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The door to the ritual chamber opens slowly. Silently. It’s honestly suspicious, how silent its hinges are. The doors look to be as old as Baldur’s Gate itself, if not older. Still, it’s an advantage. Unheard is unseen. Stealth is a far greater tool than brute force. At the center of the chamber Cazador is stood on the dais, facing away from them. He doesn’t know they’re there.
He glances at his friends, at Gale, at Shadowheart, unsure how to proceed. He’s finally there, finally going to face the man who’s made the last two hundred years of his life hell. How is he supposed to do that?
Every single time he has tried to stand up for himself, stand up to him, he’s been beaten down even further than before. He can barely remember for what, the only thing remaining the pain, the humiliation. Darkness and suffering. Standing there in the doorway he sees black spots creeping in at the edges of his vision. He can’t do it. Not again. He doesn’t want it to hurt again.
Gale leans in, voice pitched down to a whisper. Their bond thrums with warmth. “You don’t need to confront him, if you don’t want to. It’s your call. Your closure.” His hand finds Astarion’s, soft and human. Alive. He’s not in the dark. He’s here, with Gale. “We have the element of surprise. We don’t need to let him do anything. We could just…” He waves his free hand through the air, simulating casting magic.
It’s such a tempting offer. He wouldn’t have to listen to Cazador’s taunts, his cutting words. He wouldn’t have to risk getting caught by him, getting his mind and freedom torn out, a very real risk with the protection that the tadpole offers still not entirely defined. The ritual won't be a threat if they just… don’t let him do it.
He nods shakily. He wants that. He wants to just… be free of it. To be done. “Please.” His voice sounds small, weak, but maybe that’s okay. He can be small. He can be weak. He has backup. His friends can be strong for him.
Gale nods back and turns to Shadowheart, whispering something to her as well. Her answering smile is sharp, dangerous, but oh so comforting. They’ve got his back. He’s not alone.
She, in turn, whispers something to Lae’zel, who turns to Wyll, who turns to Karlach. Shadowheart then carefully moves a few steps further into the room, completely silent despite her heavy armor, the rest of the party following behind her. Her magic is bright and alive between her hands as she casts, the light of the sun bending to mortal hands, and an orb of sunlight appears right on top of Cazador. Before he can react his skin starts bubbling, red hot, blisters growing where the light hits him, and he whirls to face them.
“You!” There’s pure indignant rage in his voice, a disgusted sneer on his face as he takes in the party on his doorstep. He twirls his staff, coils of red energy building around Astarion, wrapping around him, digging painfully into his skin. With a flick of the staff, he’s yanked off of his feet, flying forwards. A moment later, the orb of sunlight moves, and the skin on Cazador’s hands starts melting. The staff slips from his palms, the skin and the magic with it, and Astarion lands in a sprawl on the stairs, gasping for air he doesn’t need.
That moment where his focus was entirely on Astarion was all that the others needed. Magic rains down on him, his already melting skin burning as lightning courses through him, charring as he’s bathed in fire. Karlach is somehow already at the bottom of the stairs, readying her axe, Lae’zel right beside her.
It’s a blur, after that. He’s not sure he actually does anything, even. There is too much happening, his head already too full with fear and dread to take in anything else. There are spells flying all over the place, streaks of light where he can’t tell origin nor target. A wall of fire lights up across the entire platform, frying the bats coming for them to a crisp, and somewhere on the other side something howls in pain.
He stands there, holding his bow, an arrow notched, but everything is blurry and he can’t tell why. His allies, his friends, are fighting for him. He’s not alone in this. Between one blink and the next Gale is at his side, bright spells coiling in his hands as he steps in between Astarion and the worst of the fray. A wave of reassurance washes from him to Astarion, promising that he’s there, that he will be there. That Astarion will never be alone again.
When Cazador falls, it’s with a whimper, not a bang. He takes a step back to avoid an eldritch blast from Wyll and steps into the wall of fire. His body crumples to the floor unceremoniously, no noise but the thump of it hitting the ground.
It’s anticlimactic.
Everything just… stops. They won. He’s- he defeated Cazador. They defeated him.
When the fire stops, Gale’s concentration dropping in the ensuing calm, Cazador’s body turns into mist. Astarion’s eyes follow it as it floats off, heading towards the coffin at the center of the platform. He knows that coffin. He knows what it will do, what Cazador will do inside it.
His breathing speeds up, whatever haze had settled over him during the battle clearing in a blink, replaced by a single minded focus.
His feet barely cooperate as he scrambles across the dais, catching on the burnt corpses littering it. He barely notices them. His companions are saying something, he’s sure, but he can’t hear them, it’s all just noise. He can’t hear anything over the ringing in his ears. Cazador is almost gone. He’s almost free.
The lid is heavy, he can barely move it, shaky as he is, but his desperation forces his body to work. His already shaky breathing is turning into sharp wheezing gasps, loud and painful. The lid shifts, and he can see the body inside. He looks mortal, like this. Killable.
It’s almost too easy to grab him, fist his hand in his hair, like he’s done to him so many times. He wants it to hurt. He wants to return the pain.
“No! Get out! No healing sleep for you!” He throws him on the ground, like the trash he is. It feels vindicating to see him sprawled out on the ground. Defeated. “Wake up!”
Cazador gasps awake, scrambling at the ground, grasping for his knife as he sneers up at him. “Get your hands off of me, worm!”
It’s laughable. He’s already defeated. He holds no power over Astarion any more. Astarion isn’t a worm any more. He’s a person. He’s allowed to be a person. He holds all the power, now. “I’m not the one in the dirt.” Cazador’s dagger fits oddly in his hand, not the one he’s used to, not one he’s supposed to use. “One last thrust, and I’ll be free of you. I’ll never have to fear you again.”
Seeing him like this, on his knees, shivering, doesn’t make anything he’s done to him hurt less. The pain almost feels more real, seeing the useless wreck of a man in front of him. So desperate for power, so desperate for control that he would tear people’s personhood from them, turn them into puppets. So depraved and disgusting that he sold seven thousand souls to a devil. He’s not just in the dirt, he is the dirt.
Astarion doesn’t have to be in the dirt any more. He doesn’t have to be depraved or desperate. He can be more.
Behind him, his companions, his friends, are waiting for him. They’re there for him. They’ve protected him, have helped him in ways he couldn’t have even understood to wish for before he met them.
And there’s Gale. Sweet, kind, intelligent Gale, who made him feel like a person again. Who has, somehow, some way, despite his great intelligence, come to love Astarion. Who has protected him, when he never would have even thought to ask it.
Gale, who has promised him he will find him a way to walk in the sun again, once it’s all over.
Gale, who asked him to, once it’s all over, join him in Waterdeep. For a forever.
Gale, whose soul burns bright in his chest, even now.
With them at his back, the power offered by the ritual seems paltry. False. Maybe Cazador needs it, maybe he’s filthy enough to bathe in blood for his own pleasure, but Astarion is better than that. He’s been allowed to be better than that. They’ve allowed him to be better. To finally be a person. To be himself. To finally find out who he is.
Yes. He is better than Cazador. He is beyond the desire for the power the ritual offers. But two hundred years of pure suffering still sit heavy on his soul. Cazador’s death will be a boon to the world. He is not above enjoying it.
The pure shock in Cazador’s eyes as he wrenches his head back is delightful. Yes, your little spawn is rising up. You don’t control him any more. You should be afraid.
He puts his entire weight behind his dagger as he drives it into the other vampire’s chest, two hundred years of pain contained in the motion. The blade slices easily through the flesh, sliding into place through the space between two ribs.
Even as he stabs him, none of his rage abbates. It’s still there, sitting in his shoulders, in his jaw, tensing his arms. It isn’t better. It didn’t fix anything. He wants Cazador to suffer. Once more, he raises the blade, bringing it down hard, a bit to the side, hitting new tissue. Blood pours from the wounds, flooding onto the floor, Cazador disgustingly well fed even to the last. He stabs down again, watching it cut through into the other side of his chest as well.
He has hurt him so much. He has suffered for so long. It’s not enough.
An involuntary breath punches out of his lungs, almost a sob. The blade stabs down again.
He was used. Treated like an animal.
He drives the blade down again.
Worse than an animal.
He drives the blade into Cazador’s throat.
Starved. Beaten.
The blade sinks in again, his breath catching, speeding up.
Belittled. Tortured.
He stabs again.
Forced into a life in the shadows. Into stalking the night like a predator.
The knife digs in again.
So many strangers, strange hands, nights spent on his back against his will, morning spent hunched over a bucket, horrified, but unable to throw up.
The blade digs into Cazador’s abdomen as he sobs.
Being trained. Forced and used and abused and made to be a good pet. Your breathing is annoying. Stop it. Feeling his body obey without his consent. His throat forced open. You sound so pretty when you scream. It’s a shame to occupy your mouth with anything else. Hours, days, weeks, of unending agony, being torn open, stuffed full against his will. Being used.
He drives the blade into Cazador’s groin. Again. And again. And again. Until all that is left is bloody pulp, his breathing entirely out of control, great heaving sobs wrecking his body as he keeps stabbing, desperate to make it better, make anything better, make it stop. He just wants it to stop hurting.
He doesn’t realize he’s been screaming until he stops. All of the energy leaves him, and the dagger tumbles to the ground next to him as he collapses, Cazador nothing but bloody pulp in front of his knees.
The chamber is eerily quiet in the wake of his scream.
No one is moving.
No one is saying anything.
It takes a minute for anyone to move, hesitant steps tracking across the platform to him. The ball of warmth in his chest flares in recognition. It’s Gale.
He kneels next to him, putting a hand on his shoulder. He pulls, gentle pressure, more a suggestion than anything else, but Astarion complies, forcing his body back upright. He meets Gale’s eyes, red and shiny, tears tracking down his face into his beard.
It’s with a start he realizes how loud his thoughts must have been. How much Gale must have heard. Have seen.
“I’m sorry.” They both say it at the same time. His voice is hoarse. He’s not sure for how long he was screaming. Gale’s voice is thick with tears. He shouldn’t have to cry for him.
The pooling blood is soaking into Gale’s robe.
“We should-“ He reaches up to hold Gale’s face but falters when he sees his hand. It’s covered in blood, soaked in dripping red far up the wrist. He lets it drop back to his lap before continuing. “We should get out of here.”
Gale’s hands slide down Astarion’s arms, a whispered word and a few sparks leaving them free of blood. He clasps Astarion’s hands in his, squeezing them reassuringly. “Anything you need.”
A panicked gasp punched out of him, halfway to a laugh. “I have no idea what I need. I just- I can’t stand being here a second longer.”
“Of course.” Gale pushes himself up to his feet, still holding Astarion’s hands, gently pulling him up alongside him. “We just need to free everyone.”
The exhaustion hits the moment he’s on his feet, and most of his weight ends up on Gale. “I- Yes. I need to- they don’t-“ He staggers towards Cazador’s discarded staff, dragging Gale along beside him. His brain is more mush than thought, the body supporting his his only link to reality.
The staff is pressed into his hand by a gently smiling Shadowheart. “I think you should be the one to do this.”
It’s a solid weight, heavy with magic. He has to brace his feet apart to stay standing when he lets go of Gale, but it has to be done. It has to be him.
The power builds, higher and higher, before flowing out in a great wave, rushing through him, scraping along his insides, and it’s only Shadowheart’s quick reflexes that keep him from hitting the ground when he collapses.
Gale ducks down immediately, throwing one of Astarion’s arms over his shoulders, Shadowheart moving to do the same on his other side. “We’re leaving.” Gale’s tone leaves no room for argument, and he can feel Shadowheart nodding, even if he can’t see it. Raising his head is too much work right now.
He lets himself be ferried back to the door, little more than deadweight between them. The exhaustion makes him sluggish, both in mind and body, but it doesn’t hurt. It’s from doing what’s right. Doing the right thing doesn’t have to hurt.
He doesn’t have to hurt.