I know you like cats. You’re deadly, you’re funny, you’re fussy, and…”

He shudders, resting his head fully against the filthy elf’s.

“...and I… love you,” Church whispers, voice choked. “I love you. And I’m here.”

He can’t resist any longer. He reaches his hand up to brush against the shuddering elf’s hair. The fact that the spawn doesn’t recoil from his touch is encouraging — or perhaps he is simply too hungry.

“I’m here,” Church repeats softly, stroking his hair. “I’ve got you, love.”

The spawn whines but remains so still, his shallow breaths barely perceptible.

Whatever nightmare of a memory the Raven Queen trapped him in, Astarion can’t seem to escape on his own. They are out of health potions, and he is too starved, too weak even to try anymore. In his desperation, Church feels the shadows and magic furling upon his tongue, ready to use either his illithid or fey thrall to snap the elf out of it…

No — the warlock won’t dare do that. He can’t do that — not to him. 

…but perhaps there’s another way to wake him up and bring him back to reality. 

“Come on, you need to heal,” Church murmurs. “I’m… I’m so sorry, love.”

He tilts his head away to expose his neck further. 

“I’ve never wanted to force you to do anything,” Church whispers. “But you have to wake up, alright? I’m not leaving here without you.”

He reluctantly grabs hold of the back of Astarion’s head now, guiding it to press his mouth more firmly upon his neck. The spawn struggles and whimpers against the skin, mouthing at it desperately as he’s simultaneously enticed and repulsed by the scent of the sinful blood. 

“Bite me,” Church urges him softly, burying his fingers into his hair. “You can do it… it’s fine. He can’t hurt you. He can’t control you anymore — no one can. You’re your own master now.”

His breath hitches as the fangs within Astarion’s gasping, protesting jaw finally catch upon the skin of his straining neck. 

“This is proof,” Church groans through gritted teeth, squeezing the panting Astarion’s head so firmly against him that those fangs puncture through his skin at last. “You’re free. You’re you.”

As soon as the smallest bit of blood begins to bead up around his fangs, Astarion’s starved tongue laps it up hungrily. And then, as primal hunger kicks in, the spawn eagerly sinks his fangs deeper into the tiefling’s neck with a strangled growl.

Church lets out a gasping cry, failing to stifle his pain and fear as his blood spurts warm and wet from the wound. Even the first time Astarion bit him was not nearly this bad. In his normal state of mind, Astarion had more precision regarding where to bite, and to what depth, and what amount, but this time…

He bites brutally hard into the tiefling, his bottom jaw clamping tight against Church’s throat as the tiefling lets go of the spawn’s head, desperately resisting his body’s own instincts to push him away. Astarion’s labored, excited breath is fast and harsh from his nose as he drinks in the tiefling’s blood greedily, moaning in unfettered ecstasy and relief. His entire body writhes on top of the tiefling in the throes of pleasure and relief as he drains him with gusto. 

“There you go…” Church whispers encouragingly through the pain, whimpering sharply as the spawn pulls his head further sideways. “There you go, love… it’s okay — I’ve got you.”

He feels himself quickly fading from consciousness, and in his dizziness he forgets himself, letting his arms drape limply around Astarion’s back to hold him close in a final embrace.

If this is the end, it may as well be, Church thinks blearily to himself. Astarion will survive. He will find Halsin and Thaniel. The Raven Queen will have what she wants — Church’s soul — and she’ll send the rest of them home.

They will lift the Shadow Curse at last. His friends will find a cure. The Absolutists will be defeated.

…without him.

These are all lovely dreams — such sweet dreams that he doesn’t mind sinking into as those dull lights from multitudes of memories slowly diffuse back into darkness.

It’s okay, he tells himself. You did your best.

“...hnngh… wha—? … Chu…rch…?”

Well, he thinks to himself ruefully. You tried to, anyway…

“…CHURCH!”

Church huffs a laugh, opening his mouth to reply, but a surprised, strangled grunt comes out instead. 

“What?” Astarion blinks at him. 

“Um,” Church blanches, his eyes wide and fearful as he continues through their minds alone. “Don’t turn around.”

Astarion feels his hair stand on end as he keeps his eyes fixed upon Church’s face. 

“Can I move?” he thinks back uneasily. Church nods.

“Yes,” he whispers back. “Quietly. Now!”

Astarion scrambles stealthily to the tiefling’s side, and in moments Church has crowded him into a crevice of a rock formation. The tiefling’s breath is shallow and fast, his eyes still wide as he gazes over his shoulder. 

“What the hells is it?” Astarion hisses, but Church shushes him. It doesn’t stop the elf from getting an eyeful over the shorter tiefling’s shoulder. 

Somewhere in the distance across the inky river — and yet not distant enough — a massive, dark humanoid shape lumbers slowly across the bleak landscape. By Astarion’s estimate, it’s even taller than the Raven Queen and just as disquieting. At least this figure doesn’t sport wings. Its colorless eyes are glowing and watchful as it scans the horizon unhurriedly, shaking the ground beneath its feet with each step. As Astarion watches, he realizes that what he thought was smoke trailing off of its body are actually flocks of birds or… whatever the hells lives here. He can only hope that they’re something as normal as ravens, but in a twisted place like this, who knows?

“Nightwalker,” Church breathes, watching over his shoulder as well. “And its court of bodaks.”

“Those are certainly words…”

“It’s a big nightshade,” Church explains. 

“Intelligent?”

“Very,” Church shudders. “Something we don’t want to cross, especially with those things around it. Those are all bodaks — deformed, undead husks that can kill us with a look.”

Astarion watches the haunting procession pass in horrified fascination. He tightens his hold around Church’s waist, admittedly comforted by his warmth and rapid heartbeat.

“Do you suppose that ugly bastard might’ve gotten Halsin?” Astarion asks curiously. 

Church’s fingers tighten against his chest. “I hope not,” he mutters grimly. “But it’s hard to stay optimistic in this place.”

They continue to hide there, watching with bated breath as the hellish procession moves into the distance, fading into fog. 

Church’s bright eyes look slowly up to meet Astarion’s, soft and regretful. 

“Think we’re good?” Church whispers. 

“You’re asking me?” Astarion sputters incredulously, and Church huffs a quiet laugh. 

“True. I suppose we’ve wasted enough time as it is.”

Astarion already misses the tiefling as he steps away from him. 

Normally Astarion’s plan would be to stick to the shadows, but in this plane, everywhere is shadow. The deeper they go, the more lively this dead world becomes. Things are moving — scuttling out of the corner of their eyes. 

Deeper shadows. 

Watchful shadows. 

Astarion feels sick to his stomach. The last time he felt so relentlessly watched was within the Szarr Palace. Cazador had his spies not just among the servants, but also the bats, the rats… hells, probably even in the walls, paintings, and statues themselves. 

Astarion could never stop performing his little puppet show for him. The spawn would never give him the satisfaction. 

Oh don’t fool yourself, Astarion scoffs to himself. Cazador will catch up to you soon enough. And what he has done to you in the past will pale in comparison to what punishment he’ll wreak upon your next. He’ll have Godey break your arms and legs. You won’t walk for months. You’ll…

Astarion shakes his head roughly. Now’s not the time for those thoughts…

…but he can almost feel the pain. And then the cold. And then the loneliness. Longing even for the miserable company of his siblings, the disgusting touch of a stranger… hells, even that of his master. Anything to take him away from this darkness…

“Hm?” Church glances at him over his shoulder. 

“What?” Astarion snaps out of his thoughts.

“I missed what you said.”

Astarion stares back at the tiefling. “I didn’t say a thing.”

Church gulps, luminous eyes darting around as he steps closer to Astarion, his hands filling with magic and sparking into twin flames as Church scans the dreary, but otherwise unremarkable road around them.

“We’re being hunted,” Church mutters into his mind. 

“No — no! You can’t die — wake up, damn you!”

The tiefling inhales sharply, his eyes flying open to ogle at the anguished face hovering above him.

“Oh—!” Astarion gasps, falling back upon his heels in a daze. 

He looks normal. His eyes are no longer sunken, his cheeks are fuller, and his ears are tinged with pink from drinking the same blood that has smeared and trickled down all over his mouth, chin, and throat. He wears his black padded armor once more — the raggedy illusion of a year of torture gone. 

Aside from being encrusted with the dirt of the Shadowfell, the elf’s fingers are still perfectly manicured — and whole.

“Hello, you,” Church rasps. “You alright?”

“Am I—? AM I ‘ALRIGHT?’” Astarion snarls. He gathers the tiefling up into his arms, shaking him. 

“Fuck you!” the elf bellows. “I hate you! I hate everything about you!”

And yet he buries his fingers into the tiefling’s hair, yanking him into a desperate, clumsy kiss that still tastes of Church’s blood. He then pulls the dazed tiefling away from him, eyes furious. 

“Why did you do that?” Astarion exclaims hysterically. “Why the hells would you let me do that to you?”

Church sighs an exhausted laugh, leaning heavily into his touch.

“You know why,” he says softly.

And by the terrified, confused look upon Astarion’s face, the tiefling knows he truly does.

—

It takes some time for Church to get his bearings fully. By then Astarion calms down somewhat, although his expression is still resentful as he surveys the tiefling for further signs of injury.

“You… you’re all healed,” Church studies Astarion with relief. “Thank the gods.”

“No thanks to the gods, I’d say,” Astarion retorts. “None of that… none of that was real, after all. Well. Except…”

He grimaces, yanking Church towards him to examine the intact, unbruised skin and tendon of his neck. The only scarring left is that of the shadow gate’s corruption.

“...except…?” Church prompts him.

“Well,” Astarion clears his throat. “I drained you dry. I… I was so hungry — I thought I was starved, but I didn’t—!”

“I know, love. It’s alright,” Church pulls away his anxious hand and kisses it, reveling in how full and soft the slender fingers feel compared to the skeletal ones that had gripped his throat. “I’m just glad it worked.”

“What? Making me kill you?” Astarion sputters.

“Yes, well,” Church winces. “It wasn’t supposed to go that far. I just thought a taste of breaking Cazador’s commandments would be enough to snap you out of it. Or at the very least you’d recognize my flavor, or something…”

Astrion scoffs. “You saw what I was. I was the furthest thing from reasonable. You should’ve just… ugh…”

Church watches as the vampire spawn covers his mouth, looking vaguely nauseated.

“Cazador used his magic to compel you,” Church explains, clutching Astarion’s hand. “Whether it’s through our tadpoles or the Weave… I never want to do that to you. I never want to take that control from you. And I thought of an alternative, so… I risked it.” 

He shrugs, smiling ruefully to himself. “And it worked, didn’t it?”

Astarion says nothing to that, refusing to meet Church’s eyes. 

“That said, how am I not dead?” Church asks, making a valiant attempt to stand.

“I assumed Tavi somehow kept you alive once again,” Astarion says blandly, hauling him to his feet.

Church shakes his head. “I don’t think he can even reach us on this plane. Maybe it was part of the illusion?”

“More Raven Queen mind-fuckery, no doubt,” Astarion mutters. 

“Yes, of course. She likes making mortals face their fears.” Church looks up, sighing. He knows very well that she’s listening. 

“I’m not mortal, and I don’t need to face my fears,” Astarion snips. “I hate this wretched place. How the hells do we get out?”

“We still need to find Halsin,” Church reminds him.

“Forget it! The druid is lost — we’ll never find someone in this bloody maze!” Astarion exclaims.

Church looks steadily at him, drinking in the sight of him healthy and whole. “I found you.”

Astarion fumes.

“Fine!” he grumbles. “Then what do we do?”

“Well… we seem to be missing an exit from this place,” Church observes. “Maybe if we focus ourselves again on our intentions…” 

He runs his fingers absently over his craggy, scarred face as he scans the round, doorless room. It appears that as soon as he had stumbled upon the tomb and the rest of the illusion, the black glass of the gallery walls sealed behind him, trapping them inside. 

Astarion lets out a short, harsh laugh. “I just killed you and you want me to focus,” he sneers.

“I… I know.” Church wraps his arms around the elf, squeezing him as he takes in a shuddering breath. “Astarion.”

It’s his name — a simple thing that is so beautiful on its own. But for Church, it’s a prayer upon his lips, and he hears the elf shiver when he says it. 

“I don’t want your pity,” Astarion says hollowly. “It’s bad enough knowing that you saw me in that pathetic state…”

But he doesn’t push the tiefling away. He relaxes as much as he can into his warm embrace.

“Good gods, get ahold of yourself,” he chides him half-heartedly. 

“Hells, Astarion… when I saw you there…” Church chokes, unable to shake the image of the nearly-skeletal spawn — starved, filthy, and feral — sealed inside of that crypt. “I thought you were dead too.”

“Well I certainly wished I was… for months.” Astarion scowls. “I never told you about that little stint in the darkness, did I?”

“I saw glimpses of that memory,” Church reminds him. He holds Astarion away, searching his eyes. “I want to know the story — when you’re ready,” he adds hurriedly as his expression turns dark. “I want to know exactly what I’ll be punishing Cazador for when we destroy him once and for all.”

A smile twitches to Astarion’s lips. “Such a sweet-talker. If only the Raven Queen wanted to take that memory of mine.” He hesitates. “Perhaps, if we must focus, I could tell you a bit more context. At the very least I will get it out of my damned head.”

Church smiles encouragingly at him. “It might help us get out of this room too,” he suggests, gesturing at the doorless walls. 

Astarion nods, eyes troubled as he finds his words. “Alright, well… once, in the first decade of my slavery… I found a… darling boy.”

As he speaks, whether through their tadpole connection or some other trick of the fortress, Church finds himself sinking into Astarion’s mind. Somehow, he tastes cheap wine. He smells the wet leather of muddy boots sitting in the corner. But closer than that, he smells… what is that? A bit of tuberose? Over-brewed coffee?

…and he sees soft, voluminous coils of black hair over a bright smile. Warm, brown skin illuminated with traces of gold in the semi-darkness. He was the quietest bard the vampire spawn had ever met. He said that he had always been on the road, but his career was only getting started.

He was a model target. He smiled too easily. Laughed too readily. He was too eager to bring Astarion to bed but was gentle. Generous. He asked him about his hopes and dreams. He told him he had a musician’s fingers, all the while interweaving them with his own.

He said he wanted to write a song about Astarion.

It was wonderful.

It was pathetic.

Astarion’s voice shakes. “I couldn’t bear to bring him back to him. So… I ran. Instead of hurting that sweet man.”

The memory fades from Church’s mind, and he feels Astarion’s hand back in his as they stand together in their prison. The elf clears his throat and continues. 

“After Cazador caught me… the bastard sealed me starving inside a dusty tomb all on my own for an entire year — a year of silence. Months of scratching my hands raw trying to carve my way out.”

He glances down at his flexing fingers, as if to reassure himself it was only a nightmare. 

“...and then even more months of not moving at all. Months wishing only for death. Complete solitude for the crime of being disobedient. Sealed. Buried alive. Voiceless. I had no way to count the days, so I… I lost track of time. I thought it might be forever. 

“Then when he released me, I vowed never to disobey again,” he finishes, face hardening. “I was the dutiful spawn, bringing back souls nearly every night for his insatiable appetite of sadism, lust, and blood.”

Church listens and nods along throughout his story. When he looks back up at Astarion, there are tears in his blazing, smoking eyes. 

“I will destroy him for what he did to you,” Church vows. “I’ll help you get your revenge. Whatever it takes. We won’t just kill him. We’ll make him suffer tenfold for what he did to you.”

“I believe you, darling,” Astarion huffs a laugh. “But he’s in Baldur’s Gate, and we are here now. Let’s get your druid and plot our bloody revenge later, yes?” 

He pauses to ponder to himself for a beat.

“Does that mean you’ll try to get out of this place alive after all?” Astarion asks pointedly. “No grand gestures of self-sacrifice this time?”

Church nods, rubbing at his smoking eyes. “As I said… whatever it takes.”

Astarion returns his tight smile. “Wonderful. Oh, look at that — there’s the door,” he says blandly.

Indeed, a door formed out of knotted, golden wood seems to have appeared out of the corner of their eyes, nestled into the obsidian walls as if it had been there the whole time. Greenery coils out from its seams, moss spreading like a welcome mat to wherever this hellish place hopes to take them next.

“Alright, then,” Astarion sighs. “Shall we, darling?”

He flourishes out his hand and Church gratefully takes it. He bitterly wonders if the Raven Queen has been getting some amusement out of watching their ordeal from her omnipresent throne.

He pushes the thought out of his head as he reaches towards the door, pushing it open with a resonant creak. Unsurprisingly, they find another infinite hallway on the other side.

“So how does this work?” Astarion prompts the frowning tiefling. “Shall we meditate upon that enormous druid of yours and his… friend?”

“Thaniel,” Church reminds him. “Who I’ve never even met and know nothing about, so how the hells am I supposed to…?”

The smell of lavender.

Church turns to Astarion. “Humor me, love?”

“What?”

“Close your eyes?” Church asks him nervously. “Keep tight hold of my hand, and I’ll do the same. I promise. But we’ll keep walking, alright?”

“Gods, this place is a hellhole of insanity. But we may as well, I suppose,” Astarion grumbles, interlocking his fingers with the tiefling’s. “Just… don’t let go this time, alright?”

Church keeps his promise. He holds tight to Astarion as he leads them onward along the echoing hallway. The two close their eyes and walk carefully — and then purposefully — forward. Surprisingly, even with the intensity of their stride, they don’t run into any walls.

The shadows part willingly for them, their hunger sated. 

…for now.