Palmarosa - thespectaclesofthor - Baldur's Gate (Video Games) [Archive of Our Own] (2024)

Chapter 1: Dust and Mould

Chapter Text

Of course it’s Raphael who finds him, Astarion shouldn’t be surprised, but he is.

The end of the world came and went. Astarion was supposed to be an Ascended almost-god – he would have been a nice one, it wasn’t like he planned to be that awful about it – and he wasn’t. The man who had kissed him, flirted with him, and spoke such beautifully romantic words, who had promised him everything, and had certainly promised him Ascension, changed his mind.

Well, Astarion was used to that, Cazador was the same – kisses, flirting, romance, promises, sometimes even during the group orgy where disembowelment of victims was a matter of course. It could only have been Astarion’s fault that he fell for it a second time.

Honestly, slaughtering that whole city of goblins should have been your first clue, the sunlight clearly addled your mind.

No more sunlight, and a fierce yearning for it that Astarion simply couldn’t adjust to. He’d had two hundred years of practice learning to live without, now he had to start from scratch all over again.

Sewers were rank. Underground tunnels got boring after a while. The Underdark was filled with thousands of – he supposed – kin. He wasn’t looking for a family reunion.

And now Temter was off somewhere, doing whatever he liked with the druids, being f*cked stupid by that bear of a man, and Astarion was in the dark and doing a rather remarkable job of not turning every human he met in the shadows into his slave. Oh, he didn’t have vampire lord powers, but hit someone enough, and they became a different kind of thrall. He’d seen it happen enough times.

His life was bitterness. He certainly never stopped drinking from people after Temter left, he never would again. He’d learned enough ability in magic to become quite sophisticated at putting people to sleep in the streets at night and supping from them, had even become adept at shallowly slicing a knife across the skin to disguise the deep tooth marks when he didn’t have enough potions to heal them.

Even then, he loathed moving from city to city, and he knew they’d hunt him down more and more, force him to move. Temter’s good standing only went so far when a loathsome vampire decided humanoids were well and truly back on the menu.

So it was Raphael who found him. Astarion had been sleeping restlessly, stirred during a nightmare, saw the form of Raphael and even as his fear spiked, he assumed it was a dream. Just a dream.

‘Now, now,’ Raphael said laconically, sitting on a crate and leaning back against an abandoned dresser. ‘Don’t let me bother your beauty sleep, goodness knows you need a lot of it.’

Astarion drifted in sleep until the insult penetrated, and his eyes opened on an annoyed frown.

‘Ah, throwing stones in glass houses I see!’ Astarion said, trying to hide his alarm. He almost looked around to see where his friends were, almost, almost felt like they had his back for the first time in a year. He could imagine it, the feeling of them waiting nearby, ready to catch him when he was in trouble. The pain of it was as bad as any of the mundane tortures Cazador had invented for him. He felt breathless from it. He’d never known what that felt like, and now…

He liked to think of himself as charming, but Wyll was truly charming, even Gale had his moments, and Astarion was pushing himself up on a thin bedroll and knew he hadn’t been taking care of himself, knew he looked dreadful, even though he…he didn’t know exactly what he looked like.

Temter had said such lovely things, but whatever Astarion had, however handsome his appearance, it wasn’t enough to keep him by his side.

‘You’re looking a bit worse for the wear,’ Raphael said.

Astarion sighed explosively. ‘Just- Just tell me what you’re doing here, and what you want! I’ve no time to listen to all the palaver you spout before laying down the blasted deal, Raphael.’

‘What a shame, I do so like the palaver. It certainly does seem like you have the time, but I’m not here to quibble about your busy schedule, Astarion. It so happens that I have a proposition for you.’

‘Darling, you? A proposition? I’m so surprised,’ Astarion drawled.

‘It’s occurred to me that you have been treated so poorly in all of this. Your lover, ah – my apologies – your ex-lover is off living life as a hero, and here you are, as dusty and discarded as all the furniture in this basem*nt. I’m nothing if not a philanthropist, I only want to help those who need it, especially if I can get something worthwhile in return.’

Astarion stared at him, and assumed that even with his apparent dustiness, his impatience and boredom conveyed themselves.

He was doing a rather good job of pretending not to be alarmed.

‘I can think of many charities you can offer your patronage to, but I am not one of them.’

‘No? I would have thought you’d do almost anything to be able to walk under the sun again.’

It was impossible to hide his response to those words, and Raphael looked triumphant and smug already, as Astarion pushed the sheet off himself and stared at the devil with severe misgivings and a criminal amount of hope and desperation. Wasn’t he just laughable at times like this? He knew Raphael enjoyed these moments the same way Cazador did.

‘Temter looked into it,’ Astarion said, ‘and he came to the rather obvious conclusion that-’

‘He didn’t last three months,’ Raphael said softly, each word a cruel weapon. ‘Not even three months, looking for a solution. And those three months were filled with – I’m sure – a rather busy schedule. People wanted his attention, wanted him, and there he was, exhausted and certainly too tired to be focusing on a mean-spirited little monster who thought he’d try and Ascend simply because he got a small taste of freedom.’

Astarion still had his crossbow. He still had plenty of bolts. Raphael wouldn’t die – he’d proven he couldn’t be truly taken down even when defeated in battle – but he’d feel it. The f*cking wretch.

Raphael slid off the crate and walked slowly towards Astarion, which gave him enough time to scramble up to his feet, taking his crossbow with him. He pointed it at Raphael’s chest, and the devil smiled sweetly.

‘I’m afraid you’re going to have to listen to everything I have to say before I give you my offer. And I’m going to enjoy it when you agree to my contract.’

A trap was closing around him, and Astarion wished he had his… his team at his back. Those people he thought of as his people, even though he tried not to for so long. He’d thought he was just another weird misfit, among many weird misfits. But no, Gale was an incredibly formidable and respected wizard. Wyll walked in power even when he wished not to see it. Temter was one of the finest druids in existence, using magic like breathing and almost never suffering for it. Even Shadowheart had been acknowledged by not one, but two goddesses.

Astarion was a vampire spawn. Just a vampire spawn who ended up on a ship and managed not to die.

‘I heard your ex-lover promised to live with you in the dark,’ Raphael said gently. ‘He only lasted three months? And he wasn’t even with you in the dark that whole time, was he? No. I wonder how quickly you realised he was going to abandon you? Or did it come as a shock in the end? Did you really dare to believe all that nonsense about him, while he slaughtered innocents among the evil, and chose his heroism on a whim?’

Raphael’s chest pressed against the end of the crossbow. Close enough now that Astarion couldn’t get away from the scent of palmarosa and the spice of hellfire.

‘We don’t need this,’ Raphael said, setting his hands on the crossbow. Astarion felt it viscerally, anger swirling in him. ‘We’re just having a conversation.’

‘It’s only a conversation when both parties are talking.’

‘All right.’ Raphael pulled the crossbow out of Astarion’s hands, and Astarion felt like a fool for letting him.

He wasn’t exactly ready to die, but he wasn’t exactly…leaning away from it with all his might, either.

‘There we go,’ Raphael said, putting the crossbow down and straightening. ‘It’s possible for you to walk in the sun again. Not for a minute, or an hour, but forever. In fact, there’s more than one way. I suppose you could go off on your own and look for those solutions, and you certainly would have found at least one of them with Temter’s assistance had he stayed longer than a butterfly’s lifespan. But I have one at home right now. And there’s a more permanent solution waiting. I have not one, but two potential deals to offer you, though I think the first will appeal more than the second. An easier deal for a more fragile solution, a more challenging deal for a solution that costs me more resources.’

Astarion told himself he looked unimpressed. He told himself he looked unaffected. Raphael, meanwhile, behaved like the trap had already sprung.

If someone had told Astarion he needed to kill thousands of people to permanently stay in the sunlight, well he would have f*cking done it until Temter somehow convinced him to stop!

‘The solutions,’ Astarion breathed, ‘what are they? You told Temter of the Orphic Hammer, you can at least tell me the solutions.’

‘Nothing comes from nothing, my dear. And you are a great deal of nothing right now. But, let me offer some benevolence, I can be charitable. The first is a necklace. It’s ancient and fragile, and the magic in it is tenuous. But it gives the wearer protection against sunlight’s effects for as long as it’s being worn.’

‘Of course,’ Astarion said scathingly. ‘The part of the body covered by the necklace gets the protection, while the rest burns up. I’ve heard all of this before, you know, do you think vampire spawn truly haven’t look-’

A hand that was too hot pressing against his mouth, and Astarion slapped it away in shock.

‘Award me more cleverness than that, please,’ Raphael said, his voice stern. Astarion swallowed. ‘You obviously seem to think you have it all figured out, but the idea that I would resort to such crude cheating is laughable and insulting. The artefact is, as they say, the real thing. Once you put it on, your whole body responds to sunlight as though it is the golden blessing it can be in mild summers. You are no longer harmed, it no longer hurts you, and it feels – I’ve heard – incredible. I did, of course, test it on a vampire to see if it was legitimate.’

Astarion didn’t ask what happened to the vampire. He wanted the necklace so badly he felt sick with it.

‘One of us would have heard of it by now,’ Astarion said. ‘We’re not stupid.’

‘Nor are you omnipotent, nor can you travel easily between planes. Let’s put this one down to the fact that I can go places you cannot, in ways you cannot. Now, the second solution is a ritual that – incredibly – does not involve the sacrifice of thousands of people. But…it does require a sacrifice. Nothing comes from nothing, after all.’

‘I see,’ Astarion said, wondering if he could somehow…steal the necklace. He might not have the charm of some of his companions, but he knew his way around the shadows, around theft. He wasn’t quite as confident of that around Raphael, given the man was standing close enough to him now that Astarion felt invaded. This close, Raphael’s body heat rippled into him in waves. It was the warmest he’d felt in a year.

‘Nine people to be killed in a very specific manner, but I’ll let you choose the people,’ Raphael said. ‘Since you developed a cute attempt at a conscience, you can even select criminals, if you like. Cazador and Temter have given you plenty of practice at murder, haven’t they?’

‘Killed how?’

‘I’ll save that one for when you see the contract,’ Raphael said.

‘And what could you possibly want in exchange for this?’

‘I get bored,’ Raphael said, his smile chilling. ‘You’re rather fascinating to me. Cazador broke you and made you pathetic. Temter rebuilt you with love, then broke you again. Yet you’re still here, as short-tempered and frustrated as ever.’

‘Ah, yes, because you think I’m going to enjoy being broken in by a devil. First a vampire lord, then a half-elf, and now a devil? Listen, I don’t know how stupid you think I am, but-’

‘-Desperation isn’t the same as stupidity,’ Raphael said. ‘For the necklace, I want you in my bed for a month. You’ll live in my home, be subjected to my whims, and be otherwise treated like a prince. A captured prince, but a prince nonetheless. I’ll have people procured for you to feed upon. You’ll have whatever other food you wish for. You’ll have your own-’

Astarion was laughing so loudly he missed the rest of it. Raphael waited for the laughter to die down, Astarion just lifted his eyebrows.

‘Darling, please.’

‘What is it you’re afraid of, that you haven’t already experienced?’ Raphael said, and Astarion’s mouth tightened. ‘But I don’t plan on breaking you. At least, not crudely. And after a month you’d have the necklace and be free to leave and live whatever life you like.’

‘And I suppose the second deal is that I simply stay as a slave in your home forever? Did Cazador give you a teensy little how-to manual before he was escorted from this mortal plane? How adorable.’

‘We will have to teach you how to curb that mouth of yours, though not completely, as you are quite entertaining. But the second offer – a ritual to be able to not just withstand but enjoy sunlight for the rest of your life – comes not at the price of breaking you, but the price of your true submission to me.’

Astarion frowned. ‘They’re the same thing.’

‘No, I promise you they’re not,’ Raphael said, his smile broadening, and looking all the more terrifying for it.

‘What do you think Cazador-’

‘-I said your true submission. I don’t want you broken, I want you yielding and choosing to yield because you crave nothing other than me and my touch. Once I have that for the period of a month – during which we will even get the ritual underway if you like, so you do not have to wait a day longer – you are free to do what you wish, under the sunlight, and I will have won something quite sweet. I suspect you have no idea what true submission really feels like – to give or receive – and it's been some time since I’ve had a project as interesting as you.’

Astarion stared at him. True submission? What, simply…spending thirty days accepting whatever filthy things Raphael wanted to do to him? That was all? There had to be a catch. Multiple catches.

But to walk under the sunlight again. To see rays of light through flower petals, through new leaves. To be like a cat warming its pelt under that distant glow. To see sunsets, sunrises, and to walk around with as much of a right to the light as anyone…

‘I don’t want any permanent damage or scarring,’ Astarion said.

‘Of course not, I might be a devil but I’m not a monster.’

Astarion thought of the scar on his back, and then thought of all the times Cazador inflicted life-destroying damage to him and healed it, over and over again.

‘No damage that requires a spell or potion to keep me alive,’ Astarion added quickly.

‘Tch, you poor thing, that you know to be so specific,’ Raphael said, face twisting in sympathy. ‘Of course not. I’ll push you and challenge you, but you’ll get no life-threatening injuries or spells or damage from me or anyone around me. I’ll be protecting you from that kind of harm, Astarion, not looking to subject you to more of it.’

‘No… No damage that requires a spell or potion to stop me from scarring,’ Astarion added.

Raphael hesitated. Astarion’s mouth pressed together in barely contained fury. How dare he? How dare he offer something like sunlight in exchange for this?

‘I can’t agree to that,’ Raphael said finally. ‘If I hurt you to the point that you might scar, I will want to heal that damage. But I can assure you that if I conduct any activities against you of that nature, they will have purpose, and they will not simply come about because of a cruel whim. An ass can tear when it meets a co*ck that’s too big for it, and tears not treated immediately or with compassion can scar. We can put stipulations around this in the contract. I’m not just going to come at you with a knife for goodness’ sake.’

‘I doubt you know anything about goodness’ sake.’

‘You’d be surprised,’ Raphael said. ‘Besides, it’s a long, long wait between here and my own Ascension and I can bide my time, but I do like to be entertained.’

‘You can f*ck anyone,’ Astarion said.

‘I know. I said I want your true submission. That requires some skill. In fact it requires rather a lot of skill, breaking people by comparison is so pathetically easy, and requires no skill at all.’

Temter would tell him not to take the deals. Temter would say to get away from Raphael as soon as possible, just walk away. But Temter had given him three extra months before making the saddest kicked-puppy face in Faerun and saying something about lifestyle incompatibility and how sorry he was and how it was inevitable and there was nothing he could do, and they were bound to live different lives.

‘Must I accept both contracts at the same time?’

‘No,’ Raphael said. ‘You can accept the first, and then decide on the second within a tenday.’

‘Not at the end of the full month?’ Astarion said with faux-lightness.

‘Ten days from acceptance of the first contract, you must decide whether or not to accept the second. If you’re very good, you may be out in the sunlight in as little as five tendays. Well, Astarion, even if you’re not and you last out the first contract, you’ll still have the necklace in four.’

‘You know, you’d think I’d be more precious about being raped, but it does all get rather pedestrian after a while,’ Astarion sighed. He hoped that hid his terror, but there was truth in his words.

‘You might even enjoy it,’ Raphael said, smiling slowly.

‘I don’t want to be f*cked by others,’ Astarion said sharply. ‘Not people, not animals, not monsters, fiends, the undead, or anything of the sort.’

‘I…can’t agree to that either,’ Raphael said. ‘But I can promise it will only happen rarely, and you will get a choice. I’ll even give you a safeword, Astarion, imagine that.’

The worst part was Astarion knew he would have agreed even if Raphael had said he was going to be f*cked by other people twenty or fifty times a day. He would have, because he faced an eternity in the shadows, and he couldn’t bear it. He couldn’t. Not again.

Raphael knew the moment he’d appeared Astarion was going to say yes, and Astarion knew the moment sunlight was mentioned that he’d say yes as well.

This was all a lot of palaver for something already done and lacking only a signature. Astarion hoped the necklace would be enough.

‘I want to see this necklace first,’ Astarion said finally. ‘I want to know it’s not simply going to fall apart if someone so much as looks at it.’

‘Of course,’ Raphael said. ‘Should we adjourn to my place? It is, after all, where I prefer to do all my contract work, and it’s where you’ll be living if you do sign the contract. The sooner we get started… Well, I’ll even let you wear the necklace sometimes during that month, Astarion. You don’t have to wait the full thirty days to know what that light feels like on your skin, I’m not that cruel.’

Astarion closed his eyes to hide the way they burned in response. He had rather a good idea that he’d never fully understand just how cruel Raphael was, and he was damned, because he was still going to say yes.

‘Poor thing,’ Raphael said, laughing. Astarion flinched when a hand came down and petted him on the shoulder. ‘Maybe you’ll even like it.’

The thought wasn’t reassuring at all.

Chapter 2: Smoke and Snowmelt

Chapter Text

Astarion stood in the foyer of the House of Hope and it was like nothing had changed. Of course, the projection of Hope was no longer there because she’d died despite Temter’s attempts to save her. Not that Astarion really wanted her to live, she was quite an intense pain in the ass and oh, haha, the wordplay, a Hope in Hell, no wonder Raphael was obsessed with her. The towering foyer with all its marble and gold detailing was quiet, and Raphael stood beside him in his human form. Astarion wondered why he bothered.

He hadn’t signed anything yet, and looking at the imposing stained windows that towered up multiple storeys to the Avernus hellscape beyond was a grounding experience.

‘Darling, how did you end up surviving? You never did explain it,’ Astarion said.

Raphael’s smile was small and knowing, infuriating really.

‘It’s a poor devil that doesn’t have a few tricks up their sleeve. At the time, it seemed better to leave it be, I have enough pokers in the fire and I believed the Crown of Karsus was coming my way. There’s still time.’

‘Why does it not surprise me that you’re thinking of taking on a goddess next?’

‘Goddesses aren’t as invulnerable as you might think,’ Raphael said.

He seemed comfortable here, even though his last memories of Astarion in this ostentatious palace had to be of the amount of arrows and magic the vampire sent his way while trying to murder him. Astarion hadn’t managed the kill-shot – though he’d craved it at the time – but he’d certainly drawn enough blood of his own and killed quite a few occupants of the House.

The devil must be feeling vengeful.

Astarion thought of all he’d done for Cazador, and that was in exchange for nothing, he’d endure more for Raphael. He had an idea of the man’s proclivities, and while he didn’t particularly share most of them, he could put up with them. Besides, men like Cazador and Raphael liked it when Astarion broke and found something too awful to be borne. That was the point.

‘The foyer cleaned up rather nicely, I must say,’ Raphael said, looking around.

‘The Pillars haven’t been replaced.’

‘It’s going to take time to find enough souls of the damned to replace all the ones I’d collected over the years.’ Raphael spoke like it was a neutral conversation, but Astarion’s sense of dread grew. He’d expected some anger, even irritation, he knew Raphael could be a short-tempered brute. He spoke instead like a cambion who was biding his time, gently drawing the rope closer, pretending it was silk and not a noose.

Raphael said nothing else, he reached out to place his hand on Astarion’s shoulder, and Astarion stepped away with a glare.

He hadn’t signed any Infernal contracts just yet, and he didn’t appreciate how handsy Raphael was being.

But Raphael smiled and walked off, and Astarion followed, looking sidelong at a green ghostly projection that suddenly appeared of a tiefling – damned for eternity through Raphael’s actions – and stared at her dispassionately as he passed. No doubt Temter and the rest of the sorry crew would feel their hearts positively quiver, but Astarion had concluded that a large proportion of people lived only for the purpose of suffering, and anything else was a luxury. No one needed saving from the inevitable.

They went not to the archive, nor the boudoir, but through a shimmering veil behind a hidden door into a more private area.

The walls along this corridor were adorned with at least four full-sized paintings of Raphael in cambion form, in human form, Astarion stared at them all.

‘Do you know, I recall Haarlep saying you only like to f*ck yourself,’ Astarion said idly. ‘So what exactly am I to be? Window dressing?’

‘I’ve had an interesting year,’ Raphael said. ‘What some might call an exquisite year of self-discovery.’

‘Because that’s what you need,’ Astarion said, gesturing to a giant painting of Raphael’s visage as they walked past it, ‘more self-discovery. Careful, darling, too much and you’ll never recover.’

‘Adroitly observed, but not what I meant. After the destruction and looting of large sections of this House, and the death of Hope, the setback in acquiring the Crown of Karsus, and my own temporary discorporation, I decided some reflection was in order.’

‘Your incubus said you were terrible in bed.’

‘I don’t think how I f*ck is going to be the thing that makes or breaks an Infernal contract between us,’ Raphael said, completely unoffended.

Astarion’s teeth ground together, his sharp canines hooking on his lower teeth painfully. The Raphael he remembered was easy to offend, easy to bait.

‘Besides,’ Raphael added, ‘Haarlep – the lovely, capricious, fickle thing – will say whatever he pleases to get the response he wants. It’s in his nature to “milk the moment,” as it were. But while he’s bound to me, he’s not naturally submissive, and he does not like my sadism, so by his standards I suppose there is a great deal I’ve done that he’s not enjoyed.’

They ended up in a room clearly dedicated to rituals and contracts. Scrolls – both rolled out and bound – littered a table nearby. A giant nine-sided star was painted thickly on the marble floor in blood so old it no longer smelled revolting. Ornate candelabras – the candles lit – were in the corners of the room, and from the ceiling hung a chandelier so large that Temter’s first thought would have been something like: “If I can get all the people I’m okay with killing under it, I think I could save some magical energy and just shoot the chandelier down instead.”

‘When you say I’m permitted to see the sun, with this necklace, do you mean the poor attempt at the sun here in Avernus? Or the sun in Faerun?’

‘I do not want to spend days sorting out this contract,’ Raphael said to himself, impatience leaking through.

‘How surprising! Are you telling me you don’t want to negotiate something in my best interests? Well…I simply never.’

Raphael turned back and stared. Astarion’s smile was sweet, his fingers splayed in the air where he’d raised his hand.

‘That’s so unlike a devil, isn’t it?’ Astarion continued. ‘And weren’t you going to show me this necklace that supposedly exists? Do you know, you don’t have to put up with me at all, Raphael. You can drop me off back in Faerun, and I can research the methods to access the sun all on my own.’

‘All right,’ Raphael said. ‘I’ll call that bluff.’

He walked decisively towards Astarion, and Astarion backed up several steps and held up his hands, laughing nervously.

‘Not a bluff! Never a bluff. Just…reminding you of the facts. I didn’t say that’s what I wanted. I believe I said I wanted to see the necklace.’

‘You are tedious.’

‘Let me guess, you can’t wait to shut me up. Can’t wait to slide a co*ck or a gag or some torture device into my mouth. Listen, I know Cazador’s playbook quite well, there’s nothing you can do that hasn’t been done to me before.’

Raphael walked past him towards a tall chest of drawers that stretched up so high Astarion didn’t see how he’d reach the higher-

Raphael seamlessly changed into his cambion form, his clothing changing with him. His dusky red skin appeared, his black-brown hair somehow glossier and healthier, and his leathery wings stretched up above his shoulders, the tips down to his calves. Two big flaps – enough that the downdrafts ruffled Astarion’s clothing – and he was up in the air, at the top level of the chest of drawers.

Raphael scratched at one of his horns while he opened the drawer with his other hand. His tail moved lazily back and forth like a cat’s, and Astarion stared up at him and thought vampire spawn didn’t seem like much of a spectacle compared to cambions.

Astarion’s heart beat painfully when he saw Raphael bring out a small black velvet box, whisper something to it, and then open it. His fingers curled when he saw a glint of silvery metal, a chain so fine it looked like spider’s silk from where he stood.

Raphael glided back down again easily – Astarion better understood why all the ceilings and doors were so high now – and walked over, his palm opening to reveal a fine silver chain. It had three little pale nothingy gems set into its middle, and the clasp looked worn.

‘The magic is not only in the gems, but in the very chain itself which – as you can no doubt tell – has seen better days. The Blessing of Lathander’s Light, it is called, and he made only one as a reward for someone who certainly isn’t here to get much use out of it anymore. What a humble little trinket. It cannot be repaired, and I do not think even a summoning ritual to Lathander would be of much use in this instance. I don’t see him rewarding a vampire thrall for no reason, do you?’

Astarion barely listened. He stared at the chain and felt light-headed with need. The sun. The sun was in that chain.

‘Tch, poor thing,’ Raphael crooned. ‘You don’t want to be here. You don’t want me. You don’t want to be tortured, but this little chain is everything to you, isn’t it?’

‘It looks like something you’d pick up from a tiefling beggar child,’ Astarion said dismissively, but his voice was hoarse.

‘It does look insignificant. The craftsmanship is terrible.’

‘You said I could test it.’

‘Are you going to try and run from me once you have it? Start our month-long contract with a punishment?’

Astarion stared at him, and Raphael’s smile was easy.

‘I don’t think you’ll be able to help yourself,’ Raphael said. ‘You’re a cowardly, sneaky mink, a Mustelid that instinctively seeks the shadows. It was incredible how that half-elf wrangled you, when you think about it. Were you so terribly desperate for a friend? A lover? You don’t have to answer that, I already know.’

Raphael’s laugh was coarse.

‘We’re going to try the necklace, you’ll see I’m a man of my word, and then you’re going to try and steal it, and we’ll start our contract with a punishment. You’ll see.’

‘I don’t recall any of the literature saying you were a seer.’

‘Desperate people are awfully predictable, and you are not special.’

Astarion wanted to retort desperately, but he thought of Temter, he thought of how everything had ended, and the lack of Vampire Ascension that he was sure was waiting for him…

Yes, well, if he wanted to be special, he’d likely have to invent some new reasons why, because all the old ones had fallen away, just out of reach.

‘Follow,’ Raphael said, keeping the necklace in his hand as he turned and left the room with its ritual and contract paraphernalia.

Astarion didn’t say a word. He could be obedient for as long as it took to get a necklace. Besides, Raphael’s home wouldn’t be empty, Astarion would find other poor souls on which to vent his frustrations and entertain himself, he was sure. The best part about spending time with deranged sad*sts was always the presence of some other poor miserable f*ck he could focus his attentions on to detract from what he was dealing with.

Take me outside, take me into the sun.

In the giant marble room of portals, and Raphael went straight to the one for Waterdeep without even looking at it, and the turquoise shimmer leapt and pulsed at his presence, like it was hungry for him to step through it.

‘Here,’ Raphael said, turning and unlocking the clasp. ‘Bow your head.’

This feeling, this nervousness, he’d felt it so many times in his life. This quickening that came before watching a child being raped because he’d nominated their body over his because sometimes he was just so tired. That came before his first real kiss with Temter, soft and sweet, cautious, and Temter’s warm smile, like it was all he ever wanted. It came when he’d awoken into his new vampire spawn body, and it came when he’d had his first wet dream in his barely-remembered high elf body.

Astarion loathed to bow his head for anyone, and Raphael knew it, and waited him out.

Astarion wasn’t going to pretend at dignity. He bowed his head.

The necklace felt like nothing at all. A thin little chain. It could have been a heavy steel collar, and Astarion hated it with vehemence, and needed it like air.

‘It’s really too tame for someone like you,’ Raphael mused.

‘Is that a compliment?’ Astarion said, as Raphael settled the metal over his neck and did up the clasp, and then let go. Astarion expected more untoward touching, but it didn’t come.

‘It could be.’

Astarion straightened and his fingers hovered over the delicate little chain. He didn’t feel different. He didn’t feel like someone who could stand in the sun.

‘Your fear is piquant,’ Raphael said.

‘Is it?’ Was he really that afraid? He felt excited, but weren’t excitement and terror the same, most of the time?

‘You’re lucky. It’s the month of Mirtul, and it’s thulsun, we don’t even have to wait for a better time of day. Are you coming or will you just stand there? I really expected you to play a better game than this, but you’ve always pretended at charisma, haven’t you?’

‘Oh, be quiet, Raphael,’ Astarion said sharply, staring down at the extended hand that reached for him as memories bubbled to an acid surface.

He hated that everything reminded him of Temter. Hated it.

He took Raphael’s hand, and they stepped through the portal, and Astarion wanted to laugh because maybe this was it, and Raphael was going to kill him, and Astarion would simply burn in the sun and that would be the revenge.

An enveloping of world-rushing magic, and then before anything else, the sun.

It was light on his skin that was more than candles, more than hearth-fire, more than the warmth of blankets or hot water. It was pure and everywhere, because Mirtul sun was kind, Astarion remembered. It was kind. There was a time in his life when the sun that melted snow and made way for the flowers was celebrated. A time when his eladrin family looked towards it with gentle smiles, and a woman he loved more than anything – with her soft, amused voice – made a game of seeing who could find all the first leaves of the bulbs poking up through the soil. Astarion remembered laughing as he found each one, drily mocking his cousins, but grinning too, all of them rushing around the edges of the forest and…

…The rest of the memory faded into nothingness. But Astarion’s eyes stared up into the light directly, even as it blinded him, and he had once proclaimed loudly that freedom was worth so much more than the sun.

But that was a version of him that was already walking in sunlight, who could speak big, grandiose words like he understood anything at all.

Sunlight was worth a month of slavery.

‘Look at that,’ Raphael said, intruding on the moment, darkening it, and Astarion didn’t care. He laughed, because look at that, the stupid little necklace worked. His fingers hovered around it – he didn’t dare touch it – and he laughed again, and whatever expression on his face seemed to surprise Raphael, whose eyes widened slightly, like he hadn’t expected it.

The details of Waterdeep filtered in slowly – the voices, the building, the sun glittering on the water – the only thing that mattered to Astarion in that moment was the light. He’d travelled many places in his time as a vampire spawn, but only at night, or in tunnels, or underground, or through basem*nts.

‘We’ll have to come here again,’ Raphael said, ‘if you’re good. It’s time to return and deal with this contract.’

It was like being plunged into ice water. Astarion took a step back. Surely they were going to stay here for longer than a few minutes?

Raphael’s expression was firm and implacable.

‘Don’t do it, Astarion,’ Raphael said.

Astarion’s eyes darted to the city, searching for alleyways, and Raphael’s hand was already strong around his wrist like a shackle. His skin burned hotter than most.

‘Surely… Surely we can stay- Darling, we haven’t even sampled any of the city yet, surely you’d like to-’

‘The only thing I’d like is your signature in blood on one of my contracts,’ Raphael said coldly. ‘But if you give me that, then the next time we come here, we’ll spend a few bells here at least.’

Raphael pulled on his wrist, and Astarion’s laugh edged towards too high, too jagged.

‘Do you know, I don’t think I can?’ Astarion said, breathing quickly. ‘If we could just-’

‘No,’ Raphael said.

Astarion’s strength was nothing to Raphael’s, and it was only one firm yank, and the portal grabbed him, even as Astarion nearly dislocated his shoulder trying to get free. He was still yanking when they landed back in the House of Hope, and it was hard enough that when Raphael suddenly let go, he fell hard to the ground, sprawling in shock.

The necklace was gone in seconds, Raphael’s fingers moving so fast on the clasp that by the time Astarion reached up to grab it, it wasn’t there anymore.

‘Poor thing,’ Raphael said, petting Astarion’s hair a few times. ‘Ugh, you do need a long soak, pet. This is disgusting. I seem to recall you having mostly exceptional hygiene.’

Astarion’s fingers on his own neck, and he stared ahead numbly.

‘I’ve decided you’ll get five Conditions, which is the ceiling of my generosity, do not expect more. Now, today doesn’t count towards the thirty days, so we’d best get that contract signed, hm? Do stop looking so pathetic on my floor, Astarion, I know you can stand.’

A world of marble and hellfire and heat, though it was cool on the stone, and the reddish glow wasn’t awful. Sewers were worse. Caves were worse.

It could always be worse.

He pushed up, considered his surroundings, managed not to embarrass himself further by attacking Raphael for the necklace. The devil would simply break it, and that would be that. Now that Astarion knew it worked, he was going to sign a contract to a devil in blood, knowing full well that none of his so-called friends would think that was a good idea.

They didn’t know what it was like, for the sun made no demands of slavery upon them in exchange for its warmth.

‘All right, darling,’ Astarion sighed, ‘you’d best take me back to that ghastly ritual room of yours. Who is your interior designer, by the way? Please don’t tell me it’s you.’

Raphael grinned, and Astarion normally would have smiled, but he felt bruised inside, and as he followed Raphael back through his House, he wished that it was a long-con, he wished Temter and Karlach and oh, even bloody Shadowheart, would appear out of nowhere with their loopholes and solves and fixes, and give him the sun in exchange for nothing more than his willingness to kill a few people on their behalf.

He closed his eyes briefly and recalled the Mirtul light on this skin, and forced himself to stop when he realised the grief lurked too close for comfort.

Chapter 3: Parchment and Wine

Chapter Text

He didn’t want to feel numb – alertness would come in handy at a time like this – the feeling crept upon him like a shadow growing in depth. Back in Raphael’s ritual room, which likely had some deeply overblown title, Astarion wondered what kind of magic allowed Raphael to simply snap his fingers and have two armchairs and a delicately carved round table appear, along with a carafe of sweet wine, and two silver goblets. The necklace was already back in its box, secreted away.

‘You might as well relax,’ Raphael said. ‘You seem the kind to quibble. A word to the wise: Don’t.’

‘Five conditions, I believe you said. My lucky number’s seven, darling,’ Astarion said easily.

Raphael gave him a look, then gestured imperiously at an armchair.

Once more, he was back in his fiendish devil form. He’d changed effortlessly to a seemingly regular human when they’d travelled to Waterdeep, though Astarion had hardly noticed at the time. Now he sat in an armchair, wings swept comfortably to one side, parchment and quill in his hands already.

Astarion sat, crossing one leg over the other, leaning back in the opposite armchair – actually comfortable, thank the gods for small mercies – and looked up at a ceiling so high he couldn’t tell what was going on up there in the shadows.

‘I’m fascinated at how you plan to trap me for eternity,’ Astarion said. ‘I know that’s what’s on the table here. Isn’t it? Aren’t eternal contracts your…your thing?’

Astarion waved a hand in a desultory fashion and thought he was being rather daring, very stupid.

‘Yes and no,’ Raphael said, not taking the bait. ‘I don’t expect you to understand the ins and outs of devil contractual work – though you’re about to – but the terms can change in certain circ*mstances. For a start, you’re not begging me for a contract, that works in your favour. Secondly, you’re soulless. So what exactly am I going to do with that? You’re worthless as currency.’

Astarion stared, perhaps a little insulted.

Raphael’s smirk was mild.

‘Welcome to Avernus, Astarion, where the only true economy is in the bartering and exchange rate of souls. You don’t have one to give me, or at least, not any that I can use. It certainly disincentivises having you around forever.’

Astarion was fairly certain he did have a soul, but he wasn’t sure where he’d even start with that subject, it wasn’t like Cazador talked about it a great deal.

‘We’ll ease you in with a gentler contract,’ Raphael continued, ‘and you can decide for yourself what you think before accepting the second at the end of a tenday. Maybe you’re not ready to confront the knowledge that you’d exchange eternity for access to sunlight. I’m not asking for it, anyway.’

Astarion stayed silent, he had nothing good to say in response.

‘Now,’ Raphael said. ‘Five conditions. Name them, and we’ll negotiate.’

Astarion looked around the room, throat tense, wishing he had Temter there telling him what to do. Or perhaps Wyll, shaking his head vehemently, knowing what he’d sacrificed because of Mizora.

‘All right,’ Astarion said finally, thinking it over, surprised when Raphael gave him the time. ‘I suppose my first condition is no permanent maiming, mutilation, amputation, or damage inflicted by you or anyone connected to you working your will, that requires a potion or spell to keep me alive.’

‘Done,’ Raphael said, writing it down.

Astarion felt something shake in the atmosphere around them, and wondered if he was imagining it. The scroll wasn’t even the proper contract, surely.

‘Next?’ Raphael said.

Astarion cleared his throat and resisted the urge to claw at the armrests.

‘I…get to have five days to myself.’

Raphael laughed derisively. ‘Refused. The contract is for thirty days – consecutive – not twenty-five. You’ll have all the freedom and sunlight you want after that.’

‘Unless I agree to the second bloody contract.’

‘All in good time,’ Raphael said easily.

‘Three days to myself,’ Astarion said quickly.

Raphael just laughed again and wrote nothing on the contract. One of his wings lazily swept back and forth. He looked so relaxed.

Perhaps contract writing is his ‘happy place,’ Astarion thought.

‘Yes, well then,’ Astarion said. ‘No… No hypnotism, mind control, spell domination, or potions that make it so I artificially agree to things I would never normally agree to.’

Raphael’s lips tightened in annoyance.

‘I’m surprised you’re not saying no immediately,’ Astarion admitted.

‘I said you could have five conditions; you get five. I’ve already caught you, Astarion, this part is fine-tuning.’

‘You haven’t caught anything.’

Raphael looked at him pityingly. Then considered the contract, quill poised. ‘I’ll allow that condition with the caveat that you’ll allow me to do this sometimes, for sex, or games related to sex.’

Astarion glared at him, Raphael’s eyes gleamed with good humour.

‘I can be generous,’ Raphael said. ‘Let’s say…I don’t do this more than three times? After all, it’s not like I can…what was it? Oh yes, I cannot maim, mutilate, amputate or damage you to any sort of severe degree, and I cannot make you do it to yourself either, because that would mean you were working my will. Clever condition. One would think you remembered what it was to be a Magistrate, once.’

Astarion huffed out a breath of frustration. ‘Three times in the thirty days. Single instances only. Not…not a whole day of it.’

‘Done,’ Raphael said, and that soundless rumble in the atmosphere once more, as he wrote painstakingly on the contract. ‘Next?’

‘I… I get my own room that I can spend time in, sleep in overnight, that sort of thing.’

‘Refused. It’s thirty days in my bed, Astarion, or were you not listening?’

‘Technically, dear, if the bed is in the House of Hope, it’s still your bed.’

Raphael stared at the contract for a second too long, like he was…surprised, or like he hadn’t expected the response. When he looked at Astarion, his gaze was unreadable.

‘Condition refused,’ Raphael said flatly. ‘Think of another.’

‘And here you just called me clever and everything,’ Astarion sighed melodramatically, trying not to feel too sick at the sensation of cage walls growing around him, and how tall those bars were becoming. Perhaps they’d be taller than the vaulted ceiling by the time they were done.

‘Then… Then I get to go outside and… and enjoy the sun in Baldur’s Gate or Waterdeep at least ten times, for at least six bells’ duration.’

Raphael’s laughter was mocking, and Astarion was being gnawed at with tiny mouths of desperation.

The sun wasn’t that wonderful. It really wasn’t. Candles and fireplaces were plenty. They were. They really were.

‘Oh, Astarion… No. But I’ll give you five times, for at least five bells’ duration.’

‘Yes,’ Astarion said quickly.

‘Done,’ Raphael said. ‘That’s three. Two more to go.’

Astarion scratched nervously at his trousers, though he barely felt it.

‘I don’t want you to make me f*ck anyone else,’ Astarion said finally. Once he could have pretended he loved it, but Temter had given him choices, shown him they existed. And Raphael was giving him a semblance of a choice, hadn’t he?

‘I’ll allow that with caveats.’

‘Caveats like you making me f*ck other people,’ Astarion snapped.

‘Yes,’ Raphael said. ‘What if I said only rarely? Let’s say…three times, within the duration of this contract? And you’ll get a choice, though you’ll have to do it at least twice.’

‘A choice,’ Astarion muttered. ‘It’s like I don’t recognise you.’

‘Well, I returned from the dead,’ Raphael said sharply. There was something terrifying in the golden glow of his eyes, some forbidding, hungry beast that slavered for revenge. Astarion realised what one of his conditions needed to be, and he felt weak once he knew, because he only wanted to be selfish. ‘Do you agree to the caveat or not?’

‘I… Yes,’ Astarion said.

‘Done,’ Raphael said quietly, and Astarion turned in his chair. He swore he heard a bell sounding from somewhere, deep and resonant. The quill scratched on the parchment.

‘I’ll want to read that in full once you’ve finished,’ Astarion said.

‘Of course. Last condition?’

There were two to choose from – of the many he’d discarded as not being crucial enough – one was selfish, the other…less so. Astarion wasn’t about to break with his preferred way of doing things now, so:

‘No harm that requires a potion or spell in general,’ he said, remembering how Raphael had said no to that earlier. But perhaps now…

‘Refused,’ Raphael said flatly.

‘You’re not even going to pretend you don’t plan on harming me?’

‘No.’ His voice was cool, in complete contradiction to his appearance, the heat radiating off him.

The cage walls grew higher still.

‘My patience wears thin,’ Raphael said.

‘Then… I- No harming, raping, killing, procuring or injuring any of up to thirty people – I’ll provide you a list – especially with a view to hurting me indirectly or directly.’

‘That’s not my style,’ Raphael said slowly, ‘but clever nonetheless, besides, I don’t expect you to believe me either way. No, you can’t list thirty people. I’ll allow you ten.’

It was far more generosity than Astarion had been hoping for, and it kept the core people he wanted to stop caring for on the list. Whining and frustratingly fashionable Gale. Self-righteous little upstart Shadowheart. Glorified enforcer Wyll. Actually-quite-a-lot-of-fun-sometimes Lae’zel. Traitorous, treacherous, terrible Temter.

Halsin could rot, for all he cared. And he’d never liked the way Jaheira had treated him, or Minsc, for that matter. Karlach was gone, which was for the best, she’d made everyone feel far too many feelings. How tedious.

Is that really all of them?

He’d thought he could easily fill a list of thirty people. They’d met so many people. Hadn’t he felt almost close to most of them, once?

‘Ten is… I suppose I’ll pretend to be grateful,’ Astarion managed.

Raphael only smiled. ‘Done. Now. My conditions.’

‘Your conditions?’

A bell had definitely sounded somewhere. Blasted devils and their bloody Houses rigged with whatever nonsense this was. More melodrama than thirty Patriars in a pub lusting after the same whor*.

‘I’ll be generous, and impose only three,’ Raphael said.

Astarion wanted this over and done with. The longer they spent here, the less appealing even sunlight seemed to be. He wished telling himself that over and over again was effective. Instead he felt all his cells yearning for the kiss of that star on his eyelashes and face again.

‘I said I would give you a safeword, you understand what that is?’

‘Are you serious?’ Astarion said, laughing. ‘You do know who I am, don’t you?’

A frown line on that red forehead, and Astarion fell silent and then nodded.

‘I don’t trust you not to abuse the privilege of my good will, so there will be a limit. You may use a safeword twice per tenday, or six times in total through the thirty days. That’s it. Any more and the penalty is that I simply will not credit them, and likely enjoy the events that caused them to be uttered even more.’

The House of Hope was warm, but it was ice that threaded its way through Astarion’s marrow.

‘I will, instead, offer you the mercy plea. Do you know what that is?’

Astarion’s mouth tensed. He didn’t know. Mercy wasn’t a word that featured much in his vocabulary after he was turned. Raphael smiled before continuing.

‘It is when you cry the word ‘mercy’ due to whatever duress I might be putting you through, and I…take that under advisem*nt as to whether I’ll consider taking it easy on you or not. I rather like the idea of you mewling the word beneath me, so you may say that as many times as you wish. Your safeword, by the way, is Temter.’

‘Don’t,’ Astarion said, before he’d even realised he was going to say it. Then he was standing, before he even knew he was going to do that. ‘Don’t you dare!’

‘You can accept the condition, or have no safeword at all,’ Raphael said idly, twirling the feather quill between his thumb and forefinger.

Astarion wanted a shred of leverage, just a sliver of it, so he could somehow justify walking out of the room. Raphael didn’t even need to be subtle, he was transparently manipulative, and Astarion hated how quickly he bent towards it all.

Temter, did you know how ruined I’d be by something as simple as the sun?

But no, he wouldn’t, Temter had spent the end of the world in the wreckage of Baldur’s Gate being hailed as a hero and celebrating for hours before he’d even thought to look for Astarion in the shadows of the Undercity to see what had become of his burnt and inconsolable lover. All those heroes hadn’t even held their celebration under a roof, for f*ck’s sake, they’d drunk all that wine and beer out in the open, where Astarion couldn’t join them.

‘If it’s hard to say, I’ll know you really mean it when it’s said,’ Raphael said, voice smooth.

‘Or I won’t say it at all.’

‘That’s not my problem,’ Raphael said with a smile that was all teeth.

‘Why do you get to make conditions like this anyway? Isn’t your condition that I simply stay with you for thirty days?’

‘Contractual law among fiends is complicated,’ Raphael said, becoming more businesslike, and Astarion could just tell he’d bore anyone senseless on the subject given half a chance. ‘If I offer you conditions, I must have some of my own for the sake of balance.’

‘Oh yes, we must simply have balance in Baator, the nine hells of course being a place famously known for it.’

‘It is, in its own way. I wouldn’t expect you to understand but given enough time you might. Now, we can make this simple, I can remove all of the conditions and write up a new contract with no conditions at all. You have no safewords, no promises from me not to bring your old companions into it, and I’ll still have you in my bed, and you’ll still get the necklace at the end of it all. What appeals to you more?’

‘Fine, fine, I accept the blasted- Fine!’

This time Astarion definitely heard a bell ring, and he looked around in open agitation.

‘The theatrics, Raphael, must you?’

‘You like them, most of the time. You just don’t like them today,’ Raphael said, sounding…friendly, warm, pleased, as the quill moved across the parchment. Astarion wanted to scream. ‘Now to the next condition. You will refer to me at all times as Lord Raphael or Master.’

At first, Astarion had nearly pivoted to laughter, but instead the ice spreading through his bones turned his entire mind cold. He nearly walked away from the sunlight right then. Cazador would always be ‘Master’ in his mind, and nothing would ever change that. Using the word for Raphael would be intolerable. There was never a context in which calling Cazador by a word like Master ended well for anyone. The word was poison in his mouth, in his nightmares.

‘What is it?’ Raphael said.

‘Sir or Lord I can agree to, though I think it will make you look a fool. But Master…is not something I will ever associate with you.’

‘I see,’ Raphael said, his expression shifting to something strangely serious. He stared down at the parchment for a long time, and Astarion didn’t understand how the cambion’s mind worked at all. What was he thinking? Why didn’t he just insist on this like he had the name of the safeword?

‘Lord, then,’ Raphael said finally. ‘Sir as a back-up. I won’t include Master on the list, though others might be added over time. The penalty for you forgetting to do this will be of my choosing, but it won’t lead to contract termination or the revocation of your own conditions. Do you agree?’

‘Yes, fine,’ Astarion said, waving a hand and wanting to crawl into a bedroll.

No, tonight he’d be crawling into Raphael’s bed.

Damn it. Damn it!

‘Last condition.’ Raphael leaned forwards, the golden light in his black eyes burning brighter than ever. ‘The penalty for violating this condition is a voided contract, and eternal damnation, so pay heed my little, leaping minnow. You will not contact any of your companions, or anyone who can get a message to your companions to rescue you or steal or otherwise violate this contract in any manner. Do you accept this condition?’

The last time Astarion had been here, they’d stolen Mol’s contract, returned it to the feral child so that she might have control of her own destiny instead of handing her soul over to Raphael. Astarion should have seen something like this coming, but what he found terribly sad about the whole situation, was it simply hadn’t occurred to him.

It had only taken a year of his many centuries, and he’d already forgotten what it felt like to know that he could turn to someone for help. He’d not even known it was an option. Perhaps it was or would have been before Raphael laid the condition down.

Who would he have reached out to? Could he expect anyone to come for him? Or would they simply shake their heads, unsurprised to hear of a vampire spawn accepting a deal like this? Astarion didn’t exactly make an appealing victim, for all that he was beautiful and charming.

He could tell Raphael expected argument here, or perhaps to catch Astarion by surprise, but instead he felt only flat exhaustion as he nodded.

‘Yes, I accept that condition.’

Raphael stared at him for so long it was obvious he was waiting for some kind of trick, and Astarion laughed.

‘My darling, suspicion is such an ugly look on you. Did we bruise you so terribly last time? Stealing a cute little contract?’

The eye contact was broken, Raphael finished penning the contract, then handed it over.

‘Read it, and when you’re ready to sign, I’ll get everything underway.’

Astarion read through the contract three times, top to bottom, mentally pronouncing every single word as he went. He well-remembered having to deal with the writings of lawyers when he worked as a Magistrate, and aside from the complications of the conditions themselves, Raphael hadn’t twisted any of the sentences, there were no hidden meanings, at least none that Astarion could see.

Thirty days. Three tendays to be paid consecutively. There was no mention of eternity or eternal damnation except in Raphael’s last condition. Astarion squinted at it, then looked up.

‘Since there are exceptions to your drugging me, you cannot drug me into asking my companions to come here, in order to force me to violate your last condition and cast me into eternal damnation.’

‘I’ll add that as a clause,’ Raphael said, eyebrows lifting like he hadn’t expected it and had no problems with what Astarion was saying.

‘That wasn’t what you were trying to do?’

‘I don’t want them here, and I certainly don’t want to manipulate you into bringing them here. If I’m going to kill them, I’ll kill them in my own time, through the use of third parties, and it won’t be you.’

‘Well, but I mean… if you wanted someone to, er, remove Halsin off the face of Faerun...’

‘Who, sorry?’

Astarion covered his mouth with his hand to hide his smile. Oh no, that was one of the best things he might have heard in some time. Raphael stared at him blankly for a few seconds longer, then turned back to the contract and handed it to Astarion again. He read through it and wished he could find more issues beyond the horrific things he’d simply agreed to instead.

Was the sunlight worth it? How was that even a question? Becoming a mindflayer seemed worth it.

‘Yes, well, I guess now’s a good a time as any to temporarily sign my speculative soul away to a cambion! Go on then, summon your buxom little devil women to oversee the whole damned event, will you?’

Raphael’s smile was slow and promising, and Astarion wanted to roll his eyes. Raphael stood, and Astarion did the same, not liking the idea of the devil leaning over him.

‘All this effort just to f*ck me,’ he said, sighing. ‘Really, Raphael, I might have even f*cked you for free.’

Astarion’s smile was stiff, and Raphael stepped closer, wing curving possessively around Astarion’s body, cutting into his space. The height difference was significant. Raphael wasn’t the tallest cambion Astarion had ever seen, but Astarion wasn’t the tallest vampire. Raphael had to be over a foot taller than him in this form, maybe more.

‘What can I say?’ Raphael’s voice was airy, ‘I’m a philanthropist at heart. Let’s get this show on the road, shall we?’

Chapter 4: Palmarosa and Fresh Water

Chapter Text

There were curvy buxom barely-dressed women who came and stood in a winged circle, making the air dry in Astarion’s mouth as he held back the desire to tell them they’d make great performers in some circus. There was a too-sharp bejewelled letter opener, ornate and perfectly clean, that Raphael pressed gently into his palm with a whispered:

‘You must draw your own blood, pet.’

The letter opener could have been a scalpel, and the sting became a throb too quickly as Astarion accidentally cut too deep. Dragging the opened flesh and the trickling blood across the parchment had him wanting to laugh, but he also thought he might be ill. He swore he’d never be this stupid, but he’d said once that he preferred Raphael’s monstrousness over Cazador’s so it was time to pay the piper, and find out of it was true.

A bell clanged loudly through the palace, reverberating, making the marble shake beneath his feet. Astarion thought he’d feel something in his body, invisible ropes perhaps, an aggravating sense of being bound.

He felt nothing.

The women vanished in clouds of acrid smoke, the contract was rolled up neatly and tied with a blood red ribbon.

‘Wonderful!’ Astarion sighed, then pulled off his shirt in a single movement. ‘Let’s get this over with, shall we? You seem like the type to pump and dump, darling, do you want me on my knees, or just…wherever?’

Raphael turned, feather quill – he was making a note in some ledger now – forgotten and then tipping to the side, fluttering in a spiral down to the floor.

The hand clenched into a fist.

‘What do you think you’re doing?’

‘Look, it’s a rather pretty sight, I’ve been told,’ Astarion said, sinking gracefully to his knees. ‘Though now that I think about it, you might be too tall, my dear, in the form you favour. Perhaps if I had some cushions…’

Raphael’s mouth slipped into a smirk, and Astarion thought: Here, I’ve caught you. I knew if I got onto my knees you wouldn’t be able to resist.

Raphael walked over, stared down at Astarion for long, painfully silent moments.

A large brick-red hand with a slightly paler palm reached out and cupped Astarion’s jaw with a strange tenderness, but the gaze in Raphael’s black-and-gold eyes was cold. The touch itself was searing, a body made for hellfire, immune to flame.

‘Pet, you’re dirty. We’re not doing anything at all until you’ve put your shirt back on and followed me so I can organise a bath for you.’

The touch slid away, like Raphael couldn’t bear to touch him a second longer.

Astarion blinked several times, laughed weakly, reflexively, because he didn’t know what else to do.

‘Oh,’ he said. Then: ‘A bath?’

‘You used to savour being clean,’ Raphael said, walking from the room.

Astarion scrambled up and hurried after him, grabbing his shirt and putting it on as he went, uncaring if it was undignified, because the cambion wasn’t even looking at him. He didn’t want to examine how he felt being touched like that while being called dirty. Cazador used to hate anything that wasn’t clean, Astarion had hated it too, once.

‘Well, yes,’ Astarion said awkwardly. ‘But…I rather got distracted.’

‘Hm. See that it doesn’t happen while you’re here. I don’t care how despairing you feel, Astarion, you make sure you’re clean before you sleep in my bed, understand?’

‘Of course, darling.’

‘Now’s a good a time as any to start calling me Lord,’ Raphael said.

Astarion swallowed. How bad could it be, really? He’d just gotten on his knees, willing to suck the co*ck of a species he hadn’t seen naked before. He’d seen fictional depictions which made all too much of the nonhuman aspects of devil genitalia, but never the real thing in person.

How bad could it be?

‘Lord Raphael,’ Astarion drawled.

All right, not that hard. Not great either. Definitely not the dealbreaker for getting access to sunlight again. What was a little going completely numb for that brightness in the world, the gentle warmth?

Astarion expected, at the least, a reprimand. When one didn’t come, a growing unease filtered through him. Was Raphael saving it up? All the punishments he’d have coming? Raphael had all kinds of creative tortures he could choose from, Astarion well-remembered the conversations they’d had with eternal debtors when they’d visited the House of Hope the last time. Even the Archivist had his spine repeatedly broken in hundreds of places and was expected to work through the absent-mindedness of agony.

He hoped the conditions were enough to keep that level of punishment away, but he was confident Raphael could still flense the skin from his muscle and give him a potion afterwards and that would be…

That would be well within the realms of what was acceptable.

He kept his arms relaxed instead of tensed and wrapped around his body. He kept his face as blank as he could. He thought it was absurd that anyone would call this place a House, when it was clearly a palace and fortress both, defensively built against the blood wars of Avernus, designed to be lush and rich within.

Yes, that was the thing to focus on, the House. Anything else was too stressful.

*

Raphael’s private rooms branched off, and included a pool of crystal-clear water much like what was found in the Boudoir, and Astarion looked around curiously. The steps down into the water were a deep blue marble with mica striations. The candelabras were lit, the candles a dark crimson Astarion remembered from the Archive over a year ago, when he’d remarked that Raphael had a hell of an ‘aesthetic.’

The lack of conversation bothered him. Raphael was a talker, it seemed nothing good could come of these long silences.

Instead, the devil stood by a row of reddish glass phials, inspecting them all, before picking one up and de-corking it. Astarion wondered if it was an aphrodisiac, some other drug, something to make his life hell.

Where is that blasted emptiness when I need it?

Until he had a sense of the place – the lay of the land that awaited him over the next month – he couldn’t seem to make himself disappear.

Raphael turned and measured five drops into the pool of water.

At least make a joke, laugh it off, gods damn it, anything!

‘Look,’ Astarion said abruptly, walking forwards, ‘can we just get the worst parts over with? You’re going to beat me, torture me, I know. I’d really rather just… Not to dictate your schedule or anything to you, but you have always seemed the sort to enjoy a little sadism here and there, so I know you want to…’

Raphael was staring at him. Just staring at him.

Astarion thought of Cazador, of Godey, of his spawn siblings – f*ck them all – and of the patterns he was familiar with, the ones he’d learned, and thought of how he couldn’t tell which ones mattered here.

‘Not to throw myself into the line of fire, as it were, but you could at least make use of my mouth,’ Astarion said. ‘After the bath, of course.’

Raphael stared at him. His head tilted like Astarion was an interesting insect, and in turn, Astarion desperately wondered what all of his companions were doing. It wasn’t the consolation he thought it was.

He was stupid. He always forgot this feeling. Always forgot that waiting was the worst. Even when he’d been Cazador’s slave, he’d tried to stay as far away as possible before he was called back, a pull in his blood dooming him to the Kennel, or even Cazador’s bed.

Was it his imagination or did the scars of the worthless, redundant infernal pact carved into his back pull more than usual underneath his shirt?

It had to be his imagination.

‘Undress, and get in,’ Raphael said, nodding his head towards the water.

‘I just want you to know that I don’t like being drowned, even if I can survive it.’

‘Do you always give your torturers ideas?’ Raphael said, a faint quirk at the corners of his lips. ‘Haven’t you learned better, by now? Or are you really so afraid of nothing more than thirty days installed as a guest in my House? I can’t even say that my reputation precedes me. It didn’t stop any of you for laying ruin to my abode in the first place.’

Astarion ground his teeth together as he unfastened his trousers and folded them, looking around and then placing them beside a chair, directly onto the clean – spotless, really, how very like the Szarr Palace – marble floor.

‘Is it too late to add a condition where you agree not to punish me for the decisions of many people?’ Astarion bit out.

‘Yes,’ Raphael said. ‘I only gave you five conditions for a reason.’

It was horrible, yet so much better to have Raphael talking to him. The silence was unnerving. Cazador loved the sound of his own voice, and Astarion knew Raphael did too, but now he was recalling the times when the devil simply…let the silence do the talking for him.

His shirt was folded, resting on top of his trousers. He turned to face the water and decided not to wait for another order. If there was an aphrodisiac or something else in there, he only had to put up with it a limited number of times. There was a condition for that.

The water was heated – thermal springs being one of the only ways fresh water even appeared in Avernus – and Astarion’s hands came out automatically and rested atop the water as it came up to his mid-thighs. He missed swimming. He’d missed baths. He could have had more over the last few months, and he’d forgotten how good it felt to sink into hot water. Here the water felt softer than what he was used to in Baldur’s Gate, it soothed his cool skin, and he closed his eyes for brief seconds before remembering where he was.

He looked sidelong, and Raphael was undressing casually, easily, though Astarion was sure he normally had servants for that sort of thing. When the cambion stepped into the water, his wings flared slightly before settling again, like he enjoyed the sensation. His unblinking gaze was focused on Astarion.

‘Come to me,’ Raphael said.

So Astarion went.

‘I expected more dissent.’ Raphael’s smile was slow.

‘I feel I’ve given you plenty already. In terms of punishments, if you think there’s no difference between twenty lashes and sixty…’

Raphael’s expression flickered for just a moment, darkened, and then he reached out and grasped Astarion’s arm, drawing him over to a small alcove, where soaps and unguents rested on cream ceramic. Raphael reached for the soap, lathering it up slowly in his hands.

No, surely not. He doesn’t mean to do it himself?

‘Your dissent makes little difference as to whether I give you twenty lashes or sixty,’ Raphael said quietly, his voice almost kind. ‘Yes, there will be punishments, but everyone in this House exists for my pleasure, and only my pleasure. Your pleasure will exist too, but it will be rather incidental to my own.’

A broad, hot hand covered in soap – hotter than even the water – gently shoved at Astarion’s chest, then dragged across both of his shoulders, before settling slippery around his neck.

Astarion froze. The touch was careful, but it was a threat. His skin tickled as suds slid down his body.

‘It’s almost cute, little thing, watching you try to predict the whims of someone who has been doing this long before you were a dream in your ancestor’s eyes. You’re comparing me to that dead member of the Szarr family, aren’t you? That dreadful crude creature, one does have to admire his dedication to the Profane Rite of Ascension, but he wasn’t particularly adept at his tortures, was he?’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Astarion said, laughing awkwardly. The hand tightened on his throat, not enough to avoid his breathing or his voice, but enough that Astarion felt daring when he continued speaking. ‘Swing a hammer at someone’s kneecaps enough times… And we did talk to your Archivist, I have some idea of what to expect.’

‘You spoke to Haarlep too. What did he say? Do you remember?’

‘Is he even alive?’

‘Mm, yes. He even visits.’

‘He betrayed you.’

‘I’m rather fond – in my own way – of that wily creature. Answer my question, Astarion.’

Raphael’s other hand smoothed down his chest and stomach, a dragging, slippery heat, and his gaze watched the touch, studying Astarion’s body.

‘He said you were a terrible lover,’ Astarion said, because it was always the first thing that came to mind. Temter daring to ask that question while still beneath the incubus’ spread thighs, and the laughter that followed, that visage of Raphael delighted to insult his supposed master.

The hand around Astarion’s throat tightened, but it was nothing to the hand that took his soft penis up in between a scalding palm, squeezing to cause pain, not pleasure. Astarion tensed, breath still in his lungs, and he resisted the urge to struggle.

‘What else?’ Raphael said. The grip softened, a thumb smoothing down the fragile skin to the tip. ‘It’s rather a pretty shade, isn’t it? Was it always like this? Before you were turned?’

‘I don’t- No,’ Astarion managed. The touch wasn’t doing anything for him, he wasn’t sure if he should pretend it was. The plan was initially to seduce Raphael, but he was getting the sense he’d be far more offended by that, than actual insults.

‘What do you remember? You were a high elf, weren’t you?’

Raphael knew the answer to that. ‘Yes,’ Astarion said.

‘A magistrate. The kind that tried to be just? Or who defended the corrupt?’

‘I was a high elf,’ Astarion said coldly.

‘That means nothing to me,’ Raphael said, reaching lower down and scratching his claws lightly across Astarion’s inner thigh. ‘If you only could have seen how many souls I kept, high elves all, making the most terrible deals. Answer the question, Astarion. Do you enjoy being evasive?’

‘Usually, yes, but I must say, it’s losing its appeal today.’ He cleared his throat, then his teeth clicked together when Raphael cupped his balls.

Giving the blasted blowj*b would have been easier.

‘I tried to be just,’ Astarion said finally, then burst into laughter. The sound echoed sharply in the tiled space, across the water, sounding as jagged as Astarion feared it was. But wasn’t it ironic, after everything? He’d tried to be just. He was beaten to death. Cazador saved him. And then Cazador showed him that even the Gur didn’t know what true torture was. And here he was…

What a strange road justice had sent him on. Astarion felt like murdering someone.

‘You must have made a lot of corrupt people very unhappy,’ Raphael said quietly, clawed fingers scraping so lightly across Astarion’s taint, that he wanted to scream. It wasn’t arousing, not remotely, but none of it was what he expected.

‘Yes,’ Astarion said. ‘Plenty.’

‘When was the last time someone f*cked you?’

The hand was a grip now, around his throat. Astarion wanted to push away, wanted to claw at Raphael’s arm. He kept his hands down by his sides, but he couldn’t keep them loose or relaxed.

There was a scent in the air, beyond the spring water, of roses. Something like rose water, or even geranium. But citrus too, almost lemony. It was fragrant. He didn’t mind it. There was a familiarity to it, and Astarion looked aside, trying to think of where he’d been in the perfumery, the last time he’d smelled it.

Palmarosa.

Nothing more than a simple looking tuft of green grass, but its scent was alluring. Was that what Raphael had put into the water? Just an essential oil?

Claw tips dug into tender skin behind his balls, and Astarion snapped back to the present, where Raphael had hold of him. When he looked up, Raphael was silently staring down at him, faint disapproval in the crease of his eyebrows.

‘Answer me,’ Raphael said.

‘I thought you’d tease, more, if I’m being hon- Ow! Okay! All right!’

One of the claw tips breaching skin, the flare of pain following would have been tolerable in most places, but the skin behind his balls was not that place.

‘Fine,’ Astarion snarled. ‘Six months ago, if you must know.’

The pads of Raphael’s fingers soothing the skin he’d just pierced, gentle rubbing, and Astarion trembled.

‘Six months?’ Raphael’s voice was curious, playful, dangerous. ‘But didn’t Temter leave you over a year ago?’

‘A year,’ Astarion bit out.

‘A year.’ Raphael drew the words out. ‘So who was it?’

‘Some stranger,’ Astarion said quickly. ‘I don’t even remember them.’

Raphael’s inhale was slow, his hand turned, and where the touch had been gentling, it was more than one claw pressing into him this time. Astarion’s knees buckled from fear and dread, the unexpected pain, and the hand at his throat kept him up and in position. A short struggle – mostly for Astarion to remember how to stand – and he ended up holding onto Raphael’s implacable arm keeping him in place, as he felt his own blood trickling down his inner thigh.

‘I know the lying comes naturally to you,’ Raphael chided with sympathy. ‘I know you’ll labour to keep me beyond the walls, as you pretend to yourself this little realm around us is only a month of your life and so will barely mark it. Do not look so aggrieved, Astarion, you’re working hard to keep yourself whole, but wouldn’t you like to relax for a change? Who did you let f*ck you, pet?’

Astarion took several quick, shaking breaths. Raphael wasn’t even hurting him that badly. It was… it was nothing more than the fact that it was the first day, that it had been some time since someone had treated him like this, that Raphael was someone who Astarion had found dangerously appealing once and had said bluntly to Temter that he’d rather take his chances with a devil than with Cazador.

Stupid. Stupid and absurd.

Who had that man been? Astarion didn’t remember it well. Or he remembered it too well. It was a sequence of events that could have been avoided.

‘A human,’ Astarion said. He cleared his throat twice. ‘A human I drank from. I haven’t been killing them, but I didn’t take enough from him. I thought he was unconscious, but he was…feigning. He was awake enough to demand payment.’

Raphael’s laugh was low. ‘Don’t tell me he paid you in blood to treat you like a common whor*. Were you even surprised? Didn’t you sleep with so many, for Cazador?’

‘Oh, hilariously, I wasn’t even allowed to feed on those victims,’ Astarion said, and he wanted to sag down into the water and drink it until he closed his eyes for good. But conditional immortality was its own bloody curse.

Raphael’s touch was softening again, and Astarion tried not to react when the hand around his throat became fingers gently petting the skin. Little sweet taps, before massaging the dip above his clavicle.

‘I don’t know,’ Astarion said, voice thin, staring at a marble pillar blankly. ‘I simply thought it was easier, that night, than knocking him out.’

‘Was he gentle?’

‘He was fast,’ Astarion said. ‘Useless.’

No, he wasn’t gentle. It had been horrid, but fast was better than slow, when the sex was going to be bad.

‘Six months, and no one else has had you except Temter? Or did you f*ck him? I’ve heard Cazador didn’t let you have much of a preference, but what about that devious wood elf?’

‘I’d rather not talk about this.’

‘What a shame, not a single condition against conversation,’ Raphael said, richly satisfied. ‘But I’ll grant you a small concession and we’ll return to this another day, won’t we? How’s the water? The temperature satisfactory?’

Astarion glared at Raphael, and Raphael smiled, his pointed teeth coming into view. It felt more like a threat.

‘The House of Hope is very concerned with the comfort of its guests,’ Raphael said.

‘All the better to take it away, I suppose. Yes, yes, how very melodramatic.’

‘I’d assumed that after so many years as a vampire spawn, you would have lost some of your sensitivity, but it’s almost as though you’ve swung in the opposite direction. Did that happen before you met Temter and got a taste of freedom? Or did it happen during, when you realised it was safe to be in your body again?’

Astarion hadn’t realised how taut the tense band inside of him was, hadn’t realised how close he’d been to snapping, because he’d been partially numb to all of it. Raphael’s black-gold gaze was insufferably smug, horridly knowing, for someone who Astarion had helped kill not that long ago.

‘Gods,’ Astarion said, feeling sick, ‘and what is it like for you, Raphael? Apologies, Lord Raphael, must get that right, mustn’t we? You have your petty little revenges all because a band of misfits who you vastly underestimated not only stole your stupid hammer, but destroyed your Crown of Karsus. Tell me, is the display case for it in your Archive still there, waiting for what will never be? Can you even bear to look at it? It’s so boring, listening to your twaddle, knowing-’

Astarion’s voice choked off, he was yanked forwards, and there was enough fire on the inside of one of his thighs that he knew he’d been pierced with those claws again. He didn’t need to breathe, choking shouldn’t really bother him, but it was a force of habit, he felt better when he had air in his lungs, and he felt as desperate for it as he had when he was still alive. He clawed at Raphael’s arm, and then his eyes widened as he was dragged out of the water until he was at eye-level with the cambion.

f*ck!

Raphael breathed in through his nose, and sighed like he was pleased. His nose pressed against Astarion’s cheek, and he hummed, the glow of his eyes a cold flame.

‘My sore spots might be on the surface, but so are yours, pet,’ Raphael said, sounding completely unbothered. ‘I think having you in my bed is going to be a lot of fun, actually. But first, let’s see how beautiful you look when you drown. You did, after all, go to the trouble of telling me how you feel about it. Thank you for the gift, my dear.’

The hand around his neck lowering him again, inexorable, as Astarion tried to get enough breath into his body to protest, apologise, make it stop. He didn’t want to look panicked as he was pressed beneath the water, and he didn’t want to see Raphael’s aloof expression, his detached smile, as Astarion realised the next thirty days were going to be less about brute torture, and more about being flayed from the inside, just when he’d gotten used to having the right to his own secrets again.

Raphael’s grip loosened enough to allow him to involuntarily gulp down mouthfuls of water, but not enough to let him free. The water assaulted his lungs, made them feel like they were tearing apart. The pressure was incredible. He wanted to pass out, but instead, after minutes of lung-searing pain, he was jerked free and retched all the water up again, the sounds of his own desperation ugly in his ears.

Raphael’s palm rested gently on his back, the touch was almost sweet.

Oh, stop, Astarion thought, hating himself, hating it all.

‘That’s it,’ Raphael soothed, ‘you’ve worked hard, you’ve laboured enough now. Deep breaths, Astarion. You don’t even need them.’

Circles now, rubbed into his back like a parent might console a child.

‘Let’s continue cleaning you up. At least your hair’s had a rinse already. You must be tired. I’ll ask you to sing for me tomorrow.’

Astarion turned from where he’d been letting water stream out of his mouth, the sensation visceral and raw, to stare at Raphael.

‘You’ll sing for me, won’t you, songbird? I do like to be entertained.’

Astarion turned back to stare at the water and coughed again, chest aching. Raphael bent over him, a giant, dreadful heat as the wings curtained over his sides.

‘I’ll endeavour to be entertaining for you too, Astarion, don’t worry.’

Astarion squeezed his eyes shut and couldn’t decide if he wanted one of those companions of his to save him, or if he couldn’t ever bear to see them again, sinking so low as to sign his life away to a devil for thirty days. It hadn’t seemed like much at the time, but sunlight felt like a distant dream as he continued to hack the water out of his lungs, as Raphael continued to rub soothing circles into Astarion’s back. Damn it, damn it all, but Astarion craved the touch.

What in the nine hells was he going to do now?

Chapter 5: Soap and Cotton

Chapter Text

Astarion’s chest and throat hurt, because coughing up lungfuls of spring water was deeply unpleasant. He wished he didn’t have many previous memories of what drowning and reviving felt like to compare it to.

Raphael went back to lathering him up, and Astarion watched, studied him, then realised he was too tired to believe his vigilance was going to change a single thing. Besides, it was different. He hated that it was different, but it was. Cazador’s kindnesses were cruder, he was more likely to be careful if he wanted something. Raphael seemed to want to bathe Astarion purely for his own satisfaction.

It didn’t make any sense.

‘Temporarily spirit-broken,’ Raphael said as he smoothed both of his palms over Astarion’s scars on his back, occasionally thumbing the Infernal script. Astarion wanted to jerk away, but it felt glorious to be cleaned by someone, even if the circ*mstances were dire, even if his lungs ached, even if there were tiny little pinpricks between his legs that he was already forgetting about, because comparatively, it really wasn’t anywhere near even the mildest things that Cazador and his cronies had done to him. ‘It won’t last, my dear.’

‘I know,’ Astarion said flatly.

‘I’m surprised you don’t have more scars. Cazador must have liked a repeatedly clean canvas to destroy. Did he have healers on hand? Use potions?’

Astarion stared at nothing. Perhaps he shouldn’t have added that condition to protect his supposed companions and replaced it with one to stop Raphael from swinging axes into him verbally. Most people cared so little about him they didn’t bother intruding on his past. Temter made attempts to be respectful, backing off whenever Astarion asked him to. Raphael had shown he would calmly drown Astarion if he lashed out in response to the incessant questioning.

‘I thought you told me it was bad to give a torturer ideas,’ Astarion said finally. ‘You did just give me rather excellent demonstration.’

‘Lift your arms for me.’

Astarion lifted his arms, then shuddered when hot hands slid soap suds across his armpits. It wasn’t ticklish, it was shocking, and Astarion was glad – for once – that Raphael was at his back and couldn’t see his face. It felt more intimate and invasive than most of the meaningless, mindless sex Astarion engaged in over the years.

‘Good,’ Raphael said a minute later, ‘you can lower your arms.’

‘I must say, I did expect rather a lot less of this, and a lot more of…all the standards.’

‘I’m sure,’ Raphael said almost absently, as though his thoughts were elsewhere. His thumb brushed over the bite scar at Astarion’s neck, and he leaned in closer, because Astarion felt his breath on his skin like steam.

‘I can clean myself.’

‘I want to see what I’ve bought for myself, for the next thirty days.’

‘Of course.’ Astarion rolled his eyes.

‘Regretting your decision yet?’

‘You put sunlight on the table, darling,’ Astarion said. ‘Sunlight. Gods, I might regret the course of my life that I ended up here, but what you’re doing seems almost fair. For a devil. Although, do you prefer that or cambion?’

‘I prefer what’s in the contract.’

Lord Raphael is in the contract.

‘Ah, of course. Lord Raphael,’ Astarion said.

‘It was curious hearing reports of you in that little band of forsaken misfits,’ Raphael said, pressing his fingers into Astarion’s hair, rubbing against his scalp. Astarion’s neck went soft, he tilted back, it felt good. There was never anything like this at the Szarr palace, even when Cazador was being ‘nice’ to him. ‘You’re nothing like them. A vampire spawn ruled by a cruel hunger, a cruel master. There you were, saving children and pathetic tieflings and pretending to be a hero like the rest of them. Did you like it?’

‘I did, rather,’ Astarion said.

This felt dangerous. Any time Raphael brought up the past, his companions, he was likely to snap or get angry. He didn’t want to be drowned again. In a perfect world, he wouldn’t be expected to talk this much.

‘And what of the hunger?’ Raphael said.

‘It’s bearable.’

Astarion was keeping his sentences as clipped as possible, which didn’t feel natural, but behind the bearable hunger was the memory of a year of being locked in a coffin on his own, in the dark, as his stomach churned and gnawed at itself, as he became mindless with true hunger… Hunger only a vampire spawn could know.

Abruptly, Astarion remembered Sebastian, kept down there underground as fodder for a ritual, not allowed to eat anything at all. An insane hunger not because of a year of forced solitary confinement, but over one hundred and fifty years of Cazador’s cruelty.

And his, too, if he thought too deeply about it.

He thought he knew hunger, but Sebastian knew hunger. Gods help them all down there in the Underdark. Would there be anyone left at all, except for the vampire spawn Temter had sent there?

‘You said you’d procure people for me,’ Astarion said carefully. ‘Will that be… Well- I imagine how often I get to feed will be at your discretion... The contract did say- Ah…’

‘You’re already so hesitant,’ Raphael said, laughing. ‘You seemed so much less than a kicked dog when I first met you.’

‘Don’t you want a kicked dog?’

‘I’m quite sure I made a contract with a vampire spawn.’

Astarion’s laugh was awkward and weak. ‘Well. We’re far less than kicked dogs, of course.’

‘Normally I’d agree. The marionettes in the world of aberrations, aren’t you? But here you are, capable of negotiating your own contract – and not too terribly, I might add. Did you have some experience in contract law, two hundred years ago?’

‘It was Baldur’s Gate, darling, one does not end up in a courtroom without having some understanding of all the ways those miscreants will try to ruin each other through lawyers.’

Raphael curved his hand over Astarion’s ass, and he thought he’d never felt anything less arousing. But Raphael didn’t seem interested in arousing him. It felt neutral.

The tension in Astarion’s body felt anything but neutral.

He did not want to share a bed with this man. He didn’t want sex, hadn’t really wanted it in a long time. Had only come to barely – barely – like it again with Temter, but nothing changed the fact that Temter began his relationship with Halsin because Astarion wasn’t putting out enough.

The conversation about it still hung like a dirty tapestry in Astarion’s mind. Temter was kind enough to ask permission to sleep with Halsin, cruel enough to make it clear it was because Astarion didn’t want sex as often as he did. Astarion had played along, given permission, laughed and joked, what else could he do? He had the attention of someone who actually seemed to want him to be an independent person, who called him beautiful, was it so awful that he wanted to keep the man’s regard?

To Astarion’s shock, Raphael finished cleaning him around twenty minutes later, having him sit on one of the marble steps so he could soap the spaces between Astarion’s toes.

Once he was done, he turned to cleaning himself, and Astarion stayed seated and simply watched him. Raphael had a long scrubbing tool he used to reach the insides of his wings, and he could curl them in towards himself to reach the tips. He had a grace in this form that he seemed to lack – just a little – when he walked about in human form.

He didn’t have a visible co*ck, so much as a bulge between his legs and a slit where it would emerge when he was aroused. Astarion had seen something similar with fiends before. No doubt less experienced people would think Raphael had a c*nt, but Astarion knew better. There were bone ridges on his upper shins, down his ribs, signs of his differences, alongside the similarities.

He covered his yawn with his hand, then blinked sleepily as he looked around.

It was a rather lovely mansion, once one got over the terribly tall ceilings, and the sense of dread that came from simply being in Avernus, in the House of Hope. It didn’t even smell rank, like Szarr palace did. Thirty days here would likely be terrible, but in a long list of terrible things, would it even rank in the top ten once they were done? The top twenty?

What would the second contract involve? Astarion had felt how flimsy that necklace was…

‘Follow me,’ Raphael said.

Astarion blinked out of his half-awake state, standing automatically. He was handed a large, red towel. Too plush to be anything but the finest quality.

‘Forget your clothes,’ he said.

‘I suppose I won’t be needing them, and all that. You’ll have me go about naked?’

Raphael stared at him. ‘Your clothes are filthy. You’ll be given new ones.’

Raphael dressed, Astarion used every ounce of strength not to mock the hole at the back of his trousers for his long, wicked devil’s tail to poke through. He wrapped the towel around himself and wanted nothing more than to sleep. He thought a creature that didn’t have to breathe – a reanimated corpse – shouldn’t feel so much dread over being f*cked in a devil’s bed, but it didn’t matter what he thought, or how tired he was. He felt the dread anyway.

*

Raphael’s bedroom was similar in some ways to the Boudoir, but it was larger, a space that a devil could fly around in if he needed to. There were archways that showed vistas of Avernus through stained glass, fresh fruit in platters everywhere.

He was handed a white shirt that was too large for him, and no underwear, and Astarion pulled on the shirt and thought actually, with a contract signed, and no conditions to be sexy in any way or form, he didn’t have to obligate himself to seduce Raphael, to make himself yield.

But he felt that obligation. He’d been trained well. He wished there was some vial or bottle of lubricant he could use, but he couldn’t see it anywhere, and he didn’t want to creep around looking in drawers and cupboards while Raphael was right there, while Astarion’s lungs still hurt and would likely ache for days.

‘Get in the bed,’ Raphael said.

Astarion had thought he’d dress up his commands more. What he didn’t expect was Raphael sitting at a large mahogany table and pulling down a fresh scroll. As though feeling Astarion’s gaze, he turned and looked at him, holding a quill in his hand.

‘I have work to do,’ he said. ‘The business of a devil is never done. But you need sleep, I’ll join you later.’

Astarion turned back to the bed and its blankets, half-expecting scorpions. Instead sheets with a luxuriant thread-count in a dark material, cool to the touch. Astarion got into the bed and held his breath so he wouldn’t groan in pleasure. Gods. A bed like this. It had been so long. Even The Elfsong didn’t have beds like this.

Cruelly, Astarion couldn’t sleep. Tension continued to curl around him, building, smouldering, and he stayed awake and unhappy while he listened to the quill scratching on parchment, and then on the paper of what looked like a journal. He was awake when Raphael came to bed after undressing, and he was awake when Raphael moved the pillows around and laid down in a way that suited his horns, his wings. The bed was big enough to accommodate him.

They didn’t even touch.

Astarion’s fear continued to grow, and he waited for hot hands to reach for him, fingers to grab him.

They never came.

Why the f*ck am I even here, then? He doesn’t need a bedfellow! Why is this even happening?

‘You know,’ Astarion said into the darkness, the glow of red from Avernus dully lighting the room, ‘I appreciate the mindf*ck and all, but is the delay before the real thing really that arousing for you?’

‘It’s intriguing, watching you torture yourself with your own assumptions. You’re like a grasshopper that’s had five of its legs pulled off and expects the inevitable for the sixth. Don’t make any mistakes now, I will have you in as many ways as I wish, but it won’t be tonight.’

‘I could kill you while you sleep.’

Raphael pushed up, and Astarion faced him. He saw his face clearly; shadows didn’t hide that much from Astarion’s eyes when there were still bits of light about.

‘You seem the sort that cares for self-preservation,’ Raphael said, reaching out and cupping Astarion’s cheek, fangs sharp and white in a dangerous smile. ‘We have a contract, you and I, and I need to explain something to you like I would to a child. Thirty days in my bed, and in the fine print, you’re not to try and kill me, are you? Or did you forget? Or are you simply running your mouth like the teenager you pretend to be? Or, perhaps, something close to it if you were still a high elf. I’ve always been confused by that.

‘Don’t damn yourself to an eternity in my care, Astarion, by trying to kill me. Even if you succeed in my death, you’ll still have breached the contract, and I will come back and make anything you knew at Cazador’s hands look like the kindest, most loving of attention. You have so many bones I can repeatedly break, you have so many organs I can pull from your body, eat in front of you. You have eyes I can skewer with my claws, ears I can puncture, a throat I can fill with serpents, until you cannot speak for hissing.’

Astarion hated that tender touch at his jaw, hated the gentle way Raphael spoke to him, but what he hated even more…

‘Goodness, perhaps you’d be surprised how many of those things Cazador has already done, actually. I must say, the part with the snakes was inspired. Cazador was fond of scorpions and rats. But yours seems rather more on brand.’

Raphael’s claws scraped against Astarion’s skin in a slow drag. It didn’t hurt. Raphael seemed to – at least initially – be careful of his toys.

‘Anyway,’ Astarion said quickly. ‘Let’s…not get carried away. I won’t kill you, you won’t kill me, in thirty days it will be done – unless there’s that second contract you’re suspiciously saying nothing about – and that will be that. I’ll- I’ll stop making foolish mistakes like telling you I could kill you.’

‘You’re like a night orchid, aren’t you? Twisted, searching for a sun that never belonged to you in the first place, but still fighting, even prettily at times. I’ve always liked that flowers have so many petals to pluck.’

Gods above, save me from the metaphors and the purple prose.

‘Oh, Lord Raphael, you think I’m pretty?’ Astarion said, with a smile.

Raphael sighed and kept up that eye contact, then drew his hand away and laid down again. Astarion followed suit a few moments later.

For the next two hours he didn’t sleep, he laid there panicking dully about all the horrors Raphael would visit upon him. But he’d spent most of his life used to horror, and even a vampire spawn had to sleep.

He slept.

*

Darkness all around him, the kind Astarion’s gaze couldn’t penetrate, without a sliver of light to help him, even a bit of phosphorescence. A clawing hunger. Oh, the blasted coffin. Not the first one he clawed his way out of, but the second that he spent a year within, going mad.

After all this time, Astarion had had so many nightmares, there was a resignation that came alongside the terror, the horror, the agony. As though his mind was tired of the tedium of it all.

For a time, by Temter’s side, he’d had them less. But he still had them enough that Temter chose to sleep elsewhere much of the time, and Astarion had taken to buying and using sleep scrolls on occasion before important journeys and quests. They seemed to mute the nightmares, so he still had them, but didn’t wake anyone else.

Then, for a strangely soft few months when Astarion felt he might be living the experience of being reborn somehow, the owlbear cub came to sleep by his side no matter what his nightmares were like. Sometimes they even woke each other. The owlbear’s feathers twitching as he hooted softly in distress to himself, or Astarion jerking awake and the owlbear doing the same moments later, both of them staring at each other.

Astarion swore it was mutual understanding, even though he couldn’t speak to animals as Temter could.

He thought back to that battle against the Absolute, the owlbear grown and in armour, and stupidly he’d thought: You can’t expect him to fight, he’s just a cub.

The owlbear could fight, and had died, and Astarion remembered he couldn’t even look for him because of the sunlight. Couldn’t even look for him, and when Temter had come to him at the beginning of his new world of heroism, and the end of Astarion’s, the druid hadn’t even though to ask about him. So Astarion had asked:

‘What of the owlbear cub?’

Temter’s face twisting in pain, and then a smile. ‘He was so fierce, wasn’t he? I can’t help but think he died a valiant hero. That seems a fitting end for an owlbear.’

Astarion had quipped something dismissive back, said something about how at least they still had Scratch, and he’d filed the grief away alongside all the other thousands of files in his heart, to hopefully never look at again.

But every time he slept, he wished for those feathers warm against his cold corpse of a body, and those round, shining eyes, seeing something familiar in his red ones.

Waking from the nightmare into Raphael’s bed was disorienting, especially as Astarion still tried to sense for the owlbear cub, even a year later.

Raphael was awake, sitting up and writing in a book, and he looked over and raised his eyebrows as though in question.

Astarion stared at him. A nightmare about the coffin. A nightmare about losing the owlbear cub. A nightmare about grief. He wondered if he’d woken the cambion, and which nightmare had caused the waking.

‘What a waste of a perfectly good bed,’ Astarion said. ‘You must be regretting not having a condition against disturbed sleep in that contract of yours.’

‘That contract of ours,’ Raphael corrected. ‘And no. Don’t assume I’m like the others, I rather enjoy watching your discomfort, Astarion. Your twitches, your little furrowed brow, the way you pout in your sleep. Let’s not pretend that’s not delicious for me.’

Astarion swallowed weakly.

Oh. Well then.

If that wasn’t one of the more disturbing things he’d heard in the last twenty-four hours.

Raphael carefully marked his page in his book with a stamped gold bookmark, and then placed it down on the chest of drawers next to the bed. The quill rested atop it. The domestication of all of it made Astarion’s teeth hurt.

Then Raphael splayed his fingers and considered them, flexing them back and forth, almost like he was admiring himself. He turned and opened a drawer, brought out a little black box, inlaid with pearl in a lovely pattern. Astarion actually thought they might share some – some – of the same tastes, even though the excessive amount of portraits of Raphael on the walls was really too much.

Raphael turned to Astarion, a faint smile in his black-and-gold eyes.

‘I considered changing to my human form, the first time I opened you up, but I’ve decided against it.’

He handed the box to Astarion, who took it in confusion. When he opened it, he saw all the things that might be used to trim and manicure a devil’s claws.

‘How about you make them suitable? Let’s say…two, no four fingers. Trim the claws back without getting rid of them entirely, will you?’

Astarion stared at the long, thick fingers, the wicked claws at the end, and thought about those inside him, tearing him up with the flex of a fingertip.

‘Come on, pet,’ Raphael said. ‘We don’t have all day.’

Astarion’s mouth went dry, he stared down at the metal nail files, the clippers, the nail oil, and didn’t want to be made to participate in this. Didn’t want to groom Raphael’s fingers so they’d be safe enough to go inside him. They’d never be safe enough. He didn’t want…

He closed his eyes.

Sunlight. Remember the sunlight. It wasn’t really like being Cazador’s slave at all, but in some ways that was worse. Cazador would just shove Astarion’s wishes and needs away into his own mind to deal with later, but Raphael wanted them all, it seemed. He wasn’t shoving anything aside, except for choice, except for freedom.

You chose the contract, you had the freedom not to. You utter fool.

Astarion reached for Raphael’s hand, stilling when fingers wrapped harshly around his wrist. The heat was initially painful, then settled, like touching too-hot water that would fade to the right temperature with enough exposure.

‘Do not think to hurt me,’ Raphael snarled. ‘Or I’ll cut jags into my claws just so I can rip your prostate out myself.’

Astarion blinked, then closed his eyes.

Gods, the threats were exhausting. He hadn’t even thought to hurt Raphael this way. Should it have occurred to him? Would Temter have thought of it? Would the others?

None of them would have ended up in a situation like this.

Raphael’s grip softened on his wrist, but Astarion didn’t open his eyes. He felt, strangely, humiliated. These blows were nowhere near the worst he’d endured, but he could feel the trembling in his own fingers, the acuteness of his fear, even as he tried not to notice it at all. His eyes were wet behind his eyelids.

He felt chastened for something he wasn’t even going to do, and it was worse than when he’d planned something awful.

Cazador or Godey or any outsourced torturer punishing him for no reason, or imagined reasons, was always so much worse than if there was a reason. It got to the point where Astarion just started…giving them reasons to do it. He earned his reputation for being the most rebellious, but he thought it was an inevitable outcome of being Cazador’s favourite.

‘Don’t tell me you’re this soft, sweetling,’ Raphael said, his voice almost a purr. ‘Not you.’

Astarion swallowed thickly.

‘How in Faerun did you hold onto that softness, after everything? Hm? Are you going to open your eyes, pet? Look at me, Astarion.’

Astarion opened his eyes, and a tear slid free, and he wanted to laugh, scream, cry, but he stayed mute. He waited for Raphael to laugh at him, grin mockingly, but the smile was the same little one as before.

‘You’re not such a fine actor that this is all pretending,’ Raphael said. ‘You didn’t think about taking a clipper to one of my fingers? A metal nail file in the jugular?’

Astarion tried to search for something to say, and took a deep breath into bruised lungs, before sighing it out.

‘Oh, I don’t know, I rather thought we could be gentlemen about this, though neither of us really fits the bill. There’s a contract, as you’ve reminded me, and I’d rather not ruin all my chances of access sunlight in the first two days. I have plenty more time to f*ck it up after all.’

‘I’m sure you’ve been told self-pity doesn’t suit you by someone, at some point, but I happen to think it’s a lovely suffering that you wear. Decisions, decisions. Well, dry your eyes, Astarion, you have some claws to file back. Don’t worry, I’ll teach you. Do your best, and you’ll do well here, in my House.’

Astarion gave him a dubious look, and Raphael’s expression didn’t change. His charm always seemed so sincere, and Astarion was, well, how had Raphael put it before? Temporarily spirit-broken.

‘You don’t care that I have absolutely zero interest in f*cking you, do you?’ Astarion said finally.

‘I do care,’ Raphael said, ‘but in a way you won’t like.’

‘Let me guess. You enjoy it, like the nightmares.’

‘I enjoy it, like the nightmares. I’ll also enjoy convincing you that you like it.’

‘Good luck,’ Astarion muttered, reaching for a nail file.

‘I don’t need luck; you’ll see that enough for yourself. I’ll make sure it feels like a betrayal, Astarion, and you’ll hate me for it, showing you how much pleasure is still left in that body of yours. Are you going to try very hard to disappear on me? To make your flitting mind fly away? Do try. Keep trying. Bringing you back will be a highlight of the next three tendays, I know it.’

‘And here I thought I couldn’t hate you more.’

Raphael’s laugh was warm. ‘Oh, you can hate me much more than this, Astarion. Let’s find out how much hatred you can grow in that dead little heart of yours together. Now, get a move on, there’s no point lingering. I may grow impatient and decide to start before you’ve finished.’

Astarion took a careful hold of Raphael’s index finger and looked at the curve of the wicked claw before setting the file to it and wondered if he’d have anything like a pure relationship with sunlight, the next time he felt it on his cold, warmth-yearning skin.

Chapter 6: Keratin and Olive Oil

Chapter Text

They could have been two queer men – Astarion preferred the term lads, but it had been a rather long time since he’d been one of those – sitting on an opulent bed, discussing the gossip of the town as one filed the nails of the other. He could almost picture it, except he hadn’t seen himself in two hundred years, and Raphael was no elf or human, but a devil who rested his elbow on his bent knee, which kept his fingernails languidly presented for Astarion to file.

Not fingernails, but claws. A deep reddish brown with sharp tips, sharp edges, and Astarion was filing them carefully, so they’d keep their shape but be blunt enough to go in his ass.

‘You’ll want to take more off the sides,’ Raphael said, inspecting his index finger, turning it this way and that. ‘You’d be surprised, perhaps, but they’re sharp enough to keep paring once-parted skin open, and it’s not just the tip you need to worry about.’

The smell of nail dust building around them, Astarion looked at the powder on the blankets. He carefully moved the nail file across the claw and thought Cazador would never have bothered to request something like this. After all, a potion healed all rips and tears if it was strong enough.

‘Do you miss it?’ Raphael said, proving he hadn’t yet given up his need to ask incessant questions. ‘Being an arbiter of justice? I’m not sure I could give it up, myself, all these needy people with their wasted souls, desiring to work with me for whatever ends they wish, and myself as their eventual captor, keeping them here forever? It must be true what they say, do what you love, and you’ll never work a day in your life. Although…’

Raphael looked over to the paperwork on his desk and his wings shifted slightly, as though in annoyance.

‘Do you miss it, pet?’

‘No,’ Astarion said.

What he wanted to say: Mm, I think I do, rather, though I wish it extended to the residents of Baator, though I think we did an absolutely stellar job of meting out justice to you in the end, didn’t we? If only you’d stayed dead.

‘Such concentration,’ Raphael crooned. ‘Pick up the pace, we don’t have all day.’

Astarion wanted to snap at him. Raphael could blunt his own gods-damned claws. But he worried that would be a one-way trip to bleeding from the inside out, and he loathed it. He’d always loathe it. There were so many different ways to be tormented, but there was a particular indignity to bleeding from the ass after being used.

Cazador knew he’d hated it and gave him that cold, cold smile whenever he sent Astarion out to seduce more people for him. An inevitable pressure in Astarion’s mind sending him out to find the larger ones, the taller ones, the ones more likely to hurt him.

Astarion became so good at seducing them to a point, then slipping a sedative into their goblets of wine. Cazador had punished him for it at first, and then one day simply…stopped. Oh, the punishments continued, but not for that, and Cazador wasn’t often the one doling them out. Astarion supposed he’d become too obsessed with his Rite of Ascension.

‘Take more off the tip,’ Raphael said.

Astarion almost liked having something to focus on, except preparing Raphael in this way for what was coming made him want to scratch his fingernails down Raphael’s smug face.

He concentrated, he drifted, he moved back and forth, and eventually found himself working on Raphael’s little finger. The fourth finger. They were nearly done.

Raphael’s fingers weren’t thin, they weren’t short, even the claws were thick and sturdy.

Would he use something to slick the way? Or was this all the preparation Astarion would get?

‘Did you like the time you spent with Temter?’ Raphael said softly, dangerously. ‘I heard a rumour you weren’t as much of a lecher as you pretended to be.’

‘Rumours damn us all, don’t they? I simply do not care what other people say about what I did or didn’t get up to, when they have no way of knowing.’

‘You slid your accursed co*ck into him in a graveyard, Astarion, by your old grave. Did you think that was private? Did you think there were no hungry eyes watching you from the shadows? And how many mature trees in that cemetery for people to hide behind, do you think? How many tombstones which have shadows to lurk in? How many of my servants, do you think, saw you both that night? No, don’t stop, Astarion, you have five minutes left and then you’ll be on your belly so I might make you feel gutted in the way I prefer.’

Astarion stared at the finger balanced against his and felt ill.

‘You’ve nearly finished the first day,’ Raphael said, his voice so warm. ‘Don’t stop now. You’re doing something almost close to a good job.’

‘I think – I can’t believe I’m saying this – I think I would really rather you just whip me and get it over and done with. Perhaps if you’d go a little lighter with your preferred arm, I don’t love the prospect, but given the choice-’

‘You have choices, but you don’t have the power to tell me what to do and expect me to take heed,’ Raphael said. ‘You can choose to attack me. You can choose to run. You can choose to breach your contract in a myriad different ways. You can plead with me. You can cry mercy. You can call your lover’s name, and I’ll let you off tonight, and plunder your delectable pale ass tomorrow night instead, and that will be one time less that you can cry out for me to stop this tenday and have me listen. And if you think what I have planned for you tonight is so awful you’re already telling me you’d prefer to be hit-’

‘But that’s just it!’ Astarion cried out, letting go of Raphael’s hand, flinging the nail file to the bed. ‘That’s just it! All this- The threats, I know, I know you’re a devil and I’m sure you have some scary, terrifying, all-powerful reputation to live up to, but I’m no idiot. The waiting is interminable, it’s…’

He saw the expression on Raphael’s face. A feeling of a stone falling within him, through all the dusty cobwebs inside his soul, followed on its heels.

‘You like this part,’ Astarion said in an exhale that hurt his lungs. ‘Aren’t you wanting to get to the main event?’

‘I think you have about a minute left, little one. Are you going to keep running your mouth?’

Raphael’s expression was aloof but amused, his black-and-gold eyes gave nothing else away. Astarion looked around the too-large-bedroom like he’d find some answer, and then he reached for Raphael’s hand and positioned his little finger, and wondered why he kept not being punished for all his useless outbursts.

‘You have plenty of choices, Astarion,’ Raphael said under his breath, ‘but perhaps you’re not an idiot, after all. Not tonight, anyway.’

Shut up, you wet rag of a devil.

All too soon he was finished. It was the smallest and least sharp claw, compared to the other fingers. He kept going, his filing slowed, and Raphael plucked the nail file out of Astarion’s hand.

Raphael put the little box with its manicuring tools on the bedside drawer, then knelt up on the bed and grasped Astarion by the shoulder, his expression clearing from warmth and indulgence to something cold and unfamiliar. Astarion’s nausea, his fear, mounted like a storm, and he felt his mind empty as he was turned to face the bed, then pushed down to his chest.

That high elf meditation, how could he have ever foreseen what it would end up being twisted into?

It was almost like the last two hundred years had continued unabated without any break with Temter and saving the world at all, except Astarion felt no urge to seduce anyone, and wasn’t being forced to by Cazador. But the loosening of his limbs was the same. The reflexive disappearance of his thoughts was the same.

His mind became water in a sieve, though the fear remained in the shallow breaths he took, an instinctive behaviour a relic from a time when he should have let the bastard Gur beat him to death and let darkness enfold him forever. He would have lived and died a high elf, a just high elf, and he would have died loved by his family, even though he hadn’t seen them in so long. He would have been remembered until he was forgotten, the way he was supposed to be.

Instead of Raphael’s fingers thrusting roughly into him, broad palms smoothed up from his lower back to his shoulders, and heat followed. Astarion felt only the cold.

He’d almost hoped for a few fleeting seconds that Raphael might hold some key to making this feel good again.

It had been good once, hadn’t it?

Even receiving had been good once. He hated that the only way he could bear to f*ck Temter was as the giving partner, because it had never been his preference, and it made it even harder to get in the mood.

Two hundred years, and all of it seemed ruined.

‘Oh, little one,’ Raphael breathed, heat clouding across the back of Astarion’s cold neck. ‘You’re miserable.’

He sounded so…pleased. Astarion turned his face to the side and wondered how any of those companions of his would react to see him like this. Gale would be disgusted. Wyll would be disgusted. Lae’zel would be disgusted. Well… Now that he thought about it, he knew how they’d all react. He supposed he still had something in common with them after all.

A thick, long thigh pushed between Astarion’s, wedging his legs apart with slow strength. Raphael’s wings broadened, increased the darkness around the edges of Astarion’s vision, mantling over him. Astarion folded his awareness into a small shape, casting himself off like a dandelion seed into the wind.

He was distantly aware of oil being pressed between the curves of his ass cheeks, distantly wondered where that came from. An undercurrent of thoughts far away, and he remained mostly unaffected as he observed that Raphael was gentler than he thought, used more oil than he thought, all of this was not…

Not what he’d imagined.

But it didn’t matter. He didn’t want it. He wasn’t aroused. The first time he’d had sex with Temter, so much of it had been spent offering the smiles others seemed to fall for, and mentally calculating how often he could get away with drinking from Temter’s neck without overdoing it. He’d at least held some power, because he’d been strategising with his body, but even though Temter was beautiful, even though Astarion felt wanted, he’d been detached all the same.

Sunlight wasn’t enough to erase some shadows, it turned out. He’d been so frustrated when he’d realised.

A sensation in the corner of his mind, no, multiple sensations. Not the finger inside him, that was numbness and a dull feeling of being stretched, but something else. What was it?

Raphael wasn’t moving. A finger rested deep inside him, and his other hand stroked slowly down his side, from his shoulder down his flank, to his hip, a gentle squeeze, and then back up again. And then, oh, lips on the back of his neck? Astarion blinked a few times and then paused in that space, waiting for Raphael to escalate.

Nothing else happened.

Astarion was back in his body again, could feel the finger – could tell he hadn’t been injured, at least, not yet. The hand at his side was calming, he’d seen Halsin stroke horses’ necks like that. Ridiculous to realise he liked it, that up and down touch, the squeeze at the end. He took in a short breath, another, then felt the bed beneath him, and Raphael’s hot mouth at his hairline.

He felt bewildered, and a little lost.

‘That’s good,’ Raphael said into his skin. ‘That’s good, pet. You’re not as cold to the touch inside, did you know that? Does the temperature difference hurt?’

Astarion shook his head reflexively.

‘Let me guess,’ Astarion said, ‘you’re disappointed? Do you want it to hurt?’

‘You’ll know when I want that,’ Raphael said.

‘Don’t you always want that?’

He grunted as he felt that finger move out of him, then push firmly back into him all the way to the last knuckle. His mouth stayed open on an exhale, and he tried to empty himself out quickly, not feel the stretch and the strange pleasure of it, but that hand soothing his side…

It was hard to convince himself to disappear for that. Something in him wanted to stay, wanted that part.

‘I don’t always want to hurt those around me,’ Raphael said. ‘Or, more accurately, if life is a stage, there are many actors upon it that I can bless with my different ministrations. If you were the only person in my life, perhaps I’d break you on a wheel, listen to the cracks in your voice as you begged and begged before your tendons snapped. But a marvel, isn’t it, to assign every actor a different role?’

‘Let us recall that you drowned me earlier.’

‘It was a teachable moment.’

Raphael’s finger pulling out, coming back with two, and Astarion’s hands curled into the blankets, but he was surprised at the lack of tearing. The stretch stung, he feared the claws, he expected the sharp rip of skin parting, but instead it was the feeling of being invaded, deeper and deeper, and he sucked down a breath and squirmed, trying to settle the sensations throughout his body.

It didn’t help.

‘Shhh.’ Raphael’s lips against the top of his back.

‘I thought- Haarlep said-’

Fingers digging down into his insides, blunt claws hard and unforgiving, and Astarion jerked and grunted helplessly at the bloom of dull pain. Not an internal tear, but something bruising all the same.

‘You- You really don’t like me referring to him, do you, darling?’ Astarion breathed, and felt an urge to struggle, maybe even to scream.

‘Neither of us is particularly wise at the best of times, but do better, will you?’

‘Yes,’ Astarion said automatically, and then squeezed his eyes shut as that bruising pressure finally let up. Ah, thank the gods, he hadn’t liked that.

‘I think I want to hear you call me by my agreed upon title,’ Raphael said, voice cold. He withdrew his fingers, pushed back with three far too soon, and Astarion’s breath caught at the top of his throat. Gods, his lungs still hurt.

‘That’s- You can’t-’

‘Thirty days, and I can do as much of this as I like,’ Raphael said sternly, ‘and this is nothing at all, let me tell you.’

He pushed in, and Astarion ground his face down into the mattress as the sensations became overwhelming. Was it tearing? Was his skin tearing? He couldn’t tell. He didn’t think so. It wasn’t blood, but oil. It wasn’t his own insides that felt hot – because they didn’t really – but Raphael’s fingers. Oh, oh no, he felt so very stretched, those fingers reached far inside of him. He had a devil’s claws in him.

‘Shhh.’ Again, at the back of his neck. Raphael’s other hand stroking him.

If Astarion could have found the trebuchet in his mind that would let him launch himself elsewhere…but he couldn’t.

He knew it would be stupid to fight back, his scrambling mind reaching for something doable, something else:

‘Mercy?’ he said, uncertain. ‘Mercy.’

‘No,’ Raphael said. ‘Calm down.’

‘You say that like it’s- You say that like I should just be able to- It’s not that easy.’

Raphael made a sound behind him almost like a snarl, and as Astarion’s skin turned taut with terror – making the fingers in him seem larger and more invasive – the hand soothing him became the claws splitting his skin open, dragging sharp lines down his ribs. Astarion shouted in pain, tried to get away, only to be pinned down into the bed.

‘My title, Astarion. The contract if you please.’

Oh. Oh. He’d forgotten. He laughed, panicked and stupid. ‘Lord. Lord Raphael.’

‘Tsk. And now we will need a potion after all. Tossing yourself away so often makes you stupid.’

‘Yes, well, perhaps I wouldn’t if the circ*mstances-’

‘In my bed, Astarion. Not elsewhere.’

‘I hardly think I’m anywhere else.’

Raphael’s fingers shifted inside of Astarion’s body, then started thrusting in deep, careful movements that still felt like being cored out. Astarion shifted, tried to make it more comfortable, it wasn’t. When Raphael pressed down again, differently this time, the bloom of tight almost-pleasure was unwelcome.

His ribs throbbed. The scratches hurt. Oh, certainly, the bed was far more comfortable than f*cking on a bedroll, but he was bleeding again.

‘I know how your furtive, ferret-like mind seeks the holes in this situation so it might flee through them,’ Raphael said. ‘I know you can’t help it. But I can.’

Astarion swallowed, then made an unwanted sound when that strange pleasure he hadn’t asked for built within.

‘You’ve been trained to upend yourself, I know, because I have trained people to do the same, sometimes simply for the satisfaction of seeing them die inside, knowing I can bring them back.’

‘Indeed. I’m tired of it,’ Astarion snapped, then gasped as Raphael pushed his little finger against an already stretched entrance. It didn’t shove in, but the threat was bright, like light on the edge of a knife. ‘I’ve done it. That’s tedious.’

‘Mm. I enjoy this, when you talk to me – for the most part. When you stay present.’

Astarion ground his teeth together. Raphael was doing it on purpose, but Astarion understood it perfectly. He knew what Raphael wanted, to break his defences down and then push him into despair – ideally over and over again. He knew what that sort of defeat felt like, and it wasn’t like he’d signed a contract for that. He’d had enough.

He struggled, properly this time. Managed to get his knees up under himself, managed to nearly dislodge those fingers inside him, managed to push sideways, sinking his teeth into Raphael’s arm when it went to wrap around him. A hiss that came from a devil’s body that might actually have fire inside it, smelling of smoke, and Raphael still caught him at every turn. It felt like fighting, but Astarion never even got off the bed.

He never even got those fingers out of him.

A knee digging into the back of his thigh, bruisingly painful. A hand knotted up into his hair. Wings broad over the bed and covering Astarion in more shadow, and those fingers still thrusting. Astarion bit out a furious sound, Raphael felt endless.

‘I know what you want!’ Astarion shouted. ‘Put it in the blasted contract, if you want it so-’

‘-Every time I’ve hurt you today, has been because you’ve either threatened my life, or because you’ve repeatedly disrespected a condition in the contract. Perhaps, if you simply gave in, you’d realise this doesn’t have to be what you assume it will. Little thing, I do not need a contract to simply seize you and torture you for the rest of your days. Did you think I did?’

Astarion fell still, and then desperately: ‘But the game of it- The game of offering something I want-’

‘Yes, yes, it’s like you still reek of your vampire master, you know, and you’re not his anymore. I believe you killed him. I’m not going to pretend this is a leisurely stroll in Alacarum Park among the verdant oaks for you, but we’re not seeing eye-to-eye here, and I tire of how much you run your mouth when you fear you’re going to be tortured.’

‘So just get it over-’

The fingers yanked out of him, and Raphael made a sound of disgust that felt like a harsh blow. Astarion watched in amazement as Raphael pushed off the bed, long red tail lashing in pure annoyance, then wiped his oil-slick fingers on the blanket. He stared at Astarion with no expression on his face, but the spiked tip of his tail flicked.

‘There are simple healing potions in the second drawer. Use one. We’ll try again tomorrow,’ he said.

Raphael turned and walked away, not just leaving the bed, but also his own room.

‘Try what?’ Astarion cried after him.

No response but a door clanging shut, and Astarion sat on the bed. He felt used and discarded, he looked down at his half-hard co*ck. He crawled across the bed to the chest of drawers, and there really was a stock healing potions in there, and at this point he hoped it was poison.

It wasn’t. The scratches at his side healed. The pinpricks of pain between his legs faded, even the stinging aftermath of those fingers opening him up faded.

His lungs stopped hurting.

Cazador had never left him like this before. Certainly not when he was in a bad mood.

Astarion stared at the empty potion bottle in his hand and ground his teeth together. Was he going mad? What was he missing? Was this the torture? Then why wasn’t Raphael sticking around to see the upset he’d clearly inflicted? Wasn’t that what a sad*st wanted? Astarion wasn’t exactly a stranger to enjoying people’s pain at times, wouldn’t he in the same circ*mstances want to see the aftermath?

For another hour Astarion kept expecting Raphael to charge back in. Another hour after that, and Astarion wanted to pace the room, but forced himself to stay still for no other reason than he felt afraid.

Another hour after that, and he sagged down into the blankets, truly exhausted. His body was whole. His breathing was uneven. He kept thinking he was crying, but every time he touched the frail skin around his eyes, they were dry.

The first day ended, and Astarion slept, wrung out and confused, but uninjured, and alone.

Chapter 7: Elverquisst and Sulphodor Grapes

Chapter Text

Astarion woke and waited for the aches and pains of the day and evening before to present themselves. There was nothing. He opened his eyes, saw a great tall vault of a ceiling, and turned his head to look at the empty potion bottle by his side. He was alone in a rumpled bed, but he wasn’t alone in the room. Raphael was seated at his work table once more and seemed to be in deep concentration as he read through a scroll packed with the kind of writing that was carved into Astarion’s back.

He'd embarrassed himself the night before, and felt that acutely, but today was a new day, and he wasn’t dead, or mutilated, he still had all his limbs, his internal organs were where they were supposed to be. He didn’t even feel like he used to after Cazador or Godey tortured him and then forced potions down his throat. There had been pain, yes, and violation, but here it was…different.

‘I thought you might want some refreshments,’ Raphael said, without looking away from the scroll. ‘I have to work away from the House today, I thought we’d dine together first. How are you?’

Astarion pushed up, still wearing the shirt from the night before. It draped off his shoulders, open at the chest, bloodstained from the wounds scored into his ribs that had been healed soon after. He looked down at himself and frowned, and then felt that – possibly – he could make the most of this situation.

Even if it was sh*tty and unpredictable and at times sickeningly terrifying.

Perhaps he was right, perhaps Raphael really could be something of a gentleman behind closed doors once one got accustomed to sexual incursions. And really, was that any reason to be upset?

You know it is. And you know this peace won’t last, it can’t.

‘Certainly,’ Astarion said.

‘I’ve taken the trouble of finding you something more than a shirt to wear,’ Raphael said, pointing to some folded clothing on a chair. ‘When you’re ready, through those doors you’ll find a smaller dining room.’

Raphael stood, fully dressed in his cambion form, and walked off. Astarion looked at his leather boots and wondered what sort of showy shoemaker they had in the hells, or if Raphael had all his clothing tailored in Faerun.

The double doors opened, closed, and Astarion got up and walked over to the chair and looked at the trousers, the fresh shirt, simple underwear. Even a vest. He raised his eyebrows and then smiled wryly. At least he’d have the armour of clothing, even if temporarily.

Still, the clothing mostly fit, though the shirt was a little broad through the shoulders.

‘Well then!’ he exclaimed softly to himself.

If Raphael was leaving for work and wasn’t going to tie him in chains for the duration – something Astarion was relatively certain he could get himself out of – he was absolutely going to snoop.

For now…

A deep breath, and he walked across the room and through the double doors and saw a broad balcony with a generous overhang. The red sky of Avernus shone whatever version of the sun it had, but its light couldn’t penetrate into the reddish gloom where Raphael sat. A platter of fresh fruit rested on a circular mahogany table inlaid with glass atop a mosaic that depicted the face of some devil Astarion didn’t know. An opened bottle of wine stood beside two glasses that had a silvery sheen to them.

Astarion sat at the other seat that had been pulled out and crossed one leg over the other, staring out at the seemingly barren rocky mountains beyond.

‘Pour me some wine, at least,’ Raphael said.

‘At this time?’ Astarion said, raising an eyebrow in pretend censure. He poured Raphael half a glass, and then himself half as well. It was a sweet-smelling red. He waited for Raphael to have some first, both out of politeness – he was the host, after all, and captor, and torturer – and caution. Perhaps Raphael was immune to whatever poisons he might have used, but Astarion was starting to wonder…

No, hadn’t he been invited to plenty of dinners with Cazador? Only to be presented a rat, while Cazador ate finely?

‘Try the grapes,’ Raphael murmured over the lip of the glass goblet. ‘The green ones are from northeast Sudolphor, do you know it?’

‘I’ve been to Calimshan,’ Astarion said, ‘but never Sudolphor. A lovely blown glass trade I’ve heard, ever so breakable for an export.’

He plucked one of the grapes and ate it, to prove to himself that he could, that it wasn’t about to be yanked away. It wasn’t. The sweetness and crunchiness on his tongue was startling, and he picked another one and ate it, even as Raphael studied him.

‘I would have assumed Cazador kept you close to home,’ Raphael said.

‘I’ve done a fair bit of travelling in my time,’ Astarion said, saying nothing about what Cazador did or didn’t do. ‘Though there are times where one inn starts to look like them all. I prefer to travel in comfort, these days. I’m what you might call a bit of a roamer.’

‘And yet you were in Baldur’s Gate, where you were abandoned, when I found you.’

Astarion scowled and sipped at the wine, which wasn’t even close to souring. No, this was… He stared down at the ruby red vintage and then tilted it in the glass.

‘Elverquisst for breakfast?’ Astarion said, laughing in delight. He couldn’t help it. It was exactly the kind of thing he would have liked to do. ‘So, devils have an appreciation for fine, elvish wine, do they? Or did you choose it because it would remind me of my origins? I can never tell with you, it seems, except that you seem to want me to be constantly reflecting on my past.’

‘A woman with an orosk orchard had her beloved family trees beset upon by a scourge of a fungus, and after trying all solutions, she secretly went out into the night and performed a terrible ritual. It was her legacy, you see, those trees weren’t just hers, but all her ancestors, and they were meant to go on to her children, and her children’s children. I well remember that the Elverquisst tasted of more than I expected it to when I finally seized her soul in payment and forced her to experience that orchard burning down over and over again, the trees crumpling to ash. But the orchard still stands, and her plump little children, and their happy children, and on and on, still tend it. It tickles and teases me, to know fruits from that very pretty orchard are in this particular vintage.’

Astarion stared down at the glass in contemplation, then shrugged. Better it be some complete stranger selling their soul. He was sure if Temter had heard the story he’d be horrified.

Astarion mostly worried it might mean something terrible for him later.

‘I can never tell if you’re foreshadowing the next act of a play, or you simply love the sound of your own voice.’

‘Merely relating a story,’ Raphael said, smiling to himself. ‘If you’re so self-focused that you think every event in my life must somehow be related to yours when I speak it, you’ll twist yourself into knots.’

‘My, and here I thought you wanted that!’ He was daring to joke now, though there was a faint harshness in his tone he couldn’t rid himself of.

‘I do,’ Raphael said, smile broadening as he stared out into Avernus, likely seeing something far different than the emptiness Astarion saw.

So, this then, after the night before. Was Raphael disappointed in him? Experiencing some version of buyer’s remorse? Contractor’s regret, perhaps? Had he expected Astarion to melt into the bed? Well…he might have if Raphael had stopped talking for five seconds. That was terrifying to contemplate, but Raphael had no clumsy technique, and for a clawed bastard not known for his gentleness, he certainly knew his way around the inside of a body for purposes other than inflicting pain.

Astarion slowly ate grapes, and he wanted to ask so many questions. About Raphael’s work. About this balcony, which was huge – it could easily have entertained two hundred people, and yet they were the only two sitting at their small table. About Raphael’s plans for the next three tendays. About the next contract. About the next time they could visit somewhere in Faerun. About how often he’d get to feed, and on who, and what that would look like.

‘You seem in stronger spirits today,’ Raphael mused.

‘Oh, you see I did that especially for you, Lord, so you might break them again,’ Astarion drawled, rolling his eyes.

Raphael’s smile, ever present and small, wasn’t harsh. Astarion resented using the title, but perhaps he’d pick his battles a bit more wisely. Not that he was known for his wisdom. Well, he could try.

‘I like your devious dichotomies,’ Raphael said, stretching one of his wings out, leaning his head in the other direction like he needed to stretch a crick out of his neck. ‘Resilient and yet not at all.’

‘And here I thought you’d be torturing me nonstop. Isn’t this a waste of a day, for you?’

Raphael laughed. ‘In my bed, Astarion, not every minute of every hour. And while the contract allows for it, torture isn’t mandatory, pet. The work of a devil is never done, unfortunately. I’m lingering too long as it is. Perhaps we’ll do this in Waterdeep someday, breakfast while you wear that necklace. I imagine it’s been a while – a whole year even – since you’ve breakfasted in the dawn sun.’

Astarion swallowed the grape he’d been chewing on awkwardly and plastered on a smile.

‘That would be delightful, as I’m sure you know. I’m stunning company.’

‘Mm.’

Raphael stood. He cut a fine figure today, wearing well-fitted black trousers and those leather boots, and a dark crimson jerkin with a black undershirt. A neckpiece fashioned from large coins of gold hung over the jerkin. His brown hair was slicked back. He certainly seemed far more comfortable in cambion form and Astarion wondered if it was a pain to have to hide it when drawing up all those contracts with citizens of Faerun.

‘If you’re leaving,’ Astarion said, ‘how will I ever know where I can go in your giant fortress?'

Raphael’s smile was all teeth. ‘You’ll learn, don’t worry.’

‘That sounds like a threat,’ Astarion said, as Raphael turned and walked away.

‘Call it another teachable moment.’

‘Why terrify me if you’re not even going to be here to appreciate it? You know, it’s really the small things in life that make it worth living, and all.’

‘I doubt you’d know, seeing as you’re a reanimated corpse,’ Raphael parried, before the double doors swung shut behind him.

Astarion half-expected something terrible, but instead it was just the scouring winds of Avernus beyond the mildness of the House of Hope, a near-full platter of fruit beside him, and the bottle of Elverquisst.

He drank another glass of it – this one full – and it appeased the mild hunger, as he’d had that mostly under control since he started drinking blood from humans more often. And the wine was stunning. The grapes were beautiful, shining and fat and aromatic, almost floral, before bursting over his tongue.

The contract was temporary – and the only clause that could cause eternal damnation was near impossible to fulfil. All in all, he felt he might actually be in a better position than he was the morning before.

‘Bizarre,’ Astarion wondered to himself. ‘Completely and utterly bizarre.’

*

Three hours later, Astarion was sprawled on his back on marble tiles groaning, because he’d been hit with a second curse.

It hadn’t been his fault! He’d tried to embrace the idea of living leisurely, but after he finished the bottle of Elverquisst, and the grapes, and an apple that wasn’t even a little bit poisoned, he’d thought it was the perfect time to familiarise himself with the place. After all, what was a bit of lockpicking among a vampire spawn and the prison in which he found himself? Nothing at all!

It turned out Raphael had bolstered the security, but this time not with traps, but f*cking curses.

The first one had sparked blue and violet in the corners of his eyes as he’d cautiously opened a door that had three locks on it.

‘Oh. sh*t,’ he’d exclaimed.

The curse slammed into him, knocking him back against the doorframe. A heavy settling magic, and he licked the inside of his mouth like he could get the taste out, something tasting absolutely feral, like spider’s musk. He groaned and took a break for an hour because the curse made him fatigued, then became bored again and besides, that was only one locked door out of four that had cursed him, and he’d gotten a crossbow and bolts and some gold and three cut diamonds out of it and everything.

Another two doors unlocked, one leading to an ostentatious wardrobe of clothing that was larger than most people’s homes, and another seemed to be a store of stationary, and then the third Astarion didn’t get to see, because he heard another crackling sound and couldn’t get out of the way fast enough.

He felt his palms get wet, thought the curse was some sweating curse, and then sat up long enough to see green slime gathering in his palms and dripping gloopily down his fingertips. It stank.

‘Gods damn it,’ Astarion muttered. He sagged back onto the marble and stared up. His palms pooled slime and Astarion wanted to wash his hands but he knew he’d just dirty the thermal springs. He had no choice but to wait and see if Raphael was going to leave him like this for thirty days.

He hadn’t found a single scroll to remove curses, either. Most rude, when one thought about it.

Eventually he made his way back to Raphael’s main bedroom dragging an empty chest in with him. He sat on Raphael’s work chair with his elbows on his knees, so his palms could drip into the chest instead. The slime had dried on his fingers, leaving them encrusted, and he knew, he knew he had no one to blame but himself.

Well, in theory that might be true, but he spent the rest of the afternoon picking choice words for Raphael, and for anyone else who might dare bother him. The fatigue from the first curse set in, and Astarion slumped forwards into a deeply uncomfortable position for sleeping and didn’t even care.

*

He woke to the sound of someone humming, startled awake, foot skidding on slime.

‘Hells,’ he hissed.

‘Astarion, this is- I do beg your pardon, what was your name again?’

‘Fhaeleb,’ said a discerning woman’s voice. Astarion looked up in shock, and his palms squelched as his hands clenched into fists. Standing beside Raphael was a tall woman with distinctive pale blue skin, dark blue hair cropped short enough that it curled shaggily around her long ears.

‘Teu-tel-quessir?’ Astarion said without thinking.

Fhaeleb wore a pale blue robe, gloves of white metal mail, and white leather boots for travelling. A sword was strapped to her back, a silver pommel poking up over her right shoulder.

‘Lucky for you, she’s a cleric of- Oh dear, it seems I’ve forgotten that too. What god was it again?’

Fhaeleb’s green eyes were narrowed as she considered Raphael for a minute. When she looked back at Astarion, she seemed even more unhappy.

‘Tethrin Veralde.’

‘You’re a tethryl,’ Astarion said, amazed. He hadn’t seen one of the specialist clerics of Tethrin in… in centuries. ‘A tethryl in Avernus?’

‘I can do good deeds on occasion,’ Raphael said, looking down at the slime that had collected in the chest, lip shifting in a sneer of distaste. ‘While I was scouring Elturel, you were collecting curses, I see. How many?’

‘Two,’ Astarion said.

‘I would have expected four at the least.’

‘Haha! Wonderful! Let’s all just spend time talking while I spill slime from my hands, shall we? I love that so much for us. Splendid! And did you bring a cleric of Tethrin to stare at my plight?’

‘I thought you had serious work to do,’ Fhaeleb said to Raphael. ‘This is a vampire spawn. You should put him down for his own good.’

‘Excuse me,’ Astarion said, standing. He had half a mind to wipe his hands on her sacred robes. ‘This vampire spawn happens to be uninterested in whatever nonsense you’re suggesting. If I have to spend the next thirty days like this…’ Astarion glowered at Raphael. ‘Since they have to be in your bed, it certainly won’t feel nice for you to sleep in. I’ll make sure of that.’

‘Fhaeleb, as we discussed, you’re here for a purpose, and part of that purpose doesn’t include judging those I’ve contracted. After all, you’re under rather a nasty one yourself, aren’t you?’

Fhaeleb grimaced briefly, then her expression smoothed.

‘Remove his curses without hurting him,’ Raphael said dismissively. ‘Then I’ll install you in one of your own rooms.’

The moon elf looked around, and Astarion studied her, tried to see if he could pick her lineage, her family. But what would he know, these days? He'd forgotten so many of the names, even the locations. He’d travelled so much, but it was like his mind had shadows too dark in it, and so much of his past had fallen into them. A blackness even his darkvision couldn’t penetrate. It hadn’t been that much time by a high elf’s reckoning, but he couldn’t remember the names of his parents, or any siblings or extended family, and he wasn’t sure he’d recognise them if he saw them.

‘I suppose I’m not the first armathor to a devil,’ Fhaeleb sighed, then drew a short-sword and entered a stance that had Astarion realise she was a bladesinger.

What on Faerun was a bladersinger tethryl doing here? For a start, they were more concerned with defending elven matters than even most elves. Had Raphael promised her something in exchange for the elves remaining on Elturel? Were there any left after all this time?

The first spell cloaked him in an icy blue mist after about a minute of Fhaeleb concentrating, and the second came soon after. Both felt snowy, cold, and Astarion was certain she wasn’t a native of Elturel. The fatigue faded, slime stopped pouring from his palms, and Astarion shook them off and realised he’d have to scrub the dried stuff off his fingers. He knew it would take forever. He just knew. He felt disgusting.

‘I suppose I owe you some gratitude,’ Astarion said.

‘Come along, Fhaeleb,’ Raphael said, turning and already walking off. Why was he constantly doing that? It was infuriating. Astarion felt hardly acknowledged at all. ‘I assume you’ll want to see your children alive again at some point. Best get settled in.’

‘Yes,’ Fhaeleb said, without a backwards look at Astarion.

Astarion stared after them both. Children? A contract to save her children? Couldn’t Raphael do that instantly if he wanted her soul? What in the nine hells was going on?

And he’d seen no staff all day now that he really thought about it. Astarion was certain they were somewhere, but it wasn’t like before when everyone had been milling about everywhere. Why, back then it had seemed no room was absent of at least one servant or Eternal Debtor. And now Raphael had brought back a tethryl, a cleric of the elven war god Tethrin Veralde to…serve as armathor? A bodyguard?

Raphael had never had bodyguards, had he? Did he need them? And why a moon elf and not some blasted pit fiend or orthon?

Astarion glared down at the chest filled with slime and then picked at his fingers, lip wrinkling. Temter was better at figuring out rubbish like this – Astarion was likely to let his mind drift – and Karlach might know what was slotting into place simply because she’d been one of Zariel’s.

He wondered if it was his turn to start asking Raphael some personal questions, then stared at the mess around him and laughed.

‘No,’ he said to himself. ‘Perhaps not.’

But he’d never cared much for wisdom, and if Raphael was in the kind of danger to need a bladesinger, then Astarion wanted to know what it was.

Chapter 8: Gentian and Rogue's Morsel

Chapter Text

‘She seems fun,’ Astarion said, when Raphael returned to his room a few hours later. Raphael snapped his fingers and the chest of slime vanished. Astarion’s hair was damp, drying, he’d managed to get all the slime off his hands that had congealed into place in the thermal pool they’d both used the day before. There didn’t seem to be any rules against it. ‘Also, have you noticed an incredible lack of servants in your House of Hope, of late? I seem to recall a different situation the last time I was here.’

Raphael stared at him impassively for some time, then walked over calmly, with a focus that made Astarion feel like the subsequent spike of terror was justified. He backed up, but Raphael took longer strides, then grabbed Astarion’s jaw and stared down at him, unblinking, considering.

‘Not- Haha, not that I’m judging or complaining or anything like that, of course not!’ Astarion said quickly.

Raphael’s expression didn’t change, and Astarion knew something was going on. Something weird, no doubt.

‘A bladesinger?’ Astarion said. ‘An armathor? That’s…’

The hand tightened at his jaw, the pain became crushing. Astarion shut up.

‘You know I don’t like your intrusions into my personal life,’ Raphael said then, calmly, ‘and I’m beginning to understand you just can’t help yourself.’

Astarion winced, and the grip gentled. Raphael’s hand slid softly to the back of his neck. His thumb rested like a tender threat against his throat.

‘You know,’ Astarion said, waiting to see if Raphael would choke him even though there was really no point. Raphael’s hand rested against his skin, hot and not…entirely unwelcome. ‘You know, I do live here now, I can’t help but be curious. There’s no rule against that in the contract.’

‘There’s not,’ Raphael agreed.

‘Your curses weren’t lethal,’ Astarion added. ‘Are you even really trying to protect those rooms at all? At least put some kind of Disintegration curse in place or…or you could-’

Raphael stepped closer, until their clothing brushed. Now Astarion had to really look up to meet his gaze.

‘Day two,’ Raphael said. ‘Careful, Astarion.’

‘I suppose you could always just follow the slime…’ Astarion added, realising he was rambling. Goodness, he was nervous. How humiliating. It was just that Raphael’s expression was so unchanging. The morning had been pleasant, and the touch against his neck was intimate, but Raphael’s expression was cold. It made Astarion realise how much life Raphael could summon when he wanted to, even if it was all an act.

‘I suppose you’re feeling wrathful now,’ Astarion managed. ‘I didn’t steal that much.’

Raphael blinked once, then his expression softened. ‘Not that much?’

‘Ah. Well.’

‘Undress for me, pet.’

It happened quickly, Astarion’s mind dropped most of his awareness, so it took him a few moments to process what Raphael said. He knew he could protest, he could say a word and make everything stop. He had the memory of being stretched out by Raphael’s fingers the night before followed by the cambion’s disgust with him, being left alone. It should have been a reprieve. It was a reprieve.

Was this them trying again? What was Astarion meant to do differently this time?

He moved his fingers to the buttons of his vest, and Raphael stepped back to let him undress, walking over to the chest of drawers and bringing out the olive oil.

Astarion ran the tip of his tongue over the sharp edges of his teeth and begged his mind to empty out the rest of his awareness. He still had too much concern for what was happening, and it was best if he stopped caring.

‘Did you have a lot of sex before you were Turned?’ Raphael said as he made the bed. Astarion watched in amazement. He was making his own giant bed?

Where were the f*cking servants?

‘Not…especially,’ Astarion said. He folded his clothing and placed it pointedly on Raphael’s work desk, he didn’t know why he kept trying to annoy him, it never went well for Astarion.

But petty revenges could feel good, at times.

He ran a hand languidly down his torso and didn’t care for the touch. He told himself he would be seductive. He had the energy, perhaps that was what Raphael wanted all along.

‘Anyway, lover,’ Astarion said, ‘what are you wanting to do with me today? My wish is your command, et cetera, et cetera.’

Raphael looked at him sidelong, pulling off his boots one by one. He seemed unimpressed.

‘At least show me what’s between your legs. A man can’t help but be curious,’ Astarion said. ‘I’ve heard I give remarkable blowj*bs.’

Astarion hated them, for the most part. But sometimes that hatred was best for vanishing from a situation. Nothing like loathing to make his mind switch off entirely.

Raphael was still mostly dressed when he moved gracefully onto the bed, leaning back against the carved headboard, the newly fluffed pillows. Wasn’t that an image? Raphael plumping his own pillows for comfort.

Something was wrong in the House of Hope. It had been a year, and Raphael could still clearly recruit powerful people, if Fhaeleb was anything to go by. So why no servants?

‘Come here, little vampire,’ Raphael said, beckoning with a claw. ‘To me.’

‘Oh, I see, you’ve done your work for the day and now you want to unwind? I give delicious massages, darling.’

Astarion didn’t want to walk over, but he did. He didn’t want to cooperate when Raphael pulled him onto the bed and moved him into place – straddling Raphael’s hips – but he did. Astarion went through a list of options in his mind and ended up dragging a slow caress down Raphael’s jerkin, down to his hip.

‘What do you want from me today? I have a lot to offer.’

‘Mm. I do often love a show, and I do appreciate the acting, but I’m not in the mood for theatre today.’

Astarion’s lips tightened. Raphael placed both of his hands around Astarion’s hips, the grip searing. He looked Astarion up and down, and a slow, chilling smile grew on his face.

‘Get the oil for me, will you?’

‘I…’

Astarion leaned over and picked up the glass bottle of oil.

‘Oil my fingers,’ Raphael said. ‘The ones you saw to yesterday.’

Cazador often didn’t bother with oil at all, and this kind of manipulation was something Astarion wasn’t accustomed to. Raphael didn’t seem angry, he didn’t even seem vengeful given Astarion kept refusing to call him Lord. He uncorked the bottle and went to pour some of the oil into his palm and then stopped, looked cautiously at Raphael.

‘Do you like that I don’t want this?’ he asked. ‘Why must you all be such rapists? Is that a calling card, do you think?’

‘Shhh, pet,’ Raphael said, rubbing Astarion’s thigh. ‘Don’t pretend you didn’t know. You’re a very “in the moment” character, aren’t you? You had an idea of what was coming, and yet the appeal of immediate sunlight mattered more.’

‘You knew it would,’ Astarion said.

‘You can talk and oil my fingers at the same time. Tell me more about how much you don’t want me inside you. If you wish, you can describe just how overwhelming my fingers felt last night. I promise I won’t mind.’

‘Indeed,’ Astarion said under his breath, tipping oil into his palm.

He wasn’t terrified, though. It wasn’t exactly fear. It was more like…exasperation. A flavour of being done with it all. He thought he’d be trembling, but instead he felt flat and unhappy as he coated Raphael’s claws and fingers generously, and realised the claws were still blunt. Would likely stay blunt until they grew out.

‘You’ve gone quiet,’ Raphael said, looking up at Astarion. ‘Which betrayal is worse, do you think? That your body was made to reject sunlight and common death, or that it can be made to feel pleasure?’

Astarion smirked. Pleasure. How cute.

‘You’re a practiced torturer, Lord Raphael,’ Astarion said, because let the devil have his stupid title, unearned and all. ‘But I doubt you’re practiced at pleasure.’

‘This anger you have… It’s so fascinating. Tell me more about how wroth you are because of a contract you signed yourself, of your own volition? Are you so resentful of me? I know you expected to be tortured and raped repeatedly from the first day, Cazador’s lazy brutishness isn’t unfamiliar to me. Does it make you want to rage, that I haven’t done anything you expected yet?’

Astarion stared at him, almost dispassionate. ‘You’re manipulative and cruel, nothing you’ve done is unexpected.’

It was both the truth and a lie. Raphael wasn’t nearly as manipulative or as cruel as Astarion expected, and yet…

‘You’re a vicious little thing, deep down,’ Raphael said. ‘A just high elf, with a strong sense of right and wrong, subjugated by your body, trapped by that pesky inner vampire spawn that doesn’t understand why it can’t just glut itself.’

‘Oh, will you get it over with, already,’ Astarion cried out. ‘Your foreplay is-’

Slick fingers sliding between his legs, and Astarion ground his teeth together and stared ahead, because sometimes it seemed like Raphael didn’t want him aroused at all.

‘You know,’ Raphael said, pressing the tip of a claw just inside Astarion’s entrance, ‘Palmer Junisugga tendered the idea that elves were created by Corellon Larethian to appease his sorrow, and grew from his sorrow.’

Astarion blinked, then his mouth opened as a finger twisted into him. The stretch was unwelcome. Why was his mind here at all? He looked away and stared into the shadows, willed himself gone, then flinched when he felt hot lips upon his chest. Raphael’s breath felt like it steamed across his cold skin, and a trail of warmth followed as he pressed his tongue to Astarion’s skin.

‘Aephir Loquellan called elves the saddest of all the species, and he himself was an elf.’

‘I see,’ Astarion said. ‘I suppose that Archive of yours isn’t only for show. How lovely.’

Raphael laughed against Astarion’s skin. Astarion felt tenuously perched, straddling him, a finger inside him, a mouth at his chest.

‘Do you feel it sometimes? How very elven the entire experience of tragedy is? How even now, as a vampire spawn, the tracking of your life-’

It was sheer stupidity that had Astarion grabbing one of Raphael’s horns and wrenching his head back, glaring down at him. But something sharp, dark and awful had crested and he cared not about the finger inside that could rip him apart.

‘I did not sign a contract for you to talk to me like this,’ Astarion said, unable to keep the imperious tone out of his voice. ‘Well done, Raphael, for having the worst bedroom manners of anyone I’ve ever met, including Cazador. You know, you’re uncommonly sensitive about being reminded that we slaughtered you – easily, I might add – even as you considered us mere insects. And here you are, no servants, recruiting another high elf, and one has to wonder how weak you are. I might not be able to kill you in your sleep for the next thirty days, but there’s always the thirty-first.’

Raphael’s amused expression didn’t waver. He didn’t do any of the things he was supposed to do. He didn’t tear or rip or shout or even look angry.

He looked pleased.

Astarion flinched when the finger inside him turned and then thrust slowly. He was acutely aware of how… how visceral it all was.

‘Well?’ Astarion said, shaking the grip he had on Raphael’s horn. Raphael’s head didn’t move.

‘Hm? Am I supposed to do something?’

Astarion stared down at him, lost for words.

‘Am I supposed to snap now? Punish you?’ Raphael said, then laughed.

‘I- The- You’ve responded to these things before,’ Astarion said. ‘Why not now?’

‘When an insect bites a titan, sometimes all the titan sees is how very little power that insect ever had. This isn’t even the best you can do. I know you can at least cast a cantrip or two.’

‘You’re immune to fire,’ Astarion said absently.

‘Are you angry because it’s not painful enough? One would think you want the mindlessness of extreme pain. Here, keep holding onto that will you? You might need to brace yourself.’

Raphael pushed another finger into him, and Astarion wasn’t numb enough not to feel it. The stretch was sharp, his hand tightened on Raphael’s horn. Its ridges dug into his palm, and all he felt for the next minute was that inevitable push deep into him, the difference between hard claws at his entrance, the rest of the fingers that followed.

The thrusting was slow, lazy, searching. Astarion’s other hand came up and rested on Raphael’s shoulder.

There was an ache, a sting, but again – no tearing. The fullness was…good, in its own overwhelming way. Astarion stared at Raphael’s flexed wing and blinked at it, hand squeezing into Raphael’s clothing, his shoulder.

‘Oh? You’re still here?’ Raphael said, sounding innocent. ‘You’re still in the room with me, are you? Shouldn’t you be somewhere else, love?’

‘f*ck off,’ Astarion managed.

Raphael laughed. ‘Well. It’s not going to be this easy every time, but to have you with me on day two for at least some of this? What a treat. You are tight though. Should we stretch you out more? Do you want to wait for the next finger?’

‘Wait.’ The word fell out of him, soft and automatic.

‘It was a rhetorical question,’ Raphael said.

A third finger pushing into him, and Astarion hissed, his thighs tensed. He tried to kneel up, away from the touch, but Raphael’s other hand grasped his waist and kept him in place.

If the pain had been worse, perhaps if he’d actually torn, Astarion knew he could have disappeared then. But the feeling of claw tips digging into his prostate was so much sharper than anything regular nails could do, and it was waves of sensation – fractious pleasure, almost-pain – back and forth, and the hand at his waist moved to his lower back, pressing into him.

‘Lean forwards,’ Raphael said. ‘Against me.’

Astarion shuddered, leaned forwards reluctantly, Raphael’s cheek and horn pressed against his shoulder, as Astarion’s other hand went to the headboard.

‘Perfect,’ Raphael said.

It shouldn’t have been possible for that word to cause any reaction at all, but it did. His eyelids fluttered and then closed, and he felt something settle, though he didn’t know what it was. And that stretch still between his legs, Raphael pushing in deeper and deeper, then withdrawing on a slow drag. Everything he did seemed deliberate and skilful.

A hand smoothing up over his back, rubbing briefly as though in reassurance, and the fingers inside of him sped up, the blunt breadth of claws grinding against his prostate each time.

The grunt when it came was involuntary, accidental. Astarion could be a very vocal lover for people if he thought they needed it, but when he wasn’t pretending, the sounds were fewer and further between. His breathing shook instead, and when Raphael twisted his fingertips and pressed the long blunt sides of his claws into his prostate and dragged down, he felt some answering heat and more of his weight rested against Raphael.

‘Touch yourself,’ Raphael said.

Astarion frowned at the words, tensed all over again. He wanted to ask if it was necessary, but he knew none of this was about what was needful.

He lowered a hand down to his co*ck – half-hard – and wrapped his fingers around it. He didn’t start jerking himself, just touched, felt like it was strange to remember he had these body parts, that they could be used to feel good.

Was day two when Raphael would make it awful? Was it to be pleasure followed by something worse than mere pain?

‘Your fear is bitter,’ Raphael said. ‘Like wormwood. Maybe gentian.’

‘You…care about Faerun plants?’

‘Shhh. I’m going to give you a choice today, and I’m going to heed it. You’re not always – or even often – going to be given this choice, so pay attention. Do you want to come or not?’

Astarion swallowed. ‘Not that I care, but what terrible punishment awaits me if I say no?’

‘Let’s say for now the outcome will be the same either way.’

‘Then…’ Astarion could think of all the ways Raphael could still hurt him, but he didn’t want to jerk himself off. He didn’t mind that Raphael’s fingers inside him felt more pleasurable than awful, but something about the exhaustion of org*sm on top of it all…

Would Temter have been shocked to realise Astarion hardly cared about his own pleasure? Astarion liked a lot of life to feel good, but he’d lost all trust in sex such a long time ago. It really was just a useful recruitment tool.

‘Then no,’ Astarion said, a hint of wonder in his voice.

‘Well done,’ Raphael said. ‘Then let me amuse myself, will you? You might as well get comfortable.’

Astarion let go of himself and felt perplexed when those fingers continued to move within him, no rougher or crueller than before. As the minutes went by, he relaxed fully against Raphael, who braced him easily, wrapping a strong arm around his waist. It was like he was entertaining himself and Astarion’s body just happened to be the way he was doing it, and the stupid thing was, it felt…

It felt better than when Astarion was aiming to make someone else come, or pressuring himself to org*sm knowing the other party expected it.

There was something idle about this, a lazy pleasure-seeking which was strange. Was Astarion supposed to know this was an option?

His eyes closed, his breathing had slowed when Raphael did something that had Astarion moaning unbidden, the sound thick and deep. He almost apologised. But Raphael said nothing, only repeated the movement again, and Astarion ground his teeth together at the thick, luscious heat that followed, a knotting of his nerves. His thighs spread wider across Raphael’s hips, his forehead slipped and rested on a strong shoulder.

He looked down between Raphael’s legs, everything hidden by clothing, and wondered if he was aroused at all.

But then more of that pleasure, and then a fourth finger, and Raphael hushed him as Astarion tensed, genuinely unsure if he could take it. There wasn’t enough oil left, the skin caught, and he swallowed down a cry as Raphael’s arm firmed around him.

‘Don’t move,’ Raphael said. ‘I want you to feel overwhelmed, and it’s almost quaint, that you can from something as simple as this.’

‘When… When does the- Ah. When does the aperitif end and the torture start?’

‘You tell me.’

Astarion struggled briefly as four fingers twisted back and forth into him, a corkscrewing motion that was undeniable no matter how much he was sure his body couldn’t handle it. But he wasn’t bleeding, and while his breaths fell out of him, as though shoved each time Raphael pressed into him, he wasn’t dying. It wasn’t agonising.

It was terrible in its own way, though.

‘Will you ever f*ck me?’ Astarion asked, his voice weak.

‘Yes.’

‘Today?’

‘Not today.’

‘Ah. I see. All right. Are you lying to me?’

‘No.’

Astarion gave up on any more conversation. Raphael had him, and was intent on doing what he was doing, and Astarion was starting to feel loose and disconnected in a different way than normal. He was acutely aware of the sensations inside him, at his entrance, of the power in Raphael’s arm as he thrust his fingers, and yet he was losing his surface thoughts, forgetting about things he’d wanted to remember.

Forgetting about torture, forgetting about the contract, about everything except thick heat inside of him, and an aching pleasure that spread, left his co*ck fully hard, until he thought maybe he did want to come after all.

As time passed there were sensations beyond that, his entrance feeling overused and worn and scratchy, needing more oil. He made thin moaning sounds as he thought about how to say as much, his prostate feeling swollen.

‘Oil,’ he finally managed.

‘We’ll be done soon. A bit longer,’ Raphael said.

‘But…’

‘There’s healing potions in the second drawer.’

Oh. Well. That was true enough. But the discomfort grew, and Astarion squirmed, and his moans changed timbre. Raphael curled around him, wings stretching and curving, brushing Astarion’s back. The fingers in him grew rougher, stronger, though never truly hurt him beyond the hurt of not enough oil, and too long spent keeping him so open he felt loose inside.

Astarion had no idea how much time passed, only that when Raphael slid his fingers free he exhaled a sob of relief. He was sore. Not an intolerable agony, but something restless and spent, like he’d come even though he hadn’t. Like he’d been well-f*cked, even though he had no idea what Raphael’s co*ck looked like. He was slumped against Raphael, and when the devil’s knuckles pressed gently against his entrance, as though to soothe it, Astarion still flinched and tried to jerk away.

It didn’t stop Raphael from keeping his hand there. It felt like pure ownership.

But it was different. It was all different.

‘You’re nicely sensitive,’ Raphael said, stroking Astarion’s back with his other hand. ‘I think you’ll be a pleasant enough f*ck if we can keep you in the room.’

Astarion didn’t really care what he was talking about.

Where was the torture?

At some point, Raphael leaned down and opened the drawer while keeping hold of Astarion’s body easily, and then the smell of sweet earthiness, the rogue’s morsel scent of a simple healing potion.

Astarion knew he’d have to drink some, but waited to be told to do so, and then his eyes opened when he felt fingers wet with potion slipping between the cheeks of his ass, over worn skin. He made an undignified sound, and Raphael said nothing, only kept him there and used the healing potion directly, which felt shockingly invasive, even after everything.

‘In answer to your question,’ Raphael said, slipping a single finger coated in healing potion into Astarion’s ass, riding out his flinch by keeping his arm strong around Astarion’s waist, ‘my last batch of servants all died rather quickly to an intrepid band of weak humans, half-elves and one vampire spawn. I’ve decided to be more discerning, going forwards.’

Astarion was staring at nothing because who decided to use a healing potion like that? It felt scandalising.

‘As for why I want an armathor, that’s both none of your business, and you’ll likely find out over the next thirty days. Are you listening?’

Astarion made a sound to indicate that he was.

‘Distracted, are we?’

‘This is positively depraved. I think you might actually be a lunatic.’

Raphael’s laugh wasn’t secretive or small, but strong. He patted Astarion’s ass proprietarily as he slid his finger out, then put the rest of the bottle of red healing potion beside him.

‘Look at that, you survived day two.’

‘Ha. Did I?’

‘I don’t know, did you? You sound tired, Astarion.’

‘Do I?’

Raphael moved Astarion easily, manoeuvring him so he was on his back by Raphael’s side, head on the pillows, feeling like he’d had a sex marathon when he categorically had not. How long had they been doing that for? An hour? Longer?

When he looked over, Raphael was watching him, that small smile on his face, the one that made it seem like he felt at ease with the world.

‘Your eyes are full of questions,’ Raphael said. ‘Be careful, Astarion. Let day two end. Be a pain in my ass tomorrow. You don’t have to perform every second, you know.’

If it were Temter, Astarion might have felt the urge to send him away, or even look after him. If they were at camp, Astarion would be heading back to his bedroll, feeling sated and bittersweet at the same time. Or maybe he’d be feeling like he’d dodged a crossbow bolt, finding creative ways to not have to f*ck. Or maybe he’d be feeling full, having drunk his fill of blood, thinking Temter’s was the sweetest he’d ever had.

‘You still have the mind of a busy magistrate. The ones that are truly busy because they don’t accept bribes to look the other way. What a lacklustre life, pet. Get some sleep.’

Astarion saw no reason to stay awake. He was tired. His eyes closed; his breathing settled swiftly.

‘There’s plenty of time to torture you yet,’ Raphael said softly, almost like a caress. It would have been alarming, but he was half-asleep as it was, and for once, he knew panicking wasn’t going to stop what was coming either way, and so he let it go. He could worry the next day.

Chapter 9: Blood and Sulphur

Chapter Text

In the morning, Raphael was once more absorbed in his work, and Astarion bathed and dressed and wasn’t sure how to feel when Raphael told him there was breakfast on the balcony – the same place as the day before – but that he wouldn’t be joining him. The wine was a sweet white, the fruit wasn’t recognisable, but had a strange herbal fragrance that reminded him of lovage. It tasted like crunchy, sugary celery. He instinctively knew it wasn’t from Faerun, even though he’d not travelled every corner of it.

When he re-entered Raphael’s room, the devil was in human form, and he looked more worn than usual.

‘I’ll have someone for you to drink from later,’ Raphael said, without looking at him, flicking through some parchments quickly. ‘I’ll be gone again today.’

‘I seem to recall you spending leisure time in Sharess’ Caress, day after day, for quite some time in Baldur’s Gate.’

Raphael’s smile was stiff and humourless.

Astarion felt he was on thin ice but, for once, thought it might have nothing to do with him. His hunger for blood was strong enough that he fell silent. Now wasn’t the time to ask why Raphael wasn’t hurting him more.

In retrospect, Raphael hadn’t promised to torture him. Astarion felt like he was being sent insane, he knew – he remembered – what Raphael had done to others. He’d seen Hope. He’d read scrolls and books on it because Temter was too lazy to read all the books they stole from the House of Hope himself. He was always talking about how he’d get to it later, and then heave a stack by Astarion’s side every night. Gale also got the ‘book stack’ treatment, from time to time.

‘Try not to get yourself cursed overmuch today,’ Raphael said.

He met Astarion’s gaze for long, unblinking seconds. Astarion forced a smile.

‘Admiring my hair? Looking for a stylistic change? I must say, I’m not sure you could pull it off. Even without the horns.’

Raphael’s stiff little smile came back, but it seemed like it wasn’t as cold as before. Or maybe Astarion was imagining it.

Why me? He wanted to ask. Why some random vampire spawn, who had so little interest in being f*cked, or tortured? Surely there were other creatures to strategically offer sunlight to.

Raphael turned and left, and Astarion looked back at the parchment and books on his desk. He waited five minutes, then touched his index finger to one of the books, waiting for a curse to attack him.

Nothing happened.

But all of it was penned in Infernal, and Astarion hadn’t learned it. Was Raphael’s paranoia worse than it used to be?

Is it paranoia if we do actually break in, steal everything of value, kill all the servants, and then the master of the house and all his best warriors?

Astarion went out onto the balcony and stared into the mountainous landscape of Avernus. It was red and empty and vast, felt dreadful and strange. He knew it affected the living far more than it affected him. Avernus could send innocent souls mad. But Astarion wasn’t innocent and, well, he was already mad.

*

He spent the day in Raphael’s giant wardrobe, picking through article after article of clothing, running his fingers over fabrics and leathers and marvelling at the craftsmanship. He learned that Raphael must have gone through a deep blue phase, which seemed like it would have contrasted nicely with his red skin, as well as his paler human form. There was almost nothing in green, and no yellow at all that wasn’t gold.

There was even a chair in the room, and Astarion sat in it and stared at all the clothing around him and thought this was what they should have stolen, when they were here last time.

Well, it was inevitable really, when he put on trousers that were a dove grey, a white shirt, and a dark blue herringbone vest. He couldn’t see himself, but he suspected it would look quite comely given his white-silver hair, his red eyes.

The shirt was too broad in the shoulders, and Astarion found thread and equipment for embroidery and tailoring and spent the rest of the day unthreading the sleeves and re-stitching them, absorbed and contented. He knew Raphael might be angry with him, but it was worth it to have a very fine shirt that fit him so nicely.

The wardrobe itself was pleasant. It smelled of a melange of earthy, well-treated leather, the oiliness of wool, and something faintly sulphurous which wasn’t even off-putting.

Would Raphael think he was hiding here?

Astarion crossed one leg over the other and decided he didn’t much care. He knew he should think more on what Raphael was doing to him and why, but instead he found another shirt and worked on altering that too, trying to think of nothing at all but precisely placing each next stitch.

*

The double doors opened, and Raphael looked Astarion up and down some hours later.

‘It suits you.’ Which seemed to be all he had to say about Astarion’s clothing vandalism.

‘Of course it does,’ Astarion said. ‘Most of your clothing would. I’m stunning.’

‘Here,’ Raphael said, turning and beckoning to someone. ‘You’re to meet a friend of mine. Astarion, look at the treat I’ve found you. Hm? Be grateful.’

A young man, handsome and uncertain, appeared by Raphael’s side. His hair was wet and bedraggled, his eyes wide, and his reek of fear wasn’t unpleasant because Astarion had learned to appreciate the terror of others. At least sometimes. He stood slowly, looking warily between Raphael and the man.

‘You should kneel before the one who’s going to kill you,’ Raphael said to the man beside him, then stepped back and kicked him behind one of his legs. The man yelped, buckled, went down to his hands and knees. He was shaking.

Astarion’s mouth worked uncertainly.

He didn’t kill the people he drank from. Not once. Not ever. But the temptation was there. Of course it was, he was in Avernus, housed by a half-devil.

‘His soul is mine,’ Raphael said, sounding bored. ‘He’ll be tormented either way. Do you want to know what he did?’

‘I don’t kill people,’ Astarion said. ‘Nor can you make me kill someone.’

‘Of course not,’ Raphael said with faux solicitude. ‘I would never make you do something that wasn’t in the contract.’

He slipped a small knife out of his pocket – at least it seemed to come from there, Astarion wasn’t sure – then flung it idly into the man’s shoulder, who cried out in pain, reaching behind him with a heavily shaking hand, sobbing.

‘Aren’t you hungry?’ Raphael said, staring down at the man as though bored. ‘Drink your fill. He’s not sick, he’s not poisoned, though he’s had some ale. Does that affect the flavour?’

‘In no way that’s unpleasant,’ Astarion said slowly.

‘Are you trying to be good?’ Raphael said, smiling dangerously. ‘What is your attachment to your elvish nature? You haven’t been an elf for two hundred years. You’re nothing more than a pathetic insect. A vampire spawn. Not even a master. Cazador never saw fit to raise you above the status of his dogs. And you’ll not even kill a human? Is that all you have left to you? The ragged flapping of your conscience?’

Astarion was unimpressed, but also… but also hungry. And if he was managing himself as he had been over the past year, well, he’d only take some and even heal the stupid man after. But Raphael was literally giving him permission…

Temter would have never let him. He treated his own neck like a gift, a way to manipulate Astarion into doing what he wanted.

‘Is there some punishment if I don’t kill him?’

The smell of blood wasn’t thick in the air. Not yet. The knife in the man’s shoulder had stoppered it up. Astarion knew if he yanked it free, he’d smell copper, iron, salt, and then ale and all the richness of a young man who seemed healthy enough, if terrified.

‘Not for you,’ Raphael said.

Raphael stalked forwards and stared down at the man like he was truly an object. He looked over his body like he was searching for something, then focused on his wrist or hand for a long time. With a snap of his fingers, the bones crunched within the skin that held them and then crumpled, the bruising and swelling immediate. The screaming that followed was loud and piercing.

‘I see,’ Astarion said, feeling a glimmer of excitement, a faint exhilaration. These were the things he’d had to keep hidden when he’d been travelling with the party. None of them understood how good a room of bloodied bodies smelled. None of them understood the fun of it, except perhaps Lae’zel. How sacred was death anyway when he was literally the walking dead? They were all so precious about it, like he wasn’t right there, able to see how much they feared what Astarion had known most of his undead life.

Astarion crouched before the man who was screaming into the wardrobe carpet, his wrist useless. Astarion liked to imagine all the jellified mush in that forearm. Would the marrow make him sweeter?

‘What did you do? Poor thing,’ Astarion said, reaching out, letting his hand hover above the man’s head. He looked up at Raphael. ‘And what did you think I’d do? Protest? His soul’s already yours, isn’t it? What did he do? Did you find me a rapist? A murderer? Did you think I’d say no?’

‘He’s not dead yet,’ Raphael said, smile almost playful. ‘And you’ve not said yes.’

Thirty days. Thirty days, and he had no idea how often Raphael would let him feed, or if he’d be punished for not killing this man, and he was hungry, and he was stronger when he was newly fed. It was day three, and there was an undercurrent of anger thick like molasses in him, sluggish and tipping this way and that, now moving towards this man who could be innocent, even a hero.

Temter’s a hero.

‘There, there,’ Astarion said, cupping the man’s chin and tilting it up. Goodness, how utterly appalling, snot was running out of his nose into his tears. Yuck. ‘Do you have a name?’

‘T-Timothee.’

‘You sold your soul to a devil? Why in Faerun’s fair name would you do such a thing? Are you an idiot?’

Raphael snorted quietly.

‘I was g-gonna go to the g-gallows,’ the man said.

‘Dear me,’ Astarion said, looking up at Raphael, almost liking the gleam in his eyes. ‘Where’s Fhaeleb?’

‘She’d kill you herself, if she saw this,’ Raphael said.

‘Timothee,’ Astarion said, ‘darling thing, the gallows? How terrible. And you thought selling your soul would be better? Truly? Are you stupid?’

Timothee stared at him with wide, grey eyes, and Astarion thought of Temter, and then he thought of Sebastian, and as his heart did something wretched and unwanted in his chest, he let himself smile, he let his hunger win.

‘Yes,’ Astarion whispered, ‘you’re so very, very stupid. You misbegotten worm. But you’ll taste delicious, won’t you?’

He wrenched Timothee’s head to the side, dragged him up with his other hand, and sunk his teeth into the man’s neck, the blood flooding into his mouth instantly. Astarion’s eyes rolled back at the bliss of it, he wished he had privacy, but at the same time he didn’t care. It felt atrociously good to have a little power, and the man wasn’t poisoned, or sick, and wasn’t even that drunk. He tasted sweet, dense with fear and shock, his age turning that blood rich and thick in his mouth.

Timothee didn’t fight him, and Astarion only pulled back when he was unconscious, staring down at the torn skin, the messy bleeding bite.

Here, then, he could decide to end it. Not much more, and Timothee would be dead.

‘What did he do?’ Astarion said, without looking up. ‘Let me guess, nothing at all. Was he innocent? Our justice system is so fair, after all.’

Raphael said nothing, and when Astarion looked up, his eyes were ablaze. The smell of sulphur in the room was thicker than before. It could have been misinterpreted as anger, except Astarion knew there was a particular lust that came in viewing violence against another, and he was seeing it in Raphael now.

Dangerous. This was all so…dangerous.

‘Finish him off,’ Raphael said, his voice low.

Astarion stood, feeling blood-drunk, keeping his fist in Timothee’s shirt and wrenching his dead weight upright.

‘No,’ Astarion said, wanting it more than anything, but somehow knowing he couldn’t. Not today. Not on day three. Not when there was so much further to go. He shoved the unconscious body into Raphael’s arms and didn’t look away. ‘Torture him if you so desire, isn’t that what devils do? I’d hate for you to break character. There is no flavour of scream you’ll elicit from him that I haven’t heard from my own mouth at some time or other.’

He walked past Raphael feeling daring, feeling like a fool, feeling powerful, licking the taste of blood out of his mouth.

He heard Raphael’s laughter behind him and felt…

…Felt rather good, actually.

*

Astarion waited not in Raphael’s bedroom, but in the Archive, staring at the empty display plinth where the Orphic Hammer had rested before they’d stolen it. They’d used it to save the world from the Absolute. It could probably be returned to its home now. After all, it was Raphael’s own infernal merregon workforce that mined the materials to craft it.

Raphael entered some hours later, looking almost cat-like, he seemed so pleased. He was in cambion form once more and wore no shirt at all. There was a thick smear of blood across one of his hands, and he wore his predatory nature well. Astarion felt a frisson of danger. He’d rejected Raphael’s invitation to kill Timothee outright, and he knew what the last two nights had held in store for him. He tried not to think about it, but his mind kept supplying memories of thick fingers twisting and thrusting inside of him, stretching him, seeking, applying pressure in ways that were far too knowing.

‘Are you wishing I had replaced the Orphic Hammer with something new that you might purloin from me, pet?’ Raphael said.

His voice was remote, cool, and Astarion realised he wasn’t looking at the bantering breakfast-partner he’d had on the morning of the second day, nor even the devil that ordered a tethryl to remove his curses, but instead a devil that used souls to power his House of Hope in the world of the hells, who tortured easily, without a second thought. A snap of his fingers, and a wrist crushed to dust within the ballooning skin of some human.

Astarion had to lock himself into place to keep from stepping back as Raphael stopped in front of him but looked at the empty plinth.

‘You used the results of your theft to keep the Crown of Karsus from me, and then destroyed it.’

‘Excuse me, I’m no savvy architect of plans so complex,’ Astarion said. ‘I think Temter’s the one you’re thinking of.’

‘And were you thinking of him too?’ Raphael said, as the tension built, as he kept staring at the plinth.

‘Perhaps.’

‘What a useless lack of gratitude from you, then. I procure someone for you to feast upon – even kill and feast properly – and you think instead of a pathetic lover who prefers literally anyone else’s company to yours.’

The danger had started out almost lazy and transparent, but now it wrapped coarsely around Astarion like rope.

‘Kneel for me,’ Raphael said, not even making eye contact.

Astarion swallowed, he knelt, then looked at the blood soaking Raphael’s hand. He could smell it, sweet and metallic, better than how it had ever smelled when he’d been a high elf.

Cautiously, he reached up to the fastenings of Raphael’s trousers, resigning himself to what was coming next. Raphael made a hissing sound, his tail thudded down with a smack against the marble, and he grabbed Astarion’s wrist in a cruel grip.

‘No.’

‘Why in all the hells do you even have me, if you’re not going to make use of m-’

That hand letting go of his wrist and fisting up his hair in a painful grip, and blood-covered fingers thrust into Astarion’s mouth, then plunged deeper into his throat. Sharpened claws cutting his tongue, the back of his mouth, and Astarion’s eyes flew open at the blaze of pain, he choked, gagged, tasted the blood of a man who had died and smelled it deep and rich in the back of his nose.

He tried to pull Raphael’s fingers out of his mouth, but it was impossible.

‘You’re such an odd fish to have caught in my net,’ Raphael said, voice a soft contrast to the tension in his body, the cruel fingers ruining Astarion’s throat. Not just Timothee’s blood trickling into his stomach anymore, but also his own. When he coughed next, a spray of it spattered against Raphael’s belly and pelvis. Flaps of sliced skin at the back of his tongue brushed against his throat as it worked. ‘You think of other captors, you forget why you’re here, you show no true interest in getting that necklace, and I think you struggle to keep track of what you even want. Are you a feather, blown about on the winds? Are you no more than a fish scale, so far from the purpose of swimming you’ve forgotten what it is to care about anything at all?’

Astarion snarled in helpless response, fighting in a way that Cazador hardly ever allowed, once upon a time. Pinpricks of pain in his scalp as he tried to jerk free, strands of hair coming loose. His teeth scraping across Raphael’s knuckles, cutting the thicker, tougher skin open. His blood was strange, unpleasant, not at all something that could sustain him.

Raphael pulled him up by his hair, and Astarion shouted in anger, kicking out and landing a blow against Raphael’s shin.

The cambion didn’t react.

‘It is as though you see this as a halfway home between your pathetic life before and a pathetic future,’ Raphael said, staring at him with deadened eyes. ‘And this now? Do you think I’m being cruel? Do you have any true idea what I could do to you and your pathetic sack of blood and flesh that keeps you here, through the audacity of my will alone?’

A claw dragging back like he was going to withdraw, then stabbing down into Astarion’s tongue, stabbing through it, puncturing the underside, further into the flesh behind his teeth, and blood spilled with saliva out of his mouth, down his chin. He bit hard enough into one of Raphael’s knuckles that he felt bone glancing against his canine.

Raphael’s jaw tensed, he was gritting his teeth.

The pain wasn’t the worst Astarion had gone through, not even close, but it was still unwelcome, and horribly violating. He’d thought blowj*bs were unpleasant, but this was a first for him, and it came low on the list of things he wanted to experience again.

He glared at Raphael, incensed that he seemed to be feeling almost nothing, and with the tools of disrespect being almost all he had in abundance, he let his own blood – and probably some of Timothee’s too – pool in place and then spat the messy, wet mouthful past Raphael’s fingers directly onto his face. It landed true, across his cheek, his eyebrow, even up to the forked horns on the right-hand side.

Raphael’s eyes widened, and Astarion felt his vision white out at the edges, fear obliterating even his rage.

Raphael let go of him all at once, his hand even bloodier than before, skin ripped apart in several places where Astarion’s teeth had done real damage.

Astarion fell to the floor, but pushed up while coughing wretchedly, blood painting his new shirt, his face, the marble, his breathing shaken, uneven, distressed.

‘It gets old,’ he said, through swelling, ripped flesh, and tears of frustration fell when he heard how ruined and garbled his own voice was. ‘Do you truly think I don’t know what you can do? You’re all – all – the same. All the same.’

Raphael pulled a healing potion out of his pocket and poured a third of it over his wounded hand. Raphael then tossed it to Astarion, who caught the bottle with a sweaty palm, and drank from it immediately, groaning at the agony even as it started to disappear. He swallowed the rest of the blood – it was too important to waste – then furiously threw the potion bottle at the plinth empty of its stolen Orphic Hammer.

The glass shattered, and Astarion stared at the pieces.

‘Do you know how many potions he brewed, just for me?’ Astarion said, still gasping. ‘Just to allow his torture? How terribly pedestrian of you, all this time alive, and you can’t do anything else except direct your will towards whatever this is.’

Astarion wanted to cry, but he was too angry to allow it, angry at himself that he dared to feel betrayed because Raphael was behaving the way any devil would. Perhaps… Perhaps still better than most. His exhales came sharp and heavy, and Astarion concentrated hard to get control of them, because the distress was too audible, he hated it.

He knew Raphael probably loved it, but Raphael’s expression was more of the impassiveness of before. Astarion wiped at his mouth with his fingers, the back of his hand, then his forearm. He was covered in spit and blood. He felt humiliated.

He thought again of Temter, of what the druid might say to see him like this and had to look away. What was even the point of killing Cazador, if the rest of his life was just going to look like this?

No. No, not the rest of his life. Less than thirty days now.

But that felt far less real than what was before him. Raphael had said something about a pathetic future, a pathetic past, but Astarion had no idea how to live in his pathetic present without dragging a persona around him so rigid that when it fell apart, it collapsed entirely.

‘Poor thing,’ Raphael said, stepping forwards and bending over him before Astarion could scramble away. A hand came and rested gently on Astarion’s shoulder. And then a thumb brushed the side of his face. It wasn’t the hand Astarion had bitten several times. ‘There, how was that? Is that more along the lines of what you expected? You asked me to make use of you, do you feel better now?’

Astarion stared at the marble, the gold striations within it, and didn’t know how to react.

‘And now we’ll clean you up, and you can come to bed with me.’

‘I’d really, really rather not,’ Astarion said.

A reassuring squeeze to his shoulder, and Astarion closed his eyes.

‘Stop telling me to do the things you find old, and predictable, and tired,’ Raphael said, his voice warm again. ‘Do you really think it needs to be like how it was with Cazador, for you to earn some sunlight?’

A low laugh, and Astarion risked looking at Raphael, and was shocked to find something almost like fondness on his face. It had to be a performance. A trick. Maybe a distortion simply because there was all the blood that Astarion had spat there. Gods, had he really done that? What was wrong with him?

‘How am I supposed to be grateful for any of this?’ Astarion said. ‘If you know some secret, you could deign to teach me.’

‘Never fear. I have plenty of incentives to prompt you. Tsk. Look at all that blood you lost. It’s on the marble, on me, on yourself… One would think you didn’t care for it at all.’

‘No, I do. I do,’ Astarion said, because that was one thing he didn’t want to risk. Thirty days without the chance to feed properly, regularly, would break him somehow. He knew it would.

‘Truly?’

‘I’m grateful,’ Astarion said.

‘I’ll make you a promise. If you tell me the truth, right now, the actual truth, little one – perhaps the one you don’t even know yourself – I’ll leave you be, tonight.’

Astarion had no idea what that really meant, since he’d still have to sleep in Raphael’s bed, but he couldn’t go through more of what he’d just experienced. And it would have been a trap, back in the Szarr Palace. It would have been a lie. A lie to be met with one of Astarion’s lies, a dance of untruths back and forth that always led in agony and desolation for one party, triumph for the other.

‘Try,’ Raphael whispered. ‘Are you truly grateful?’

No.

‘Ha,’ Astarion managed, feeling like he still had a freshly bleeding, gaping wound in his tongue. He didn’t. ‘I’m scared.’

‘That has a flavour of the truth,’ Raphael said, sounding satisfied. ‘Good boy, Astarion. Anything else?’

‘Don’t…’ Don’t hurt me like that again.

Hadn’t Raphael himself told him not to give him ideas? Astarion closed his eyes and felt thoroughly defeated. He looked under his eyelashes at the marble he was still resting on, because he couldn’t bring himself to stand.

‘Shall we go to bed, Lord?’

A stillness in the air, like Astarion had done something unexpected. Astarion thought the change of tone would be welcomed, but he had the oddest sense it wasn’t, and thumbed absently at the shirt. Perhaps he could launder it.

‘We shall,’ Raphael said eventually, but Astarion could hear banked sentences unspoken, words and thoughts the cambion was keeping to himself.

As they walked through the House of Hope, Astarion wondered to himself if sunlight was worth it, and wanted to laugh, because he’d been through so much worse for so much less. But…he could break the contract right now and walk away a free man, if a free man forever consigned to the shadows.

He didn’t break the contract, and he didn’t walk away, but for the rest of the night, he thought about it, turning the shape of such an act over and over in his mind, as he kept moving his tongue in his mouth, as though testing for wounds that were already gone.

Chapter 10: Cut Grass and Clean Sheets

Chapter Text

Raphael wasn’t there in the morning, and Astarion found his tailored shirt cleaned of all traces of blood and folded on the chair. He wandered back into the Archive, the blood and shattered glass of the empty potion bottle was gone. All signs of the night before had vanished.

On the balcony, a bottle of wine – something like Saerloonian Glowfire, but prettier and pinker – and more fruit. Two goblets, including one that still had some wine at the bottom, which must have been Raphael’s.

Astarion hadn’t expected to fall asleep, but in the end he had. He woke feeling physically stronger than he had in some time. He drank a lot of Timothee’s blood – more than he would without Raphael there. But he felt lost, it was all too easy to imagine the claws that cut and pierced his mouth, throat and tongue, doing the same to his insides. It left a sickening dread in him.

But Raphael wasn’t Cazador, and Astarion could break the contract. The knowledge was pacifying and dreadful, because Astarion only had himself to blame for staying here in the first level of hell, for whatever Raphael’s whims might be.

*

He found Fhaeleb’s room because he’d been looking for it. She wasn’t there, and Astarion didn’t enter, because he could sense the protective magic as soon as he’d pushed the door open and backed away from the crackling energy. He instinctively knew that would hurt him in a way Raphael’s curses hadn’t.

The room itself was well-furnished. Astarion knew it was hers from the scent. Radiant magic and the perfume of caraway and spearmint. Perhaps she was out and about protecting Raphael.

Astarion wanted to solve the mystery of why she was there at all, but he was too flat in mood to bother.

In the end he found another guestroom with an empty, grand four poster bed – red and black and gold, because why mess with the “aesthetic” – and laid down upon it. He fell into a mind-numbing doze, the kind that he remembered well from his days with Cazador. How quickly his mind found these roads again, how quickly he walked down them to their inevitable ends. No matter how often he tried to tell himself it was less than thirty days, it was temporary, something in his body felt the chains weighing him down, and he responded to that pull.

He’d told Raphael he was scared, the night before. A part of him wanted to see Raphael’s expression clear with understanding, hear the cambion promise to never hurt him again.

He fell asleep with his hand over his mouth, as though he could protect it from what had already happened, and already healed.

*

Astarion woke with a start, Raphael was sitting on the side of the bed dressed in white, red and blue, in human form, watching him quietly. Astarion pushed up, panicking, and Raphael sighed and reached out, and placed fingers with regular blunt fingernails against his chest. The touch was so slight, but Astarion froze.

‘This is my fault,’ Raphael said. ‘You were too tempting a treat last night, and I was deep in my own bloodlust, and you suffer so beautifully, Astarion. I was wondering if you might like to journey to Waterdeep with me this afternoon? It’s still thulsun. Time enough to take a portal and eat a late lunch. What do you say?’

Astarion knew he should have leapt at the opportunity, but for once…

Raphael hadn’t even raped him yet, and Astarion was already baulking. It was darkly hilarious, how weak Astarion was these days, how little he could tolerate.

‘Here,’ Raphael said, the fragile silver necklace already in his hands. He leaned forwards and fastened it around Astarion’s neck easily. ‘Your fear is piquant today. I can smell it all through the House.’

‘I’m sure you appreciate the bouquet.’

‘I do,’ Raphael said, though his expression was odd. ‘I am what I am, and I’ll not pretend to be otherwise. I did not mean to take it so far, last night. Your exasperation, your wish that I might make use of you had me craving something and I briefly glutted myself.’

‘Lord, I know you wanted to do more.’

‘It’s bemusing, in a way, how chameleon-like your nature is. Only a few hours go by – a single evening – and you’re using my titles and not even to goad me. A healing potion is all well and good with the flesh, but it’s nothing at all to those bruises of the spirit, is it?’

Astarion didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing. But after a few seconds he reached up and gingerly touched the necklace.

‘You don’t even trust the promise of sunlight, do you?’ Raphael said, smiling ruefully.

Why did Astarion want to cry? Something in Raphael’s voice was so understanding. But of course it was, this was probably how he’d spoken to thousands – no, tens of thousands…maybe even hundreds of thousands – of people before stealing their souls. All those people he’d tortured, some he chose to torture forever.

‘Come with me,’ Raphael said. ‘You can’t stay here, Astarion. This is not my bed, even if it is within the House of Hope.’

Astarion’s mind felt sluggish. ‘Did I break the contract?

‘No,’ Raphael said. ‘I wasn’t here, and the contract is specific that you’re to spend each night in my bed, you’re free to choose any bed during the day. But let’s not make it easier to break the contract, hm? Poor creature. It’s strange to think how easy you are to shatter. There’s a funny kind of resilience in those accustomed to torture. I’ll admit freely I made a mess of things. If I hurt you, I’ll want it to be far more deliberate than that, and ideally, it will be in service to my goals as well. Hurting your love of the sun is not actually my plan. I went off script.’

‘Yes,’ Astarion said, unable to account for the flatness he felt. ‘All right.’

‘Tch. Just look at you,’ Raphael said, his voice modulated. He reached out and touched Astarion’s hair – the hair he’d pulled on and yanked the night before – and brushed it so gently, and Astarion looked away.

‘What is your plan?’ Astarion said finally. ‘True submission, wasn’t that what you said? Don’t you have it?’

‘No,’ Raphael said. ‘Here, do you wish to weep? Do you want me to sing you a lullaby?’

Astarion stared ahead, ground his teeth together, and Raphael came closer and carefully placed a hand on Astarion’s arm and coaxed him close. Two arms wrapped around him, and Astarion felt a melange of frustration, despair, and the urge to lean heavily into Raphael’s body which even now burned hotter than any feverish human.

‘Oh, Astarion,’ Raphael said, his voice taking on a theatrical cant. ‘Such tragedy for a vampire spawn, such melodrama, it doesn’t befit you at all to drag that high elf carcass around like a curse. You’ve seen too many plays with too many terrible endings. It’s really…too perfect.’

Astarion stiffened, but Raphael’s arms stayed gentle, even though the amusem*nt and life in his voice was rich.

‘But you have yourself an infinitely benevolent benefactor,’ Raphael said, his voice almost a purr. ‘Will you not avail yourself of his offers? The sun, Astarion, some repast, a necklace already around your pale, scarred neck, and witty conversation with the ruler of the House of Hope himself. Do you not consider your privilege? We’ve had three and a half days together, and are you not whole in body? We cannot say you were sound in mind since that hasn’t existed for some time. Do you need a devil’s apology, pet? Will you even credit it?’

‘It wouldn’t f*cking hurt,’ Astarion muttered.

‘I’m sorry, Astarion,’ Raphael said, the words making Astarion shiver, because he had a sense the devil didn’t say them often. ‘Normally I am quite controlled, but torture awakens cravings in me that go beyond the mind, and I wanted to play further, and you are a lovely, fascinating playmate. You opened the door yourself with your words, and when permission is granted, it is only gentlemanly to accept. So, here, perhaps there is a lesson to be learned after all, little one. Do stop throwing open doors you do not wish to see the contents of, and if you issue no invite, I can stop obeying when you invite me to make use of you.’

Astarion trembled because he didn’t trust himself. Wasn’t that the problem? He had no idea what Raphael would have really done to him the night before, but it really did seem that Astarion had goaded him on. He’d gotten a taste of what he’d expected from the beginning, and he was upset with himself for it, but also agitated, aware that Raphael knew how to play the situation.

‘What is it, pet?’ Raphael asked sweetly. ‘What have you realised?’

Hands pressing into Astarion’s back and shoulders, and today Raphael had odd scents about him that were all Faerun and nothing to do with Baator. He smelled of coal dust, and the remnants of brick fires.

‘You knew what you were doing when you made the contract,’ Astarion said, his body tensing with the urge to pull back. Raphael’s hands tightened, not enough to hurt – not even close – but enough to send a message. Raphael wanted him in place, leaning against him, and could communicate it carefully enough when he felt like it.

‘Did I?’ Raphael said, with faux surprise.

‘You must have expected that someone with a…a history like mine- You’re trying to convince me that it’s my fault, that I made you hurt me, I can tell, you know. Look, I might be a fool, but I’m not stupid!’

Raphael’s laugh was low. ‘Poor thing. Let that be true then and listen well to what I’m telling you. We’re talking, aren’t we? There’s no torture between us. I’ve not tried to trick you into another contract, as compassionate as it would be for me to offer you one in my endless mercy. I’m not trying to address the fool in you, but your intellect. I will never not be a resident of the hells, and if you give any devil free invitation to hurt you, it is like a neck wandering up to your teeth and begging to be feasted upon. I can have your suffering in a thousand different ways that I can make you enjoy. If you do not want certain types of torment, learn how to stop opening those doors for me, my sweet.’

Astarion hated that he saw the sense in it. Hated that he knew he’d keep goading Raphael. Hated that he could foresee another twenty-seven days of…of this unpredictability. It was going to get worse. He knew it was going to get worse.

‘I do love how you keep fighting me,’ Raphael said, then sighed. ‘But really, you weren’t going to win. Did it not occur to you last night to backtrack? Change your mind? Say that you didn’t truly want me to make use of you after all?’

Cazador wouldn’t have listened, and Astarion had two hundred years under his belt to know how much it hurt when he needed someone to heed him, only to know they enjoyed saying no.

‘What a fearful thing you are,’ Raphael sighed, sounding like it wasn’t a chore at all, the kind of noise someone made as they eased into a bath that was the perfect temperature. ‘Come have something different today, pet. It will be sweet. When was the last time you had a perfectly cooked steak? Likely not the Elfsong, they always f*ck it up.’

Astarion’s laugh was helpless. That…was true. Two centuries and the Elfsong could cook nearly everything well, but not a steak. No one knew why, the kitchen had seen countless chefs.

‘It’s like they’re cursed,’ Astarion said.

‘Isn’t it, though? So let’s away to Waterdeep instead, you and I.’

‘And Fhaeleb?’

‘Mm. I do not need her services in Waterdeep.’

‘But you do need them.’

‘Careful, pet. Don’t back yourself into more uncomfortable corners. What a hungry little mind you have.’

‘And you? I suppose you’re just waiting to punish me for spitting on you?’

Raphael pressed closer, enough that Astarion felt trapped and thought about struggling. Raphael wasn’t even in cambion form, but Astarion could sense the power in him, the surrounding force of that larger body and those wings.

‘I thought it was inspired,’ Raphael said into Astarion’s ear, making him shiver. ‘I imagine Cazador brooked no disrespect, and I certainly have my moments where I don’t either. But if anything it helped me realise I’d gone too far. There will be times I do that wholly on purpose, but yesterday wasn’t intended to be one of those times. Don’t make it a habit, though. What would Cazador have done to you in response?’

‘Tortured me, I suppose.’

‘The devil’s in the details, as they say.’

‘You told me not to give you ideas. And you drowned me.’

‘Goodness me, those grudges, Astarion. Not a fan of letting anything go, I see. And yet you let Temter go and didn’t even hurt him for his flagrant misuse of you? Interesting. Come along. There’s sunlight to be had.’

Astarion hesitated for a long time, and finally he acquiesced, and let himself be pulled away from the guestroom bed. Raphael tangled his fingers in Astarion’s and guided him through the House of Hope, and occasionally pointed out some painting or other, or a particular feature in the statuary. He was a fine host. He knew about the history of the quarried stone, he knew titbits about the craftspeople, he had a way of spinning words together that made him seem like a true – if grandiose – storyteller.

Then they were before the portal to Waterdeep, and Raphael paused and faced Astarion solemnly. He reached up, ignored the barely-suppressed flinch, and began to carefully move Astarion's hair into place. His fingers moved deftly, and Astarion could tell he wasn't messing it up, because he was using the same movements Astarion often did himself even though he could no longer see his hair, his face.

'There,' Raphael said. 'No longer sleep-mussed, though it's not a bad look on you at all.'

'Very little is,' Astarion said.

Raphael's brown gaze lingered for a long time. Astarion thought he was maybe easier to read in human form, but he was reluctant to be certain about anything anymore. Even today he remembered vividly what it was like to have that claw puncture through the meat of his tongue. He was painfully conscious of how easily Raphael could have split the muscle in two, given him a forked tongue if he really wanted to.

He reached up and touched his fingers to the necklace, and it felt empty now, not like the reassurance he wanted it to be. Raphael noted the movement, and his lips twitched with something like distaste. But in seconds the expression was gone, replaced with something far more even and pleasant.

'Waterdeep awaits us, Astarion. Let's go.'

He took Astarion's hand and walked them both through the portal.

*

The month of Mirtul, in Waterdeep, was a month free of nearly all snow already. The warm coastal winds that managed to make it past Mount Waterdeep kept a humidity in the air that meant snow quickly turned to slush and then vanished. Astarion told himself that's what he noticed, and not the warmth of the sun, like a peaceful blessing on the top of his head. He stood there feeling stunned all over again, needing time to understand it, and he knew he didn't need sunlight to survive, but he wanted it so badly.

'Do you regret that it's not a warmer month?' Raphael asked. 'The Mirtul sun suits you. It turns your hair aglow, but sweetly, so that it looks like white silver.'

The flattery was also warming, and Astarion turned to Raphael and wished he knew what to make of the whole situation. At its most simple, he still wanted the sun, and therefore he wanted the necklace, and therefore Raphael had him for another day.

'You know,' Astarion said, affecting a smile, 'I was never a fan of the hottest months. All those flies in abundance, and the dratted pong as everything rotted in the alleys faster than it does at any other time. Eleasis could easily be the season of Sweet Rot for all I care, especially in Rivington. Spoiled blood isn't pleasant either, even at the best of times.'

'I can only imagine,' Raphael said, upper lip in a sneer of distaste. 'Then perhaps it's better that it's Mirtul. It seems the sun is out just for you.'

'I always knew you were a charmer,' Astarion said.

It was a game again, this kind of conversation. But damn it all, Astarion enjoyed it. He liked Raphael's overly warm hand sliding into his cold one. He enjoyed the way people looked at them both as they walked, and he felt invulnerable at times, because who would ever suspect he was a vampire spawn when he walked beneath the sun? It was the ultimate defence. More than that, he liked that he seemed to be a part of the city, a citizen or tourist or merchant, and he could pretend he belonged. He wasn't a denizen of the shadows, he was a creature of the light, and while it didn't solve the heaviness in him, he felt as though some of the burden had lifted off his heart all the same.

He thought Raphael would take him straight to some festhall or restaurant, but instead he was guided up to the large and sprawling City of the Dead, the graveyard that doubled as Waterdeep's most verdant parkland. They walked through the double gates together, and there were already plenty of other couples and families on picnic rugs, uncaring of the headstones around them, enjoying the holly oak with its new light green spring leaves, and the buckthorn, and the glorious elms that had been protected from the worst of the Spellplague by druids.

Not that Astarion really cared much for druids these days...

'And how many of these dead gave their souls to you first?' Astarion said, as they headed up towards Lord's Respite, where the best-looking and most-maintained sections of the grounds were.

'Not as many as you'd think, perhaps,' Raphael said laconically. 'Though I think at least one from every family that matters. Some of these Lords only became such because of sacrifices made to me or other devils. Between us all, it would be more interesting to know how many of them hadn't made a deal with a devil at some point. It's not easy to rise to power in Waterdeep, or to keep it once gained.'

'You make it sound as though this world is filled with people under contract.'

'That's certainly how it seems to me at times,' Raphael said. 'But no, not the majority. But perhaps the balance tips the higher up the chain of power one goes. The people most desperate to do deals are the desperately downtrodden, and the desperately avaricious, those who crave power at any cost.'

'I can't help but wonder if I'd had a soul of value to you if I would have ever agreed to a contract where you acquired it at the end. But perhaps I would have to escape Cazador. Gods know I prayed to enough of them, useless as they are.'

Raphael's laugh was indulgent, pleased, and Astarion felt it was easier here in Waterdeep to appreciate all that life had to offer. The texture of the path beneath his shoes, the sunlight upon his ears and face, the wind pushing at the fabric of his shirt.

They ended up sitting on a stone picnic bench that was free, in dappled shade. Astarion picked the side of the bench that had the most sunlight, and Raphael sat next to him, stretching his legs out and surveying the area curiously.

'The gods have their uses,' Raphael said eventually, as though pondering Astarion's words like they held significance. 'But they are a fickle lot when it comes to answering prayers, especially those of vampire spawn. And who did you pray to, when you were so desperate for succour you turned to religion?'

'Oh! Oh. Well.The gods I have prayed to who never listened. A sampling then, just for you. Lolth, for threads that I might spin into rope to drag myself free from the Palace of Szarr. Mielikki, that I might find the whispers and secrets that lead me away from the dark. Selune, though I loathed the idea of being enslaved to a moon. Tempus, that I might have a moment of clarity and shove a knife into Cazador's neck and be baptised in the tsunami of blood that would follow. Tiamat, that I might be the loudest, hungriest voice, and find something that none of the others could, and keep it for myself. Tethrin Veralde, that I might become so adept with the bow I can finally, finally strike down my enemies, even just...just one of them. And finally, hilariously, Bahamut, that the light of justice might burn me into nothingness, for death is itself a terrible freedom. I wasn't exactly...sane, at the time.'

'The reasoning sounds perfectly sane to me,' Raphael said. His expression was grave, and Astarion wondered if he'd revealed too much, given too much of himself away. But now more than ever, he knew one day he might snap and walk away from the contract. Perhaps then, he might find his own solutions. After all, the first way to access sunlight that Raphael offered worked, and the second was likely to work even better, though Astarion had no idea if he'd ever accept the terms of that contract.

What if he just took the necklace, and then found his own second method with the ability to walk in the sun and access people and buildings he couldn't otherwise?

'Of the gods I've met,' Raphael said, and Astarion's eyes darted back to him, because wasn't that a hell of a way to start any sentence? 'Only a few have earned my regard. My father knows of more than I do, and has met more, and has killed more.'

'Your father?'

'Yes,' Raphael said, deliberately not answering the question that Astarion was asking.

'Killed gods, you say,' Astarion said slowly.

Raphael's smile was winsome. He seemed pleased to be out here under the leaves, as the sounds of the city rose around them. Here there were no children shrieking or playing nearby, and it seemed that other couples avoided Lord's Respite despite it being so beautiful.

'Why here?' Astarion said suddenly.

'If a murder happens in the cemetery, it's most likely to happen here. Dodgy deals, terrible trades, one might even sell their soul to a devil, if one looks hard enough.'

'Ah, so you're just part of the riff-raff then.'

Raphael looked pleased at the mild insult. 'The better dressed of the riff-raff.'

'One must have one's priorities in order, after all.'

'Indeed,' Raphael said.

He tilted his head at Astarion and considered him for a long time.

'How naughty of you, to have me doubting my ability to draft a simple contract, rich in reward, overly generous and sweet in intention.'

Astarion scoffed and looked away. This again. 'I suppose to you everything must be on a vast spectrum from just a little torture, to an eternity of it.'

'A devil will as a devil does, as the saying goes.'

'Are you really doubting yourself? It's hard to imagine you doing anything of the sort. Why, you've just told me how many gods you've met. You've just said your father has killed more gods, which now that I think on it, implies that you've killed at least one.'

'You might consider it a compliment.'

'That's just it, Ra- Lord. Gods damn it, I loathethat stipulation. But I am under no illusions as to what I must be to you. It was you who made it abundantly clear that you consider all of us to be mere insects. You who made it clear you simply play games with us at your amusem*nt. And while you must know that none of us like to be made into game pieces, you must also know that some of us know that we are.'

'Hush now. Consider that I enjoy games, and for a time, I was even quite fond of some of your party, including yourself. In the last iteration of the merciful House of Hope, I had pulled power to me, a natural thing to do, of course. You may not know this, but even the lowest of fiends - even the lemures themselves - are always looking and seeking slivers of power to drag themselves up a vast ladder into more, and yet more power. Even the most obedient of fiends, the most...temporarily loyal, shall we say, will seek to breach a contract, or betray a master, if it means they might one day be a master themselves. The currency of souls may be our abundance in Baator, but none can consider trust our trade.'

Astarion couldn't help but be fascinated. He didn't want to be, he didn't want to find Raphael's words interesting or compelling, and yet the company was...good enough that were the circ*mstances different, he might simply visit Raphael for the conversation. Wasn't that an annoying thing to learn?

'We'll continue this chat later, over steak and wine perhaps,’ Raphael said. ‘For now, let's enjoy the afternoon sun. I'm rather fond of this season, though I do like to imagine the playing children screaming in agony, rather than pleasure. Miserable little insects.' Raphael turned to Astarion. 'Are you feeling hungry? Is a child a suitable aperitif?'

'You really think you're going to win me over by offering me a child to feast upon? Listen, I'm not disinterested, but they're not even that close to us. Though you can be delightfully vicious, you seem to be aiming to do something nice for me, or kind, or whatever you want to call it, and offering a child sacrifice as an act of generosity is a tad discomfiting. Perhaps you could stop applying the reins so hard and use your imagination.'

'Never fear,' Raphael said, without looking away from Astarion. 'I do that often. The future must be willed, after all.'

'You would make the most incredible cult leader.'

'Mm. I know. I've been one many times. It's a wonderfully expeditious way to net gold and souls, but it can be tedious, and it takes rather more effort than I want to give more than about every five to ten years.'

Astarion laughed. He couldn't help himself. And he realised only minutes later that he'd not thought about Temter or the others for some time, which was a strange, disturbing novelty in and of itself.

Here they were, under the dappled Mirtul sun, the coastal air fresh, the grass newly cut beneath their feet. Astarion turned his tongue in his mouth and thought that he could give this contract another day perhaps. Maybe even another two.

Chapter 11: Orange Blossoms and Sandalwood

Chapter Text

They meandered through the Trades Ward after spending some time talking in the City of the Dead. Astarion missed the days when he had more gold than he knew what to do with, and he wasn't willing to pickpocket while Raphael was right there beside him. After all, he'd used those skills to steal some of the House of Hope's most valuable items.

As they wandered, Astarion looked for Gale absently, but knew he was likely happily ensconced by stacks of books and his feline friend, making everyone around him miserable as soon as he opened his mouth and talked about Mystra, or the Weave, or some other nonsense. Astarion missed him, almost wished he could see him, but no doubt Gale assumed Raphael was dead like Astarion did, and Astarion walked in the sunlight, which wasn't supposed to be possible at all. He didn't think Gale would be unquestioningly happy for him, he doubted any of them would be.

When they reached Golden's Veil, Astarion's steps slowed. The building was larger than Astarion remembered, but he hadn't visited in some time. Seen as a replacement after the golden age of the Smiling Siren, Golden's Veil was a multi-storey brothel, playhouse, theatre, and festhall. He'd tried hunting here once, a long time ago, but the clientele were too rich, and Cazador said it drew too much attention. Golden herself, a half-elf, was too savvy to let any members of the visiting acting troupes be stolen, and the feeling of protective magic shimmered about the place.

Raphael seemed unbothered and walked into the restaurant arm of the building. They were immediately attended to by an attentive halfling waiter, and in the back of Astarion's mind, he could almost hear Temter lecturing him about the fact that halflings were just like everyone else and not actually - as Astarion once put it - made for menial labour.

They were seated at a table outdoors to catch the last of the afternoon sun. Astarion knew it was all deliberate, but Raphael was spending a lot of time making amends. After all, the cambion seemed to be genuinely busy since Astarion had arrived at the House of Hope, and he wasn't doing any business here while they walked or sat or talked. Whether this also counted as time off for Raphael, Astarion didn't know, but he did know Raphael didn't have to work quite this hard to keep him amenable to the contract.

At least, he didn't think so.

'I can't help but feel like you've brought me here for a reason,' Astarion said, as the day cooled, and the white candles were lit at their table. Inside a band played, its music muffled, but outside it was a single human and a fiddle, gazing towards the sky and rather more talented than Astarion thought a place like this deserved.

'You're not wrong,' Raphael said.

Astarion stared at his half-eaten steak. The meat oozed red beneath it. Astarion preferred all his meat hardly cooked. A mere appearance of civility was better than simply tearing into the muscle raw, though there were some countries where it could be very civilised indeed. The food was well-seasoned, and this place was a gem amongst cut glass. Astarion wouldn't have given it another look, given the ward they were in, and what many of the other festhalls were like. But there was a grace among the serving staff - even the halfling - and the food was turned out well.

'You don't have to eat, do you?' Astarion said.

'Not like this, no, but I can appreciate the artistry that goes into a dish, and I can taste the flavours. Not as well as you, I suspect. Many pleasures of the flesh are dulled for devils.'

'Is that why you seek so many of them out?'

Astarion thought Raphael's response would be easy and predictable, but instead he only smiled stiffly, and focused on his meal once more. Astarion listened to the musician instead, uneasy as the sky pinkened, then faded to the lilacs of dusk. He was ready to go back to the House of Hope, and he knew Raphael had something planned.

'Lord,' Astarion said abruptly, 'don't you think this will be a- well, a sh*t apology, as far as apologies go, if you have something awful planned after this?'

'There's no point coming to Golden's Veil and not making full use of her,' Raphael said blandly.

Astarion ground his teeth together. Of course. Of course. And it was a brothel at that. Astarion didn't exactly hate them – they were fine hunting grounds – but he didn't think Raphael was likely to do anything good in one.He couldn’t help but think of Sharess’ Caress, and what Temter tried to talk him into with the drows.

'Tell me you're here to coax a soul out of some poor prostitute,' Astarion said.

'All the workers here are well looked after,' Raphael said. 'I could consider no such course of action in a place like this. Perhaps under a different Madame, but Golden has an understanding with her patrons and those on her payroll.'

'How wonderful for them all,' Astarion said with a false smile.

'Let's move upstairs for dessert, shall we?'

Astarion stiffened. Inside the plays happened, but also the prostitution. But he stood, and he followed Raphael, looking about in suspicion as they entered the main building with its gold brocade wallpaper. People occasionally passed them in the corridors - actors or whor*s, Astarion couldn't tell - all in enough of a hurry he knew they worked there. When they reached a staircase, a young, suited man standing by a ledger on a plinth smiled carefully at Raphael. Like someone who had learned long ago to be wary of him.

'Sir Raphael, how good it is to see you. Would you like your usual?'

Incense sticks burned behind him, smelling of orange blossom and sandalwood.The scent was pleasant, not overdone, not trying to hide anything untoward.

'Please,' Raphael said. 'Is it a new troupe tonight? It looks like it.'

'Yes. Fresh off the docks this morning and still finding everything. But the acting is some of the best, Madame Golden herself is hoping they'll stay on for longer than they planned. Do you want them?'

Raphael tilted his head, then looked at Astarion for some time, assessing him with a critical eye. When he turned back to the man, his smile was wicked.

'Yes, indeed. No one to enter once the play has started. Show me the white list of what they're willing to perform.'

The man pulled a piece of white parchment out from the ledger, and Raphael perused it quickly. Astarion got a glimpse of the titles of the plays penned there in fine calligraphy and his uneasiness grew.

There were plenty of acting troupes who also performed scripted p*rnography shows. That was simply what it was to be a member of the theatre for many, and some sought it out and enjoyed it. There was a reason acting and prostitution – theatres and brothels – went hand-in-hand after all. This troupe seemed reluctant to offer more than three titles, which meant they were likely more protective of their crew than average.

'The second,' Raphael said.

Astarion tensed further.

'Excellent choice,’ the man said, ‘I've heard the actor they've picked for the lead role is stunning, though I haven't yet seen him myself. Feel free to go upstairs at your leisure, Lord Raphael.'

Raphael walked past the man without even nodding in acknowledgement, and Astarion followed, wondering if he could bow out. What did Raphael have planned for him? He knew it was in the contract that he would have to be with at least two other people, and ideally three, if Astarion didn't use his safeword to escape it. Was that to be tonight? After Raphael's apology?

Surely not. It didn't make sense.

'Your anxieties sour the mood, Astarion,' Raphael said, as they reached two large double doors, the golden doorknobs each inlaid with a ruby. Raphael waved his hand, and they swung open for him. The light within was warm, a chandelier of candles and crystals hung above a series of small intimate tables and benches, but there was no one else in the room aside from a single suited pianist at a white piano, playing quietly. The stage was empty, its red curtains drawn. The tables were empty of guests, and the candles at each one unlit, except for the table Raphael walked towards.

Was it a private theatre? A private performance? Astarion relaxed minutely. That helped. The doors swung shut behind them, either through Raphael's mastery of magic and matter, or simply because they didn't stay open for long.

Raphael didn't draw him to the table with the lit candles, but to a bench behind it with a wide, cushioned seat in the shadows, placed where the pianist at the upright piano couldn't see them once they both sat down. The bench was upholstered and comfortable. The stage was small, its wooden raised floor polished to perfection, and there were only two pieces of furniture upon it - a chair, and a table. The pianist played a soft ballad and was as skilled as the fiddler in the restaurant.

Golden's Veil was a far classier establishment than Astarion had ever known.

'Are you a benefactor?' Astarion asked under his breath, the atmosphere making him feel as though he should be hushed.

'The Ruby Room is mine,' Raphael said. 'I paid for it in full a long time ago. It is hired out on occasion, but it is the place I prefer to entertain in Waterdeep. Tell me why you're nervous.'

'Just because something is written on that contract, doesn't mean I want to do it,' Astarion said.

'I know, pet.'

Astarion ground his teeth together. Raphael had a way of sounding so agreeable, even reassuring, but it wasn't like the setting was comforting.

A waiter entered the room from behind the deep red curtain with two bottles of wine and glasses on a golden platter. He looked first to the table, then saw Raphael in the shadows and his skin whitened with fear. But he walked over without a single misstep and placed the bottles andglasses on an elegant table next to the bench.

'Will you be needing anything else, Lord Raphael?'

'A night free of interruptions,' Raphael said. His voice was forbidding, and the lad tensed, inclined his head politely, then left on a walk so quick it was nearly a run.

'Enjoy scaring the locals, do you? No wait, don't answer, of course you do.'

Raphael's smile was pleased and relaxed. If he'd been Temter, Astarion would be losing his mind about now, ranting about how Temter couldn't just expect him to simply do whatever it was that he wanted. But the reality was Astarion did lots of things he didn't want to do with Temter, and he couldn't always be certain Temter wouldn't force him to do something anyway. If it was for the mission, for the goal at hand, Temter dragged them anywhere, into any battle, any situation, no matter how foolish or painful.

Astarion huffed and went to press back into the bench, but the seat was too deep to manage it comfortably. He folded his arms and resigned himself to something he'd hate.

Next to him, Raphael laughed.

*

The private play was performed with only two people. A young man at a chair, beautiful, with makeup of gold eyeliner and gold touches to his long, wavy, dark blue hair. He wore a gold and blue shirt, and didn't just pretend to write at the table, but actually wrote with a peaco*ck quill. Nearby, an older man narrated a story of the lad at the table. A boy just out of his teen years, desperate for love, afraid of it all the same.

Astarion's eyes went back to the young man over and over again. He was pretty enough. The piano playing matched the play, though Astarion didn't think it had been written for it. But it was gentle, unobtrusive, and captured the feeling of that wistful yearning, an ageless wanting for something that kindled in the heart at an age when most were too immature to handle love in the first place. For some reason, Astarion felt he remembered that feeling well, even though it had been such a long time since he'd experienced it as a youth. He couldn't even remember the kinds of people he'd had crushes on back then before he'd been Turned. Young lads, some young women, and those who weren't any gender at all, or flitted between changeably. It was possible he was drawn to all of that, but all that was left was the knowing, the sense that the feeling was familiar.

Raphael bent towards him as the narrator continued speaking.

'Come sit between my legs, Astarion.'

Astarion swallowed, and then did so. What was the use in fighting?

He realised the usefulness of the bench quickly. Raphael could be quite far back on it and Astarion still comfortably seated between the devil's spread legs. He bit his lower lip when he felt a mouth pressing to the back of his neck. The touch was so gentle, and Raphael's breath was hot against his skin, always shocking until he grew accustomed to it.

'Focus,' Raphael said to Astarion, even as one of his arms slid around his torso and ended up pressing against the buttons on Astarion's vest.

The narrator walked closer to the boy, closer still. He stood only a foot away from him in silence, and the boy was now quietly, movingly talking about the terror of wanting to be touched. Astarion would have derisively thought it was all too on the nose, but the pianist was skilled, and the monologues well-crafted and eloquent. The boy with his golden eyeshadow was fetching. Astarion felt a thread of chemistry between the two actors, knew - at some point - that the narrator, or perhaps another actor was going to touch the lad. That's what this was a play about after all. Innocence lost, finding connection.

'Do you find him attractive?' Raphael whispered into Astarion's ear. 'The boy at the chair?'

'He is rather comely,' Astarion admitted. Why not? Why not say that? Astarion had the strangest sense Raphael wasn't going to hurt him here, and he wanted to trust it so badly.Cazador had liked theatre and performances too, held enough of them at his private palace that Astarion had learned to dread them.

Why did he feel this might be all right?

'Isn't he just? Not as comely as you,'Raphael said.

Astarion's eyes shut. He was a wretched little monster when it came to words like that, he weakened before them. He wanted to believe Raphael badly. The truth was, he hadn't properly seen his appearance for over two hundred years. He remembered himself as handsome, and he knew Cazador found him alluring, but Astarion had seen Cazador find six-year-olds alluring. There was no accounting for taste, sometimes.

Halfway through the boy's monologue, the narrator stepped decisively up to him and placed his hands on the actor's chest from behind, over his shirt. The lad immediately stopped speaking and shuddered, and oh, it was good acting. It seemed so real. Astarion knew these two must have performed this private play countless times, there was an ease to their lines and movements, but in that moment, the one at the chair seemed shocked and even scared, and the narrator above him was caught up in his own hunger.

Raphael was enacting a play of his own, and Astarion knew which role he was supposed to step into. It was so tempting to call him out, to say he could see it, but...

…They were in the shadows, this wasn't the kind of humiliation Astarion had expected, and Raphael was being careful with him.

A mouth at the back of his neck, then kisses pressing down his spine, as Raphael's other arm moved across Astarion's chest, folding him into an embrace. Astarion was afraid, and tempted, because he had not felt special in such a long time. There were a handful of occasions with Temter, moments that filled a dark sky with stars and made it worthwhile for a day or two. Times when he'd felt Temter had really seen him, or when he'd revealed something too raw about himself and Temter had taken it in stride, like it wasn't a chore to accept Astarion's brokenness.

It turned that feeling of specialness into something so painful now.

Hadn't he been special to Cazador too, for a time?

'Calm your breathing, pet,' Raphael said against his skin. 'It's all right.'

Astarion tried to focus on the play, the older actor slowly touching the younger one, who abruptly sprung up and away and spoke in scandalised tones. Astarion wanted to care about the words because he knew they were being well-acted, but Raphael's fingers unbuttoned his vest, and then his shirt, and a hand slid over Astarion's cold, bare ribs and hot fingers splayed possessively.

And what must it be like for you, to seduce something you view only as an insect?

He didn't say it, and he didn't feel like an insect in that moment. Raphael had done all of this for him? What was the catch? Or did he do this for many of his contractees?

For some reason, he just didn't see Raphael caring enough to do something like this for Fhaeleb.

Raphael's other hand slowly untucked Astarion's shirt and moved towards his spine, scratching the skin too lightly to come close to breaking skin. It was warm sensation, and Astarion shivered, his eyes closed once more. This... Something about this... Being away from Raphael's giant bed perhaps, or feeling strangely safer in the shadows, or even simply having the piano to focus on, the combination had him more aware of the heat and spark in his body than he'd been in far too long.

He wanted Raphael to touch him more. On the stage, the narrator had grasped the younger man by his shirt collar and was standing so close they could have kissed.

Raphael's hand grasped at Astarion's thigh, and then smoothed inwards, curving possessively against it, and Astarion normally didn't like to do anything in public, but this wasn't exactly public, was it? After all, they weren't the performance. The pianist couldn't see them. The actors were absorbed in their own theatre, perhaps used to these sorts of private performances and unphased by the two men at the back of the room on the bench, in the shadows.

'You feel good, a very pretty thing indeed has swam into my net,' Raphael said into Astarion's ear. And then Raphael kissed the skin behind, and down Astarion's nape, and he was certain this was the sort of thing he'd dreamed of as a teenager. 'Are you casting aside your own fears? Throwing them overboard? Or do they stay with you? Are they simply part of the overall flavour in anything you do?'

Blunt teeth scraping underneath Astarion's jaw, a tongue licking heat into him, and Astarion's shoulders relaxed, even as his thighs remained tense. He opened his eyes to see the narrator grabbing hold of the younger man, sliding a hand between his legs. Astarion opened his mouth to comment on the play, then froze when Raphael slid a hand between his legs too, a hot palm over cloth and Astarion's co*ck, which was half-hard from only this, instead of all of the debauchery he'd been exposed to in his life.

'Wonderful,' Raphael almost purred. 'Just wonderful. You are good, aren't you?'

Astarion hoped the question was rhetorical. Raphael's hand massaged over his trousers, the kisses at his neck were alluring and slow. This was the same half devil who'd fingered him lazily and not insisted on him coming at all, nor f*cked him, and Astarion still found Raphael's entire approach to sex confusing. Maybe it was like his approach to food.

Maybe it doesn't f*cking matter, Astarion thought, as he sagged back into Raphael's torso.

'Good lad,' Raphael said. 'Just accept me.'

Astarion pressed his lips together. The words did something to him, made him want to fight back, made him want to surrender.

'Which one do you relate to most?' Raphael said into Astarion's ear, before trailing his tongue along the sensitive skin. Astarion's breathing paused as he stopped himself from moaning. 'Chorio, the young man? Or Delorelle, the older and experienced narrator? The actors who play them are skilled, aren't they? Which one calls to you most?'

'Chorio,' Astarion said, even as his hips strained lightly into Raphael's massaging palm. He wanted his co*ck out, but he also didn't want to be seen. He wanted more, but he wasn't certain he wanted it here. But the thing that shocked him most was how much he wanted at all. How he wanted more than this and ached for it.

'Fascinating,' Raphael said. 'I know you're no stranger to so many of the carnal delights in the world, you're what one might call “seasoned.” And yet you fall apart in my lap like a young thing that has only ever known lust and yearning in his mind, rather than reality. You're a treat, Astarion. I suppose it wouldn't surprise you to learn that I relate to Delorelle. Look - are you looking? - he's going to be quite rough in a moment.'

Astarion's eyes peeled open again, and he was surprised to see Chorio held up in a strong grip, Delorelle standing chest to chest with him, staring down at him. And a hand pushed into Chorio's trousers from the back, groped his ass, and then must have pressed deeper judging by the way the actor tensed and then cried out in rough shock. Chorio clung to the man, shivering, holding on like he was about to fall, and the narrator stared down at him in dark, satisfied conquest, and Astarion thought that - in the grand scheme of things - perhaps Raphael sometimes knew what he was doing.

'There,' Raphael said, voice thick. 'Poor lad. No one's ever truly prepared, are they? Or perhaps they are, but there is something luxurious to those moments of surprise. I'll have them from you one day, Astarion. But I think you find this shocking in your own way. You seem like such a hedonist, but then... It's curious really.'

Raphael's hand undid the fastenings of Astarion's trousers, then pressed against his mouth.

'Do me the honours of getting my palm and fingers wet, will you?'

Astarion shuddered, his co*ck fully hard now, and he opened his mouth and licked broad, flat strokes with his tongue, as Raphael kept him pinned close with his other hand, and lips pressed chaste kisses to the tender place where his hair met his neck. He'd lured Astarion here, carefully taken down all of his newly erected walls, brought him somewhere Astarion was suspicious of by default, and turned him into this. Astarion knew he should care, deep down he felt a thrumming alarm, but Raphael was being such a soft monster, and Astarion would do thirty days of this in a heartbeat.

He might even look for something like it without a contract.

Gods damn you, Raphael.

Raphael's fingers caressed Astarion's tongue without being rough, twining around the muscle, teasing the nerve endings there.

'You're beautiful, Astarion,' Raphael said quietly, his voice pressing not just into Astarion's ear, but his whole body.

Astarion almost told him to stop with the flattery, which was unlike him, but the words had edges of sincerity to them, and he felt shaken and hungry, wanting more, even as Raphael stroked Astarion's tongue, or grasped it lightly between two fingers, or rubbed at the underside to coax more saliva out of his mouth.

'Be mine for tonight,' Raphael said. 'Let a devil show you some milder, simpler delights. They need not all be things that would shock the most experienced of whor*s. You will be Chorio, and I will be your Delorelle, and we'll have our own play. What do you think?'

Astarion's head tipped back, partly because Raphael encouraged it with the angle of the hand that stroked at his tongue. He ended up with his hair against Raphael's hair, and he nodded, because he wanted this with or without a contract, and even if he broke their deal tomorrow, or the day after that, he would have wanted this anyway.

'Yes?' Raphael said, sounding all too pleased with himself.

'Yes,' Astarion whispered, as the piano lay like a blanket over them both, and the actors at the other end of the room kissed fiercely, words forgotten in favour of an older language.

Chapter 12: Saliva and Sourness

Chapter Text

It was only when Raphael wrapped a spit-wet palm around Astarion’s co*ck, that he realised he’d completely forgotten about having his tongue punctured by one of Raphael’s claws only the day before. His breathing hitched, he blinked up at the ceiling with its gold gilded plaster mouldings, and Raphael’s breath gusted hot against his neck, his thighs warmed Astarion’s, resting on either side.

At the other end of the small, intimate theatre, Chorio the character protested weakly.

‘No, no… I’ve been- I’ve been saving myself for a woman, you… You don’t understand!’

He spoke breathlessly between kisses, then choked out a rough moan, because Delorelle – the narrator – had speared at least two fingers into him. Astarion imagined both of the actors before the play, behind the curtain, and thought of Chorio preparing himself, or maybe someone else prepared him, pushing slick fingers into him and making him moan. The image pushed a shiver through his body.

‘You?’ Delorelle said, laughing. ‘Then perhaps I might take you as one takes a lady, and you can decide for yourself which you prefer to be, the taker or the taken.’

A sharp cry that followed, and Astarion pressed his lips together when he saw the actor’s thick thigh pressing up between Chorio’s legs.

‘You like to watch, hm?’ Raphael said behind Astarion, slowly moving his hand as he spread saliva around Astarion’s co*ck. He did it with no sense of urgency, and it reminded Astarion of being fingered only two nights ago.

‘I don’t- I can’t say I dislike it,’ Astarion whispered.

‘So coy. You so often act as though you’d rather be a performer, but I think it’s only something you prefer under certain circ*mstances. There are fish in the sea that only swim up spectacularly under the light of a full moon, then stay in the shadows the rest of the month. Their scales flash in pretty, handsome colours, but only briefly, and they are hard to catch.’

‘Are you going to joke that I was easy to lure?’

Astarion shuddered, hips tensing as Raphael’s hand finally began to move. Raphael squeezed on the upstroke, compressing the head of Astarion’s co*ck in his hot, strong palm. Astarion turned his head to the side and focused on breathing. It had been a long time since he’d felt this aroused by anything.

‘Easy to lure?’ Raphael said. ‘No, I wouldn’t say so. Thirty days and a rare necklace from the god of light himself? Is that how you see yourself? Easy to lure?’

Astarion wanted to think it over because that was how he’d seen it. Hadn’t Raphael said he was easy?

Was it possible it hadn’t been easy at all?

‘One can’t help but be…flattered by the attention,’ Astarion said breathlessly, ‘but I do wonder why you set your sights on me.’

Raphael’s other palm smoothed up over Astarion’s chest and fingers stroked lightly at one of his nipples, sending little electric pulses through him. Then a sharp pinch, and Raphael was back to stroking lightly even as Astarion only just managed to stifle his groan. The pain had been a mere flash. He absently spread his legs wider, and Raphael accommodated him with his satisfied chuckle.

‘You belong to the hells, pet,’ Raphael said against the hair at the nape of his neck. ‘Our infernal language was scribed across your back in ripples, and while the one who did so was nothing more than a callous little hard-backed beetle of a creature, it captures my interest how a mere tool to be used in a ritual, instead became something far, far different.’

Another one of those pinches to Astarion’s nipple, and he winced and pressed back into Raphael’s chest, and Raphael hushed him, but also laughed darkly, softly, even as he rubbed the sensitive skin as though pretending to soothe it.

Astarion was going to come. He was losing track of what was happening on the stage, but the occasional sounds of Chorio’s pleasure and distress in the background wasn’t hurting matters at all. Raphael’s hand on his co*ck was entirely too clever, he knew exactly what he was doing.

‘What if I told you I didn’t have a true and clear answer for you?’ Raphael said. ‘Can a devil not have his own whims? We’re made to please our own desires and occasionally even those of others.’

‘Is there- ah- is there a true and clear answer?’

‘There may be,’ Raphael said almost gently. ‘But you’ve spent all this time being intended towards a profane ritual, and for months afterwards you were intended for great and meaningful heroism. You and your party ruined my life, Astarion, and while I have my own fury, no one can deny it was a purposeful, noble act despite all the greedy thievery your cursed little hands committed.’

The thread of fear that grew did nothing to stave off his growing arousal. The muscles in his pelvis drew tight, he pushed up into Raphael’s hand as it moved faster, and he pressed his head back into Raphael’s shoulder.

Because f*ck it, if this was a trap, it was a delicious one.

‘What if the true and clear answer is simply that I want to own you for a time?’ Raphael said, and Astarion moaned softly as teeth closed lightly, briefly over the side of his neck. ‘What if I told you I find you handsome and compelling? Shall I craft it into a song for you? But no. You want to know the narrative so you can control it, and I tire of you constantly trying to seize control for yourself. Not with me, Astarion. Let it go, little one. Isn’t it lovely to have someone play your body like this?’

It wasn’t half-bad.

Astarion heard a muffled shriek, followed by a thump, and he dragged eyes blurry with desire to the stage. Delorelle had Chorio pinned to the stage, fingers working roughly, quickly inside him, and Chorio writhed. The sounds he made were all sumptuous, from the broken whimpers to the long, pained moan he gave a moment later.

Astarion’s legs trembled, he grasped at Raphael’s thighs in helpless, hungry movements. Raphael hadn’t even asked him if he wanted to come today, and Astarion was grateful, because he didn’t want to hear himself say yes. He didn’t want to hear himself beg.

Please.

Right up until the final moments when Raphael was pinching his nipple more insistently, scratching his fingernail down it, Astarion dreaded he would remove all contact and withdraw. But it didn’t happen, and Astarion’s gasp was near silent as Raphael squeezed the head of his co*ck on the side of too hard, and the pleasure-ache of it lashed him violently.

He bent forward as he came, and the hand at his nipple banded across his chest instead and let him go nowhere at all. He spilled in pulses across Raphael’s hand, as the play continued uninterrupted on the stage, as the cambion behind him gave the closed-mouthed laugh of someone who had gotten exactly what he wanted.

The pleasure of org*sm always felt dangerous to him, even frightening, but he lingered in that space of release and charge as Raphael’s hand slowly stilled on his sensitive skin. He didn’t move away, keeping hold of him, even as Astarion’s nerves became rawer still.

‘Bear with me, pet,’ Raphael said behind him. He pushed Astarion forwards a couple of inches – though Astarion was still on the bench – and the hand at his chest moved between them instead. Movements that made Astarion think maybe he was undoing his trousers so that he might jerk off, but then Raphael grasped Astarion again, hoisting him up above his thighs.

‘I have an even better seat for you,’ Raphael said.

A snap of his fingers, and Astarion blinked, felt a rush of infernal magic behind him and knew something had happened, but couldn’t tell what.

Wet, hot fingers sliding with shocking familiarity between the cheeks of his ass, then a low sound of frustration.

‘You seem the type to wish to preserve the appearance of modesty,’ Raphael said, like that was a mighty inconvenience, and Astarion tensed as fingers pulled his trousers down to his thighs and bared his ass to the cool air. The actors on the stage weren’t paying attention at all, in fact, Chorio moaned loudly at that moment, back arching up, thighs tense, and Delorelle appeared to have three fingers in him now.

‘You can’t mean to-’ Astarion said.

After all this time he shouldn’t be scandalised, but he still gasped when slick fingers pressed perfunctorily inside his entrance, twisting as though checking it was good enough, wet enough.

‘Raphael,’ Astarion hissed.

‘Best seat in the house,’ Raphael said, hitching Astarion back into place. ‘This is a mercy, pet, compared to what you’ll learn later. Human co*cks are so simple, aren’t they? Muscle and skin and blood, nothing more. It’s such a deceptive hardness, but you’ll feel it all the same.’

Astarion was still coming down from his org*sm, and his mouth dropped open as the head of Raphael’s co*ck pressed against him. It was already covered in lubricant, and Astarion had to bite his tongue to stop the hysterical giggle that wanted to escape as soon as he realised why Raphael had snapped his fingers. All that fiendish magic for this.

‘Let’s not rush,’ Raphael said, chin pressing down into Astarion’s shoulder, one strong hand grasping Astarion’s hip in a painful grip, not letting him pull away, not letting him move out of reach, and his other arm wrapped tight around Astarion’s belly. ‘They’ll be doing this for a while. This play…it’s p*rnography, certainly, but it’s just cerebral enough that only best troupes tend to bother with it. Only two thespians? A narrator and a lad? Those who pay for salacious plays want bang for their buck, even if it’s a cheap troupe with cheaper whor*s, the more the merrier, as they say. But Chorio’s Ascent is different. Delorelle is working that poor boy’s prostate hard enough that he’ll be aching tomorrow. Perhaps we’ll come back and watch them again. He’ll sound wretched. Mm. Do you relax when I talk to you, Astarion? It seems you do, at times.’

Astarion stared at the stage, restrained not just by Raphael’s words, but by the piano playing, the actors, the way Chorio writhed in that way that suggested an overwhelming pleasure, long fingers digging down into the wood like one might dig into sheets. He was aware of Raphael’s question, and there was a wet sound as he opened his mouth to answer, and instead his breath vanished as Raphael pulled him down.

‘All the way down, pet,’ Raphael said chidingly, when Astarion’s hands slammed onto the bench to brace himself and slow the stretch, the invasion of it. Raphael could say what he wanted about a human co*ck, but his human form was girthy, and there’d been no preparation, and Astarion was on the back of an org*sm and had too much sensitivity and not enough lust to make it easy.

‘All the way,’ Raphael said again, strength overriding Astarion’s easily. ‘Just sit, sweet one.’

A small, choked sound in the back of Astarion’s throat as he was opened and pierced in one movement, and then Raphael’s arm at his belly pulled him close as Astarion’s ass met Raphael’s thighs, co*ck lodged deep within him, the stretch stinging meanly, the fullness an ache that was all the sharper where it pressed against his prostate.

‘There,’ Raphael sighed. ‘I know you’ve been f*cked hundreds of times, Astarion. Does it really not get any easier? Or is this something special about you, perhaps? You know, there are actors who have done the same play over and over again, but they’ll still seem innocent if that’s what they are to be. It’s not even a lie. They preserve something inside themselves. Here you are, an aberration, a twisted-up sin raised in the wild imagination of Cazador’s delights, and I know well the nature of the frolics he engaged in. Yet here you are, trembling in my arms, on my all-too-human co*ck. You are at that, trembling so finely. I think I see the resemblance now, between you and Chorio.’

Astarion took deep, uneven breaths. He felt full, captured, and ached with it. His now soft co*ck lay overly sensitive between his legs, out in the open. He was embarrassed too because this couldn’t be hidden anymore. He didn’t want the actors to turn and see him, and he didn’t want the pianist to be distracted by Raphael’s words and stop playing. Raphael’s voice wasn’t strident, but he wasn’t whispering, either.

Temter had seemed shocked when Astarion revealed he wasn’t particularly given to performances. Astarion surprised himself with it too, apparently having a choice in the matter went a long way.

For as long as Astarion could remember, he asked to watch instead, pretending at enthusiastic carnal appreciation through voyeurism. It wasn’t all a lie, even watching the actors now left him shivery and almost-drugged. But Temter seemed to think Astarion wanted the whole camp to see them f*ck and was taken aback when their first time didn’t happen anywhere near their bedrolls, nor their second, or third. Astarion could make enough of a seduction of it that he hoped Temter didn’t find it lacking, but he’d been turned into a performance again during Cazador’s evening entertainments, to say nothing of every time he was expected to procure someone with his body as his lure.

The arm at Astarion’s hip moved, then curved around his upper arm and stroked down. Raphael repeated the movement over and over again, until Astarion realised – dazed – that it wasn’t supposed to arouse him but soothe him.

How truly embarrassing.

He was trying not to think about what it felt like to have a co*ck in him again, after all this time. Even in human form, Raphael was too hot to be mistaken for the human he appeared to be.

‘I suppose you just can’t wait to push me to the floor and rut like the devil you are, darling,’ Astarion said, speaking under his breath, turning his head towards Raphael so the words would be clearer. ‘So which do you wish to see? I can’t pretend at enthusiasm as well as these actors, but since you’re so taken with the theatre, you...’

Raphael curled closer, it shifted the co*ck inside of him, and Astarion swallowed, then bit at his top lip at a flare of that stretching pain again.

‘I will hurt you, if you perform for me,’ Raphael said, his voice chilling. ‘For the most part you can’t help it, but if you’re offering a choice to me, I will make it clear how much I’m not looking for you to pretend you enjoy this, as though I’m any one of the insects whose blood you sought for Cazador’s ritual. I hired them’ -Raphael pointed at the actors on the stage- ‘to perform for me, I didn’t ask the same from you.’

‘Then-’

‘This habit you have of talking when you’re nervous… Can you not feel me inside you? Why not focus on that and the play? Did you never consider I merely wanted somewhere comfortable to keep my co*ck for a time?’

Astarion hadn’t considered that at all, but he should have, thinking back to how easily Raphael had worked him open with his fingers without seeking release afterwards. He had no true idea what sex was like for devils, or half-devils at that. He’d seen Haarlep take Temter, but he was an incubus, and he had a reason to keep sex within the levels of what Temter expected that day.

‘Your sense of violation is magnificent,’ Raphael said into Astarion’s ear.

Raphael’s hips pushed up, and Astarion grunted softly, tensing. Raphael was all pressure around him, inside him. There was no give. No way to lean forward, no way to push up. And he could tell Raphael wanted him leaning back against him, relaxing, and it seemed impossible. The lust of ten minutes before had vanished.

It wasn’t that Astarion was scared, exactly, what a pain that would be, but he held no trust for this situation. He expected more criticism from Raphael, pointing out his stress, his nerves, his tension. Raphael always wanted Astarion to know that he saw everything with that faint hint of reproval in his tone, even if he did enjoy it.

Fingers moved from stroking his arm, to wrapping around his wet, flaccid co*ck, and Astarion sucked in a tight breath. Was there any point in saying he couldn’t come again so quickly? Any point in saying it hurt?

But Raphael just held his flesh, and that was a different kind of torture, because Astarion felt as though he was caught in some limbo, and it crept over him and left him restless.

‘Watch the play, my dear,’ Raphael crooned.

It took a couple of minutes to really pay attention to what was happening, and then he realised Delorelle had slowed in his fingering of Chorio and was praising the boy and talking of his life.

‘In my time, I sailed three ships. The sea took two, and I sunk the last and swam to avoid the Navy, marking the treasure in my mind so I might return and take it later. But there are dangerous beings in our seas, and they did not want to give up the gold they’d taken for themselves. Looking at you now, lad, I’m reminded of the young things I took into my captain's quarters. I’m old now, too old to sail, but you put in mind what it was to have a boy ruined beneath me while the sea promised my own ruin around me.’

Astarion became interested in spite of himself. Cazador would have never hosted something like this. He was – like Raphael had pointed out – one of the patrons who would have hired a cheaper theatre troupe for the numbers and the orgies. He’d wanted blood and torture, but Astarion knew – he knew – Raphael wanted that too. Hadn’t he read Raphael’s journals? Hadn’t he seen the writing in those books? He’d seen the transcripts of how Hope had been treated in the House of Hope.

A layer of things drew his mind back to the present. The hot hand around his co*ck, unmoving, warming him and making him feel less exposed even though if anything it was more obvious what they were doing. Raphael inside him, both somehow like every other co*ck that had been there before, and yet not at all. For a start, the temperature didn’t change, instead warming Astarion’s pelvis, and then his belly, and then his hips and thighs, spreading through him.

Delorelle’s voice, and Chorio’s tremulous replies, that helped. Astarion looked up at the plaster mouldings, gilt in gold, and so fancily ornamental they belonged in a far larger theatre. Astarion saw the stylised faces of devils staring down at him, lascivious, eyes gleaming, and wondered if Raphael had paid for that too.

Did he want Raphael to f*ck him? To push him down and take him? Astarion didn’t know. But it disturbed him that he didn’t hate the idea.

Somehow, nothing terrible happened, and as the pianist slipped into a new song, a new melody, Astarion’s shoulders unlocked and he leaned backwards, felt the rise and fall of Raphael’s chest.

Raphael stayed hard inside him. Sometimes his co*ck throbbed, twitches that made Astarion feel as though magic sparked through him, electric and sharp. Sometimes Raphael ground into him, a rotation in his hips that made Astarion feel as though he was being churned inside. But then he’d settle, and Astarion found that each one of those movements captured his attention, but also made everything happening on the stage sharper, more sensory.

When Delorelle wrenched Chorio’s legs open and plunged into him, wringing a shout out of the lad that made it seem like he’d never been taken before, Raphael’s teeth scraped against the back of Astarion’s neck, and he clenched reflexively around the co*ck inside him.

‘Look,’ Raphael said against his skin. ‘The actor they’ve chosen – they’ve done well – because that vulgar hole of his has taken Delorelle’s co*ck many times before, yet he still writhes like a virgin. Do you think the head of the troupe decided to give the boy a Delorelle that was more than he could handle? Something a tad too large? Too thick? And Delorelle f*cks like a beast, doesn’t he? One can almost imagine how like an apple Chorio must feel, cored out like that. When I do this to you, Astarion, I can imagine the way you’ll wail for me. I hear it in your voice. The hint of a desperate cry.’

Astarion shivered and couldn’t tear his eyes away from the stage. At one point, Chorio writhed to get away, which was part of the script judging by the words he was spilling, but seemed entirely real, too. Delorelle wrenched him back, pinning him down, and smashed into him violently. In that moment, Astarion realised all the sea imagery was deliberate. Delorelle was the ocean, and Chorio the ship. Delorelle was determined to sink him, but risked himself in the process, for it was clear he was so hungry he’d forsake his role as narrator to be with him.

‘Not that I care,’ Astarion said, ‘but do you get anything out of this at all? It’s hard to credit a cambion not doing what he wants whenever he wants to.’

‘You’d be surprised,’ Raphael murmured. ‘I’d give away most of the paperwork in a lamb’s heartbeat. I do like this. Yesterday I had a claw splitting the meat of your tongue and today you let me plough your mouth and soak my fingers. Yesterday you nearly walked away from the sun, and today you’ll take my co*ck in you, and sit here, split open and entertained by these two in front of us. One day soon I’ll have you beneath my desk, mouth open, head feverish because of how far down your throat I reach, and that will help with the paperwork a great deal.’

A dull outrage, but a part of Astarion – a small part that he wanted to murder in cold blood – grew curious, stretched inquisitively into the future to imagine what that might feel like.

Miserable, he told himself. Your knees will be in agony.

Yes, perhaps. But would Raphael be soft like this? Was this something Astarion could call softness?

Temter had seemed so sensual and…caring, but Astarion couldn’t recall a leisurely patience to much that they’d done, even though Astarion thought Temter had been as loving as anyone could be during sex.

‘I tease myself too, taking you like this,’ Raphael said. ‘My human co*ck is not as satisfying as the one I bear in cambion form. You’ll not like that one, Astarion. Not until I force you to.’

A clicking sound from the dryness in Astarion’s mouth as his tongue worked. ‘Lovely.’

Teeth bit down into him, not hard enough to draw blood or even really bruise, but hard enough that Astarion felt gooseflesh follow across his skin.

Chorio wailed, then choked as thick, rugged fingers stabbed into his mouth. He gagged, then gave off a muffled keen. At times his hips seemed to move into Delorelle, and at other times away. Delorelle wrenched his head aside to kiss him, kept his fingers in place, and Astarion’s body clenched as a new, fresh wave of lust found him. Raphael ground his co*ck into him, and Astarion’s moan was quiet, absent, and he blinked in confusion. That wasn’t like him, was it?

Normally he had to fake most of the noises he made during sex, even when he enjoyed himself. He leaned into the eroticised sounds he knew others wanted.

Astarion’s hips moved restlessly, not to get away, not anymore, but he found himself seeking more stimulation, more of that itching arousal. When he noticed, he stopped himself, and then helplessly pushed down again, wanting more. He had no idea what he was looking for, exactly, but he felt overwarmed, and he couldn’t help but imagine Raphael taking him as Delorelle took Chorio on the stage, and it was drugging instead of repulsive.

‘I so hate that you know what you’re doing,’ Astarion breathed.

‘My good little pet,’ Raphael crooned. ‘So clever when he wants to be.’

Astarion’s eyes closed. Gods damn it.

The band of strength around his torso became fingers trailing lightly over his belly, his ribs, tracing the skin with a tender surety, and Astarion’s neck felt weak, his body liquid. It wasn’t even intense arousal. He felt as though he melted. He almost protested.

The tenderness wasn’t part of the contract, and Astarion hadn’t known it would feel like its own kind of torture.

‘You’re prettier than the both of them,’ Raphael said, before biting the sensitive length of Astarion’s ear.

One of Astarion’s hands stopped gripping Raphael’s thigh, and covered his own mouth instead, stifling the cry that he couldn’t stop in time.

‘You’re easy like this, sweetling,’ Raphael said, sounding smug and pleased.

Astarion had remembered his hands, and helplessly he brushed his fingers against Raphael’s wrist, his forearm, and the fingers that had been tracing his navel – pressing into it teasingly, the way one might press into someone’s entrance – moved and tangled with Astarion’s instead. A palm against his, they were locked together, and it was a closeness that made Astarion feel almost queasy from how alien it all was.

He remembered the bright strangeness of clasping Temter’s hand in both of his. A feeling had overcome him that he’d never known before that evening, and he’d been stunned later, to think there were new sections of his mind he’d never learned of, even after centuries. He hadn’t known there were new feelings, new experiences still waiting for him.

That ineffable quality overcame him again, and he was lost to it.

The play ended thirty minutes later, and Astarion drifted, only half-paying attention, moaning softly when Raphael bit down into him, or squeezed his hand, or called him a delight. He didn’t care that Raphael called him a plaything, or a pet, or any one of the terms that could be seen as degrading.

Delorelle moved to the table at the end, at first to read over Chorio’s words, but then to write some of his own memories of the ships he’d lost. Chorio had stared at him in yearning for some time, then stood shakily, looking down at his body like he’d never noticed it before.

He took a single step to Delorelle, then looked to the other side of the stage.

Slowly – walking as though he’d been so well-f*cked he’d be feeling it for days – he made his way to the narrator’s position, and stood there for a long moment, looking up at some distant point, a landscape only he could see.

Chorio became the narrator, closing the play with a hoarse but calm voice, and was the first to leave the scene, to step back behind the curtains after a brief bow. Delorelle stayed at the table as the lights dimmed, then left in silence, somehow conquered by his own lusts, as Chorio had been freed by his.

The pianist continued.

Five minutes later both actors came out and bowed deeply at the waist. Astarion stiffened when Raphael gestured them over. The drifting sensation coldly disappeared, and Astarion smashed down the urge to escape and flee. Cazador would never permit it.

‘Hush, pet,’ Raphael said. ‘They’ll not get their hands on you tonight.’

Chorio walked more easily than before, but he still had the gait of someone who would certainly be feeling their play for a few days. Delorelle had a fierce gaze, a strong smile. Chorio’s expression was sweet.

‘Wonderfully performed,’ Raphael said, as though Astarion wasn’t there on his co*ck, pinned in place and now shackled by the grip Raphael had on his hand. ‘I know you’re not servants, but would one of you do me the honour of pouring us some wine? I find that I am indisposed, currently.’

‘Anything else you need help with?’ Delorelle said, looking over Astarion as Chorio expertly poured two glasses.

Raphael took the glass offered to him and sipped.

‘That’s a fine offer, and perhaps one day I’ll ask for some participation, but for now, this one isn’t to be shared.’

Raphael pressed the rim of the glass to Astarion’s mouth.

A clamour of warring feelings, even as Astarion opened his mouth and rued how easy it was to be this obedient in front of strangers. The wine tipped in, and Astarion could only taste that it was sour, could only taste the tannins. The part of him that had been receptive to every little shift in his senses disappeared entirely. Even Raphael’s co*ck in him felt like nothing more than weight now. The lust had evaporated.

Raphael made him drink the whole glass. A single drop escaped, and Astarion’s arm twitched with the urge to brush it away. He didn’t like the way Delorelle and Chorio looked at him.

Raphael’s co*ck stayed hard the whole time.

‘Thank you for your service,’ Raphael said coolly. ‘You may leave.’

Delorelle and Chorio bowed and left, none of the dread of the other servants in their demeanours, because they likely hadn’t met Raphael before, and had no idea what he truly was.

‘The things I have learned about you tonight,’ Raphael said, sounding hungry as he pressed the second glass of wine to Astarion’s lips.

Astarion opened his mouth, drank it all down, but Raphael tipped the glass faster this time, and it was hard to keep up. He managed to spill none, but when the second glass was pulled away, he reached up and wiped at his lips, gasping.

‘My spun-glass ornament, it’s all over now,’ Raphael said. ‘That was all I wanted from you. We’ll leave soon, you’ll sleep, tomorrow will be a new day. And are you here in the room with me? Or did you leave?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Astarion said, his voice arch, his mind absent.

‘If I could fix that with a whip and blood, you know I would.’

‘I know,’ Astarion said. ‘I know you want to hurt me.’

‘What a silly fish, to think I’m not hurting you now,’ Raphael said, laughing to himself. ‘But we’ll stay like this for a time longer, then make our exit. Did you like the play?’

Astarion blinked several times, then nodded.

‘Are you so very afraid of people knowing how stunning you are?’ Raphael said.

Astarion turned and his voice caught as Raphael pushed up into him, closing those tiny spaces between them. Lips brushed his jaw, his cheek.

‘Was your day in the sun so monstrous?’ Raphael asked against Astarion’s cheek. ‘I wonder how long you’ll feel empty for, later. Something tells me you’ve never missed a thick co*ck a day in your life, which is a yearning that will be splendid to teach you.’

Raphael might love the sound of his own voice, but Astarion couldn’t find it tedious. After the play they’d watched, everything that had just happened, he was bewildered.

‘You don’t seem the type to enjoy self-denial,’ Astarion said, ‘so why do you never rut and spill as other men do?’

‘It is a poor, pathetic insect indeed who believes the only part of sex that is worthwhile is the short-lived rush of release. But it says more about the feeble-minded folk around you who never taught you better.’

Not long after that, Raphael withdrew, leaving Astarion feeling both open and empty, and also disgusting and sticky and wet as he refastened his trousers. He was looking forward to bathing, and he felt debauched, even though in retrospect, very little had happened compared to some of the things he’d done and been put through over the years. Raphael had some more of the wine and didn’t seem to mind when Astarion declined any for himself.

The pianist stood after the song reached a natural end and stretched his arms, before straightening his suit. He didn’t look towards Raphael or Astarion at all, though he must have known they were there. A few minutes later he sat once more and began to play again.

Astarion sat on the bench next to Raphael and felt a low, restless hunger. He felt unfinished, as though he’d been moulded into the appearance of something and left undone. His co*ck was still soft, but he knew it wouldn’t be, if he hadn’t come earlier.

*

That night as he entered the meditation he often did before falling asleep, his mind conjured an image that spread across him like a soft, linen sheet. In it, Raphael was over him, f*cking into him, and Astarion swore he could feel how overwhelming it would be, how lustful, but in that imagining he wanted it and hated it, craved it and needed something more.

He stirred and looked over, and Raphael sat at the table in cambion form once more, looking over paperwork, deep in thought.

Astarion slipped back into a trance state once more, trying to dismiss the fantasy that had crept into his mind, and while the images didn’t return, he felt overly warm and hollowed out. His lust felt new, unforced by drugs or mind control, and he splayed his fingers over the sheets and experienced his body as something sensual and tried to ignore the niggling dread that Raphael had learned exactly what traps to set to keep him close and obedient.

That night, he dreamed not of Cazador, or that final battle with the Absolute, or any of the other horrors he’d seen; he dreamed of Chorio and Delorelle, and a voice that called him “sweetling” and laughed softly, and he dreamed of a soft, lulling piano that enchanted him even in sleep.

Chapter 13: Rot and Aged Wood

Chapter Text

Astarion woke to an empty room, hard between his legs, aroused and baffled by it. Raphael wasn’t there. He looked around in confusion, then went out to the balcony to see wine and fruit, but only one clean glass, which meant Raphael didn’t even have time to break his fast.

Astarion stared out at the muddy, orangey sky, then looked down at himself, unimpressed. He was still hard. Ridiculous.

‘No one asked for your input, darling,’ he said to himself.

The peach he ate was so rich with juices they smeared his chin and neck, and he kept thinking it was a trap to humiliate him, but no one was there. It occurred to Astarion he didn’t even know if Fhaeleb was still alive. His life here was so strange.

Well! If he had the day to himself, he might as well explore.

*

While his thieving fingers had plundered the Archive a year ago, the subsequent battle had managed to leave this place untouched. Nothing had changed. The same silver-stone grey marble pillars with their gold embellishments. The same nude sculpted devils, slender, wings raised and looking unbothered by the weight of the roof atop their backs.

Astarion missed the weight of a crossbow, but he’d managed to get his hands on some decent tools, and he picked several locks while at the bookcases, unlocking the black, wrought iron grates and revealing all the ancient books behind them.

He slid one of the grates aside, the smell of old parchment tantalising in his nose. He trailed his finger along the spines half-expecting someone to chasten him for it. Who would have chastened him? What was he remembering? An old teacher from a university? Someone involved with the law? He couldn’t recall. But the thrill of it made him think this was something he’d done long ago, before he’d been Turned.

The Archive seemed bigger without its workers, without the Archivist. All these tables with their chairs and fruit that never spoiled, and no one to occupy them. Who was doing all of this? Was it simply the way of a fiend to transmute matter into whatever he wished in the same way he’d summoned lubricant the night before? What an absurdity.

Astarion slid out one of the books and walked on the plush red rug, occasionally glancing down at the cream rose motifs. Raphael intrigued him. Astarion had seen his monstrous form in battle, the one even worse than his cambion form. He’d read of the tortures he’d committed. Yet in his House of Hope, he liked stunning marble, gold, sculptures, elegant but comfortable rugs, and his bed was divine. Astarion had never slept so well in his life.

Do stop thinking of him for five seconds, he reprimanded, as he opened the book.

This one seemed to be an old book containing handwritten ideas for torture. It was a journal of some kind, and Raphael’s penmanship seemed harsher and less refined than it was now. Astarion flicked through the pages and couldn’t see a date, but he felt that this was a window into a younger man, a younger mind.

~ Of course, they need not be tortured at all. But Father has made it very clear both in the doing and the saying of the thing, that torture is a devil’s delight and prerogative. Even the human in me can find the appeal in sadism, or so he is convinced, and I am of no mind to disagree.

Astarion thought of how casually Raphael had said his father had killed gods, and felt like he was breaching some terrible secret, reading a book like this. Excellent. He loved secrets.

The next few pages were filled with torture techniques, all horrendous, and some obviously tested. The pages were splattered with stains of blood and the browns of aged bile.

~ The whip is a cruel, brutish weapon and I have no use of it. Nor the quirt. Nor any such thing. I am given to watching the techniques of other devils. They all insist Father is the best. I believe he grows staid in his old age. Ironically, his gormless science projects are far more tortuous than any direct torture techniques he turns his mind to. Would that he turned all his victims into prospects for his scientific advancement, and he’d be clever. One can’t just crush victims in glaciers forever.

‘My, do I sense Daddy issues? Delightful,’ Astarion murmured, staring down at the pages, touching the tips of his fingers to his bottom lip.

He’d never given much thought to Raphael’s parentage. He didn’t know who his father was – some devil who enjoyed science but that wasn’t much to go on – and his mother would have been a human, likely slaughtered early, or dead from birthing a little monster.

The rest of the book became a log of torture techniques tried, and the results – which were almost always begging, screaming, pleading, offers of anything Raphael might want even though he already had someone’s soul, and usually death – and it all got rather repetitive. Raphael appeared to go through eras. For at least two decades, it was eels and centipedes and other crawling things inserted into orifices, and Raphael wrote about how difficult it was to source the eels he truly wanted, which was appalling to think about.

There were diagrams, including one which showed an eel as long as a man was tall. Astarion’s stomach turned, and he put the book back, his hands shaking.

He withdrew another book, and this was all romantic ballads. Some so old they mentioned heroes and heroines Astarion had never heard of.

The next book was a list of prayers to deities of the dead, and at the beginning was a hand-written note in fine, blood-red calligraphy:

~ Lullabies, perhaps. I have no need of this. It is garbage. I remember you being fond of it as a child. Rip the pages out and insert them into the mouths and nostrils of your most quarrelsome victims. M.

The book was whole, not a single page ripped out.

Astarion perused more books behind the next grate. One was a ledger of cults maintained over centuries, the names of cultists, the amount of gold pledged. Astarion was surprised to see a number of names from well-maintained families and lineages today, and pursed his lips to think of Raphael cultivating a world of aristocracy he could personally benefit from.

The next book was a journal. The first few pages were on Raphael’s travels as he searched for new vintages, and Astarion hadn’t imagined Raphael doing anything like that for himself, but maybe he did enjoyed travelling Faerun at his convenience.

~ I pretend at an interest in the sciences but only make a mockery of it, and he wouldn’t know anything of the arts if it wasn’t something he couldn’t find in someone’s intestines.

There aren’t enough lusty reds being made, I might have to nudge a few elves into making the taste profiles I’m searching for.

Then more notes on fine vintages, followed by torn pages. And then in a decisive script, underlined several times:

~ I will RULE Avernus first, TAKE it for my own, and then I will come for the rest, and by the time I look to the eighth and ninth hells, it will be OVER!!!

Astarion stared down at the words, frowning.

What would be over?

That didn’t sound like fatuous dreams of world domination for its own sake, it seemed…different.

As Astarion turned to the next page, a cold, slinking dread paralysed him from his neck to his feet. There was a presence behind him, and he knew it wasn’t Raphael, and he hadn’t felt them sneak up on him. It wasn’t Fhaeleb.

He turned his head slowly, his fear didn’t dissipate.

Appearance wise, she seemed like a nondescript human with frizzy blonde hair that clouded out around her head and neck, with thick eyelashes, and a sharp pointed mouth. Her black eyes seemed amused, but there was something needling in her gaze.

He opened his mouth to talk, but the dread grew.

She wasn’t human. She wasn’t anything that lived in Faerun. She wasn’t one of Raphael’s lost souls. She wasn’t even one of his lesser fiends. She was something else entirely, and Astarion didn’t understand how he could feel like this when he’d felt nothing at all moments before.

‘Oh!’ she said, her voice high-pitched and girly, placing a hand over her mouth and tittering. ‘Silly of me. It was just so fascinating to see a vampire spawn – of all things – meandering around this cute little Archive. I’ve been so remiss in introducing myself. I forget there are people who don’t know who I am. I’m the High Inquisitor of Avernus, Verillius Receptor. And you are?’

Astarion couldn’t move.

A long time ago – well, just over a year ago really, not that long – they’d gotten access to the House of Hope by donning the costumes of Eternal Debtors, but when they’d nearly been caught out, they pretended to be one of the many disguises of Verillius Receptor. Even then, the Debtors had been clear that Verillius’ true form was so mind-scarring she had to take other guises to not drive even the fiends around her mad with terror. The description had been memorable.

Astarion gulped.

This was the terrifying second-in-command to the Lord of the First, the Archduch*ess of Avernus, Zariel.

Verillius, in the form of a maiden, came closer and looked over his shoulder at what he was reading. Her laugh grated, high and aggravating. Astarion felt as though pressure crushed him from all sides. Her hair smelled of aged wood, and when she exhaled, he smelled wet, meaty rot.

They said the Archdukes and Archduch*esses were so powerful in their realms of hell that they ruled, their moods could affect the weather. Astarion had no doubt Verillius Receptor, as High Inquisitor, could crush him to a pulp with nothing more than a blink of her black, all-seeing eyes.

‘He does fancy himself a writer, doesn’t he? That pathetic little creature. And where is he? Raphael of the House of Hope is not here to host me? What a terrible shirking of his duties. Do you know, I don’t think he does enough to really be deserving of this fortress. And here you are, Astarion Ancunin, one of those who kept the Crown of Karsus from his hands, and therefore, the hands of my mistress.’

Fingertips touched Astarion’s arm, and he felt like he might scream.

He hadn’t felt terror like this in such a long time. Such a long time. It made Raphael’s intimidating presence pale in comparison.

‘Are you here because of a contract?’ she whispered theatrically, sounding delighted.

‘Yes,’ Astarion breathed. ‘A temporary one.’

‘Temporary,’ she said, and then her laugh was so loud he thought his eardrums might split. ‘The poor, poor thing. He’s got so little power left to him, now, doesn’t he? Do you know? Are you waiting to kill him?’

Astarion watched as she plucked the book out of his hands, and then a few seconds later it combusted into a showy mess of glittering hellfire. Ash fell to the ground and Verillius Receptor looked around the Archive with avaricious eyes.

‘This hovel is nothing to the palace of my mistress, my stunning solar warmonger, but it might make a decent enough place to install the soldiers of our legions. At least some of them. I wonder if dear Raphael of the House of Hope has been avoiding me. And he left you here? What does he want with a vampire spawn, anyway? Oh, I think I might know. You must understand, he doesn’t trust fiends at all these days.’

She sounded like someone who wanted to gossip, and Astarion wanted to cry from fear, but he wanted information too.

‘Why doesn’t he trust fiends?’ Astarion asked, his voice shaking, airless.

‘Oh, he hasn’t told you a thing, has he?’ Verillius did another one of those tittering laughs and walked over to a pillar before leaning against it, crossing one slender leg across the other. Her form was diminutive, but she carried so much power Astarion had no doubt she ruled over legions of fiends herself. ‘Should I tell you? I don’t want him here, and Archduch*ess Zariel has given me leave to see just how powerful he is these days. I suspect not at all.’

‘Because we defeated him?’

‘It’s so cute, watching the mind of a grub at work. Filthy thing, not even a useful soul in you. A useless one instead. And yes, you killed him. He could never come back at the levels of power he had before. And he couldn’t have come back in his cambion form at all if it weren’t for the intervention of his dear father. I dread to think what that’s cost Raphael. We all know how he feels about his father.’

Astarion stayed silent, and Verillius twirled a strand of hair around a finger with a pointed nail that looked bloodstained.

‘He was supposed to return as a lemure, the weakest of the baatezu, and perhaps he did. But his father intervened – though why, I know not, because what use does he have with a cambion? – and raised him up. But a hybrid half-devil with almost no souls left to barter with, and so little power compared to what he once had, what use is he? Mm. I cannot see him keeping this House much longer. What a shame. And he was doing such a good job raising power. I was beginning to think him mounting an attack against Zariel was going to be such adorable, good fun.

‘Now, he can’t even trust the lesser fiends not to betray him to seize power. This place reeks of Faerun.’

‘Are you here to kill him?’ Astarion said, feeling strange at the thought.

‘Me? No. I’m only here to inspect the usefulness of the premises for our Archduch*ess, the Warlord of Avernus. But the usefulness of our dear Raphael wanes, does it not? But we won’t touch him while his father…exists. The House on the other hand? Mm. If he can’t hold onto it…’

Verillius sighed, then took several steps towards Astarion and considered him. She had to look up at him, and yet Astarion couldn’t stop imagining her crushing him into blood and bone smears on the floor simply because she didn’t like him.

Cazador was monstrous, and Raphael could be too, but she was something else entirely. So inhuman that he had no idea what the right thing to do was, or even how to behave. He had no doubt that if he caught only a glimpse of her true appearance, his mind would die. And worse, he knew she knew that, and enjoyed the terror she created.

Did she make Raphael feel like this too?

Astarion hadn’t considered that killing Raphael a year ago meant he literally couldn’t return at full power. He’d heard stories and read books over the years that described the hells as a place where people killed and traded in souls to gain power, and could be demoted just as easily, not just through their jobs and positions, but also through physical form. A high-ranking devil could be transmuted to some mewling, pathetic form because a higher-ranking devil willed it. The lowest of all the forms was the lemure, a nothingy slave, also known as a squidge. It was the form some Petitioners to the hells began in, if they gained physical form after having their souls harvested.

Most lemures never got a chance to gain more power, to change their form. They stayed locked in that pitiful body for thousands or tens of thousands of years.

Rising through the ranks and taking power and changing form took lifetimes, even by Astarion’s longer-lived standards. He knew very well that Raphael was at least many thousands of years old.

And now…what was he? Did he spend more time in cambion form these days because it was harder to be human? Was he displaying less of his power because he’d been so badly damaged?

Astarion knew that Raphael’s home being in danger was no joke, and he instinctively knew it was connected to all the paperwork Raphael seemed bound to and frustrated by. It also explained why so much of it was written in the infernal script these days.

It even explained why he had a bodyguard who wasn’t a fiend.

It explained why there were no staff here.

It might even explain why he seemed so tired that he needed to sleep most nights, for surely a cambion didn’t need to do this often when they were at their most powerful.

‘It must swell his tick-like ego,’ Verillius said, ‘to have at least one of the worms that crushed him under a contract, but you say it’s temporary? My, he’s nowhere near a full complement of cards, is he? Pathetic.’

She trailed a sharp fingertip down Astarion’s neck, and he trembled. There was nothing sexually dominating in the movement, he felt it as the threat against his life that it was.

‘Someone trained you well,’ she said. ‘Get on your knees.’

Astarion went to his knees. He barely felt it. He couldn’t even think enough to feel embarrassed or shamed by it.

There was no real room to think about resisting. He knew she was letting only the merest amount of her presence through and understood now why everyone in the House of Hope feared her more than they feared even their master, Raphael, even when he tormented them eternally.

If this was what it felt like to be in front of her, what was it like to stand before Zariel? How did anyone handle it?

‘Why doesn’t he have a collar around your neck and a heavy chain to drag you by? I’d say it was the human side of him, but I’ve met plenty of beastly little humans who delighted in pain so it’s not that. Maybe death made him soft, like a larva I should like to tear apart. That he let himself get killed by little bits of dust like you. Oh…’ She started laughing again and didn’t stop for a long time. At one point her voice was so loud, the ceiling rumbled from the force of it. ‘It’s so funny.’

She stared down at him, raking eyes over his body like he was a canvas she wanted nothing more than to tear apart.

‘Pass on a message for me, Astarion Ancunin – who killed him in the first place – tell him to prepare to lose the House of Hope and move to different premises in Avernus. I care not where.’

Astarion nodded automatically.

She bent down and Astarion heard himself give out some animal sound of fear. She was definitely letting some of her true nature slip through, though he couldn’t tell how. Was it in a ripple of energy around her? A slight glimmer of something unfathomable and endless in her abyssal eyes? He couldn’t tell.

She palmed his inner thigh and her lip wrinkled in revulsion, but it didn’t stop her from tapping her sharp fingernails against the seam of his trousers between his legs. He wanted to vomit.

‘Astarion,’ she said.

‘Yes?’

‘Don’t move until he returns. Better yet, don’t move when he asks you to. You can do that for me, can’t you?’

It wasn’t a request; it wasn’t even an order. It was a spell cast upon his flesh that reminded him so much of being under Cazador’s thrall, his eyes welled up automatically, a tear spilled down his cheek. He had a distant thought to be defiant, but that too was crushed.

‘Maybe you’ll just stay there forever on your knees,’ Verillius Receptor said, straightening and laughing to herself. ‘Wouldn’t that be funny! If you’re still here when I get back, I’ll let the abishai eat you! A useless grub in an empty House of Hope. Yes, we can put this whole place to much better use!’

She clapped her hands once, the sound like a cataclysm of thunder in Astarion’s head, and she walked out, giggling to herself as she went.

Chapter 14: Linseed Oil and Dirty Smoke

Chapter Text

The fear he felt was wrapped so tightly around him that Astarion had no idea how many hours he waited there, locked in the terror of expecting Verillius Receptor to return. In the silence, Astarion felt like eyes watched him, trapped souls observed him, and he questioned every decision he’d made since Temter left, and many of the decisions he’d made before then.

Perhaps if he’d been less…himself, Temter would have stayed. Perhaps if Astarion had been less bitchy, Temter would have stayed. Perhaps if Astarion had forced himself through the motions of sex, Temter would have stayed. Perhaps Astarion could have forced himself to live with Halsin and Temter in some dreadful, bucolic landscape with its rustic forests, even though it meant fewer crypts and cellars and basem*nts to easily hide in. Caves had more monsters than underground cities did, in Astarion’s experience.

He wiped his face because he’d been unable to stop the tears. After a while –when the terror faded and his knees were writing letters of hatred to the rest of his body – he tried to push himself up, to get out of the kneeling position, but it really was a spell. He could feel Verillius Receptor’s influence on his mind, and he told himself over and over again it wasn’t like Cazador, it wasn’t like that at all. She hadn’t Turned him, he wasn’t a slave to her, it was just a spell.

But she could have made him do anything at all with words and he would have done them.

He’d killed Cazador, stabbed him repeatedly and heavily enough that his arm muscles had burned for days afterwards, and he thought he’d been freed from feeling this kind of invasion ever again.

The sun wasn’t worth this.

It wasn’t.

It wasn’t.

Raphael wasn’t back yet, Astarion stayed kneeling like some vapid supplicant, and he clutched at his own shirt with aching fingers, furious at the situation he was in, unable to even snark his way out of it.

Eventually he gave his mind over to a fragile meditative state, cupping his hands in his lap, trying to tune out the pain. He’d been in far, far worse pain, but he still hated it. Any pain these days whispered to him of the gargantuan forms of suffering he’d endured in the past, and even slight discomfort hinted at something worse.

Still, the meditation from the days of being a high elf stayed accessible to him, and he was able to turn his mind to it patchily, as he both feared and waited and needed Raphael to come back to his House of Hope, which might not be his House for much longer. Astarion could feel Verillius’ message burned into his mind. He had to deliver it, felt nauseous to have had this done to him.

*

Astarion wasn’t deep enough into the meditative state not to be roused when he heard footsteps. He turned his head but couldn’t move his legs at all.

‘Darling,’ Astarion said, hating how weak his voice sounded, how relieved, ‘if you could just do me a favour and help me up…’

He saw Raphael and Fhaeleb side by side. Raphael was in cambion form, and his opaque black eyes with their golden iris glow revealed almost nothing, but Astarion was sure he radiated anger. Fhaeleb was expressionless. She managed to radiate being vaguely unimpressed with his antics even when her eyes were flat.

Raphael stepped forwards, and Verillius’ words rattled in Astarion’s mind as he was forced to spill them:

‘You must prepare to lose the House of Hope and move to different premises in Avernus. The High Inquisitor cares not where.’

Fhaeleb looked at Raphael, eyes narrowing.

Raphael stared at Astarion, lip curling with disgust. Astarion hadn’t meant to call her the High Inquisitor, the words had presented themselves naturally. Had she forced other things into his mind without him realising? Could she do that?

Raphael came closer, wings flexing open and shut, tail lashing violently, before thumping into the tiles. He stared down at Astarion coolly, his expression not matching the agitation in his body.

‘So, you’re labouring for one of Zariel’s today, pet,’ Raphael said, voice heavier and sharper when he was in this form. Astarion couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that Raphael was weaker now, so much weaker, yet he still didn’t seem weak. ‘How terribly disloyal of you.’

‘Oh, of course!’ Astarion said scathingly. ‘Because I chose this, didn’t I? Do you think this is my idea of a rollicking good time? Do you think this is what I personally desired since I arrived here? Or are you just biding time because you know you’re so pathetic now? So unable to stand up to her shadow?’

Raphael crouched down in front of Astarion, and there was something so hollow in his gaze that Astarion could have screamed.

He shouldn’t goad him, he knew he shouldn’t, but gods damn it, he also didn’t want to be kneeling there in front of a moon elf – bladesinger and cleric of Tethrin Veralde – and Raphael.

‘Help me up, damn it,’ Astarion said.

He ground his teeth together when Raphael reached out and touched the side of his face. It wasn’t a mean touch, but after Verillius, he wanted to scour his skin in the bath for an hour. He could still feel the ghost of her touch between his legs.

Astarion was sure Raphael would say something, but instead he stood and walked several paces away. He considered the Archive – not Astarion – and said:

‘If you think I hired you as a cleric to stand there gormlessly while my ward is under a curse, you’re mistaken, Fhaeleb.’

Fhaeleb unsheathed the sword she used to kill and cast her magic, and her jade green eyes were focused as she searched the tiles around Astarion, as though she could see magical chains.

Astarion stared at Raphael.

He wasn’t even going to ask Astarion to stand. He wasn’t even going to try to break Verillius’ spell. He could make it look like it was beneath him, but suddenly the presence of a curse-breaking cleric made a painful amount of sense.

If Raphael was too weak to break the curses of fiends, who better to serve as a bodyguard, than a holy cleric who could shatter them with radiant magic? After all, Raphael wasn’t capable of holy magic, being what he was, he would have used his raw power before in order to break a curse and had to use someone else’s divine magic now.

Fhaeleb’s sword glowed blue like her dark blue hair, and she moved gracefully, a true dancer. As she sang the ritual words needed, her green eyes took on the slitted appearance of a cat’s pupils, and leopard spots danced in blue lights across her skin, and Astarion knew she’d aligned herself to some kind of wild feline, and that was the spirit who walked with her and lent power to her magic.

The curse lifted like a boulder rolling off him, and Astarion pitched forwards, then pushed himself upright. One of his knees didn’t want to listen, and he made a faint sound as he collapsed forwards, and glared at Fhaeleb when she didn’t try to help him.

He managed to stop himself from falling completely, and he straightened with as much dignity as he could, but he felt small around these people. Even Fhaeleb, who he could have killed easily if he got his teeth into her fragile neck.

‘Leave us,’ Raphael said. Astarion thought Raphael was talking to him, but he looked at Fhaeleb, something forbidding on his face.

‘You’ll need me again if this is what you’re dealing with,’ Fhaeleb said crisply.

‘Of that I have no doubt, warrioress.’

Fhaeleb made an exasperated sound in the back of her throat and walked away, sheathing her sword in a single, practiced movement. Astarion watched her go, then startled badly when he felt a touch at his shoulder. He hadn’t sensed Raphael coming up behind him and he was getting tired of these devils and their blasted stealth abilities.

The touch at his shoulder was gentle, and Astarion could feel how badly he shook against Raphael’s touch.

‘You’re a coward,’ Astarion seethed, feeling like he might scream from what he’d just experienced. ‘A coward. You knew she was going to come. It’s why you haven’t been here, day after day, and why you’ve left me here, day after day. Did you think she’d kill me? Be distracted by me?’

‘You have only half of it right, Astarion,’ Raphael said, stepping closer. ‘I have known that she was coming, but I expected her next tenday. Was there a chance she could bring her ghastly presence to disgrace my walls this tenday? Yes. I didn’t think she’d kill you, and look, she’s done nothing of the sort. You’re fine, Astarion.’

‘You’re not,’ Astarion said. And he wasn’t either. He knew Verillius had restrained herself because the message she wanted delivered mattered more than the torture. Next time, that wouldn’t be the case at all.

‘You will find, my fretful fish, if you keep goading me, I will think of more than one torture to reward you with. I am in no mood for your hysterics,’ Raphael said, his voice forbidding. Astarion thought back to their experience in Golden’s Veil and felt Raphael was far less threatening in his human form. His cambion self was less expressive and hid his true intentions better, but Astarion suspected it brought his unholy appetites closer to the surface.

‘Sunlight isn’t worth this,’ Astarion said, the words absurd on his tongue.

‘Yet I cannot let you go just yet,’ Raphael said, guiding Astarion out of the Archive and through the halls. ‘And I will not. I need you to be my servant, and then make your decision afterwards. We must sojourn to Cania.’

Cania.

‘I beg your incredibly insane pardon?’ Astarion burst out. ‘Cania? And what nonsense is there, aside from freezing to death?’

‘I can ensure that won’t happen,’ Raphael said.

He was so distracted he wasn’t even talking like normal. Raphael was shaken, and knowing that on top of everything else, had Astarion desperately thinking that actually, a life in some undercity would be just fine. He could definitely live in a cave. He could!

‘I’m not going to Cania,’ Astarion said, bursting into laughter.

Raphael stood in front of one of his many portraits – in this one, he stood atop a cliff surveying countless legions of fiends, wearing a crown that looked suspiciously like the Crown of Karsus – and pressed a hand to a tile beside it. His fingers glowed from incandescent heat, and a burst of hellfire licked out and caused a mechanism beneath the tile to click.

Raphael slid the portrait to the side and revealed a large safe, which opened with the application of more hellfire.

Within… Astarion leaned forwards, eyes wide. Not gold, or gems, but a pile of weapons, soul coins, lockpicks, packs for disarming traps, vials of potions, mounds of clothing and armour. There was the fatty odour of good linseed oil, likely to keep weapons and armour in top condition. He saw a light crossbow gilt with silver which looked exceptionally well-made, and his hands twitched to reach for it, but he managed to restrain himself at the last minute.

‘Take it,’ Raphael said, voice empty. ‘Take as much as you’ll need for trap disarming, lockpicking and more. Take the bow. Here…’

Raphael tossed a small bag at him, after taking it from the safe.

‘Everything will fit in here, trust me.’

‘Trust you. You do realise, darling, that you’ve never behaved like this around me?’

‘Verillius Receptor will be mobilising to seize the House of Hope, and she’ll do so easily if I don’t call in a favour. Another favour.’

‘None of this is in the contract.’

‘No,’ Raphael said, grasping Astarion by the chin and moving his head so that he had to make eye contact. ‘This is me forcing you to do what I want. You might wish to consider your options with care, my theatrical, melodramatic orchid. End the contract, and I’ll still make you do this. Disobey me, and I’ll keep you in my dungeon until I’m evicted, and then I’ll use you as the fodder to distract the fiends who want me dead. Do I look as though I’m in the mood to hear your bids for freedom? Your life hangs in the balance too.’

‘Such a romantic,’ Astarion said absently.

Raphael’s lips quirked, for a moment his expression was almost soft. ‘Look through the clothing. Much of it doubles as armour, not that it will do you any good in Cania, but still, it can’t hurt to be prepared.’

‘And why, pray tell, are we going to Cania, the eighth level of hell? No one survives. I know enough to know I don’t want to freeze my f*cking balls off.’

‘You won’t,’ Raphael said. ‘Now take what you need. You are one of the best thieves in the business, are you not? Look at all that you took from me, and everyone else besides. I need your stealth, and I need your questing, hungry, devious little fingers today.’

Astarion reached for the crossbow and the bolts to go in it and couldn’t believe how nice the weapon was in his hands. Oh it ached to be fired. Raphael had been hiding it away? Criminal.

He wasn’t ready to process the fact that Raphael might have put him under a temporary contract for his skills in thieving and stealth. There was strategy to contracting Fhaeleb, and Astarion wasn’t sure how he felt about being contracted as part of that vision. Whatever Raphael was dealing with was horrendous, and Astarion would rather have an illithid tadpole in his brain again than have Verillius near him.

‘What else did Verillius say to you?’ Raphael said, as Astarion pulled out clothing, potions, crossbow bolts and more.

‘I’m reluctant to tell you the truth,’ Astarion said, ‘since you seem to be in a mood.’

‘Surely you realise I have far less patience for your lies.’

Astarion grimaced. He didn’t want to talk about how disgusting he felt, how something about her had felt as violating as one of his lengthier sessions with Cazador, even though he’d kept all his clothes on and hadn’t shed any blood.

‘Well, I have a brilliant idea. How about you go to Cania,’ Astarion said, ‘and I bathe while you’re gone?’

Raphael crowded behind him and placed his clawed hands on Astarion’s shoulders, and Astarion shuddered. He cringed hard enough that the claws had to tighten, because Astarion would have slid out of that grip otherwise.

‘I can smell Verillius on you,’ Raphael said.

Well, wasn’t that just lovely?

‘Nothing more than a dog acridly pissing on someone else’s territory,’ Raphael added. ‘Astarion, didn’t your mother ever tell you not to keep a devil waiting? What did Verillius say?’

‘Must you stand behind me?’

‘Yes,’ Raphael said.

‘Wonderful,’ Astarion bit out. ‘Fine. She explained that you came back so weak after we killed you, that you needed your father’s assistance to even reach cambion form again and have struggled ever since. You’ve lost your locus of power, and this house is apparently strategically placed, which is fascinating, given I’ve seen the view from your balcony darling, and this isn’t exactly what I’d call sweet real estate.’

‘The portals to Faerun, combined with its advantage as a viewpoint during battles, make it exceptionally desirable to those who know how to best utilise it,’ Raphael said, his voice muted. ‘She’s right.’

‘And…are you ever going to tell me who your father is?’

‘You haven’t intuited it?’ Raphael said, and then pressed his body to Astarion’s back, and Astarion jerked forwards with a choked sound.

Raphael didn’t let him go.

‘I’ll remove that devil’s eyeballs one day and eat them whole, for touching my things,’ Raphael said to himself. It was the casualness of the threat that made it feel so real. ‘Verillius has damaged all the work I’ve put into you. And right now do you dream of brutish vampire lords and other such tortures? Did she touch you?’

Astarion stared at nothing for a moment, the bag in his hand forgotten.

What was he supposed to say? She’d hardly touched him at all. What was one hand between his legs after everything else he’d been through?

‘I’m sure she was being very restrained,’ Astarion said finally.

Raphael’s exhale was hot, and smelled of blackened, dirty smoke.

‘Later, should we survive, I’ll make you remember me, instead,’ Raphael said.

‘I’m sorry, did you just say, “If we survive?”’

‘Mephistar isn’t kind to anyone who has no mastery of hellfire,’ Raphael said. ‘I have ways to keep you alive, but if I die, you will die too, likely crushed to death in glaciers. Every visit I take there may be my last.’

‘Mephistar,’ Astarion said slowly.

One of Raphael’s portals in the House of Hope – the pretty light turquoise one – went to Mephistar in Cania, in the eighth circle of Baator, the level of hell just before the one that belonged to Asmodeus, which no one knew almost anything about. Cania was the level of churning ice and glaciers, too cold for any creature from Faerun, and was ruled by Mephistopheles, the archduke and near-god who Astarion had only heard terrifying things about.

He thought back to the book he’d picked up, the one signed with a simple letter M, suggesting Raphael rip the pages out and suffocate his victims with them.

‘Don’t tell me…’ Astarion said.

‘Your fear smells better when I’m causing it.’

‘Can you focus for five seconds?’ Astarion snapped. ‘If I’m here less as a contractee, and more as some rogue at your disposal- I can’t believe I’m saying this, but is your father… Is your father Mephistopheles?’

Raphael sighed behind him, claws pricking through Astarion’s clothing.

‘That’s why you have a portal to Mephistar,’ Astarion said slowly. ‘I’d wondered. That’s why you have a statue of him in your house. It’s not about the celebration of hellfire at all.’

‘He sent it as a gift,’ Raphael said flatly. ‘But we must celebrate hellfire, there’s no other way to survive Cania.’

‘Isn’t he called something absurd, like Hell’s Greatest Wizard? That’s… Wait, you want me to steal from your father?’

‘Yes,’ Raphael said, sounding amused now. Astarion wished he could see his face, but he doubted he’d be able to read his expression.

‘And what am I supposed to be stealing?’

‘Soul coins,’ Raphael said. ‘As many as you can. At least two hundred. I need to revive two of the Pillars in my House that you all destroyed during the battle. It will be a start. I’d been procrastinating this visit.’

‘Verillius Receptor told me you don’t like your father, that he doesn’t much like you. Daddy issues galore, darling.’

‘Diplomacy isn’t one of her finer strengths, but it seems she was employing it today.’

‘Bring Fhaeleb,’ Astarion said suddenly. ‘I can’t go to Cania. Listen, I don’t need a necklace, I don’t need the sun, I don’t-’

Claw tips resting lightly on Astarion’s throat.

‘If you help me now, pet, there will be much to celebrate on the other side. Don’t you want to be the vampire spawn who stole from the Lord of Hellfire himself? Second only to Asmodeus, the god of all Baator?’

‘I want to live,’ Astarion hissed.

Astarion gasped as he felt the barrier of his skin breached by those claw tips, and though it was light – so light – that only two trickles of blood fell, it was his neck. He pushed back into Raphael’s body and felt heat behind him, that hellfire in his cambion body that – by the gods – came from Mephistopheles of all devils.

‘You’re not the only one,’ Raphael said. ‘Today, if you want to live, you’ll do this for me. I have no time to make melodic appeals to your mind, and I will have rage to vent when I return. If you have any gift at getting into my good graces, use it. I’ll tell you what you need to know, I lived in that citadel, and I know it better than most. If you get me those soul coins, I’ll owe you a favour. An unnamed favour.’

‘I feel even less like I’m going to survive this now, thank you,’ Astarion said, and then sagged backwards, despairing, knees aching, unable to stop thinking about the thrill of stealing from an archduke of the second-most dangerous hell in existence. If anyone could do it, Astarion probably could. He’d broken into places and objects that were supposed to be impossible, and then he’d done it over and over again.

‘Be my ally today,’ Raphael said. ‘A devil at your back doesn’t have to be a burden.’

‘I am good at finding what’s not meant to be found, taking what’s not meant to be taken.’

‘Indeed. You did it to me.’

It didn’t feel like a compliment, thinking of Cania, its demonic cold, and the archduke that was waiting for him, a father that Raphael hated, adept at torture, and so terrifying he might make dear old Verillius Receptor look like a sweet little kitty cat.

Astarion felt like they both might be f*cked, actually.

Chapter 15: Desert Rosewood and Frigid Cold

Chapter Text

Preparations for travelling to Cania didn’t include changing into twenty layers of extremely warm clothing, which Astarion expected. Instead he loaded up the small bag with items he’d need – more than he would normally take, thankfully the bag didn’t feel too heavy – and armed himself with a crossbow. After that, he followed Raphael through the House of Hope into a new room he’d never seen before, where black circles of congealed, ancient blood – filled and surrounded by sacred sigils and symbols – were spread evenly across the dusty white tiled floors beneath a vaulted ceiling so high that Astarion once more couldn’t see the top of it clearly.

The walls were lined with tables piled with the equipment of scientists or alchemists. There were bookshelves filled with books and scrolls, the room thrummed with dark magic.

Astarion thought of the Temple of Bhaal, of stumbling across random sites of human sacrifice, and he wondered how many people had died here to make blood circles inches tall and thick across the floors.

The smell was faintly sweet. Once, his high elf self would be horrified. Now, he knew the blood wouldn’t nourish him, but it made him faintly hungry all the same.

‘Well! For a house that’s meant to be all about it, I can’t exactly say this room fills me with hope,’ Astarion said.

‘It should,’ Raphael said.

He snapped his fingers absently, and his clothing changed. He was garbed all in black now, and gold coins formed the buckles and buttons of his outfit. He had golden cuffs at the base of his horns, and at the wrists of his long sleeves. The contrast of the clothing with his red skin was striking. Even the spines on his wings had golden cuffs.

Astarion knew he was looking at some kind of formalwear by devil standards. The boots – with heels that gave Raphael extra height he didn’t need – were black and shone slickly. Raphael didn’t look at himself in a mirror, and Astarion thought he didn’t need to. If he walked into a room like that, he’d command everyone’s attention.

It was amusing because in human form he never dressed quite as well. Oh, he wore the right kind of clothing as befitted his station, but it was like he didn’t want to people to realise just how wealthy he was…or perhaps how wealthy he used to be. It made him more approachable, whereas this was the garb of someone who ruled a prominent house in Avernus and knew it.

Astarion thought of Verillius, the fact that she couldn’t show him her true form, and his skin crawled. What worse creatures and tortures waited for them in Cania?

Mephistopheles was the one who had killed multiple gods. He was the one who had advised torture techniques to Raphael. Raphael had written: “They all insist Father is the best” at torture. Torture!

‘Stand here,’ Raphael said, pointing to the centre of a ritual circle.

Astarion’s back felt tight, his scars hurt, and he both wanted to listen and wanted to run. He hesitated, and Raphael’s dead gaze pinned him and didn’t allow any disagreement. He knew deep in his gut that he was completely f*cked, and he loathed this feeling. Loathed it from his days in the Szarr Palace. Loathed it when he’d been taken by the Absolute and had a tadpole placed in his brain. Loathed it every time Temter had sent him to creep around on his own, in tremendously dangerous places, sometimes only waking up again due to expensive spell scrolls being used to save his life.

Astarion always wanted to ask how many of those scrolls Temter had left when he was pointed in the direction of some dark, shadowy area filled with monsters, but he couldn’t bring himself to. He didn’t want to learn that Temter would send him there without them.

Having darkvision didn’t make some of those locations any less terrifying.

Astarion swallowed and walked into the circle, noticing sourly that Raphael entered from one particular corner, which meant this was a ritual.

‘Open your mouth. I’m going to place this on your tongue,’ Raphael said, holding up a golden coin. It had Raphael’s likeness stamped onto it, and smelled creamy and leathery at the same time, like it had been soaked in the oil of some tree, desert rosewood perhaps.

‘You can always freeze to death in Cania if that’s what suits you best,’ Raphael said when Astarion didn’t react.

Astarion opened his mouth.

The coin tasted disgusting on his tongue. Sharp and bitter, not at all like its odour. Claw tips at his chin had him closing his mouth again, and he grimaced.

‘This little charade will get worse and not better,’ Raphael said, smiling with the appreciation of a true sad*st. ‘But we have healing potions on hand. You’re a vampire spawn, after all, you’re not supposed to be able to tolerate fire at all, let alone that of hellfire. But needs must. Whatever you do, pet, don’t spit out the coin. I regret this might remind you of Cazador’s little games, but this will graft the humbling privilege of hellfire’s protection into you, and you should know this isn’t something I offer to anyone lightly. I’d even call it a devil’s blessing if I were so inclined. Now, then.’

Raphael stepped out of the circle, then pointed to the four symbols arranged in a square just outside of it, and at the fourth movement of his arm, blue hellfire spun to life in perfect, unnatural spirals that self-sustained. The gold in Raphael’s black eyes glowed, his face fixed with concentration, and Astarion wanted to scream and bolt. The hellfire was too hot, even though it wasn’t touching him, even though Astarion appreciated feeling warm.

He’d had enough infernal rituals to last the rest of his gods-damned life.

Raphael must have done something else, because Astarion felt the energy in the room change, and he swore there was a shimmer of heat around Raphael’s body, or perhaps around the whole circle.

When Raphael spoke the infernal tongue, he did so clearly and effortlessly, every word intoned in an almost melodic fashion, like a monologue on a stage. He stared at Astarion with cold, fiercely bright golden eyes, and Astarion realised belatedly this might actually be taxing for Raphael. The way he concentrated, the way he stalked the circle, his golden-cuffed tail lashing back and forth, like he was restraining some strong emotion, while Astarion tasted the bitter volatility of essential oils on his tongue and couldn’t taste the gold of the coin at all.

There was a point in the ritual where the hellfire rose in spiralling columns to the distant ceiling. Astarion felt a sharp burning on this tongue and opened his mouth as saliva filled it.

‘Don’t do it, pet,’ Raphael threatened under his breath.

Astarion blinked, because Raphael wasn’t any closer to him, yet he could have sworn he heard that voice right by his ear, breath gusting against him.

He heard a final sentence in the infernal tongue, and his mouth burned.

He screamed through a clenched jaw, as what felt like raw flames scored the roof of his mouth, the back of his throat, the backs of his eyes, the insides of his ears. A hole was burning through the middle of his tongue. He thought he felt his own brain swelling, roasted within his skull. He fell to the ground, hands skidding on the tiles, covered in sweat.

And then Raphael was there with him, one hand beneath his chin, keeping his jaw closed.

‘A healing potion soon, pet,’ Raphael said, his voice thick not with worry, but with lust.

Astarion had to wait, and wait, and he thought back to how Raphael had split his tongue, and the pain was almost like that violation, and he sobbed through his nose once, trying to keep control of himself.

‘A bit longer,’ Raphael said. ‘Do you feel it in your chest?’

Astarion nodded. His chest burned.

‘There we go. Lucky you.’ He let go of Astarion’s chin and held out his hand in front of his mouth. ‘Spit it out, there’s a good pet.’

Astarion spit out the coin, shocked at the glob of wet blood-filled saliva that followed. For some reason he’d thought the burning was completely in his mind. He shook, then made a noise when Raphael tipped a potion with his other hand into Astarion’s mouth.

‘Drink,’ Raphael commanded, snatching the coin away.

Astarion clutched the potion with shaking hands, and realised it was the one that needed ki-rin hair and was expensive to buy, almost impossible to make. He hadn’t realised he’d been injured, and yet it wasn’t until he finished the entire bottle that the pain finally started to fade. He coughed several times, then swallowed a mouthful of his own singed blood.

‘Gods,’ he choked out.

‘Unpleasant at the best of times,’ Raphael agreed, ‘and it would never have been the best for a vampire spawn. But you carry my hellfire inside you now, and it won’t harm you anymore. You’ll survive Cania while I still live.’

‘The burning,’ Astarion said, gesturing to his chest. ‘And can you please cut it out with this nonsense? I understand you’re scared of seeing daddy, but a little heads up would have helped.’

‘Would it?’ Raphael said.

Astarion stared at him, eyes still streaming. He sighed, then coughed wetly. No, it wouldn’t have helped at all.

Raphael grasped him by the arms and dragged him upright, and Astarion wiped at his mouth, his face, and felt dreadful. The cambion looked him over, made a face, then snapped his fingers again.

Astarion shuddered bodily at the sensation of one set of clothing being replaced with another. He looked down at himself, hands immediately moving to the coat of red and white and black, covered in the same gold coins Raphael was.

‘Should you be sapping all your magic before we leave?’ Astarion said, arching an eyebrow. ‘Hells, this is convenient. Can you make an entire wardrobe for me? Not everything has to be in your colours, you know.’

‘White and red suit you very well, and don’t pretend otherwise. The innate ability to transmute matter isn’t as taxing as magic, but I’m not going to pretend it’s kind of you to make it clear how weak you think I am. Losing status in Avernus doesn’t stop me from being a threat in Faerun, or to you, sweetling. Strength isn’t linear as you may believe, because if Verillius thought it was so easy to take the House of Hope, they would have simply taken it, and eaten you in the process. Or violated your corpse – while truly dead of course, not simply undead. Though it always depends on whatever form they’re taking at time.’

Astarion swallowed a few times. He held out his arm to admire the sleeve as a distraction. The embroidery was fine indeed. He hadn’t stolen clothing this well-made even in the Baldur’s Gate capital with Temter.

Unfortunately admiring the fabric didn’t serve as the distraction from what they faced, or the residual burning inside his chest that felt as though a bonfire had been lit in his heart. He felt shaky, like he always did after needing a heavy-duty potion. Karlach used to find the sensation invigorating, but Temter loathed it just as much as Astarion did, which was why he sent Astarion out on his own more often as their team ventured further towards the Absolute and their likely doom. Even venturing through the House of Hope the first time was something he mostly did alone.

‘So!’ Astarion said with forced cheer, ‘Mephistopheles! What can I expect from dear old daddy, hm?’

Raphael considered Astarion for a time, then smiled his own charming smile, revealing sharper teeth than those he carried in human form.

‘If you’re expecting entertainment, you’ll not find better than what you’d get here, in the House of Hope.’

‘Oh,’ Astarion said, ‘with the way that sentence started, I was expecting a show.’

‘There will be a show,’ Raphael said grimly, before taking a purse out of his pocket and tucking it into Astarion’s bag, familiar and close, smelling like he’d been travelling through Faerun woods before he'd returned with Fhaeleb earlier. ‘But not all theatre is worth watching, and Father sometimes forces audience participation. You’ll not want to be in his presence long, and with any luck, you won’t encounter him at all.’

‘And the purse?’

‘The soul coins go in there,’ Raphael said after a pause. He looked at Astarion, their faces so close Astarion wanted to step backwards. ‘They deposit directly into a safe place in my home that you’ve yet to find.’

‘You know, there’s still time for you to find a better thief,’ Astarion said nervously.

‘I’m on borrowed time, which means you are too, and this cowardice of yours – while cute at times – sours now. Be braver. Time’s running out, Astarion, tick tock. You’ll not like the remainder of your contract without this roof over your head.’

‘I’ve always loved deranged family reunions,’ Astarion sighed, wishing he was on Raphael’s comfortable bed, or eating fruit on the well-shaded balcony, and instead following him to the room of portals, Raphael’s grip strong on his upper arm, like he – correctly – intuited that Astarion might flee. ‘Though I can’t say I’m a fan of the ones that run the risk of so much death, or – more accurately – my death.’

‘Nonsense, Astarion Ancunin, I’ve not f*cked you properly yet, so we’ll make sure you live another day yet. And if I die, well, perhaps Father will appreciate a consolation prize and find some rather tired way of tearing you apart.’

‘Not. Helping.’

Raphael glanced down at him and grinned once, fiercely, like someone who knew they weren’t helping and were trying to get any enjoyment out of this miserable experience possible.

‘You know, some have told me that I have a sad*stic streak, but it’s got nothing on you,’ Astarion said.

‘I was enjoying sadism when your ancestors were but a gleam in elven constellations, pet,’ Raphael said, his grip tightening on Astarion’s upper arm.

*

On the other side of the pretty blue turquoise portal was a cold so gripping that Astarion would have fallen to the blue floor of carved, giant ice blocks if Raphael hadn’t kept him upright. For long moments Astarion couldn’t speak, couldn’t hear, couldn’t control his own body. If it weren’t for the bonfire in his chest – that now felt like nothing more than the mildest of flames – he would have frozen stiff.

Raphael waited. Astarion’s senses cleared slowly. He heard first the howling scouring of winds over his ears, then saw that the ice floor beneath his feet wasn’t a simple road, but a grand, broad road that could have held one hundred carriages side-by-side with plenty of space between. It was empty, but for carved ice sentinels lining it in the shape of unusual-looking pit fiends, hulking over the space, casting no shadows due to the heavy and bright clouds overhead blotting out any sign of the sun.

At the end of the road was a palace that made all those in Faerun look like children’s toys. Tall, carved of ice, shining, stunning and impossible, clouds of diamond dust smouldering like smoke around it, a magical mist of violet hanging in the air above.

Astarion looked around at a world made of ice mountains that moved like slowed ocean waves. He felt it through his feet, a constant rumbling, and he knew instinctively that this was a place no creature from Faerun should ever see, whether living or undead, perfectly part of nature, or aberration. He shrank closer to Raphael, who stood unmoving, and whose warmth was welcome.

‘Personally,’ Raphael said blandly, ‘I would have placed a portal within the palace. Cania is the definition of dreary. Have you found your feet?’

‘The only thing…they want to do is turn in the other direction. Let’s- Let’s risk Avernus. You don’t need that place.’

‘I’m not losing my home to that scheming snake,’ Raphael said.

‘The mountains,’ Astarion said, pointing wordlessly, feeling like a child again.

‘They’re glaciers,’ Raphael said dismissively. ‘If you listen closely, you can hear the screams of the people he’s torturing, keeping artificially alive so they might feel all their bones crushed to dust within the wet, useless sacks of skin they thought kept them safe.’

Astarion couldn’t think of a single thing to say, and then he was made to move in a cold that should have made any movement for someone like him impossible.

He loathed this place, beautiful and stunning as it was. Verillius had carried a presence with her, and Astarion felt that dread and thick evil impregnated in the land here in a way he never had in Avernus. It wasn’t the kind of evil that felt like fun, like it could in Faerun, or even Avernus.

I don’t want to die, he thought.

‘He keeps his wealth in the second shadowed basem*nt,’ Raphael said in a businesslike manner. ‘The soul coins are kept in a locked vault, and there will be traps. Many of them. Not at all playful like mine.’

‘I see, I see,’ Astarion said, thinking Raphael might have taken leave of his senses completely. ‘So I just excuse myself and go to these vaults of treasure, do I?’

‘He needs access to near mountains of gold for his scientific pursuits, and it’s easier for me to fetch most of it for him.’ Raphael sounded faintly disgusted. ‘Being cambion means I possess enough of my human self to know how best to get Faerunians to pay up.’

‘Cults?’ Astarion asked to distract himself from the guttural, agonised screams he’d definitely started to pick up on those howling winds.

‘Cults,’ Raphael agreed. ‘Sometimes very poorly run casinos. I have my many ways. Just as many crime syndicates as Lords’ families will pay tithes to a devil to keep his warm, friendly favour.’

‘I expect plenty of those syndicates and families are one and the same,’ Astarion said, thinking of the Szarr family, and how remarkable it was that he could hear himself speak.

He suspected Raphael had created a kind of space around them, or maybe it was that coin he’d had in his mouth, an infernal transmutation that added more protection than just the ability to survive Cania’s frigid cold.

‘You’re here as my new servant and treasurer,’ Raphael said, laughing darkly to himself, ‘because he would find that deeply ironic, and appreciate the humour of it. A thief who stole my gold, now delivering it to my father? He will likely send you down with a fiend or two. Kill them.’

‘On my own,’ Astarion said flatly. ‘You do know that’s not my preferred method of killing, don’t you?’

Shadowheart used to joke that if Astarion were any weaker physically, they’d be better off sending in a piece of overcooked cabbage. And sometimes, when he was the one gasping for breath due to a violent chest wound while everyone stood there watching him in the middle of battle as if to say: Again? he was liable to agree.

‘When I told you to take potions from my safe, I assume you took invisibility potions too, and know how to use them. You are, after all, the one with freedom of movement. Don’t pretend you’re the sacrifice here when I’m the bait about to twist on the hook.’

Astarion frowned, then turned and looked up at Raphael, who didn’t seem out of place at all in this awful, scentless wasteland.

When he was born, was he raised here or in Faerun? Human mothers almost always died when giving birth to half-fiends. Was this the place Raphael knew from childhood? Judging from what Astarion read from Raphael’s journals, it could be.

‘Why do I feel like this is a even more terrible idea than I did earlier?’ Astarion said.

‘Now, don’t fret, for this is all of your own making,’ Raphael said, his smile as chilling as the environment around them. ‘Ponder this, if you will, that if I’d been given the Crown of Karsus as was my due, I’d be ruling Cania as its beneficent Master, and Baator would have such a better, kinder accord with Faerun. Yet, there you were, and the rest of your team, and life lifted you oh-so-high – high enough to defeat would-be-gods, the Absolute, even the core of power in my House of Hope – and then recklessly, even cruelly cast you down with a lover’s spiteful delight to a low even lower than you knew was possible. Now, look before you at my Father’s palace, the great Mephistar, and tell me how your actions didn’t lead to this very moment?’

Astarion swallowed, and Raphael’s expression was unchanging.

‘Come with me,’ Raphael said, ‘let’s enjoy the fruits of your actions together, shall we?’

Astarion opened his mouth, and then stilled himself, thinking that the only reason – the only reason – that he was alive in Cania at this moment, was because of a burning in his chest that Raphael had granted him. It didn’t seem like much of a blessing, given what lay ahead of them.

He knew he was caught in a web, but Raphael played games that Temter could only dream of, and in this moment, Astarion couldn’t bite the hand that was his only hope of getting out of here alive.

No, he’d do that later.

Chapter 16: Chemical Blood and Carrion Musk

Chapter Text

What Astarion wanted was a camp to have come from, a Scratch to have surreptitiously said goodbye to before they departed. What he wanted was to pet that white dog’s head while saying something derisive at the same time, like: “You’d best not be giving me fleas, or I’ll eat you, I know for a fact that dogs are tastier than most of the other animals I’ve eaten,” while Scratch gazed up at him with happy eyes and a waggy tail.

He'd used potions to speak with beasts several times while travelling with Temter, it seemed almost mandatory because Temter so often gathered intelligence not just from people, but from any animal at all, including vermin. When he’d spoken to Scratch, the canine was affable, kind, warm, and just tilted his head in curiosity at some of the unsavoury things Astarion said.

Astarion tried not to think about the owlbear cub, who deserved a name, especially as he was dressed in armour and sent to die in battle.

Raphael was unreadable in a way that was different to most of the others in Temter’s camp, except perhaps Withers, and he’d been benign enough in his own way. If Astarion had been with the others and joked that they were all likely going to die, there would have been quips and repartee and Jaheira agreeing with him in a way that felt like solidarity and exasperation both.

He was rusty at thievery, for all that he’d used his skills in minor ways over the past months, it wasn’t like anyone needed him to be at his roguish best when he lived in basem*nts or underground. It wasn’t as though those who were inebriated and already listing sideways needed his charlatanry at its finest.

He’d been at the top of his game when they’d taken on the Absolute, and he thought now wasn’t the time to remind Raphael that he’d accidentally triggered two of the traps in the House of Hope while exploring.

But as they approached the absurdly tall double doors of carved ice, Astarion felt something old and familiar settle inside him. An electric excitement, the sense they were about to do something foolish, impossible, and they’d win. The odds were against them, and Astarion enjoyed sinking his fangs into odds like those and making a meal out of them.

No one expected him to be as skilled as he was at what he could do. Even Cazador had underestimated him, time and time again, assuming Astarion was getting f*cked by the people he seduced – if he wasn’t the one f*cking them – and rarely understanding that Astarion was drugging many of them once he realised he didn’t have to put his body up for trade in quite the same way if he was clever about it.

Repeatedly picking Godey’s increasingly intricate locks had given him a gift, but he’d had something of a sense for it anyway. Chamberlain Dufay once came across Astarion in the midst of disabling a nasty trap, and sighed:

‘The artificer charged me three thousand gold for that trap and spent a month making the mechanism.’

Astarion had barked out a laugh that was a mixture of amused and scared, because he knew this would be reported to Cazador.

‘Then, my darling Chamberlain Dufay, you hired a hack.’

‘Did I?’ Chamberlain Dufay said, arching a discerning brow.

Astarion stared down at the trap, not wanting to reveal that the trap had been a challenge. Sort of. But not really. He didn’t want Master Cazador using him for skills that felt like they belonged to him alone, even though they inevitably would be.

‘Between the picked locks carefully locked again, and the traps carefully armed after being disarmed, you’re costing me a fortune, Astarion.’

‘Yes, well, my tastes have always been rather luxurious. What can I say?’

‘You might be one of the best in Baldur’s Gate,’ Dufay said with grudging respect.

Astarion had smirked, and deep down he’d been pleased. From there, he’d started picking locks in the city for the fun of it, finding all sorts of interesting, terrifying, and delicious things.

There was a curl of that old competent joy, like smoke, and it had been some time since he’d felt it.

‘Follow my lead,’ Raphael said, as he grew increasingly tense, and Astarion was certain he’d be in a foul mood if they survived the visit. ‘My father will have little patience with your insouciance.’

‘So, you’re saying I should get it all out of my system now? With you? You have so much patience for it, after all.’

Raphael looked at him sidelong, his lips twitching. ‘Compared to him? Oh yes.’

‘I thought you said I wouldn’t have to meet him,’ Astarion said.

‘Did I? What I hope for is different to the reality that spreads vast and chilling before us, to be found in my abode, but scarce in more than meagre shreds here.’ A pause, as Raphael took the first of the many steps up to the towering doors. ‘You may not have to meet him. He’s often busy with one of his many projects.’

The steps they ascended were designed for creatures far taller than Astarion, and he could feel the chill of the ice soaking up through his feet, even as that artificial burn in his chest kept the worst of it at bay.

As they got closer, Astarion’s senses crawled as they filtered in knowledge. Traps all along the walls, designed to be activated if there were ever a full-scale assault, large enough to make Gortash’s traps look like little children’s toys. He saw the well-disguised pit fiends, the same shade of blue and white as the ice palace, holding halberds, ranseurs and war scythes of a white metal he didn’t recognise. The fiends stood so still, blue eyes gleaming, that they looked like the statues hulking over the ramparts.

A huge rumbling from behind them, and Astarion turned to see a giant shaft of ice, mountain-like in shape, thrust up in the distance containing what seemed to be an entire, strange city. An entire city. Astarion’s mind wasn’t made for such things.

‘Ignore it,’ Raphael said sternly.

‘I…don’t think I like it here.’

‘Avernus certainly has its charms,’ Raphael said, ‘compared to Cania.’

The doors swung open, and a blast of heat radiated out, shimmering with invisible haze. Astarion sucked in a shocked breath, then stared at the devils by the front door. They were a type he’d never seen before, tall and thin, crags of ice jutting from their bodies, maws of teeth that looked more like icicles over shards of bone, and a black hollow throat that gaped open. The eyes were intelligent, sentient, and took in Astarion and Raphael quickly. One gestured, and a nine-foot-tall devil with sprawling wide horns at least six-feet across – a cornugon – walked over with an easy, frightening grace.

‘Young Master Raphael,’ he said. ‘It has been too long.’

He bowed deeply, and Raphael inclined his head with the shallow politeness that indicated he was well above this immense creature in station. The cornugon’s white gold chains of bone and crystal clattered and tinkled where they touched the polished floor. Astarion couldn’t tell if the tiles were ice or not. The heat should be melting them, but they stayed gleaming and reflective.

‘Shall I inform your father that you’re here?’

‘Tell me, Acenima, is he in a mood to be informed?’ Raphael said.

‘He’s on his throne today,’ Acenima said, straightening and staring down at Astarion for a long time. Astarion felt the fear distantly, knew it was the result of an aura, and that his aberrant nature made him resistant. But it reminded him of Cazador, nonetheless. This whole place felt…so disturbingly like home.

Astarion was functioning on hypervigilant auto-pilot. He was intensely aware of the shadows, the traps, the corners, the hidden things, the paintings on the wall, the statues, the chandeliers, the devils watching them, the fact that this place was a giant empty hall that likely terminated in a throne with one of the most dangerous beings alive on it. He could feel the fear, the burning in his chest, and the hellish energies of this place, directly hostile to him and anyone like him, vampire or high elf or otherwise.

‘And Hutijin?’

‘Off on assignment, there’s been an incursion near Kintyre.’

‘Ah, I see,’ Raphael said, looking past Acenima. His wings flared a couple of times, and he squared his shoulders.

Acenima nodded, like Raphael knew exactly what mood Mephistopheles was in – it didn’t seem good.

‘Your guest?’ Acenima said. ‘Is he an offering?’

‘Not at all, and don’t be so eager, Acenima, it’s not a good look on you.’

Acenima bowed in contrition. ‘Apologies, Master Raphael.’

‘He’s my treasurer, here to check on the stores of gold I’ve been sending to the vaults, and make sure all is accounted for, before we send the next tithe through.’

Acenima’s gaze was highly sceptical, but he simply nodded and stepped back, gesturing down the hall. Raphael said nothing else to him, and they walked once more, Astarion wanting to ask so many questions and instead wishing he was in the shadows instead. Surely if he was to be a thief, it would be best to find some small side entrance? Every palace had one, he was sure this one had plenty.

They passed pillars of ice, and Astarion tried not to stare when he saw people and fiends frozen inside some of them, looking far too alive, eyes forced open in expressions of fixed fear. Raphael followed Astarion’s gaze and said nothing at all. As far as interior decorating went, it certainly was…different. Astarion couldn’t say he minded it, except that he kept thinking it would be far too easy to end up in one of those pillars himself.

The palace was huge, there was a greater hall to follow when they turned left at a central fountain that splashed not with water, but thickly with roiling lava.

The heat in the palace was pleasant, comfortable, and the architecture grand, simple, elegant. Whoever this archduke was, he had a good eye for the palace he’d created as temple to himself.

The next hall was larger, the floors paved with white marble with blue and violet gem stones inlaid in sections, the columns were made of what might be glass or exceptionally clear ice. The space was airy, even light, but also warm, comfortable. The walls had mosaics of battles upon them, all of polished, beautiful glass and ceramic and gemstones. Astarion was certain that if he chipped the gems out of the walls alone he’d be a rich man.

A slow, cooling mindlessness began to take over his thoughts, fear-tinged and horrid. It was the aura of Mephistopheles. One moment he felt alive, his senses taking in as much information as possible, the next he felt was fear and dread, and he thought first of Verillius, then realised this was in a league of its own as they approached a large throne on a dais.

Mephistopheles himself wasn’t beastly – like Astarion half-expected – but instead humanoid and absurdly and diabolically handsome. He had long, black lustrous hair – Astarion tried not to think of Cazador and failed – and was at least as tall as Acenima, if not taller. His skin wasn’t red, like Astarion expected, but a lush deep blue, with his wings and horns darker, like the midnight sky. He lounged on a throne of ivory and white gold and wore the black and deep blue robes of a wizard, enough gold embroidery across them to make it clear he preferred the magical arts over all others.

His horns rose straight up above his head, leaning close together at the tips like two stiff-backed lads whispering secrets to each other, and they were banded in gold and white gold. His pale blue eyes made his glowing red irises contrast brightly. He held a long black staff in one hand that terminated in a cluster of glass or crystal that seemed to contain the essence of hellfire within it, and propped his head up on his hand, elbow resting on the armrest as he took in Raphael and Astarion with a laconic, easy stare.

But the aura was interminable.

Astarion had an urge to go down to his knees, to crawl, to get on his belly. It was almost detached. Raphael stayed tall and seemed completely unaffected.

But surely he’s not. He’s a cambion, after all. He’s half-human. He might even be more affected than me.

Perhaps that was wishful thinking.

Around fifty elite, armed cornugon fiends watched from the sides of the dais, impassive and restrained, looking like royalty themselves.

Raphael went down to one knee when they reached the steps up to the throne, and Astarion quickly followed, bowing his head far lower than Raphael did and keeping it there. The longer he could escape the attention of this being, the better.

Raphael didn’t stand, though he did straighten with the grace of someone who was used to addressing a family member in this fashion regularly. It reminded Astarion of all of Cazador’s children, going to one knee before him, bowing their heads.

Curious, then, that Raphael does that here.

‘I hear Kintyre needs some protection,’ Raphael said. ‘I’m sure you have no need of assistance, but if you wish it, you have the resources of the House of Hope at your eternal disposal as always.’

Mephistopheles straightened in his throne. Astarion saw the robes shift, the booted feet both meeting the floor.

‘Greetings to my misbegotten cambion son, Raphael, I’m sure your mother’s c*nt was warm enough once, but I fail to remember it every time I see your face.’

Astarion pressed his lips together because now was not the time to smile, but that was a wonderful line. Gods, Astarion was stealing that and tucking it away to use as much as often for the rest of his life. If he ever saw Gale again, goodness, for a moment raw glee chased away the lurking terror. He couldn’t wait to say that. Or – no! – even better, he could say it to one of Jaheira’s children while she was there. Perfect.

‘This vampire I see before me, is he a gift? Something new to experiment with?’

All glee vanished in one single, painful burst in Astarion’s chest. Mephistopheles’ voice was low, polite, and contained the empty warmth of a predator biding its time. Astarion knew that sensation enough to not want to be the target of it.

‘I’d like you to meet Astarion Ancunin, one of the unlikely, absurd crew that-’

‘-Killed you,’ Mephistopheles said with slow interest, stretching one of his legs out.

‘…Destroyed the Absolute,’ Raphael finished.

‘And killed you,’ Mephistopheles drawled. ‘This thing? Really?’

Mephistopheles stood, as did Raphael, and Astarion stayed with his head low, swallowed and even though he’d eaten almost nothing that day, felt like he could vomit up his entire stomach and everything else in his entire body. Raphael’s plan was absurd, it was stupid.

A step that was quiet, but the presence coming closer clouded Astarion’s mind until he felt a furnace-hot finger beneath his chin, a gesture Raphael had used himself in the past. Astarion looked up into those glowing eyes and couldn’t think. If there was some essence of hellfire, some scent crisping up the insides of his nose and throat, he didn’t know what it was. For a moment all he could taste was not the sweet blood of prey caught, but the chemical blood of his own death, when he’d been ruined by the Gur.

It was the same feeling of knowing this was where he was supposed to die.

‘Enough maggots in a necrotic wound are meant to clean it out, not kill it,’ Mephistopheles said, never looking away from Astarion. ‘Perhaps you’re the wound, Raphael, and not the whole itself.’

‘A reflection on my father’s upbringing, no doubt.’

Mephistopheles’ eyes flicked to Raphael’s quickly. But then he gazed at Astarion once more.

‘Then why is it here?’ he said.

‘I needed new staff, and it amused me to bind him under contract and seal him to me, make him slave as my treasurer after such rank thievery. You can see for yourself he’s enjoying his visit.’

‘The rank terror of a peon,’ Mephistopheles nearly purred. Claws tapped against the side of Astarion’s face. ‘I wonder what I’d be able to do to you, in one of my many laboratories. I’ve not had a vampire smart enough to kill a cambion before. Though I’ve certainly had some who tried. And treasurer? Mm. You must forgive my son’s sense of humour, perhaps you might forgive him when cowed beneath his whip.’

Mephistopheles trailed a claw down the tip of Astarion’s shaking ear, then casually poked that sharpness into his ear, a burst of sharp pain following. Astarion swallowed down the sound that throbbed in his chest. He could still hear the claw as it withdrew, but not as well as before. Not a burst eardrum then, which was something Godey or Cazador might have done.

‘Zariel wants the House of Hope,’ Raphael said.

There was none of his theatrical charm here. He seemed as cold as his father. Maybe colder. Astarion could imagine it now, Raphael growing up in Cania, and then discovering Faerun one day, as well as charm, and then plays and actors and soliloquys, and from there…

…Was that where he’d learned to talk the way he did when he was more relaxed?

Mephistopheles turned to glare at Raphael. ‘Because you have been useless at defending it.’

‘I have defended it well for millennia, and you know as well as I do just how necessary it is as a path through to Faerun. It is one of the most strategic locations in all of Avernus, and I trust that you deigned to bring me back for a reason, so let me defend it. Verillius will have it within days otherwise.’

‘You seek to ask me a favour? I returned you to life as one, I fail to see much gratitude for it, whelp. I could rape a hundred whor*s and breed a hundred more cambion, each more useful than you.’

Raphael considered him for a long moment.

‘I’d like to send my treasurer to my vaults, the ones you frequently take the gold out of, when you need to procure more ingredients and subjects for your valuable scientific projects. With that, I could fortify the comforting, necessary House of Hope, and you know your coffers would remain full to overflowing for the foreseeable future.’

Mephistopheles moved away from Astarion, turning decisively towards Raphael.

‘I mislike this coarse attitude of yours. I am not only your father, I am the Archduke and Baron of Cania, Duke of Brimstone, Lord of the Eighth and Hellfire itself, and you forget your place. Perhaps, in the killing of you, you lost your ability to behave appropriately around me.’

Raphael stared blankly at his father, and Astarion felt a growing alarm, because he could tell Raphael was in a far worse position than he was, despite everyone assuming he was there to be some kind of vampire sacrifice.

‘A cambion is never too old to pull back into line,’ Mephistopheles said quietly, threat in every inch of his words. ‘You know yourself that the half-human devils need severe vigilance, they have less obedience than even the basest fiends. Even Haarlep betrayed you, in the end.’

‘Then perhaps you should have vetted them better, before sending them to keep an eye on me.’

The violence was unexpected when it came. One moment, it seemed Mephistopheles was gearing up to lecture his son, the next, Raphael was sprawled ten feet away on the marble tiles, pushing up awkwardly, not touching the split that opened at his jaw after Mephistopheles backhanded him. The cornugon soldiers at the throne didn’t even blink, like this was perfectly normal.

‘I’m still here, father,’ Raphael said, voice as smooth as before. ‘I’m still defending the House of Hope, still keeping your prized location ready for your war, if you can ever drag yourself away from your projects long enough to get what you truly desire. Supposedly. Now, now,’ -Raphael held up a hand and miraculously, Mephistopheles didn’t hit him again, but his arm was still tense- ‘can I send my treasurer to fetch the gold necessary to hire the staff needed to defend your House of Hope, or shall he stay to witness your lack of control over your own progeny?’

‘I lose count of how many cambion sons I’ve killed over the years,’ Mephistopheles said. ‘But we need not be hostile. Yes, let’s send your treasurer into the vaults. After all, it’s your gold to do with as you wish, is it not? Even though you leave it here for safekeeping.’

‘You spend it better than I do,’ Raphael said.

‘It is not my fault that you bred false and share none of the prodigious skills I have in magic or the sciences. Still, you have far more patience with wining and dining the fools of Avernus and the insects of the world than I do, and I have always seen the importance of delegation. But you and I need to have a talk, I think, given how you misuse my favour. I didn’t resurrect you so that you might keep coming back and mewling at me.’

Mephistopheles made a dismissive gesture in Astarion’s direction, which he realised from a quick look from Raphael, was a sign to leave.

Two cornugons stepped forwards, and Astarion wanted to laugh. Oh yes, escorted by two fiends, just like Raphael said, but bloody cornugons?

The cornugons flanked him, oppressively tall close up, smelling of the strange, carrion-scented musk of creatures that ate sentient meat where possible and didn’t care as much for hygiene as they should. They walked decisively away from Raphael and Mephistopheles, and Astarion had no choice but to follow, resisting the urge to look over his shoulder and scream at Raphael for putting him in this position in the first place. Splitting up like this, in Mephistar, in the Eighth f*cking circle of Baator, while he had nothing more than his wits to sustain him?

He steeled himself and focused on the mission ahead – he’d gotten good at that – and wondered for what felt like the thousandth time, just what sunlight really meant to him, and how far he’d go to get it back.

Chapter 17: Cold Decay and Metallic Wealth

Chapter Text

As Astarion descended the stairs with the two cornugons, the warmth of Mephistar remained. The cornugons said nothing at first, both walking with a light grace despite their height and breadth. He knew he couldn’t fight them outright; he wouldn’t stand a chance without someone like Halsin or Lae’zel and ideally many others by his side. He thought of all the potions in his bag, thought of the task ahead, and wished – for once – that the tasks he was sent on didn’t feel foolishly impossible. It was only fun to gloat once they were over and he was firmly alive and well.

‘Not even a fiend,’ one of the cornugons said, casting a disparaging look down at Astarion. ‘Master Raphael’s that scared of us, then.’

‘Nah, you weren’t listening. This one killed him. Rumours were that Master Raphael was even ascended at the time too.’

‘This thing?’ the cornugon said, then gave an ugly smirk, eyes glittering. ‘Really?’

‘There were others,’ the other cornugon said. He had broader horns, and seemed less like a grunt for hire, more intelligent.

‘Lord Mephistopheles’ll get some entertainment at least, now that Master Raphael’s home.’

Low, filthy, evil laughs, and Astarion looked between them even as he tried to take in the grandeur and pathways and potential exits all around them.

‘Do you know,’ Astarion said, trying not to feel too alarmed at the way they looked at him with laser brightness, ‘Lord Raphael hasn’t told me a great deal about his relationship with his father. Entertainment you say? Do tell.’

‘Master Raphael, he tortured you yet?’ one of the cornugons said.

‘Of course he has, it’s what he knows best,’ the broad-horned cornugon said.

‘I’m no stranger to torture,’ Astarion said laconically. It was true enough, even if it wasn’t necessarily at the hands of Raphael. They didn’t need to know it was all Cazador and Godey and whoever else Cazador looped into his games at the time.

‘He won’t beat you though, will he?’ the first cornugon said.

‘Now that you mention it, he’s never done that,’ Astarion said.

‘Yeah,’ the second cornugon said. ‘I do wish we weren’t on this particular detail. Be nice to watch what happens up there.’

‘He mightn’t do it straight away,’ the first cornugon said. ‘Mightn’t do it at all. It’s not every time. Was better when Master Raphael was a small thing.’

‘Good screams.’

‘Very good screams. You look like you got some good screams in you.’

‘Bet he’s a crier,’ said the broad-horned cornugon, reaching out and jabbing Astarion’s arm with a sharp claw. ‘Looks like a crier.’

Astarion affected a casual air, but he didn’t like the way the conversation was turning. The stairs were endless, spiralling down, and Astarion wanted to look back to see how far he’d have to travel back up again. There were guards here too, stationed frequently enough that Astarion had to admit grudging respect for Mephistopheles’ security. The occasional cornugon guarded certain corridors, and many smaller fiends stood by doors. Astarion didn’t recognise many of the smaller fiends, even from his reading. He supposed Cania had types of fiend that no one had lived long enough to report back on in Faerun.

‘Does anyone mind telling me why it’s so warm in here, and nothing melts, even though so much seems to be made of ice?’

‘Hellfire,’ the first cornugon said.

‘Wizardry,’ said the broad-horned cornugon.

That seemed to be the end of it, but thankfully they stopped talking about whether Astarion was a “good crier” after that.

It was another thirty minutes before they reached a long shadow-black corridor of heavily gated vaults, one after the other. Astarion could smell the gunpowder and oil of traps, and spotted many places where they might be. He saw not only the space itself, but also the glittering of tripwires, the locks on the vaults themselves, as well as the shimmer of magic. In several corners were the chained skeletons of what looked like humanoids and fiends alike. A faint smell of dusty decay, and the peculiar metallic scent of mountains of wealth behind all of that.

Astarion’s fingers itched.

Further down, Astarion baulked when he saw a shape shimmer into corporeality in the shadows. A large white hellcat nearly as tall as Astarion who seemed to blur at the edges, and he faltered at the lively way it glared at him, despite the thick black metal collar around its neck and the chain that connected it to the wall. Blood dripped from beneath the collar, and he could see wounds all over it. The hellcat was larger than any lion, even some of the dire wolves Astarion had encountered in the past.

‘Bezekira,’ the first cornugon said to the cat. ‘Not a fun death to watch. Will just lie down silently.’

‘Soon though,’ the broad-horned cornugon said. ‘We’ll come down and watch it.’

‘She’s starving and only makes noises when she sleeps. Shameful. She tries to be silent always, but she’s tired more often. Her sleep cries are sweet.’

‘Very sweet indeed. Maybe she’ll sleep before she dies. Most bezekira aren’t interesting to starve, but the kitten whimpers from a creature like her are like honey to the humans she used to eat.’

The hellcat must have some understanding of language, or maybe she just disdained their voices, the way she looked at both of them, swinging her head in each of their directions. Her ribs showed through a thin, dull coat, and her skin hung loose in some places. A twinge in Astarion’s chest to think of her locked up down here, left to die. He slammed doors shut on all the thoughts of those spawn down in the dark under Cazador’s palace, on his own caged existence. He wanted to ask about her, but he didn’t trust these cornugons one bit. If they focused on her suffering, maybe they’d forget about his.

‘She’s not even fighting anymore,’ the broad-horned cornugon said. He walked towards her, and she stared at him with white eyes, ears pinned. Her teeth bared in a snarl, her canines white and sharp.

The broad-horned cornugon pulled out a knife and swung it at her, but she didn’t move. She glared at him. She was doing a remarkable job of looking derisive.

The first cornugon laughed, a rasping, nasty thing. ‘Can’t use regular weapons on her, and she knows it. Get a devil with a staff, and she’ll cry a different tune.’

‘Those who are silent as the grave belong in one,’ the broad-horned cornugon said, sheathing his blade. ‘She’s a boring thing. Too thin to even eat, now.’

‘The vault,’ the first cornugon said, pointing to a vault a few feet down from her. ‘This one.’

‘I know the vaults better than you do, Durnar.’

The first cornugon said nothing, just approached the vault. Astarion looked back at the bezekira as they unlocked the vault – a complex combination of magic, a key, and what seemed like hellfire – and the first of the heavy metal doors swung open. Where in the nine hells were the soul coins?

The hellcat stared at him, ears pushed forwards curiously. Astarion had put a speak with beasts potion in his bag, even though he didn’t think he’d need it. But he’d use it if he managed to get a private moment. If she let him get close enough, perhaps…

He’d never been one for rescuing animals in the past. And he wouldn’t tell anyone he was one for rescuing animals now. But they’d saved Scratch, rescued the owlbear, and then saved the oddly polite dilophosaur at the circus. The displacer beast hadn’t listened to them, and Astarion still wondered if there’d been a way they could have made that work.

It was foolish to relate to animals more than a lot of the people he met, but he knew better than most what it was to be chained to a wall like a dog. He knew a life of being treated as lesser than most beasts. The bitter reality was he saw more of himself in that hellcat than he did in his fellows. He loathed that about himself, he even loathed the hellcat, but he’d still see if he could talk to her, rescue her.

He did a mental inventory of the potions he had. He’d taken more than he needed, but was it enough in a place this dangerous?

‘Oi! Insect! Get in there and get the gold you need.’

‘Coming, darlings,’ Astarion called, realising they’d moved deeper into the vault. He looked between the cornugons as he approached, took a breath, decided to risk it. ‘You know, if you give me some time in there alone, I can make it very much worth your while.’

‘Don’t need gold,’ Durnar said.

‘We can’t eat it, we don’t need it,’ the broad-horned cornugon said.

‘Give us an arm,’ Durnar said. ‘Only need one arm.’

‘Meat is good,’ the broad-horned cornugon said.

Well! That was a mistake, Astarion thought. He took one last look at the bezekira before walking into the vault, then stopped when he saw the amount of gold in front of him. By the gods, that was ridiculous.

He had fantasies of stealing all of it and building himself some giant underground palace, he’d had enough gold leftover to pay some wizard – not Gale, anyone but Gale, that would drive him up the wall – to create the sense of artificial sunlight. He could execute anyone who looked like Temter in the vicinity for fun.

Astarion’s eyes narrowed at his own thoughts. It wasn’t that he was angry at Temter, exactly, it was only that it fit the fantasy!

The room was large enough, and there were enough cornugon-sized mounds of gold, that Astarion started to ferment an idea. They were never his strong point, but when push came to shove, he could at least figure something out.

He opened his bag, then bent down and picked up some of the gold like he was assessing its quality, then he made a calculated sound of disapproval.

‘What’s that?’ Durnar said. ‘Just get it and go.’

‘I’m sorry, but if you think the House of Hope that lies in a strategic position for your Lord Mephistopheles should be funded with gold of this quality, then you can go up to him yourselves and say you think he’s worth nothing more than inferior gold.’

The broad-horned cornugon squinted at him, but Durnar looked alarmed. ‘It’s all just gold, isn’t it?’

‘I assure you it’s not. See this? This is…’ -Think quick, Astarion- ‘the inferior gold of the gnome cultists of Ashar-Et-Aldurrik. They create very cheap alloys that once melted down, contain barely any percentage of gold at all. It’s nothing like dwarven gold, or even better, the gold of the elves.’

Astarion had no idea what he was talking about, but he thought it sounded good enough. So did Durnar, apparently.

‘Of course I understand that my esteemed Lord Raphael has spread his net over so many cults he might not have had the time to assess gold quality, but as a goldsmith of the highest order, trained under the watchful eyes of the Mellifluous Ordinations of the…Golden Council, apprenticed to…Jaheira the Scoundrel, I can tell when I’m seeing inferior gold. If I rush things now, I’ll simply have to come back later to collect more.’

‘Just find the gold you’re looking for, insect,’ the broad-horned cornugon said suspiciously.

Astarion stared back for some time, then dropped all the perfectly excellent gold and looked about as though pretending to search, before he pointed at a non-descript equally identical mound of gold at the back of the large vault, as far from the cornugons as possible.

‘Ah! The gold of the elves of Fhae-Lebbia. I’ll need far less of that, it’s such a lovely quality, wouldn’t you agree? Won’t be but a minute!’

He moved nimbly in the direction of the mound at the back of the vault and tried not to show any alarm when the broad-horned cornugon attempted to follow him. A moment later the intense jingling-clattering of thousands of gold coins slipping beneath the cornugon’s heavy feet, and he muttered an intense series of curses.

‘Hurry up!’ he called, returning to the vault entrance.

‘Of course, darling!’

He was panting for air he didn’t need when he got behind the mound, and he opened his bag and found the purse Raphael had given him and started funnelling gold into it. The gold seemed to disappear, and Astarion absently kept pouring gold into the purse as he looked around the vault. He could see some narrow vents, ages old, and he could sense traps even here. This wouldn’t do at all. Not under this kind of surveillance.

Damn it all.

He readied several potions all at once. He downed the first despicable tasting potion to turn himself invisible, checking if he could see the gold through his arm as he waved it over the verdant piles.

The next, an ancient bottle of sleep potion he’d identified by scent alone back at the House of Hope, finding it strong enough that the scent made his thoughts spiral loose for ten seconds. He put that down by his feet.

He drank a potion to speak with beasts, feeling like he was going slosh at this rate, given the healing potion he’d downed earlier after Raphael’s ritual.

It was intense concentration alongside the glee of confidence as he crept stealthily to the other side of the vault in complete silence, closer to the cornugons, sleep potion in his hand. He avoided the traps and examined the cornugons closely. They were between the first and second vault doors so if they collapsed quickly, the other devils or fiends might not know they’d fallen asleep.

Please work, he silently willed, as he picked up a handful of gold in one hand and readied himself to throw the bottle with the other.

At once, the sound of gold coins clinking down noisily, clattering, to semi-mask the sound of the glass bottle being flung and shattering at the cornugons’ feet. Vapours rose instantly, thick and blue-grey, and the broad-horned cornugon sank down almost gracefully, eyes rolling into the back of his head. Durnar followed a moment later, looking alarmed as he crashed into his comrade.

Astarion leapt across the gold as silently and quickly as possible, avoiding the vapours still rising from the ground, even though he wanted to go over their slumbering bodies to find out if they had anything he could use.

He peeked out of the vault. No one was looking in his direction, except for the bezekira hellcat, who – he realised with a chill of uncanny alarm – could see him even when he was invisible.

Here goes nothing.

He moved towards her quietly, looking behind him, trying to be careful.

‘If I free you,’ he whispered once he was close enough, ‘will you kill me like a fish? Or will you set your sights on true freedom?’

Why not both, pale one? she said back, her voice lilting and cold, loud in his mind. Kill you like a fish and set my sights on true freedom.

Astarion straightened because none of the other devils had reacted to him yet. He came even closer. He hefted his hand crossbow, and her lip curled in a snarl. Her teeth were fierce and long.

‘I don’t want to kill you, but I stand a far better chance killing you than those bastards,’ Astarion whispered, pointing towards the cornugons. ‘Avernus awaits me, and from what I remember of hellcats, you’re invisible in the sun, darling. You’re too lovely to waste away here in the dark like this. Just, oh, just look at you, I know you’re worth far more than this. But nothing comes from nothing, and I need some help.’

She continued to stare at him, long white tail flicking in annoyance. Finally she stared towards the vault as though she could see the unconscious cornugons through the walls.

What is it you want from me? she said, and then her head swung towards him again, her voice changing to something nearly plaintive: Compliment me again, slave.

It was something he hated to do for Cazador, but he could always manage for a cat, especially for a rather evil version of one.

‘Your eyes are as white as perfectly bleached bones, or even pearls,’ Astarion said, thinking quickly. ‘Your pelt shimmers, but still shows how strong and cunning you are. Even in the dark, down here, you are a queen.’

I am, she said with cool acknowledgement. Her voice rippled more easily into his mind than any other beast he’d ever spoken to. It was like communing with a humanoid, except that he could sense animal around her mind, foreign and strange. You do not need gold, do you? I have no masters here, and want none from the wastes of Cania.

‘I need soul coins. Can you point me to the vault?’

The hellcat considered him for a long time. She looked around, then her nostrils flared on what seemed to be a huff of resignation.

You cannot get into the vault, she said.

‘Leave that part to me.’

She stared at his bag. Can you make light?

Astarion nodded.

Tell me quickly what you can do, and I will tell you quickly if you can survive.

Astarion frowned at her. She didn’t speak like Scratch or the owlbear, nor any of the other animals in Faerun. Maybe this was something peculiar to bezekira.

‘I can steal anything, disarm any trap, pick any lock, stalk the shadows, see in darkness, and I’ve been told I’m an absolute hit in the bedroom.’

The creature clearly didn’t appreciate levity.

We can ambush them with the traps. They cannot see me in the light. So make some light, and I will take you to the vault. I can smell those infernal coins from even here.

‘And on the matter of killing me?’

Be useful, pale one, and I’ll be useful in turn. Nothing comes from nothing, remember?

Astarion couldn’t say why, but he sensed she was telling the truth. Oh, he knew she wouldn’t hesitate to enjoy killing everyone down here including him, but he could sense her rage at this place, and knew she was desperate to get free.

He walked closer to her, and her jaws parted. He didn’t smell meat; she’d been starved for far too long. There was a cold decay about her breath, sweet and frigid and rotten. The scent of fear too, not directed at Astarion, but likely at all those who had tortured her over possibly months or years.

She made a pretence of laying down casually, stretching out, and none of the devils looked towards them. It was a matter of seconds to pick the lock at her neck, but the collar was old, and it made a clanking noise as the mechanisms clicked free.

The first devil to look towards them was dead before he could say a word. She pounced at the human-sized fiend in complete silence and ripped its throat out, a spray of blood painting her face. She crept quickly towards a mote of light from the distant entrance, and Astarion saw the moment she flickered nearly out of view. But he knew the shape of her now, and he could see the slight perturbations in the air about her.

Then she appeared, stalking towards him, a starved bloodthirsty killer ready to eat him.

But instead of tearing him apart – as hungry as she had to be, for he could see it in her hungering eyes - she stalked past him.

Follow, she commanded. The devils down here are tired and lazy and do not like this detail. It is a punishment to nearly all of them. Now that Ricken is gone, we have time. Not much, but seconds are better than none, and minutes are miles in comparison.

Astarion turned and followed her, both of them moving silently into the pitch-black depths of the corridor, the entire weight of Mephistar resting on the wealth in these vaults as Astarion waited to see if she was actually going to help him, or merely luring him to a place where she could feast upon him in peace.

Chapter 18: Cherries and Char

Chapter Text

Astarion stood before a large vault, the smell of blood he couldn’t feed on in the back of his nose. Both the bezekira’s, which was sour and musky, and the blood of the fiends that she’d killed in near silence. For an emaciated, starving creature, she was intimidatingly powerful. She had a body count of about twenty, moving fast enough that Astarion didn’t like his chances against her if she turned on him.

It had been reflexive when the last fiend had fallen in a spray of black arterial goop, to stare in awe and laugh softly.

‘You are a delight,’ he said. ‘Look at how perfect you are at ripping these monsters to shreds, they deserve no less after the way they made you suffer.’

‘You stink of Faerun and death,’ she’d said in cold response. ‘How is it you know to address me like this, when the other maggots of Faerun cower and quiver before me?’

‘They should cower,’ Astarion said, then grinned. ‘Tell me, were you about to feast upon them beforehand? Did they know?’

‘They knew,’ she said, with tired pleasure. ‘Now consider those doors before you, and tell me how reckless you feel, wanting to steal these soul coins.'

Astarion could feel the weight of the soul coins. He sensed behind those thick doors were mountains of an unusual treasure reverberating with the trapped and fallen mortal souls within. He could tell the vault doors themselves – at least ten times as tall as he was, covered in runes and other magical sigils, and not at all subtle – were not going to be the way in.

He investigated the area quickly after taking a larger and better-looking crossbow and all the bolts from one of the downed fiends. He kept the hand bow strapped to his back, just in case.

Finally, he backtracked and looked up at the ceiling of ice above them, then the pillars.

Well, it was good that he had no real fear of heights at times like this.

‘Wait here,’ he whispered to the bezekira – who licked her bloodied paws and ignored him –then climbed up one of the pillars, the strangest feeling of warmed, solid ice beneath his palm.

It took more exploration to find his way to the vault via a series of beams across the tall ceiling. Up here he found little else. There was one small bag that contained an ancient, bloodied hand, a small flask of sour wine, and a small knife. A prisoner escaping, perhaps. Astarion had no idea.

The vault was well-made, but it still had to be built. Well, Astarion assumed as much. Perhaps Mephistopheles willed it into existence, he had no blasted idea. He’d had enough of devils to last the rest of his undying life.

His theory that even the most supposedly impregnable vaults were still built by flawed beings remained true when he found larger air vents towards the back of the vault while crawling through a glacier cave that chilled his skin and breath, separate and apart from the magic of the palace, and reverberating with the sounds of dull grinding and crunching.

He dropped into the vault silently, expecting some horrendously large monster to be protecting the soul coins. Instead, he saw the large piles of coins, black with their dull red glow, limning Astarion in crimson. He took as long as possible to assess the large space but couldn’t see anything.

It was possible Mephistopheles didn’t trust a single fiend in here.

Good for you, Daddy Archduke, I wouldn’t either.

Easy then, to open the pouch Raphael gave him and soundlessly drop two hundred soul coins into the House of Hope. Easier to take another three hundred. Easy to keep going. By the time he’d demolished one small pile, he realised he couldn’t stay here forever and still had to figure out how to get the f*ck out of here alive.

Maybe he could bypass the main entrance and meet Raphael outside?

That…seemed incredibly stupid, but also safer than simply walking back up the stairs on his own, absent two cornugons, smiling and waving cheerily at every guard he passed. The invisibility potion wouldn’t last forever.

‘While I’m here…’ he muttered to himself, siphoning more soul coins into the pouch. They made for heavy handfuls, but he felt a peculiar thrill in knowing he’d far exceeded the expectations of what Raphael expected from him. Why, there’d even be some gold there too when they returned.

Not that Raphael needed it, apparently, giving so much to his father.

He finished up, crawled back through the glacier cave that felt narrower than before – his imagination, hopefully – and as soon as he returned to the other side, a large hand grabbed him by the ankle and flung him violently off the beam of ice, snapping the joint.

The fall was brutal, and Astarion gasped hoarsely as his hip crunched. He lost the feeling in his legs immediately. Bad, bad, bad! He fumbled for the bag, biting down on the urge to call for help from his companions on his tongue, trembling with agony as he pressed a healing potion to his mouth. Endless clamour around him, the yowl of a furious hellcat, and blood on Astarion’s body from the pools of it on the floor, dead fiends sprawled and broken and ripped apart around him.

In an instant, he knew what had happened. The cornugons had awakened, they’d been discovered, the reinforcements were there, the bezekira needed help.

They were spectacularly f*cked.

He shot off two crossbow shots, which none of the fiends expected, and managed to take down two of the smaller winged beasts. Astarion staggered to his feet and looked around frantically. The exits were blocked.

I’ll kill you last, the bezekira said directly into his mind with a frantic certainty, for placing me in this situation, fetid slug.

Astarion looked back to the beams and thought about the glacier cave. The tunnel continued past the vault; it was possible they could escape that way. The cornugons couldn’t fit in there, which was a plus, but the smaller fiends could.

A heavy spear pierced and tore through his dominant arm in those few seconds of thinking, he shouted in pain, reflexively reaching for another potion, and another, and then threw one in the bezekira’s direction, because she was only walking on three legs and blood dripped from her open maw.

‘Follow me!’ he called to her.

He ran to one of the pillars, quickly drinking another invisibility potion as he went, queasy from the blood loss and excess of fluid in his gut. She leapt past him in a single bound, reaching the top of the beams, following the path he’d returned from with slinking stealth. Astarion followed clumsily, feeling enough wrongness and pain his body that he gulped down another potion and realised with sinking dread he was going to run out soon, and wasn’t it hilarious that he thought he’d overstocked before?

Hilarious.

He wanted to attack the fiends following, but knew as soon as he did, the invisibility would drop away. Blasted magic users weren’t trying hard enough if they couldn’t create potions that lasted through battle easily, what f*cking good were they, anyway? Just because they got to do everything from a safe distance, the wretched assholes.

Astarion belatedly remembered he was also a magic user, and he also got to attack from a safe distance – sometimes – but it wasn’t like it mattered right now because if he used it, the invisibility would fall away.

He scrambled as fast as he could manage, got into the glacier cave, and felt a bite of cold that was so violent he nearly screamed. He thought, for a moment, some beast had crushed his chest in two. He kicked violently at a touch of claws at his leg, some fiend shrieking and shrinking back in response, and Astarion scrabbled forwards with numb fingers after the bezekira, staring at her long lashing tail, hearing the scrape of her claws on ice.

Even with the healing potion, she still dripped enough blood that he smeared it underneath him as he made his way behind her.

His breath plumed out coldly in front of him. He was beginning to think Raphael’s little ritual had a tight expiration date.

Fresh ragged claws raking into his back leg, shredding his protective clothing, and Astarion was beginning to feel dizzy. The potions could only do so much. Blood loss was becoming a significant issue.

He followed the quickly-moving bezekira past the vault, and they wound through the glacier, sometimes up, sometimes down, as Astarion tried not to become convinced that this was where he was going to die. Maybe the last thing he really was going to do, was get all those soul coins for a devil who had promised him the sun.

‘Damn it,’ he hissed.

Enough kicking had managed to cause some kind of bottleneck of fiends behind him. The tunnel was too narrow to allow more than one person through at a time, and they had to crawl low to the ground. Astarion had managed to twist in a short, widened section and shoot two fiends to death. One in the face, one in the shoulder and neck. They’d collapsed and were now blocking the tunnel for the others to come through.

Soon, they left the fiends behind.

‘Where are we going?’ Astarion cried out. ‘The cold does…nothing for my complexion.’

We cannot stay where we are not wanted, the bezekira said calmly. You should already be dead. Magic protects you from the cold. Baator magic.

Astarion barely held panic and pain at bay. He was exhausted, his vision clouded reddish-black at the edges. He could hear his laboured breathing, an old, old habit he couldn’t stop when he was pushed this far to his physical limits. His body still remembered these things, instincts took over.

Follow me, slave, and I’ll save you, the bezekira said confidently. I understand glaciers better than most understand their marrow, though I should like to taste some of that now.

He heard the starvation in her voice and simply followed.

Sometime later they slowed and used the last of the healing potions. That was it, nothing else to heal them, and nothing to solve the hunger or the fatigue. There was some light shining through the glacier, turning the world blue and white, but he wasn’t burning, and he could still make her out. He wondered if it was something she permitted, or if it was something that happened when she was too exhausted. Or maybe he was simply getting the knack of it now.

‘I could do with some blood right about now,’ Astarion sighed.

I should like to feast upon the fatty brains of ten people, then eat up all their muscles, and shear my teeth through all their tendons. I want the crunch of bone in my mouth. I want to lick their blood off my fur for once, and not my own.

‘You know,’ Astarion said, ‘there are portals in the House of Hope in Avernus that go all over Faerun. Perhaps Raphael might let you use them.’

She swung her huge head to consider him with something desultory on her surprisingly expressive face. To this day, Astarion loved how superior cats were as creatures. But then, they’d evolved to be such lovely hunting machines.

He still couldn’t believe she’d survived so much of that battle. It had to be that she could only be injured with magical weapons and magic attacks, and not physical weapons, unlike Astarion, who still felt the bruises and blows that the healing potions were sluggishly touching.

You are not as awful as most rogues, she said finally. No one has stolen soul coins like that before. You have found a way out.

‘We’re not out yet,’ Astarion said, his teeth starting to chatter.

She watched him, then turned and kept moving, and Astarion groaned and followed.

*

It must have been two hours when they finally made it above the glacier and trekked down to the wide bridge, heavy, dark clouds above them. Bezekira showed him an invisible path from the ice to the bridge itself, and Astarion had the hair-raising, mind-shattering moment of having to walk across an invisible bridge above a black, endless chasm that was no doubt littered with bones at the impossible bottom.

At the very end of the bridge, Raphael waited, looking furious.

‘Soul coins acquired!’ Astarion said brightly.

Raphael’s deadened, angry expression didn’t change. His glowing eyes flicked once to the bezekira, and his jaw worked.

‘Go elsewhere,’ he said.

I chose him, the bezekira said, tail lashing in Astarion’s direction. He’s mine.

‘You misguided, tortured, pathetic thing. A disgusting old pelt and some useless bones, yet you fancy yourself a master? He’s under contract with me.’

He’s still mine. I chose him, so he’s mine now.

Astarion stared between them.

‘Wait,’ he said to her, ‘can you talk? I didn’t need a speak with beasts potion at all?’

I am a bezekira, you foolish insect. You should not even look upon me if you can’t understand the simplest things about us. Her voice was amused, and she sounded indulgent, even fond.

‘Astarion, give me a healing potion,’ Raphael said abruptly.

‘I’m…all out, I’m afraid,’ Astarion said, staring at him closely. He laughed nervously.

He couldn’t tell if Raphael had been injured or not, but what the cornugons said came back to him and he found himself looking up and down Raphael’s clothed body for blood. He couldn’t see any.

‘You’re out,’ Raphael said flatly.

‘Yes!’ Astarion hissed, anger eclipsing his fear. ‘Because your plan was stupid, because you didn’t have a plan! Well done, Raphael, you’re lucky I’m even ali-’

Raphael snapped his fingers, and Astarion collapsed to the ground, a sharp pain yanking at him from somewhere in his gut. He swallowed a scream.

‘You’re not alive,’ Raphael said to him, like he was utterly worthless. ‘Stop pretending you are.’

Raphael glared at the bezekira, who stood on sore limbs and lashed her tail angrily, as Astarion dug fingers into his muscles, trying to understand where the pain was coming from, trying not to yell as his teeth vibrated against each other with the cold.

You are too weak to stop me from coming with you, the bezekira said. I hear you have portals. I need meat.

‘I’ve no interest in pets, and you don’t own him.’

I own him, she said stubbornly. And you’ll be my pet, Raphael – son of Mephistopheles – or I’ll kill you here and now. I know better than most how weak you are.

‘You’ll die in a matter of days if you don’t get to Faerun,’ Raphael said silkily.

The pain in Astarion’s gut was slowly fading, he stared at Raphael and thought the devil was holding himself stiffly. Too stiffly. He pushed up. He couldn’t see what had done it, but Raphael was hurt.

‘She saved my life,’ Astarion said. ‘I simply do not care what kind of quibbling you both want to get through right now. Can we please go somewhere warmer?’ He appealed to Raphael’s desires. ‘I don’t like Cania. The House of Hope is far more comfortable.’

Raphael’s expression did something that Astarion had no hope of reading, his cambion form hid so much of him.

‘You’re right,’ Raphael acceded, ‘there’s plenty of time to decide where to burn a useless bezekira pelt.’

He passed his hand through the air and a portal shimmered, and they all walked through it, one by one.

*

The first thing the bezekira did when they appeared in the House of Hope, was vanish through the portal to Baldur’s Gate. Astarion stared after her.

‘I thought only you could use the portals,’ he said, confused.

Raphael said nothing, grabbing Astarion’s arm roughly, then dragging him through the House of Hope, ignoring his complaints. Astarion caught small details, a scent of char and cherries, and at one point he looked down and saw blood dripping onto the ground, it was gathering at the back of Raphael’s clothing.

‘Where are we going?’ Astarion said, exhausted, wanting nothing more than to collapse on a bed. ‘I need to… I need to hunt.’

He was walked down a corridor to a portrait he’d never seen before, and Raphael took in a ragged breath as he pushed it aside and pressed his hand to a tile, hellfire glowing bright in his fingers.

An excess of soul coins spilled out of the safe as it opened, and Raphael stared at them all as though he could hardly see them.

‘I think that counts as “at least two hundred” wouldn’t you say?’ Astarion said with tired satisfaction. It was a great deal more than he’d realised he was stealing at the time. ‘There’s some gold in there too.’

‘I can work with this,’ Raphael said, sounding satisfied.

Raphael’s nostrils flared, he squared his shoulders, his wings sagged, and his eyes twitched on the beginnings of a wince. The sigh he let out a few seconds later was slow and measured. Astarion tried not to look at him too obviously, but that was the way someone breathed through pain.

‘Perhaps… a healing potion…’ Astarion said. ‘Maybe Fhaeleb, and one of her spells?’

Raphael’s expression was forbidding, and Astarion had the sense that Raphael was angry at him and wasn’t sure why. It wasn’t like Astarion had hurt him. But then, perhaps Raphael just needed a safe, weak target.

‘You reek,’ Raphael said, voice flat. ‘How many times did you nearly die down there?’

‘Darling, your bedroom talk leaves much to be desired.’

‘Bedroom talk,’ Raphael said, as though echoing the words. ‘Yes, all right then. If you insist.’

Astarion didn’t mean to step backwards out of Raphael’s attempt to grab him, but his alarm exploded.

‘We’re all tired,’ Astarion said. ‘Let me freshen up and feast on a person or two. Don’t you think-’

Raphael’s clawed hands coming down on both of his shoulders, wrenching him close, and then a nose at his neck, sniffing deeply, horns brushing against his hair as Raphael turned his face slowly.

‘You reek of his peons, those vaults, even the remnants of all those imprisoned souls from the coins you touched. First Verillius, then the whole of Mephistar, now some wretched feline. You even smell like her. How odorous.’

‘I don’t want to harp on about how you need healing, but you seem to be a bit out of sorts.’

Raphael continued to breathe into Astarion’s neck, and the position was alarming. He had visions of Raphael tearing his throat out with his teeth. The smart play was probably to stay silent, but Astarion had never been adept at silence.

‘Daddy dearest not too happy about you turning up? Family reunions must be quite something.’

Raphael’s hand drifted down almost tenderly to Astarion’s wrist, and within seconds, a metal shackle appeared. Astarion stared at it, then jerked backwards. The chain clinked loudly, and Astarion’s breathing quickened.

Raphael stared at him, expression empty.

‘Wait there. I’m going to seek healing, and then I’ll deal with you.’

‘I don’t need to be dealt with! I literally did what you wanted, so if anything, I’m owed a reward. None of this was in your contract, Raphael, I can still walk away any time I like.’

‘Then walk away, little one,’ Raphael said, turning and leaving with heavier steps than usual. ‘Go on, it’s only one chain, my fragile dove. I’m sure it will be nothing at all to you.’

Chapter 19: Beer-Soaked Blood and Piquant Salt

Chapter Text

Raphael returned an hour later, which was far too much time for Astarion to contemplate his fate at the cambion's hands. Enough time for him to remove his gear and sit there, exhausted. He was starving, dizzy, he ached for the taste of blood in his mouth, he couldn't stop wondering what Raphael had gone through with Mephistopheles, why he was bleeding.

Worse, Raphael came back holding a large, nasty looking cat o' nine riddled with mean knots at the ends of the tails, the leather old but supple. Astarion stared, the only reason he didn't shrink back against the wall was due to his shock at the whole situation.

Raphael grabbed the metal chain and detached it from the wall, and then pulled Astarion through the House of Hope, a forbidding expression on his face.

'It is funny, isn't it? The way he insists I'm unable to use his methods. It is only that I find them so puerile,' Raphael said under his breath, it was clear he was speaking to himself. Astarion opened his mouth to ask if he'd had any healing, then closed it again. He stumbled a couple of times, and Raphael didn't stop. He bypassed his bedroom, and Astarion turned around and looked at the closed door in alarm, because if they weren't going there, where in all the nine hells were they going?

When he found out, he wished he hadn't.

A torture chamber. Implements on the walls, hooks hanging from the ceiling and screwed into the stone walls, the smell of old blood and viscera and smashed bone in the air. Astarion tried to think of some witty thing to say, something to jar Raphael out of whatever mood he was in. Nothing came to mind.

Astarion knew he was a cambion, but surely this wouldn’t been happening if he hadn’t been provoked to it. After all, what had the cornugons implied? That Raphael didn't beat his victims because he was beaten himself. Was that what Raphael meant when he said he was going as bait? Had he sent Astarion down there in the dark, knowing that in exchange...

Astarion cried out as he was thrown down against a heavy wooden bench, the side of it hitting him painfully in the hip and side before he caught himself.

'I'd really rather eat first, before we play any of your perverse bedroom games,' Astarion snarled. 'Also, I'd much rather they happen in a bedroom.'

'Did you hear me ask for your low-bred opinions? Arthropods aren't given room to complain when we step on them.'

Raphael contemplated at the cat o' nine, turning it in his hand, then lashed it at the bench next to Astarion's head. The sound was violent, all the tails hitting the wood with a loud, clattering smack. Astarion flinched back, falling down to the floor, crying out reflexively as his breathing sped up. He almost - almost – didn’t see the way Raphael flinched back from the sound as well.

No, this was definitely worse. This was much worse than Raphael fully in control of all of his sad*stic instincts.

Some people hid and cried when they broke down, some got into fights, but some went into a space of true madness. Astarion knew this for he'd done it himself. He knew what it was to be in the dark shadows of his mind, and he didn't want to see what it was for a devil to be in the dark shadows of his.

'I can tell you don't want to do this,' Astarion said, 'darling, why don't you just-'

The cat o' nine came down as Raphael's expression twisted fiercely. Astarion threw his arm up and cried out as the tails wrapped around his forearm, wrist, some even knocking against the top of his head.

'Stand,' Raphael said coldly, wings flaring to full length, tail hitting the floor with a heavy, decisive thud. 'Then bend over that bench.'

Astarion stared at him.

'The contract- I can-'

'-Break it then,' Raphael snarled. 'You're still in my House, do you hear me? This is my House of Hope! No one else's! Not Verillius’, not father's, not yours, not anyone's. I grow so weary of these jokes about my weakness. Bend over that bench, Astarion, if you wish to live.'

Astarion didn't want to be reminded of Cazador, but he'd seen Cazador in these desperate spaces too, once. A long time ago. Astarion pulled in a wretched breath that sounded more like a sob as he stood, shaking. He thought hurriedly about the contract, the rules in it, scrambling for anything like clemency. Gods, they were only halfway through one tenday. Gods. And this wasn't even Raphael performing his slow seductive breaking of Astarion's defences. The man had lost his mind, and Astarion was the closest, weakest target.

'Of course it's yours,' Astarion said placatingly, staring down at the bench, scared to bend over it. He didn't want to be whipped. He'd told himself that he'd never go through it again. Not for torture, not for sex. Never again. He was shaking. He pressed his palm to the wood to stop himself from falling on it. His forearm burned where the flogger’s tails had touched him, skin already torn. Raphael's strike hadn't been a playful bedroom strike, he'd put enough strength behind it that Astarion thought he'd break the weapon. 'Of course it is. No one's contesting that.'

It was a lie. Even the bezekira had contested Raphael's power, and Astarion realised with a sinking feeling that he was utterly f*cked. If it were Cazador feeling this madness, he would have murdered many, many people for so many direct challenges to his power.

Astarion didn't want to beg. He didn't want to.

'Please,' he said, his voice weak, even as he bent over the bench, staring down at the bloodstained wood. 'Of everyone today, L-Lord Raphael, haven't I done the best by you? There are far more soul coins than you asked for in that vault. There are-'

His voice strangled in his throat at the first true stripe landed across his back. He was wearing ripped, armoured clothing, it didn't hurt as much there as it did his forearm. But the audacity of it was a shock. He didn’t see the wood for a second, everything blurred. It still hurt, the strike was hard enough to bruise.

Raphael made a low growl of frustration that turned Astarion's blood cold, and he stepped close and ripped through the clothing, taking advantage of the seams that had been torn through by the fiends that had repeatedly gotten their claws and teeth into him. Astarion would have died several times over if it weren’t for those healing potions.

Astarion couldn't move when he felt two burning hot palms land on the scars upon his back, claws scraping across the Infernal writing tortured into him years ago.

'Even this,' Raphael said, his voice unsteady, 'even this is a rite crafted by my father, of all the archdukes your slave master could have chosen to work with. Upon your back, for eternity, my father's handiwork, his magic, his craft. Maybe you belong there, then, in Mephistar.'

Astarion couldn't stop his breathing, like he needed the air. He loathed anyone touching those scars with intent at the best of times, but Raphael doing it just felt... It felt like a threat beyond bearing. He was doing it gently, but there was nothing gentle in him. Astarion wanted to be sick.

'Of the two of us,' Astarion said, some of his anger leaking out, 'you did not nearly die repeatedly today. Well done! You're doing such a good job of following in his footsteps, Raphael. You can hold a flogger too? Goody.'

'You reek,' Raphael said, and for some reason, the insult hurt. It was also true. Astarion's clothes were covered with his own blood and demon blood and that bezekira's blood. It felt like a week or a month ago, but only this day, Verillius had also pawed at him while tormenting him. 'How much blood do you think you have left to spill?'

Raphael took a couple of steps back.

'Take a breath, my dear,' he said with sweet cruelty. 'Go on, take one of those useless breaths for me.'

Astarion did, only because he would have anyway, because he was terrified. He opened his mouth and then the pain of the flogger was so bright across his back it burst like sunlight into his mind.

‘Are you already crying, Astarion?’ Cazador said in his mind, knife carefully flensing Astarion’s skin from his body in near-perfect cuts. ‘We’re only a tenth of the way through. If you keep moving, I’ll have to start again. You can make this go so much easier if you simply stop fighting the process. Though you do look beautiful writhing, I must admit, like a leech in acid.’

He slumped onto the bench, blinking through the agony of having those scars opened by the knots in that whip, the memory of a knife. Astarion thought Raphael would stop or take a break or say something.

The flogger fell again, then again, and Astarion would have run, but he'd been tortured too many times by Godey and Cazador to remember how. When he was being tortured, he knew to stay still. He knew. He hated this knowledge. Hated it with his whole being.

But he would stay still.

The agony built, blood streamed down his back, Raphael muttered more things about his father, and Astarion thought of the sun, thought of the hellcat who really just went back to Baldur's Gate with better things to do in her life than spend her time with a rogue vampire spawn and a weak cambion. He would have laughed if everything didn't hurt so f*cking much.

His hands were numb, his arms locked, knees feeling like they were going to fail. The next blow had him choking on a scream, then coughing as his lungs and throat seized from the pain. His eyes were wet, thoughts turning to a gory, disgusting mess.

The worst part was how much it felt like a punishment for doing well. He'd done everything that was asked of him. He'd done more than was asked of him. Even Temter would have been kind.

Even Temter would have been kind about it.

Astarion moaned weakly in between the blows.

Temter...

Astarion's eyes flew open.

'T-Temter!' he shouted. 'Temter!'

He heard the flogger whistle through the air towards him, and then abruptly it clattered to the ground before it contacted his skin. Raphael grunted behind him, a pained sound. he was breathing just as heavily as Astarion.

A sob, and Astarion sank down to the ground, knees shaking too much to hold himself up any longer. Gods. The pain. Was he going to remember what it was like to be beaten to death by the Gur for the rest of his life? To be tortured by Cazador? Godey? Was he going to always learn again and again how ruthless these monsters could be, when he already knew? If Temter had just let him Ascend, like he wanted to, he wouldn't have had to deal with any of this. He'd have the sun. He'd already have the sun.

Astarion didn't mean to start crying. He hadn't done it in a long time, and he hadn't expected to do it today. Not like this. Not with his hands trembling in front of his face as he tried to hide, his throat sore with the force of his exhaled sobs, is back throbbing down to his spine, feeling ruined. He was scared. This wasn't some grand design of Raphael's, this was just the unrestrained ugliness that lurked beneath, Raphael venting his rage because he'd had a bad day.

The sound of booted footsteps pacing behind him, uncertain, back and forth, back and forth. Astarion refused to look at him. He felt like he'd be sick.

Raphael had listened. Perhaps he'd not had a choice. He would have broken his own contract if he hadn't listened. But Astarion didn't know how long the reprieve would last, there was nothing to stop Raphael beating him like this every day, and if he did, Astarion would run out of chances to call his ex-lover’s name. He could only use the word that stopped everything twice every tenday. They still had five days left. There was still twenty-five days left of the whole contract. Astarion's next sob hurt his whole chest.

'All right,' Raphael said finally, heavily, the pacing stopping. 'All right, Astarion.'

Astarion didn't want to be addressed. He didn't want Raphael to even look at him.

He hated the feeling of blood cooling at the top of his pants, along the edges of his skin. He'd felt it so many times before. Hated the way his tense shoulders made the skin hurt more; the way the coldness of his body made the pain worse. He crawled, miserable, beneath the bench, seeking the shadows, curling up against the wall.An atavistic, animal instinct to be small, to be hidden while his flesh believed he was dying.

Raphael crouched in front of him, hemming him in, and he hummed softly.

'You're delicious like this, darling,' he said. His voice was soft, even soothing. Astarion wondered how long Raphael would have beaten him for. How much injury he would have inflicted. The first strike was aimed at Astarion's head before he’d brought his arm up to protect it, so he didn't think Raphael had any real interest in keeping him alive. 'These pathetic, miserable sounds of yours. Unfairly won, I know, but let me look at you, cowering thing. Your tears have a sweetness to them, almost piquant.'

Raphael crawled closer and gently - so gently - touched his claw tips to the back of Astarion's hand. A tiny amount of pressure, indicating he wanted Astarion to move his hand away from his face. Astarion ignored him, unable to get any of his reactions under his control, resentful that Raphael was enjoying this part. Of course he was. The fiend was wired that way.

'Didn't your mother ever tell you not to keep a devil waiting?' Raphael crooned.

'With all due respect, go f*ck yourself,' Astarion said, his voice breaking, throat thick, nose near-blocked. 'The least you could do is get me yet another healing potion.'

'I know that would certainly make your life easier,' Raphael said. 'But it is making my life much more bearable, watching you right now. Little one, lower your hand. It works in your favour to make a devil delighted.'

Astarion hesitated, but Raphael sounded...sane again. He lowered his hand, then yelped when Raphael's other hand came up out of sight and touched the torn skin on his back, aggravating the pain. It was a mean flare, and Astarion sobbed again, but he couldn’t press any further into the wall.

'Gods damn it,' Astarion said. He swallowed queasily at the careful touch on his back. Raphael wasn’t trying to cause more harm, from what Astarion could tell, but he seemed to be enjoying exploring the damage he’d already done. Astarion felt like he was going to vomit up every one of those healing potions he'd drunk down.

'Poor little thing,' Raphael said.

'And?' Astarion said sharply, bitterly. 'Do you feel better now? Does he hit you like that? Your father?'

Raphael traced the fragile underside of Astarion's eye with a claw, wicking away the tears. A moment later he brought them to his mouth, tasting them and sighing in satisfaction.

'Oh, no,' Raphael said. 'Worse.'

Astarion stared at him.

‘Far worse,' Raphael said. His expression hadn't changed much. Astarion hadn't expected him to say anything at all, and of course he could be lying, but Astarion was certain he wasn't. Raphael's tail was twitching erratically behind him, where previously it had been still. 'Your tears taste better than any wine.'

'Did he do that to you today? Is that why you were bleeding?' Astarion said. Raphael’s expression changed, his brow furrowing, lips tensing.

Astarion wanted to know, but unexpectedly he gagged hard on the rising fluids in his stomach, pushing up into his throat, and he coughed out a spray of thick, red healing potion. He coughed again, then again, then he rocked forwards as Raphael's hands hovered near him like he didn’t know what to do. He went to his knees and threw up what felt like a gallon of healing potion, the fluid stinking on the ground.

'Oh,' Astarion said, staring at it.That can’t be good.

'Oh, indeed,' Raphael said, sounding far more concerned.

'I...'

Astarion blinked, woozy and faintly appreciative of the soft edges buffering all of his thoughts, all of the pain. Oh. Well. It wasn't the flogging that was going to make him faint, because he'd been through plenty of those, and far worse besides. It must be...the whole day then.All the fiends getting killing blows on him repeatedly.

Probably that.

He slumped sideways, and Raphael caught him, saying something from a vast distance, his voice as soft as the rest of cotton wool in Astarion's mind.

*

He woke on his stomach, the smell of thyme and sage in the air. He was ravenously hungry, and he bit absently into the bed, feeling the fabric against his fangs. It wouldn't sate the bloodlust, but it felt good to have something pressing against his canines. His back ached.

'You're overtaxed,' Fhaeleb said crisply. 'You need blood.'

'I'm aware,' Astarion managed once he stopped biting the bedding. He looked sideways, and there she was, the disapproving moon elf with her pretty dark blue hair. It curled perfectly around her ears. He wondered if she spent a long time making it do that. She seemed fastidious enough, but she was a bladesinger and perhaps she cut it short for convenience and it curled nicely anyway. 'You are very lovely.'

Her lips creased in distaste.

'Did you heal me?’ Astarion said. ‘He made you, didn't he? I didn't need it. I'd taken an awful lot of healing potions.'

'No one's supposed to take that many in a short period of time,' Fhaeleb said.

'It's not as though they come with a warning label.'

'Plenty of things that cause harm don't come with warning labels,' she said, staring at him like she was trying to convey some double meaning. Astarion rolled his eyes. He rocked to his side and groaned. All his joints hurt. His back was healed, at least. When he looked around, he was surprised to see he still wasn't in Raphael's room. This must have been one of the guest rooms. It had a lovely black and cream aesthetic. Whoever did the decorating certainly knew what they were doing.

He felt bleary. The terror of before felt far away.

'Has he tortured you?' Astarion asked finally.

'He doesn't touch me,' Fhaeleb said. 'I have been expecting it, but it has not yet happened. I cannot say why.'

'He needs your magic,' Astarion said, laughing. 'But I would have thought he needed my... I... Actually, who f*cking knows.'

Silence for some time, and then a ripple in the energy of the room, a new presence that wasn’t Fhaeleb’s magic or Raphael’s energy. Astarion pushed upright, as Fhaeleb stood and unsheathed her sword. There, in the shadows by a large armoire, the bezekira appeared with two dead humans. She had their forearms in her giant maw to drag them by. Her white eyes flashed as she took in Fhaeleb. But then she saw Astarion and let go of the bodies, before jumping lightly up onto the bed.For such a large cat, she hardly weighed down the mattress.

I have found you blood to quench your desperate appetite, she said.

Astarion stared at her.

I have found you blood,she said again, like he was stupid.You need it, worm. I have feasted on many, and these I left filled so you might sate your appetite. I don't need it like you do. I enjoy the taste, but it is like wine to me, and not true sustenance. I will eat the rest of them once you're done.

Astarion got off the bed shakily, walked to the corpses. The bezekira followed him. The bodies were fresh. He could feed. Normally he had some propriety, but Fhaeleb was under contract with Raphael and had just healed him, and the hellcat had seen him in far worse positions than drinking the blood from the neck of a dead human. He ripped into an artery at the neck and slumped into the dead weight of the body with dreamlike satisfaction, drinking as much as he could, not stopping to say thank you. He was baffled she was back.

'Great one,' Fhaeleb said, stepping forwards. The bezekira's ears pinned back. 'Great one, I mean you no harm, I only wish to gaze upon your perfection. It seems you have been treated with a lack of grace unbefitting to you. Tell me what I may do? I am a cleric and a bladesinger, I offer my assistance.'

I do not need it, the cat said imperiously. The only one I answer to is this grub at our feet.

Astarion looked up, wondering what in the hells was going on. Fhaeleb stared at Astarion for a long time, and then her expression changed.

'You charmed a bezekira?' she said finally, disbelieving. 'How?'

He saved my life. Twice, the bezekira said into their minds. I would not have thought him capable, because to look at him, I see very little of value indeed. But I would still be locked in the bowels of Mephistar were it not for this blood-sucking leech.

Fhaeleb was quiet for some time. Astarion felt like his wits were floating back to him as he continued to drink. He felt healthier, the aches in his joints began to vanish. Gods, he forgot how good blood could be, and he had two whole bodies to feast on. This was excellent. Maybe then he could deal with the whole blasted mess that was Raphael and what had just happened to him. He didn't even care that the blood itself was beer-soaked, lending it a strange hoppy yeastiness.

'He saved your life,' Fhaeleb said dubiously. She looked at Astarion like she wasn't sure who he was. He didn't say a word. He was still drinking, and he didn't plan on stopping any time soon. 'Beautiful bezekira, do you have a name that you will grace our lowly presences with?'

Astarion squinted at her, and then it all clicked into place, and he realised why she was being so fawning to a bezekira from the eighth level of Baator. She was a bladesinger who had affiliated herself with the leopard, or some similar kind of wild cat. He'd seen it for himself when she called her magic. Her eyes became feline, leopard spots danced over her skin. Chances were high she worshipped all felines, including hellcats. Interesting.

You may call me Karran, for I am Karran Tektillian the Third, the bezekira said. It is a novelty to have two insects in the same room that understand how perfect I am. I am not staying long. I will bring back food, on occasion, when I remember. I need to build up my strength, as I have been imprisoned for many lifetimes longer than you, moon elf, could understand. Long enough that I doubt any of my kits will even remember me. I shall stay away from Cania for a time, even though I miss the cold terribly. And you, small kitten, why are you here in this devil's snare?

Fhaeleb looked at Astarion again, then placed a hand on the hilt of her blade. 'For my children. They are in Elturel.'

Alive? Karran said, sounding sceptical.

'I believe so.'

You contracted your soul for them? Karran said, and then idly pawed at the other dead body Astarion wasn't yet feeding from. It is the way of these devils. The lives of children - even the children of maggots and worms - is worth much. May you see them well in the end, long enough that I might sink my teeth into their flesh one day.May they be fat enough to make me pleased with their quality.

Fhaeleb said nothing, and Karran made a little chuffing sound, her whiskers pushing forward in dark amusem*nt.

I will return when I feel like it, with more for the weak one. He will not even bestow me with compliments anymore.

'Darling,' Astarion said, his mouth and throat thick with blood as he tried to drink as much of it down before it clotted. 'Is there any compliment in the whole of Faerun that can truly capture your beauty? I think not. I can only keep trying, but sometimes I'll need time to find the right words.'

Mm. Passable. Get back to your feast, glutton. I'll not wait for the cambion to return. I will be stronger when I see him next.

'He'll be stronger too,' Astarion said, using his thumb to wick away a trickle of blood from his jaw. He wanted a bath so, so badly. The part of his brain that had been terrified was hidden away in some space to come out later no doubt and ruin the fun he was having right now.

I'd not return at all if I didn't owe you my life, Karran said in disgust. A rogue, a pathetic vampire rogue. The world must be ending if this is what it has come to. Farewell for now.

'I hope you kill lots of people!' Astarion called cheerfully after her.

She vanished. Astarion wondered if it was invisibility, or some kind of teleportation now that she was stronger. Astarion had no idea how it worked for bezekira.

At least he had blood, and he could deal with the gigantic problem that was Raphael and the contract and that sadism later. Right now... Right now he'd sate himself under the judgemental eyes of Fhaeleb. Blood had never tasted so bloody good.

Chapter 20: Unpleasant Citrus and Redcurrants

Chapter Text

Astarion stared out into the reddish dulled horizon of Avernus, a glass of red wine in his hand that smelled far too much of citrus to be pleasant, replete with blood and still buzzing with a kind of horror.

So, Raphael didn’t seem to be back yet from wherever he was, whatever he was doing. He could be in the House of Hope, he could be dead, he had the most horrendous habit of just vanishing.

Astarion pressed fingers to his forearm where the cat o’ nine tails had stripped the skin from his body. He was whole now. But for how long?

When he’d signed the contract, he hadn’t wanted to be tortured, but he expected it. He was no idiot. At the time, even temporary sunlight had been appealing enough, and so was relief from interminable boredom. For the most part, Raphael was not the worst person who had ever held power over him, and Astarion found him a relatively polite conversationalist.

Until something tipped him over the edge, and then he revealed that beast inside him that would happily flog him likely to death, if Astarion hadn’t used his ex-lover’s blasted, bloody, cursed name.

Astarion shuddered. He sat down in the seat at the small breakfast table and sipped at the wine.

Did he stay and see out the contract? Did he go and leave the sun and all of this behind?

Raphael had listened to the word. Whether he had to because the contract forced him to listen, or he chose to, Astarion didn’t want to know.

‘Another twenty or so days in paradise,’ Astarion said, droll, sighing. ‘You know, Lathander, if you want to simply flit on by and bless me, no one’s stopping you.’

Lathander, alas, did not simply come by to bless him with an ability to tolerate sunlight.

Astarion grimaced. He needed to know the terms of the second contract. Everything, he decided, hinged on that. Raphael was being coy.

It was easier to think of his options, easier to decide what to do, when he was fully nourished with blood and no longer felt sore and tired and miserable. But – though he was sure his old companions would have plenty to say about it – he didn’t see the point in leaving. Not yet. One flogging by a madman? Please. Astarion leaned back in the chair and his lip lifted into a sneer at himself.

The things you’ll put up with, darling.

Well, no one else was going to do the heavy lifting to get him access to sunlight, so he supposed he’d do it and see just where his line in the sand was. He suspected internal ocean waves erased the new line he drew every morning while he slept.

He felt cynical but grounded. He wasn’t some short-lived human, or even a slightly longer-lived elf. He’d live forever, or something close to it, and if he didn’t get himself killed in the next few months, he could live forever in the f*cking sun.

*

That night, Raphael returned so late that Astarion only realised he was there when he woke from sleep, turning over to see Raphael sitting at his work table. He had one leg crossed at the knee, he was still in cambion form, he seemed lost in thought. Glowing eyes moved to his, and Astarion saw a gleam of sharp teeth in the night shadows of Raphael’s bedroom.

‘I brought you someone to eat, but I see you’ve had your fill.’

‘Oh, there’s always room for dessert,’ Astarion said, pushing upwards.

‘Mm. And your delicious misery? Where’s that?’

‘I’m sure you’ll find it in no time at all,’ Astarion said, crawling across the bed and sitting down on Raphael’s side, facing him. ‘And? Is it terribly uncouth of me to ask what that utter disaster was? Do we never talk on it again? I’d be the first to keep one’s past trauma locked in a vault. I didn’t even know devils could do something so tedious.’

Raphael’s smile held no humour. ‘As my father seeks to remind me often, I am half human.’

‘Stings, does it?’

‘Careful,’ Raphael said, looking at him properly. ‘You transforming into a ball of pure, mewling fear at a few lashes of a flogger was all too tantalising. I may be in a different mood, but make no mistake, petal, your cries at the end were sonorous perfection. I’d like to make you scream for me a great, great deal.’

Astarion had known that from the beginning, but hearing the visceral thirst for it in Raphael’s voice, well that was novel. Cazador had praised Astarion for his ability to take pain, and Godey had wittered on and on about how beautiful Astarion’s cries of pain had been. But Raphael had a restrained lust – restrained for now, at least – and Astarion was cursed to be curious about it.

‘Is the House of Hope safe?’ Astarion said.

‘It will be after tomorrow,’ Raphael said, tone turning business-like. ‘You were a superb thief down there in the vaults. I could not have done better myself.’

‘Ah, of course, you believed I did so well you sought to kill me with a whip? Very believable.’

Raphael watched him, and Astarion looked away. He knew better than anyone that Raphael had turned to madness in that moment, he’d had no capacity for gratitude in his heart, nothing other than fury and a need to sate it with sadism.

‘I will be busy with a ritual tomorrow to restore the pillars,’ Raphael said. ‘I suspect a tired little lost sparrow like yourself could well do with the opportunity to rest.’

‘Are you trying to buy yourself time?’ Astarion said sharply. ‘Waiting to see how quickly I hit equilibrium once more, so you might seek to break me down again?’

‘Yes.’

Astarion’s smile was bitter.

‘Curious,’ Raphael said, inhaling and then standing, stalking over, wings flaring and blowing out the light of the red candles that had been lit on the nearby candelabra. ‘You know you could leave. What a thrall sunlight holds over you. Is it resistance to your true aberrant self? Or is there something in you that will always yearn for it?’

Claw tips cupping Astarion’s face, and his tongue moved in his mouth, remembering all Raphael had done to it in the past.

‘I want to know the terms of the second contract,’ Astarion said. ‘Darling, let’s get it out of the way, shall we? Let’s stop this planned seduction if it keeps being so messily disrupted. Just…tell me.’

One of Raphael’s hands lifted, and Astarion couldn’t stop the way he flinched, a hard, sharp movement into Raphael’s other hand. But it was just fingers smoothing over his hair, and then over the fragile point of his ear. Astarion shivered. Gods, he hated it, hated how it felt soothing, and his teeth clenched.

‘You don’t even know what true submission means,’ Raphael said.

Astarion glared at him.

‘You think you do.’ Raphael tapped the top of Astarion’s head a few times. ‘Scrambling away on that racetrack, like the slender, wastrel hounds do after the rabbit, but you’ve never quite gotten there.’

‘If you think-’

‘I’m telling you what you think,’ Raphael said silkily. ‘I’m not asking you to disagree with me, sweetling.’

Astarion swallowed. He wondered if Raphael knew the snare on the trap had tightened. He was so angry.

‘You saved your own life today,’ Raphael said, his tone changing. ‘You don’t look proud.’

‘Hm, funny, I seem to recall you saying I wasn’t alive.’

‘Yes.’ Raphael smiled again. ‘You can’t help it, can you? You can’t help but expect all-too-human responses from me.’

‘Will you torture me again if I point out that you losing your mind because your daddy beat you is an extraordinarily human thing to do, darling?’

Raphael bent down, his forehead brushing Astarion’s. The fingers at his cheek spread and lifted his chin up. Astarion’s eyes widened, his hands splayed on the bed, because no, surely not, why in the world would he-

-Lips pressing against his, and Astarion had no time to be suave or seductive or any of the things he’d normally try. And where he expected teeth, violence, there was nothing more than a faint hint of redcurrants, as though Raphael had eaten at some point when he’d left Astarion to Fhaeleb’s care. And then Raphael withdrew.

‘Your true submission I don’t truly require,’ Raphael said, ‘I simply want it, because I know you’ll struggle trying to give it to me, based on your idea of what that means. Because I know I am not the kind of devil who is often offered it once someone gets to know me better. In truth, the second contract encompasses something you’ll loathe. It is a rite to create nine Solar Coins, which is a pretty enough name for something that can only be made one lecherous way. It’s an old magic of my father’s invention, who abandons projects the way whor*s abandon co*cks, forever seeking something larger, thicker, better.’

Raphael gripped Astarion’s hair and stared down at him, dark horns glowing reddish, the rim of his irises a golden flare in those endlessly black depths.

‘I am going to torture you for those coins, petal,’ Raphael said, his voice thickening with lust. ‘Nothing severe. Nothing fatal. In fact rather tasteful, if I do say so myself. Something I even think you could learn to enjoy, or perhaps tolerate. Do you want to know how my father discovered the alchemy of Solar Coins? Tick tock, Astarion, does the sunlight feel further away now than it did a minute ago?’

‘I tire of you,’ Astarion said, with a quiet, exhausted savagery. Raphael grinned.

‘This will sound…well, awfully crude to the virgins of the world. But you’re no virgin, little one, are you? Simply put, I procure nine people to f*ck you, spill their wretched seed inside you, and then you turn around and put them to death with your own teeth, and eat the rest of their life force out of them. Life given to you willingly by another, and then taken by you forcefully.’

Raphael’s hand fisted into Astarion’s shirt, and he breathed a sharp, hard inhale through his nose, so like a predator that Astarion stopped thinking. Was this really preferrable to Raphael’s madness the other day?

Not particularly.

‘Then, my favourite part, when you’re sated and f*cked open and leaking, I’ll take you myself. If you want the sun, my aberration, you must sacrifice yourself for it. Even if you gave me true submission tomorrow, even then, you’d still endure all of this to complete that ritual.’

‘Why have I never heard of it before? It seems…far more viable than Cazador’s nonsense.’

‘For that, you need an understanding of how Mephistar works. You may also wish to consider how I attained the necklace you’re bartering your time for in the first contract, and its provenance. This rite I offer is a great deal more viable, but only with me, and only if I deign to offer it.’

Astarion tried to think of other questions to ask, other things to say, because he didn’t want to think about what Raphael actually wanted, which was to likely watch him get f*cked by strangers, kill them. Astarion thought it was laughable now, how Raphael had tested him with that human before, to see if he’d actually kill him when invited. Astarion had refused.

Did it make it all the more entertaining now to reveal the details of the Rite itself?

‘In your eyes, I can almost hear the susurration of it, your desperate whisper of “Why me? Why me?” over and over again. Why you, Astarion? You’re just one of thousands of vampire spawn. Could it be that I needed a thief? Do you really think you’re one of the best?’

‘Count the soul coins again,’ Astarion said flatly.

Raphael’s lip quirked. ‘All right. Touche. I’ll allow that one.’

‘Do you even know?’ Astarion said. ‘I’ve seen a mid-life crisis what feels like hundreds of times. I’ve seen them walk drunk out of bars and bare their necks for me. I can’t say I’m surprised to learn that the part of you that is half-human must be tangling with the idea of one too.’

‘Just like I possess a foul and loathsome shred of humanity, so you don’t possess the full magnitude of your own powers. You’re not a fully realised vampire, but a spawn, a slave. Now, tell me again why you think almost no one has accessed this Rite before?’

Oh, Astarion realised, eyes widening. Oh, of course.

‘What Master would let them?’ Astarion said, knowing abruptly what Raphael was getting at. Any vampire spawn that dreamed of such power – what sounded like a different kind of Ascension, in a fashion – would be tortured to death summarily, if allowed to live even that long.

‘Mephistopheles thought it amusing to create a Rite of Profane Ascension, and its twin, a Rite of Solar Ascension. One has an extortionate cost – seven thousand souls to transmogrify themselves right into those vaults at Mephistar – but more accessible, given the power of a fully formed vampire lord. The other, a far lower cost – nine Solar Coins – but almost impossible. Only I know the Rite exists, father likely forgot it millennia ago.’

‘Exactly how many… Exactly how many things like this have you picked up or learned from Mephistar over the years?’

Raphael looked smug. ‘He has the mind of a threadbare hail-pockmarked tarp. He’s still sharp enough to plan anew, but not sharp enough to return to forgotten endeavours. And so…’

Raphael stepped back and held out his palm, a burst of hellfire appearing.

‘It is a simple matter to divert the archduke’s attention with something bright and alluring, and then,’ -he made a grasping motion with his other hand, a quick snatch- ‘take what I desire.’

Astarion stared at him.

‘Today was not the eminent accomplishment I wanted it to be,’ Raphael said, distaste entering his voice. ‘Verillius always forces the crassest responses. Nothing of grace in her at all. If it weren’t for you, the House of Hope would be gone. Does it feel better to hear it?’

‘I’m as yet undecided,’ Astarion said faintly, even though it did feel rather lovely, in fact, to hear praise like that from Raphael. ‘What do you get out of this?’

Raphael said nothing. After a while he stepped back and sat down once more at the chair he’d been occupying when Astarion woke.

‘We killed you,’ Astarion said, risking the subject. ‘Does that somehow make you more human? Is that…? I confess I understand little how nearly any of it works.’

‘I will share one more thing with you. Do not ask me another question this evening. The thrum of liquid pleasure to whip someone who pretends to be so inured to torture and yet isn’t? What a feast. But listen well, Astarion. I was born a cambion. My wretched form ripped my mother’s c*nt apart, and she gushed blood the way some women squirt. Then, time wriggled past, hungry and famished, and likewise, I found my way to power, and then more power, and then more. By the end, my cambion self was a shadow in me, one more mask, as you saw for yourself during that battle, I had so much power.’

Astarion truthfully tried not to think about that battle often, the beast Raphael had become, the evil that emanated from the creature that had nearly done them all in. Not a cambion, but an ascended pit fiend, like nothing Astarion had fought before, until the Absolute.

‘We earn different forms according to certain rules that make sense to fiends,’ Raphael said. ‘That dirty bag-of-bones bezekira knows it as well as I do. There is all possibility that once she roamed Cania in a different form and was punished through forced transformation. Or perhaps she earned her power, from lemure all the way up to bezekira. But in restoring my life, father saw fit to return to me only what I was born with. The cambion is no longer a shadow, and I must start from near-scratch to regain what I’ve lost.’

Raphael tipped back in his chair in an easy, practiced movement, the chair balancing on two legs, Raphael’s booted feet crossed on the table at the ankle, wings draped against the rug beneath him. He looked up at the ceiling.

‘Food tastes different. Torture feels more visceral. Sleep is no longer a novelty, but a necessity. Do you know, I thought I’d despise every incremental second spent slaving in this form until I attained my former glory and then more, but I don’t.’

Raphael turned to look at Astarion.

‘Perhaps it is a mid-life crisis, but all devils are permitted time to recalibrate if they can survive it, and I am nothing if not a survivor. You, too, know something of that, don’t you? Even though more than half of it seems like sheer luck, seeing how you operated today.’

Astarion thought it very much took one to know one, because Raphael’s plan had been stupider than anything Temter had ever come up with, which was saying something. Astarion was the first to admit he wasn’t about to be the brains of any operation, but he’d truly expected something better from Raphael than simply: ‘Find your way down there and figure it out.’

He was tired. He reclined, trying to connect what Raphael expected from him in the future, with what had happened today. But two hundred years of torture was also two hundred years of learning how to recover from torture. The memories would always be there, literally etched into his skin and bones, but at some point he did learn how to live within the bounds of regular, vicious, brutal torture. He’d even learned how to have fun.

As his eyelids began to lower, a culmination of the many exhaustions of the day, he heard a faint:

‘Sometimes it’s time to try something new, if only to prove the old way of doing things was best. But oh, Astarion, the sounds I’m going to force out of you…’ A low chuckle. ‘Oh? And after all that, you’ll just sleep will you? As though Sehanine Moonbow herself has brushed her fingers across your forehead. Mm. Five days to make your decision, my dear, we’ll certainly work hard to make each one count.’

Chapter 21: White Peaches and Resin

Chapter Text

Astarion woke with a start, breath quick and harsh in his sore lungs, the relic of a nightmare he didn't remember the shape of. He sat up slowly, looking around the room as the events of the previous day flooded into his mind. He put his head in his hand trying to understand all that had befallen him.

Eventually he pushed up and wandered around Raphael's bedroom until he realised he was looking for the devil like a lost puppy, and he walked to the balcony instead. As ever, two glasses - one with a little red wine left at the bottom - and a bowl of fruit. White peaches today, each one looking perfect and delectable. Astarion grasped one and turned it in his hands simply for the texture, but after drinking the blood from two people the day before, he didn't crave the sweetness.

He sank down tiredly into the chair and looked towards the red-orange sky and let his mind leave the nightmare behind and return to the present.

There was a time - almost too long ago to be worth remembering - when he hadn't needed sleep, and instead placed himself in a meditative state every night. That way of being stuck so fast that even after he was Turned he often slipped into that meditative pose without thinking. But most mornings, he’d wake on his side, his body abandoning his meditation stance in favour of restful sleep.

It wasn't until he became a vampire spawn that he experienced his first nightmares. At first he thought it was a condition of being a spawn, something changed in his blood and bones. The horrid things beset him and made him feel like he'd lost sleep while unconscious and seemed far too grandiose to be comparable to what humans and dwarves and others called their measly "nightmares." Later, he knew that just as vampires needed sleep, they also had nightmares. The brain's foolish way of trying to understand what was happening to it.

He much preferred the high elf way, consciously organising all his thoughts just so while lost to the trance, this one and then that one, orderly and neat.

Even with his intelligence growing as a result of the many books he'd read on his travels, his experiences with Temter, he'd never return to the mind that didn't have a need for nightmares. Here he was in the House of Hope, where it seemed there was no end of fodder.

Astarion drank the remainder of the bottle of wine. Raphael had been more forthcoming, but Astarion still had questions. The rite itself... Astarion was trying not to think about it. It was exactly the sort of thing his high elf self would have sidelined into his mind to process during a meditative trance state. Now, the sidelining turned into nothing but forgetting how bad it could be, over and over again.

*

Astarion spent the morning wandering the halls.

He paused in front of one of the many plaques.

Here, the chaos of the world is dimmed. Here, the violence of life is pacified. Here, there is order.

'I see we're far too above it all to take our own advice, hm?' Astarion said lightly to the plaque, as though Raphael could hear him. As Astarion read it again, he smiled bitterly. It talked of the violence of life, not violence in general. Perhaps it referenced the order of death, of eternal slavery and torment.

Astarion would judge the man for having ostentatious plaques in his home, but Astarion knew he'd likely do the same thing if he ever happened upon a ridiculous amount of real estate. He did, after all, embroider his clothing with passages over time simply to leave his mark on the world. He dreaded to think just how much interior decorating aptitude he and Raphael shared.

*

An hour later, Astarion turned a small, jewelled letter opener in his hands. Was it worth stealing if he had nowhere to pawn it off? Though the thrill of taking the thing itself mattered far more than getting a good deal later.

A rumble vibrated through the entire house. Astarion straightened in alarm. Half a minute later, a huge booming clang which was so loud Astarion backed into a wall and looked at the ceiling to see if any cracks were appealing. He considered fleeing. He had nowhere to go if Verillius brought her forces here to demolish them.

Another clang, and then another, and curiosity got the better of him and he ran towards the sound and not away from it.

A final clang when Astarion reached the huge, central dining room - large table cleared of all food - and he stopped when he felt it. The whole atmosphere around him altered. The House of Hope felt alive.

'AHA!' Raphael shouted from the foyer, his triumphant voice as loud as it had been during their final battle when Astarion had helped kill the devil and thought it would be permanent. Astarion felt struck dumb when he heard singing. Singing? But yes, Raphael was clearly singing to himself.

'The claws are sharpened, a fiend strikes true,
All in the House of Hope may flourish anew!'

Maniacal laughter followed, and Astarion stealthily moved his way towards the foyer, keeping to the shadows as much as he could.

A reddish-gold glowing ritual circle, large enough that Astarion could only see the edge of it. A Pillar of Souls coming into view - one of the four - gleaming an electric, unearthly green from the souls that had revived it to its former diabolical glory. Astarion realised the four clangs must have been Raphael using the soul coins to restore the Pillars which meant the House of Hope was safer than before. That was why the House felt alive.

When Astarion saw Raphael, he froze.

Raphael was staring straight at him, the smile on his face not indulging or kind but filled with the power that Astarion had seen on enemies before he'd been about to defeat them, or before they'd been about to take out Astarion.

'Come see!' Raphael said. 'Not quite its former glory, not that, we'll need thousands - thousands - more for that! But can't you feel it?'

Clawed hands turning into fists, Raphael's cambion wings were spread as wide as they could go, tail lashing a few times before settling again. Astarion's shoulders relaxed minutely. He stepped out of the shadows as Raphael considered each of the Pillars of Souls, the giant metal pillars with golden patterns and skulls upon them that stretched down into the ground and up into nothingness. The violence of life pacified indeed.

'Behold,' Raphael said. 'She's regained a glimpse of her former self again, hasn't she?'

Astarion looked around the foyer, at the ceiling that went far too high. Finally, he decided he wasn't at imminent risk of death.He took a breath.

'If I wasn't concerned that daddy dearest would slaughter us both for the audacity, I'd suggest going back to Mephistar - the ass end of the world - and getting some more of those Soul Coins for you.'

'My dear, I'll be harvesting some more myself.' Raphael looked down at his body, clothed in cream and red which suited him far too well. 'Finally. Ha! What a coup. I thought it would be another few years before the Pillars returned to a ghost of their former glory but just look at them.'

He walked out of the ritual circle, casually stepping on a bloodied skull as he went. The skull disintegrated, and the glowing light of the circle glowing on the ground died with it. For the first time, it finally dawned on Astarion that Raphael was far better at magical rituals than he'd credited. He'd never thought about how the Pillars of Souls came into existence, but he might once have assumed they were here all along when Raphael attained the House of Hope, or even that Mephistopheles had created them for his son which – now that he knew the devil – seemed rather unlikely.

'You're a bit of a chameleon, aren't you?' Astarion said without thinking.

'Hmm?' Raphael said, as he walked up the marble steps and lovingly stroked one of the Pillars, laughing when green pulses of souls writhed around his hand and wrist, dull sounds of agonised shrieking emerging.

'You come across as someone who simply lounges about in brothels and theatres and taverns, but I can see this took quite some doing to set up.'

'This?' Raphael said, looking faintly incredulous. 'My dear friend, this is mere child's play! Perhaps a fragment more taxing than it was a year ago but look at the returns. Rich indeed.'

Raphael walked away from the pillar, sauntering down the steps towards Astarion, looking every bit the villain that had nearly killed them all a year ago. Funny, but Astarion had spent so long thinking of how they'd defeated him, that it was only the last two days he'd remembered that they'd all struggled. Raphael really did seem like someone who, with enough time, would claw his way to the top. Astarion had seen how late into the night he worked, though perhaps he was writing more fictional tales of his eventual ascension to archduke or something equally absurd. Anything was possible.

Raphael's hand slid beneath Astarion's jaw, turning his head this way and that, eyes discerning. 'How do you fare, pet?'

'Peachy,' Astarion said.

Raphael's grin was wicked.

'I have questions,' Astarion said, 'about that second contract.'

'Interminable questions. They never end!' Raphael's fingers tightened threateningly at Astarion's jaw. 'I wish you'd show me some more trust. Certainly, I visit suffering upon you, but are you not better satisfied here than in that dusty hovel that made you stink of mildew? Don't you feel better in surroundings that flatter you?'

Raphael blinked at him slowly. Astarion tried to look down in alarm when a tail wrapped around his ankle, but the hand at his jaw didn't let him.

Astarion thought about the terms of the first contract and ground his teeth together, a flash of anger bursting up from his depths as he knocked Raphael's wrist away, whole body tense and expecting retaliation for it. Raphael seemed amused, not angry.

'Did you wake thinking of it?' Raphael crooned. 'Imagining these men f*cking you? You loathe being shared, don't you? Don't worry, petal, I can make you feel special yet.'

'Stop it,' Astarion hissed. 'Or should I just return when you come down from whatever high this is? One successful ritual, and you're unbearable.'

'Your fear tastes so good,' Raphael practically purred. 'Oh, I know, I know, I shouldn't have tested your tenacity yesterday, what a brittle backbone you have. You-'

'-These Pillars are only in action because of me!' Astarion shouted, abruptly realising where all his anger was coming from. Oh. Well. 'Do you know how many times I would have died for you yesterday for this? And now you're asking for my trust?'

Raphael stepped closer, and Astarion backed up a step, hating that he was giving ground.

'I am bloody certain that if you could have stolen that many soul coins in one fell swoop you would have done it already,' Astarion said, unable to stop himself, 'instead of languishing in your "Woe is me I'm half-human again" crisis while your fellow fiends called you out for being weak. Gods damn it, your narcissism comes with the territory, I know that, I'm not even against a little narcissism here and there! But believe it or not, you simply deigning not to torture the skin off my f*cking back is not gratitude! Tossing a couple of idle phrases my way in your damnable purple prose is not gratitude! Stop! Stop walking towards me!'

Astarion's voice climbed higher as he stumbled backwards three steps, and he was unnecessarily breathing, little fast breaths one after the other as Raphael came closer and closer and finally captured him with one hand around his arm, the other sliding around his waist. Astarion only then realised he was shaking.

Raphael tucked his head carefully into Astarion's neck, not even brushing him with his horns, and inhaled deeply.

'You depraved f*cking lunatic,' Astarion gasped. 'You're smelling my fear, aren't you?'

'Poor, poor Astarion,' Raphael said softly, rubbing his back in a way that - damn it - actually felt soothing. 'You're correct of course. I've been distracted. My pet needs more attention than I've been giving him.'

Astarion snarled. 'You've given me plenty. Don't concern yourself over that, darling.'

'It was cruel of me to unleash my anger on you yesterday, wasn't it? Too cruel. And here you are, an obstinate unyielding leaf refusing to fall from the oak, even as I swing an axe at the twig that keeps you in the air. If you let yourself fall, you'll land in the sun. Tell me, how comfortable did you feel unleashing your anger on Cazador Szarr when he possessed you as his slave?'

Astarion tensed. 'I beg your f*cking pardon?'

'You have given me some of your trust,' Raphael said, laughing wickedly, his voice low as he straightened and looked into Astarion's eyes. 'If you hadn't, I couldn't have broken it yesterday. What a beautiful, lovely fool you are. I've been enjoying your company even if I have been terribly remiss in offering you enough gratitude for all your sacrifices. Truly, how gluttonous of me to demand yet more. You can't blame a devil, can you? After all, he's only promising you – an insignificant vampire spawn – the sun.'

Astarion swallowed. He let himself be guided into the dining room, and let Raphael pull out a comfortable high-backed chair for him and ease him down. Raphael pulled out a chair for himself as well, hooking his tail around the chair leg and sliding it into place even as he sat upon it.

'Talk,' Raphael said. 'Ask me your questions about the second contract.'

'Nine people, you said,' Astarion said quickly, while he remembered what he wanted to ask. 'At the same time? One after the other?'

'Over a period of time,' Raphael clarified. 'You can determine that period yourself depending on how taxed you feel. I cannot make the Solar Coins all in a day, so at the very least, five days. Two victims per day for four, and one on the last. I strongly suspect you'll want to take longer.'

Astarion stared down at the marble floors. 'And these...people. Who chooses them? Do we go to Faerun and...?'

'You must decide first if you're comfortable killing the good, kind lovers,' Raphael said with a knowing smile. 'If you're comfortable killing the very good ones, then I can procure lovely, wonderful people for you. Those who will kiss your hole after spilling in it. Those who will touch you only with tenderness in their fingers. But my strong suspicions are that you will struggle to kill even the worst of the worst. You were a magistrate, were you not? Not the executioner. And we have ample evidence of your reluctance to murder in cold blood, don't we, my silvery gleaming fish? Perhaps I procure criminals at first, people you can morally justify sinking your teeth into. I'm sure they're simply the most considerate lovers.'

Astarion took a breath. If he were to commit to the second contract, he knew deep down that he couldn't callously murder good, fine people. He wished he could. Oh, how he wished he could. This undead life would be so much easier if he could shove those old high elf ethics up his ass, but even to this day thrumming in the background alongside his sadism and his glee over torture and blood spilled and the sheer fun of murder, was a plain gratitude when children were saved, or when Temter rescued animals, or when he could sink his teeth into the scum of the earth who didn't deserve their blood.

Two of him then, a dead high elf who ruled him from beyond the grave, and the vampire spawn chained from within. Cazador enslaved him and his mind, and all Astarion had to hang onto - all that was left of him - was that high elf who offered shinier ropes in which to be bound.

'Mm, let me find them for you, sweetling,' Raphael said. 'I'll visit the very best prisons, just for you.'

'That's if I say yes,' Astarion said.

'Of course, of course, Avernus forbid I coerce you into it. You must consent freely, after all.'

Astarion scoffed, crossing one leg over the other. 'All right. This nonsense about true submission. You keep saying I have no idea what you mean, so you'll show me what you mean, somehow. I want to see what you're expecting from me.'

Raphael's eyes lit up. 'Of course. I can think of several places I could take you in order to show you.'

'Are you going to work against me?' Astarion said. 'If you make it so I can never submit to you, then I'm yours forever. I'm not stupid, Raphael. How many stipulations do I get with the second contract?'

'I'll allow seven,' Raphael said. 'But make no mistake, Astarion. If you break any of my stipulations, there will be consequences to each and every one of them, and some of those consequences involve eternity. It's not like this current rachitic contract, where you can choose to walk away without the necklace, no harm, no foul. Where you can choose not to say "Sir" and I allow it at my indulgence without punishing you for it.'

Astarion looked towards the fireplace. It was large enough that six people could stand before it and not block it. The room smelled a little of resin and wax, burnt down candles and incense. Raphael wasn't wrong. Astarion did appreciate living in luxury. He loved waking in a comfortable bed on comfortable sheets. He appreciated the fruit and the wine in the morning. He liked the balcony view that was so well-shaded he was never in any danger of being harmed by the sun - not that he really understood how sunlight worked here - and he enjoyed having access to better clothing, a place interesting enough to explore and steal from.

The cost was so high.

'I have the remainder of the contract to make this decision, don't I?' Astarion said.

Raphael's smile was amused. 'Have you forgotten already that you must make the decision by the end of the first tenday? Tick tock, little leech, you have four days left, including today.'

Damn it.

'If I somehow...manage to give you "true submission" before the ritual is completed...'

'You must complete the ritual to access the sun, but you'll be free to leave immediately.'

'How long do I have to offer my true submission for?' Astarion said finally.

Raphael tapped his foot on the floor a few times, and then his wings stretched, and he sighed. 'One hour.'

Astarion stared at him in shock. He'd expected days, or weeks, not a single hour. Was it so hard then?

'What exactly do you expect me to submit to?'

'It is not that I expect you to submit to something monstrous, for I can inflict that upon you at any time, dear one. It is that I doubt your ability to offer it at all. What you know of trust can fit in a thimble for the most diminutive of bitsy fictional fairies, and what you understand of yielding is no larger than the claw on a meek feeble mouse. You're not wrong to be wary of me wanting this from you, because you'll thwart yourself. And shall I not prevaricate? I have no practice in cultivating true submission, for I can break an appearance of it out of people through torture. I'll not actively be your foil, but my terms are exacting because of the challenge. It is the sun, Astarion. I doubt I'll ever offer this ritual to another living being.'

Astarion stared at the table for a long time. He was afraid. He believed Raphael and tapped his fingers on the table a few times, before pressing his fingertips to his chin in thought.

'I want to leave,' Astarion said. 'In the second contract, I want to... I want to have time away from you.'

'We're not negotiating this contract until you're ready to approach it seriously,' Raphael said with a cloying sympathy. 'There's so many junctures where you could fail deliciously and spectacularly. Killing a Faerunian for their blood? Letting yourself be taken by a stranger? Not just once or twice, but nine times? And true submission on top of that, even for an hour? Far be it for me to think of myself as unkind, but I'm throwing down quite the gauntlet for you.'

'I need time to think.'

'You have time. I’ve been generous, you have four days left,' Raphael said. 'In the meantime, I'll take you on an excursion to get a glimpse of what it is to submit to someone truly. We'll see how you handle it, shall we?'

Raphael stood and clapped his hands together, and a burst of hellfire appeared and vanished, he was back to grinning. 'Now, I have much work to do! There's souls to acquire, to bring to House of Hope where they might find eternal succour. You understand, of course!'

Raphael vanished a moment later without even stepping through one of his portals, and Astarion considered that having everything laid out more clearly hadn't made things easier at all. As he tried to think of what his companions would advise, his shoulders hunched. All of them would tell him to turn away from his dream of living in sunlight. But none of them would understand that the months he'd spent with them under the golden light of that star were the happiest months of his life, and he couldn't stop holding out hope that he'd know that warmth on his face once more – every day even – for the rest of his undead life.

Chapter 22: Rotten Fish and Juniper Water

Chapter Text

The last place Astarion expected Raphael to take him was the city of Luskan in the Sword Coast North.

Before they travelled through the light blue portal, Raphael presented him with new clothing finely made, thick with furs and clearly designed for the cold. Raphael himself wasn’t in cambion form, but wearing his human guise, dressed in navy blue finery that suited him far too well, and a fur-trimmed cloak that looked like it wouldn’t have been out of place in Neverwinter.

‘I don’t recall wearing something like this to Cania,’ Astarion said, on the evening after the Pillars had been reawakened. ‘Are we due for another visit? Do you need to steal yet more soul coins?’

‘You’ve made demands of me, and I am nothing if not your most humble of servants,’ Raphael said, with a look in his eye that was all play and mischief.

Astarion swallowed. Raphael had been in a good mood since he’d restored the Pillars, but he’d also been busy, so Astarion had fallen asleep in Raphael’s bed alone, mind trying to puzzle apart whether a small amount of torment was worth a lifetime of the sun. He’d woken alone. He’d wandered through the House of Hope accompanied by his tortured thoughts, while the wisps of captured Souls appeared in flashes of green, escaping the Pillars they fuelled in brief moments, speaking in doomed voices.

Astarion wondered what Fhaeleb thought of the whole thing.

Astarion took the clothing – fond of the white-silver trim and the cream and blue fabric – and half-expected Raphael to make him strip in front of him from the way he lingered. Instead he only smiled.

‘Put on all of it, darling,’ he said, handing the bundle of clothes to Astarion. ‘Meet me at the portals.’

Raphael walked away, and Astarion unfolded all the articles of clothing. On undergarments the same shade of navy blue as Raphael’s clothes, he saw a black metal cuff too thin for his neck with a long chain-link attachment trailing from it. A leash.

Astarion’s nostrils flared with anger. He didn’t have to accept this. He didn’t have to do any of this. None of this was in the contract he was currently signed to.

No, just a hint of what’s to come if you’re so desperate for the sun and don’t want to be dependent on a fragile necklace.

‘Ha,’ Astarion muttered to himself. ‘You absolute fool.’

He stripped and dressed, annoyed that the clothing was comfortable – and far too warm for the House of Hope even in his cooler skin – and stared at the cuff that remained. He picked it up, and the metal was hot to the touch. It opened in his hands, but Astarion couldn’t tell where the locking mechanism or the hinge was. It appeared seamless where it had split open, like it wouldn’t close again.

The chain was warm too.

In Godey’s Kennel, metal cuffs were normal, chains were normal, hearing the clink of the heavy links while struggling and screaming – it was all normal.

Astarion needed that to not be normal again.

He looked towards the door that Raphael had exited through.

You can still walk away…

A pang in his chest. Stupidly, he wished Fhaeleb was there, that he might ask her for advice. But what would she know? She was an idiot who had contracted her soul for the safety of her children. So, truly, what use was she? She understood desperation just as he did. No one had forced either of them within these walls.

‘Gods damn it all,’ he breathed, and carefully placed his left wrist within the metal.

The cuff snapped shut, Astarion’s fingers moved with a quick, panicked breath to where it had closed, and he felt nothing. No lock, no seam, no place to move a clasp. For all he knew it was there for good. Tears bit at his eyes, and he ground his teeth together, angry at the whole situation. He took a few deep breaths and heard his distress.

He slid the sleeve back down, and his breathing shaking as he tucked the small black metal chain into it, nestled in the thick fur.

He made his way to the portals, wanted to claw out Raphael’s gleaming, satisfied eyes that raked him like a touch. When Raphael reached for him, reached for his wrist, Astarion stepped backwards. He was only out of reach for the second it took for Raphael to step into his space and wrap his hand unerringly around the cuff through the sleeve.

‘I must say, you look a bit peaky,’ Raphael said, smile stretching. ‘Don’t worry, a change of scenery will work wonders.’

Astarion glared. What was the point in saying he didn’t like it? Raphael knew that, and that’s why he’d done it.

‘Poor thing,’ Raphael said, smile widening further. ‘Just one cuff? You can’t even hide how it affects you, can you? Goodness gracious, little one, whatever will you do if I get you into four?’

‘Yes, well, do I actually need to be here for the part where you gloat and make threats, or shall I just pretend you’ve said them and do away with the need?’

‘I’m giving you what you want, darling,’ Raphael said, pulling Astarion closer as he stepped towards one of the portals. ‘We’re going on a discovery to find out what true submission means. I hope you’re in the mood for an adventure.’

‘And what if I’m-’

Astarion was cut off by the uncomfortable experience of moving through the light blue portal, then having his breath punched out of him by the sudden, searing cold. Raphael laughed low and leaned against his back, wrapping both arms around him, exhaling his unusually warm breath against Astarion’s nape. Even now he kept one hand around the metal cuff through Astarion’s sleeve as he stared at the rebuilt city of Luskan. He realised from the smell of the seawater and the distant sweetish-vinegar malodourous reek of rotting fish that they were on the Southern Bank. A few people nearby packing crates into caravels and cogs turned to look at them, but seeing as they were pirates, they got back to their business, and left Raphael and Astarion to theirs.

Astarion wondered if they were not worth robbing, looking as fancy as they did, but perhaps Raphael gave off an energy.

‘Do you like cold cities?’

‘I like pirate cities,’ Raphael said, squeezing Astarion in his arms.

From a distance, they probably looked like two lovers, one embracing the other from behind to keep him nicely warm by a freezing cold sea.

‘Ah, of course. I rather like pirate cities too,’ Astarion murmured. ‘Vagabonds are fun.’

‘Aren’t they just?’ Raphael said, laughing. ‘Scoundrels too.’

‘So you fit right in,’ Astarion said, rolling his eyes.

‘If you like.’

Raphael interlinked his arm in Astarion’s, and together they walked up sloped, dark grey, wet stone roads, thankfully free from black ice. As they moved past buildings and warehouses where ship repairs took place into the Southern Bank proper, Astarion saw many new buildings he didn’t recognise. They were all quarried from that same dark grey stone, sturdy, the tallest only ever reaching three storeys. The soot from the fires in the torches at the front of the buildings covered the streets with a faint smutty patina.

A surprising number of people were about, almost all humans, dressed in furs and cloaks and armed with a variety of bladed weapons. They side-eyed Astarion but had no reaction at all when they saw his companion. Luskanites weren’t favourable to anyone who wasn’t human at the best of times, though Astarion had still made it work the few times he visited to find victims for Cazador.

They continued to move along Southern Bank streets until they reached a broad, solid, two storey building at the terminus of a long road, so close to a craggy cliff that the stones beneath their feet hummed from the smashing of the waves against the cliff face. The building wasn’t new, but old, and Astarion remembered it as a gloomy festhall, though it had obviously changed hands since. Burnt into a large wooden sign was the name: The Last Word. Next to the words was a charred carving of snowdrops, and a wolf’s maw open to snap the delicate flowers up.

Beneath it, three words in Espruar. Astarion frowned to see the elvish script somewhere like Luskan, and frowned further when he couldn’t quite interpret it.

‘Khaor Aeris Aeseva,’ Astarion said slowly. ‘Taboo teachers and…hunted? That can’t be right. Is it some bastardised form of Espruar? Or have I just forgotten it all?’

‘This is all new to you then,’ Raphael said. ‘You’re in for a treat. Two hundred years in the world seems so long, doesn’t it? But it’s merely the blink of an eye, consider how much you still have to learn.’

Astarion thought of the last place Raphael took him before Cania, the play they’d watched, the…seduction throughout. He swallowed. He wanted to fuss with the cuff, but Raphael still had an arm linked through his, and it would be too obvious.

‘I must say, I’m surprised to see elvish script so baldly written in Luskan.’

‘This whole place is surprising,’ Raphael said with a soft chuckle. ‘It’s favoured by pirates. But come! It’s best experienced. You’re in for a treat.’

‘Why does everything sound like a prelude to torture with you?’ Astarion said, as Raphael guided him towards the double doors. ‘Ah, that’s right, because it often is.’

‘That’s the spirit.’

It was obviously some kind of public drinking house from the looks of the ground floor. There was a guard at the doors who took one look at Raphael and nodded faintly, then squinted at Astarion before waving them both in. The floor was tiled in the same stone as outside but polished into shining and surprisingly clean slabs. The smell of juniper water was strong, the new owners obviously cared about keeping the place spotless, which Astarion found rather curious given the clientele was predominantly male pirates, some looking very rough indeed. Men with tattoos, missing teeth, eyepatches, prosthetic arms or legs, so many scars that Astarion doubted they’d fuss much over his.

There was a warmth from multiple burning hearths that fought off the chill of Luskan. Astarion was about to turn to the bar when he did a double take at some of the servers. They wore dark metal collars around their necks, a grey metal chain dangling down their backs as they went, quietly enquiring after those who sat at the tables. Slaves? Astarion looked sidelong at Raphael, who seemed comfortable and familiar with the place.

Raphael walked over to the bar and Astarion had no choice but to follow, painfully aware of the cuff at his wrist even if no one could see it.

‘Is Alectrona here tonight? Or better yet, my dear friend Lothar?’ Raphael enquired of the human who wiped down the counter. The human’s eyes widened when he clocked Raphael, and he looked searchingly around the space quickly even as he paled. He wore a metal collar like the other servers, though he seemed older than the rest, not that Astarion could ever accurately judge most human ages.

‘S-Sir Raphael, Mistress Alectrona is downstairs, and Whitemane- That is to say, Lothar Brink is here too. Is there anything I can get for you? Does your- Ah, does your guest need to be registered?'

'We’ll see if he passes muster first,’ Raphael said with a coy smile, then headed towards a darkened corner past the bar where a large stone stairwell descending into the earth appeared.

Astarion wondered how much gold was kept behind the bar, and he looked over his shoulder as they went, deciding that a place like this probably kept it in a safe somewhere.

‘Alectrona isn’t a very human name,’ Astarion said under his breath.

‘Mm? Are you talking to yourself over there?’

Astarion pressed his lips together. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know what Raphael’s idea of true submission was, even if he was the one who had asked the question.

To his surprise, the underground floor was large, even sprawling. Astarion couldn’t get a sense of just how huge it was, which let him know it would be fun to explore on his own. It was obvious it had been dug out significantly into the cliff. It was well lit, even spacious, and here it smelled of Luskan thyme, more juniper water, and the crisp, citrus and balsamic scent of young fir needles. There were many corridors, some appearing to lead to living spaces, bedrooms, even what looked like whole living units. There were more people down here – though still almost all men – and the clothing appeared finer than what was upstairs.

Astarion looked around in amazement, and then dread crept over him when they turned down a corridor and headed towards an open performance space where a man was being whipped with a vicious flogger not dissimilar to the one Raphael had used on him. Except the tails on this one were tied with bits of sharp metal, and the human man’s back was split open and trickling long streams of blood. The man shook, covered in sweat, as the tall moon elf behind him swung his arm back and laid into the man’s bare shoulders once more, wrenching a soulful cry from him. The scent of the blood was appealing, no alcohol in it, smelling surprisingly clean in a place like this.

As they drew closer, Astarion swallowed as he saw about twenty people sitting and watching respectfully. It was a performance. Not a public punishment – like those at the stocks or the gallows – but a performance. The man’s arms weren’t even tied to the cross he was leaning against. He had a metal collar around his neck, but he held on of his own will.

Raphael’s arm tightened where it was linked to his, a response to his growing fear, perhaps. Or even lust to see the torture taking place, Astarion wouldn’t put it past him.

It was all men who were seated and watching the performance, those who seemed to be the slave owners, and those who were the slaves – some kneeling at their master’s feet. Nearby stood a woman – a tall drow with medium grey skin and amber eyes, her long amber hair tied into a stern plait. She took one look at Raphael and her lip lifted in a sneer.

The performance continued as she crossed the room, her steps sure and confident. Astarion knew already that this must be Alectrona.

‘So you’re here again, vaarnar savalin,’ she said, her voice low, not interrupting the performance taking place. The torturer stroked his hand down the shuddering muscles of his victim, whispering something into his ear, nodding when the slave nodded. He stepped back and laid into him once more, and Astarion couldn’t help but watch even as Alectrona led them both out of the room. He watched until there was nothing left to see.

She knew what Raphael was, even in his human form. She’d addressed him as an evil murderer, but in the tone of someone who didn’t think he was a human criminal.

‘Which one do you want today?’ she said as they reached another corridor. ‘Lothar or Lareth? Or is it some other poor liyan you’ve decided to set your sights upon?’

‘Lareth is here too? Splendid. All these lost souls you make room for, how generous of you. The Last Word is my favourite larder.’

Alectrona rolled her eyes, even as she looked over Astarion with disdain. Astarion straightened. His experience with drows didn’t lean towards the favourable. Who was she to look down on him?

‘You’re already vaendan-thiil,’ she said to Astarion matter-of-factly. ‘Cursed before this one found you, yes? You have that look in your eyes. You’ve not been here before; I know all who end up downstairs in the dark with the rest of the aeseva and aeristerva who humble themselves in the art of khaolyrrin.’

‘I’m not familiar with the dialect,’ Astarion said finally. The only phrase he’d recognised after she insulted Raphael, was vaendan-thiil, a reference to someone worn down to deep fatigue by life’s struggles. He’d wanted to argue, but it seemed apt.

‘It isn’t a dialect,’ Alectrona said. ‘It’s a language that suits us and our livelihoods. He’s explained nothing to you, has he?’

Astarion looked at Raphael uncertainly.

‘And what soul of quality do you have to give him, being the thing that you are?’ Alectrona added. ‘I hear reports, you know. Thousands of aberrations just like you in the underdark. Is that where he found you? Behave yourself here, monster, these aren’t like the caves where you feasted.’

It had been some time since someone had talked to him so boldly, and Astarion only smirked, but he felt taken aback. Even Fhaeleb hadn’t been quite this cold. It was taking a fair amount of energy not to simply tell her to f*ck off, and that – actually – it was Temter who had decided to liberate all those spawn, and Astarion had been there to save the bloody world, actually.

Alectrona looked to Raphael and sighed. ‘Is it Lothar or Lareth that you want? Or someone else?’

Raphael’s expression was vaguely pleasant, but it was obvious he wasn’t happy with the cold treatment either. ‘None of that, now, darling. Can’t I simply wish to visit The Last Word as a patron? Who was it that assisted you during the Spellplague? And I asked for nothing. So generous of me, wasn’t it?’

‘You asked for nothing, I owe you nothing,’ Alectrona said, but then she placed her hands on her hips, over her long black leather skirt. Astarion noticed a white tattooed band around her dark wrist, like a cuff similar to what the slaves wore. ‘I’m being unconscionably rude, I know, but I have no patience for devilry today, particularly not yours.’

‘For some reason I find myself rather missing Korrilla when I talk to you,’ Raphael murmured. ‘You’re like her mirror if her mirror was a bitch. Far be it for me to prevaricate, but young Astarion here knows nothing about khaolyrrin and would like to understand more about what true submission means. I thought witnessing a performance would be in order.’

‘No,’ Alectrona said again. ‘If education is what you want, a conversation is best, and then perhaps a demonstration.’

She tapped her booted foot several times, then nodded once.

‘Cymon and Eurus. Cymon in particular. And what am I to assume here, Raphael? That you’ve brought one completely ignorant to our ways into this specific building, and he was once an elf, and knows nothing of aeseva and aeristerva, and you speak of “true submission” without education? You know what? I think I’ll oversee this conversation personally. You know as well as I do that Hanali Celanil has no patience with your tomfoolery within these walls and caves.’

Astarion wasn’t sure what kind of history Alectrona and Raphael had, but upon mention of the elvish goddess of love and beauty, he couldn’t help but wonder what had happened. Had a goddess intervened against Raphael’s actions here? Had there been some kind of spiritual visitation?

The gods coming to anyone’s defence except for mine, as always. Wonderful. Just wonderful.

‘He wants an hour of true submission in the terms of a new contract,’ Astarion blurted out. ‘He’s explained nothing at all.’

Alectrona gave Raphael the kind of withering glance a mother gives to her most tedious child.

Raphael broke the pleasantly smiling façade and stared daggers at Astarion, and Astarion felt faintly emboldened by Alectrona’s attitude and the implication that Raphael was bound to behave here at least somewhat.

‘Darling,’ Astarion said to him, smiling faintly, ‘you can’t expect me to sign that parchment in blood without at least understanding what you’re on about, can you? It seems that if you knew so much about it, you wouldn’t need to show me, you would have simply explained it.’

‘Oh, ha, no, he doesn’t know a thing about it,’ Alectrona said. ‘And you’ll need his definition for a contract, won’t you? So this might be a waste of everyone’s time! Still, first I will give you our definition, perhaps then he can invent one of his own that isn’t simply abject slavery.’

‘Is it not?’ Astarion said, laughing. ‘Because all I’ve seen is slavery and torture since I’ve arrived.’

‘Then you’re not very observant, are you?’ Alectrona said snippily. ‘Come along. The last thing I wanted to deal with tonight was gibberish and tripe. And you, Raphael, interesting that you came here. You could have gone to a slave-house and tricked the poor bastard, but you sought me out. Don’t tell me you’ve changed. Or are you trying something new? Old enough to be bored of everything that came before, hm?’

She walked down a corridor, and Raphael and Astarion followed.

‘It’s laughable that you think a savalir aethen like you could ever understand anything of true submission. If it were me, I’d be signing no contract at all if that’s what you were asking for, but I’m not desperate, am I?’

Astarion chanced a look at Raphael as they walked, but his expression was opaque, that faint smile back on his face that gave nothing away. Sometimes he thought it was easier when Raphael was being cruel outright.

Chapter 23: Ambergris and Luskan Thyme

Chapter Text

It was a maze of corridors under The Last Word, and Astarion wanted to privately mark some of the walls with covert smudges so he could find his way back if needed, but Raphael was far too close.

Alectrona eventually stopped down a corridor lit with glowing torches that shed no smoke, magically kept alight. To their left, an ordinary wooden door. In front of them, at the terminus of the corridor, was a large altar to Hanali Celanil. Her body was sculpted from a cream-coloured marble, the table before her was heavily covered with candles, some of which were still burning, shedding the woodsy citrus scent of Luskan thyme and the earthier-musky scent of ambergris, almost like sandalwood, but too animal for that.

Hanali Celanil was naked, her body carved to perfection, curved with a sultry, sleepy expression on her beautiful face. One hand was open by her exposed vulva, the other held tumbling flowers. About her head was a flower crown, and at her carved pointed ears were real gemstones. Astarion had desecrated enough godly altars to know the kinds of curses that could be dealt – Temter had nearly gotten him killed this way in Baldur’s Gate – but his fingers twitched regardless.

A beautiful statue of Hanali Celanil down here in a place run by a drow, in a city beloved by humans. What an odd place this was.

Alectrona knocked on the door, and it was opened soon after.

Astarion stared. A celadrin, down here in a cave system. Golden skin, golden eyes, flame bright hair that tumbled in soft, glowing waves down to a naked waist. The man was bare-chested, but for the gold clamps at his ruddy, swollen nipples. He had a thick golden collar about his neck. Thick enough that he would have struggled to look down comfortably if he attempted it. In his ears were the same gems that the statue of Hanali Celanil wore.

He didn’t bear himself like a slave at all despite the collar and clamps. His golden eyes looked over Astarion, then Raphael, and he sighed.

‘Lothar and Lareth aren’t here, Mistress Alectrona.’

‘I’m well aware.’

‘You’re looking lovely as always, Cymon,’ Raphael said, and Cymon tossed red hair over his shoulder and shook his head, but didn’t look away from Alectrona.

‘Master Eurus has little patience today, Mistress. He is already in a poor mood with me. I cannot simply let you in without a reason, I’m afraid.’

‘Then fetch your Master, aesev.’

Cymon bowed deeply, hinging at the waist, his neck perfectly straight. Then he walked away after an opaque glance at Astarion.

Eurus came about a minute later. He was a brown-skinned human with black eyes, and tightly curled hair that was very well maintained. He had a broad figure, well-muscled, and Astarion thought if he’d seen him drunk near a festhall, he’d have taken him for Cazador for his handsomeness alone. He was shorter than Cymon, looking as thin of patience as his slave had suggested.

‘I see there is a devil on my doorstep,’ Eurus said, upon seeing Raphael. He looked at Alectrona as though asking why she was inflicting him with this.

‘So, does everyone here know what you are?’ Astarion said, unable to keep the sharp delight out of his voice. ‘I don’t know why you bothered with the human guise when oh, just about everyone seems to know exactly where you come from down here.’

Raphael flicked him the kind of look that would have made Astarion terrified if they hadn’t been in this exact location.

‘Our permanent residents are aware there is a devil that frequents The Last Word, some even court him, fool idiots they are,’ Alectrona said darkly. ‘We have a rather unusual situation on our hands, Eurus, Cymon, I was wondering if we might speak to you both. Apparently our fiend is asking for the meaning of true submission that he might craft it from this creature, instead of simply beating and torturing brokenness out of his subjects.’

‘Oh,’ Cymon said, laughing delicately, placing fingertips over his mouth. ‘Oh dear.’

Raphael didn’t say or do anything, Astarion was sure, but a few seconds later Cymon’s expression turned troubled, and he dropped his hand. He wouldn’t meet Raphael’s eyes.

‘Let them in,’ Eurus said to Cymon, turning and walking away. ‘Make them comfortable.’

‘Of course, Master Eurus.’

As Alectrona walked past Cymon, she casually reached out and grabbed the clamp at Cymon’s nipple, twisting it until he tensed and muffled a cry. She kept hold and leaned in close.

‘Be good, aesev.’

‘Yes, Mistress,’ he said, his voice shaking.

Astarion swallowed at the casual display of cruelty. But when Alectrona let go, Cymon took one breath to compose himself, and instead of looking tortured or afraid as many would in Cazador’s palace, he only smiled faintly, despite the tears in his eyes. He shook his head a little, and the self-possession he’d had before returned. It didn’t seem like an act at all. Astarion was confused as he followed Raphael and Alectrona into what was clearly a large underground living space.

There were two smaller statues to Hanali Celanil in view, as well as a sunken circular area covered in blankets, furs, rugs and cushions, but also had what looked like furniture for torture set about the place. Astarion’s steps slowed when he saw the floggers, the whips, the row of knives and needles upon a table.

They bypassed the sunken area and stood by a four-seater table. Cymon knelt down without being asked, knees resting upon a blue cushion with embroidered herbs upon it. His hands rested neatly in his lap, his eyes bright with interest. He didn’t look demeaned at all.

‘Do you want an aesev?’ Alectrona asked Raphael sharply, as she pulled out a chair and sat down. ‘Talk to Eurus, learn how impossible it is for you to train one. And you,’ she said, turning to Cymon, ‘if Eurus gives his permission, I think you should talk to the liyan he’s caught in his web.’

Eurus stared at Astarion coolly for a long time, then walked away to a chest of drawers. He opened the middle drawer, pulled something out, and returned with what looked like wrist cuffs, except that they were more complicated than anything Astarion had seen before.

‘This is no mere elf,’ Eurus said to Alectrona, before turning to Astarion. ‘You, creature, may talk to my beloved aesev under one condition, you surrender the use of your hands.’

‘Ha! I’m sorry, I don’t know anyone here, so if you think-’

The slap when it came was open-handed and unexpected because it didn’t come from Raphael. Eurus’ palm was calloused, and the hit wasn’t as hard as it could have been, but it wasn’t playful, either. Astarion’s head whipped to the side, his cheek blazed.

‘He’s not yours, Eurus,’ Alectrona said.

‘Now, now, I don’t mind,’ Raphael drawled. ‘He looks better with some bruising.’

Eurus grasped Astarion’s jaw between strong fingers, even as Astarion opened his mouth in outrage.

‘Cymonitae is the most precious thing in the world to me, and I’d not expect one such as you to understand it. You barely deserve to step foot in this space where we live, let alone share words with him, and if you wish to have that honour, you will surrender the use of your hands for the period of time in which you speak with him. I’ll not have you behave as though you are the one hard done by here, when you feast upon the blood of the living to keep your unnatural life, and the one next to you feasts upon the souls of the innocent.’

‘I rather prefer the sweetness of corrupting them first,’ Raphael said laconically.

Eurus didn’t look away from Astarion. In that moment he somehow seemed less like a torturer and more like a disappointed, stern schoolteacher. Astarion couldn’t understand the shame he felt at being chastened this way. He couldn’t help think of Halsin referring to him as an afront to nature, and how much it burned, after so many years as an elf, closer to nature than almost anyone could imagine.

‘It will be temporary,’ Eurus said, something in his expression softening as he stared Astarion down. ‘But you must see I have no reason to trust you, so you will offer me some artificial evidence of trust, that I might lend you some time with my aesev.’

Astarion felt thoroughly on the back foot. He couldn’t help but think of the man he’d seen before, his back being shredded to ribbons as slaves and their masters watched, as Alectrona observed it all idly, because she’d clearly seen it all before. His gaze flickered to Cymon, who watched expectantly, and thought of how catty and bitchy everyone in Cazador’s palace could be. How foolish it would be to show a single hint of weakness.

‘Tick tock, Astarion,’ Raphael said, amused.

Astarion ground his teeth together, even as Cymon breathed in sharply upon hearing his name.

In the end, Astarion presented his wrists because he didn’t know what else to do. Everyone else was waiting on him. He felt as caught out as when Temter learned he drank animal blood. Only this time, he knew if he tried to talk his way out of it, he’d be slapped again. His cheek ached enough that he didn’t want to risk it a second time.

Eurus was surprisingly gentle when he pushed Astarion’s sleeves up, but when he saw the metal cuff his lips curled in a sneer.

‘You make a mockery of us,’ he said, then glared at Raphael to make it clear who he was talking to.

‘Come now, Eurus,’ Alectrona said, smiling coldly, ‘he could have gone anywhere to teach something like this to his little monster.’

Astarion ground his teeth together and didn’t like the way Eurus watched his expression, as though tracking every minute emotion Astarion was feeling.

Worse then were the cuffs. They slid over his wrists, connecting them to each other so Astarion could no longer spread his arms, but they imprisoned his fingers too. Leather straps wound between his knuckles, anchored at the cuffs around his wrists, until every finger was nearly completely straightened out in front of him. He couldn’t curl his hands into fists, he couldn’t touch his fingers together. He stared down in dull horror. Cazador would have loved these.

Eurus cupped Astarion’s hands, and the gesture seemed sweet, but at the first application of even light pressure against his knuckles, Astarion felt the electricity of unexpected pain zing meanly through each one of his fingers, lancing down his wrist. He stared down at the cuffs then jerked his hands backwards. Eurus let go, and Astarion kept his hands up by his chest, staring at him, horrified.

‘My Cymonitae knows how they work,’ Eurus said, nodding towards the cuffs. ‘I trust you will behave.’

Astarion stared down at his fingers. He couldn’t think of how to speak for a moment, because his hands were everything in his work as a rogue, a thief, a charlatan. It was one thing to have his hands broken and healed over and over again by Cazador, but this immobilisation, the pain that waited, it was grotesque.

Raphael leaned over and looked down at them.

‘And how would one procure a pair of these?’

‘Cymon, love,’ Eurus said, ignoring him. ‘Take this creature aside and you may have your own conversation, while Alectrona and I speak to this devil.’

‘Of course, Master,’ Cymon said, standing gracefully, before his golden gaze passed to Astarion and he nodded towards the space with its torture equipment and its opulent rugs. ‘Come along then.’

Astarion hesitated, then followed, keeping his hands up by his chest, ready to get out of the way if Cymon reached for his fingers. But Cymon didn’t reach for him, didn’t seem to notice the clamps hurting his nipples, and didn’t seem at all perturbed by any of the torture equipment. He cast no lingering, dread-filled gazes towards any of it, he didn’t seem remotely furtive, he didn’t flinch. He knelt on some wool by a nest of cushions and then patted a space nearby for Astarion, who wanted desperately to have a hand to brace himself.

He went down to his knees as carefully as he could, then curled his legs and rocked onto one hip, looking across to Raphael who stared idly back, even as he was sitting at the table with the other two.

‘Ignore them,’ Cymon said. ‘Their conversation won’t be ours. Tell me why you’re here.’

Astarion stared at him for a long time. A celadrin. He’d not seen one for such a long time. Cymon watched him and then his golden eyes moved down to the hand bondage. Astarion moved his hands closer to his chest, hating how vulnerable it made him seem. Cymon sighed.

‘Master saw well what would make you raw,’ Cymon said. ‘Are your fingers hurting even now?’

Astarion cast aside honesty and made his voice shake. ‘So dreadfully, you can’t imagine. Could you take the finger straps off?’

Cymon laughed softly. ‘I did the same thing the first time he made me wear them. You’re a worse liar than I am. Might I have your name?’

Astarion scowled, then looked at a large wooden cross leaning against the wall. The leather cuffs at the top and bottom for wrists and ankles bore signs of heavy use.

'Astarion Ancunin.'

‘You’re one of the ones from the stories,’ Cymon said, voice almost dreamy. ‘The world was saved in the end and you were there. And now you’re with this fiend? Ah, that doesn’t seem fair. You seem fun to tease, but our time together might be short. So tell me truly what you need assistance with, and I shall do my best to assist. My Master has bid it so, and I will do it.’

‘Do you need help getting out of here?’ Astarion asked under his breath, thinking of how Karran had helped him, when he’d helped her first.

Cymon’s laugh was musical, and he shook his head, his smile genuinely amused.

‘No, not at all. I have my goddess, my worship, my Master, everything I could ever desire, and more besides. It is your story I want. You don’t need mine.’

He talked like an elf that might be much, much older than he appeared. Astarion didn’t get the sense that he was being deceived and wanting the bondage off his hands and wrists as soon as possible, he launched into a halting, messy tale that described in jags how he’d ended up in Raphael’s clutches, how he’d willingly walked into the trap for the sake of the sun. He was surprised at how easily Cymon listened to the tale, taking in the information, never interrupting.

At the end, Cymon shifted and sat cross-legged. He reached up as though to scratch at his nipple and seemed to remember the clamps. He sighed as though annoyed and dropped his hand.

‘I would run anywhere for the sun,’ Cymon sighed. ‘I do not think it’s so foolish as you claim, to desire it so. There is obviously still a lot of elf left within you.’

‘Ah. Tell that to your Master.’

‘I can see why Mistress Alectrona brought you here. Tell me what you know of the words aesev and aeristerv.’

‘Only that… Well, something to do with hunting? Teaching?’

‘Yes,’ Cymon said, golden eyes bright. ‘Here, we have the aeseva, and the aeristerva. I am aesev, which means I am to be hunted. I am the one who yields, the one who is taken, the one speared. My Master is aeristerv, teacher first, hunter second. He guides me in how to best yield, how to best be taken, how to best be speared. He makes sure I survive it, and flourish within it. For, you see, that is where I am happiest. I have all this beauty, all this desire, it is best used in service of someone I love.’

Astarion had to restrain himself from saying something mocking. But he couldn’t help but look back to the torture equipment, his lip lifting in a sneer.

‘We practice an art called khaolyrrin, the taboo faith, a sacred trust,’ Cymon continued. ‘I trust my Master to take me into painful, challenging depths and bring me forth whole, or if not whole, then I trust him to nurture me back to wholeness. He trusts me to yield to him as well as I can, to let myself be taken, to let him guide me into places where I wouldn’t go willingly without him. He is my god, my religion, and Hanali Celanil begrudges him nothing, because this is one of her many arts.’

‘I find it hard to believe an elven goddess has anything to do with this.’

‘I don’t think you lived long enough as a free elf to know what breadth of sensual arts elves truly have access to, nor do I think high moon elves necessarily know of these arts the way sun elves do. We live in different realms, travel in different circles.’

Astarion’s hands were beginning to fiercely ache. The knuckles of his thumbs and index fingers felt swollen. He stared down at his hands. When he went to lower them to his lap, blood moved down into the finger joints and it hurt worse. He raised his hands immediately, shocked at how badly gravity impacted the pain.

Cymon frowned, he reached out as though to touch Astarion’s hands, and Astarion bared his teeth and jerked back.

Nearby, the conversation stopped. Astarion looked over. Eurus was glaring at him.

Cymon shook his head while looking at Eurus and something seemed to pass between them. Soon after that the conversation between Raphael, Alectrona and Eurus resumed.

‘I am not going to counsel you to not take the contract, because in your circ*mstances, I can’t say I’d have the willpower to avoid it,’ Cymon said quietly. ‘I do not think humans like my Master could ever understand. Even Mistress Alectrona, who is happiest in the shadows and never needs see daylight, couldn’t understand. But, Astarion Ancunin, that devil is a torturer, he is not aeristerv.’

‘Believe me, I know that better than anyone,’ Astarion said.

Cymon coiled his hair absently while he seemed to be lost in thought. He was beautiful at every angle.

‘Are you truly happy here?’ Astarion said helplessly.

‘Yes,’ Cymon said frankly. ‘I’d best ask you some blunt questions now, the same sorts of questions we ask many of our newcomers, those who wish to try the path of the aesev. Can you feel pleasure even when there is pain? Even if it is only very select kinds of pain?’

Astarion’s knuckles hurt enough that he didn’t feel very charitable towards the idea of going through any suffering at all.

Unexpectedly, his mind returned to the night of the play, sitting between Raphael’s legs while the devil toyed with him, being made to sit upon that human co*ck – still girthy, still overwhelming – and the ache that had come with it. He thought about how his body had awakened with want, and he felt haunted by his own experiences, his own responses.

‘I suppose,’ Astarion said.

‘Yes, it is a hard thing to admit at first,’ Cymon said. ‘When there is no trust, you would have no reason to trust these things. But that is good. And…have you ever felt a need to…find yourself and your purpose in another? Have you ever trusted that someone else might know how to light the path ahead better than you? Even if those people have forsaken you in the end? Even if it is only some paths, not all of them? Is life easier when – just sometimes – someone chooses for you?’

Astarion thought of Temter, thought of how much easier it had been when Temter had told him what to do, and how heavy it felt sometimes that he had to be the one who took control in the bedroom and pretend at desire and lust. He thought of how he preferred it when Temter came up with the plans even when they were stupid, even when they had him near death.

Abruptly he’d had enough of the cuffs, enough of the growing pain, and he absently clenched his fingers and then could only half-swallow the agony of slowly stiffening fingers imprisoned in leather. He bowed over his hands as the excruciating intensity of it made him shudder, nausea rocketing through him. He moved away when Cymon came closer.

Seconds later it seemed, Eurus was there crouching near him, and Astarion rocked backwards and kicked out automatically, ready to bite the leather around his knuckles into pieces if he had to – he’d f*cking chewed through rope if it was weak enough, in Godey’s Kennel – and Eurus was folding large brown hands around Astarion’s, feather light, but keeping Astarion still through his fear of increased pressure.

‘Shh. Stop, stop, stop,’ Eurus said. ‘Stop, now. Stop.’

‘It has been bad, Master,’ Cymon said quietly.

Mistress Alectrona was standing, surveying with sharp eyes. Raphael was seated at the table, watching as though bored.

‘He wouldn’t lower his hands,’ Cymon added under his breath. ‘He tried, and then… And he won’t let me see.’

Eurus looked grim, and Astarion felt frozen, he didn’t want Eurus’ fingers to close any further over his own.

‘All right,’ Eurus said, his voice soothing. ‘I’m going to untie and then retie the straps.’

Astarion stared at him in horror. Eurus stared back, unblinking.

‘He was one of the ones who saved the world, Master,’ Cymon said. ‘That fight against the Absolute, at Baldur’s Gate. He was there.’

Astarion stared at Cymon. Sometimes it felt unreal, with the way people treated him these days, with the way his life had fallen apart after Temter left. Any celebrity he’d had vanished as soon as Temter did the same. Now he was the creature, the monster, awarded as much dignity as Cazador gave him.

Eurus grasped Astarion’s wrists at the attachment that bound them together, then reached between Astarion’s fingers to presumably start untying the leather straps. Astarion wanted to be stoic, but it had never been his strong suit. He looked away, he told himself he wasn’t shaking, and when the leather unwound from his knuckles, he felt a moment of relief before the pain worsened, fingers throbbing. He went to curl them, and a scratchy sound locked itself up in his throat, and then his useless breathing shook.

‘All right,’ Eurus said heavily. ‘These might work differently on what you are now, rather than what you once were. Or perhaps it’s something else. I’ll be quick and careful.’

‘Wonderful,’ Astarion hissed out, unable to help his broken, scathing tone.

It was still a horrible torment, each of those leather straps coming undone, his fingers feeling like they were creaking. He didn’t want to move any of them, but sometimes Eurus brushed one, and Astarion flinched. Eventually Alectrona sat again and began talking sternly to Raphael, and Astarion laughed bitterly when he imagined Raphael getting his hands on these to keep Astarion’s in agony for the duration of the second contract.

‘Can he not rest his hands, Master?’ Cymon implored, when all the straps were off, and Eurus was merely cradling his fingers in his palms as though warming them.

‘No, Cymonitae,’ Eurus said. ‘But perhaps if this encounter goes well enough, we’ll leave them off next time and use something else. I’ll use a different configuration that shouldn’t hurt. And you are to tell my beloved if your hands hurt unduly. The bondage should be restrictive, not agonising.’

A stubborn, angry thing was balling up in Astarion’s chest. Why did it matter? Why did any of this matter? Even Cymon knew he was going to enter into an impossible, eternal contract. Why were they even here? Was it a complete farce?

‘Look at me,’ Eurus said to him, and Astarion flinched from the fingers that touched his face. Eurus paused, and then turned to look over his shoulder. ‘You want to prove that you can do anything even slightly similar to what we do, come and do a better job of calming him down than I am. You know him better than I do, don’t you?’

Astarion swallowed when Raphael got up and walked over. And when Raphael knelt with a smile playing around his face, he thought of the things he’d said at The Last Word that would have earned the devil’s anger and punishment in any other circ*mstance, and glared past Cymon’s shoulder at nothing at all, and waited for things to get worse.

Chapter 24: Fresh Flesh and Wet Wood

Chapter Text

‘Tch, tch, Astarion, I’ve seen you handle much worse than this, darling,’ Raphael said. He turned to Eurus. ‘You’ll have to forgive him. He does so hate public displays.’

Raphael reached for his hands, and Astarion’s jaw hurt with how hard his teeth pressed together. He tried to jerk his arms backwards, but he wasn’t fast enough. A combination of his wrists still being bound, and Raphael’s fiendish reflexes. But Raphael didn’t grab his hands, instead placing a hand at Astarion’s back, kneeling up, his other hand resting on Astarion’s upper arm.

‘Isn’t it lovely when others do all the hard work for me? I didn’t have to torture you at all. These insects and their “good intentions” did it all for me.’

Cymon made a small sound of protest, but Astarion couldn’t look away from Raphael’s face, so close to his.

Somehow, it blocked out everything else, even as Astarion felt humiliated. Even as he loathed it all. His fingers hurt.

‘Shhh, now,’ Raphael said, sliding his hand down Astarion’s arm to his wrists, thumb stroking up past the leather cuffs to Astarion’s bare skin. ‘Be good, even if it goes against your better nature.’

Astarion bared his teeth and still flinched backwards when Raphael touched his fingers, but the glide of heat against his skin didn’t make the pain worse. Raphael looked smug as he linked their fingers together, and then his smile turned dangerous, and Astarion’s stomach dropped.

The squeeze against his knuckles lit up the pain once more, and Astarion wanted to bite him, wanted to throw him against a wall, felt nothing but a violent need for reprisal tremor through him like an earthquake. He felt his own magic electrifying the nerves under his skin, sparking out of his fingertips even as Raphael smirked like he wasn’t surprised at all.

‘Devil’s in the details, even at moments like this. You have to move them to ease the pain. Poor, poor Eurus, that’s all he was trying to do.’

Raphael stopped squeezing and instead gently took Astarion’s left little finger and stretched the finger out, then curled it in, and Astarion’s knees went weak. The pain wasn’t as bad as before; it was already improving, but he was exhausted. Where had his stamina gone?

Raphael leaned in, their faces close enough that their cheeks touched, and Astarion could look past him and see the way the others stared.

‘You do loathe being a spectacle, don’t you? Even when you’re a well-cultivated prize, a treasure one becomes desperate to toy with.’

‘Ah, yes, because that is one’s true aspiration, to become a toy.’

‘Mm? Wouldn’t it be nice to want for nothing?’

Astarion winced as Raphael moved onto the next finger, then closed his eyes at the next. The blasted fiend was actually working the pain out with dexterous touches, was helping, and Astarion couldn’t help but feel it was all a game.

‘Look at what you do with your freedom,’ Raphael said, kneeling back onto his heels as he pulled Astarion’s arms into his lap, and Astarion let it happen now his fingers were hurting less. ‘My, but your knuckles are rather swollen. How careless of the creatures here to not understand how their craft might affect different races.’

‘Experimenting on aberrations is not on the top of my list of things to do,’ Eurus said from nearby. ‘And what freedom? He has none.’

‘Ah, but you should have seen what he was doing with it before I dove back into his life like a falcon. A free mouse that hangs about in a barren field is free for the taking, wouldn’t you say?’

‘That is a rather fancy way of saying you simply take advantage of people when they’re down,’ Astarion said. Raphael did something with his fingers, and Astarion winced. ‘Ow.’

Raphael’s smile was sweet.

‘First a toy,’ Astarion muttered. ‘Now a mouse.’

‘At least I gathered your wretched form from beneath the ground and bestowed upon you the House of Hope. Look at these worms around you, under the earth. Look at Alectrona. Is she glaring daggers at my back?’

Astarion felt a dull curling of amusem*nt and grunted as fingers pressed into the muscle at the base of his thumb, gently coaxing cold blood to move.

‘She is,’ Astarion said.

A close-mouthed laugh, and then everything was silent, and Astarion winced as Raphael massaged the life – ha – back into his fingers, smoothing the pain away. Perhaps in being such an adept torturer, he knew how to do the opposite as well, which was disturbing to consider.

‘Are you learning a lot?’ Raphael said, and Astarion desperately wished they were alone. Even a year ago, with his companions, he’d hated how often Temter wanted to have personal conversations while others were around, even if they were sleeping. Temter seemed to think nothing of it. It was even worse when he thought sex was fine when others were in hearing distance. Perhaps Astarion would have delighted in it, once, but being Cazador’s slave rather put him off sex that others could listen to or witness.

‘Only that no one here thinks you’re capable of creating true submission.’

‘Ah, pet,’ Raphael said, trailing a fingernail along the underside of Astarion’s jaw, making him swallow, ‘at the end of the midnight hour, it will be my words defining the terms on the contract, not theirs.’

‘Then why are we even here?’ Astarion managed.

Raphael smirked and kept massaging his fingers until finally Astarion’s hands felt not only relaxed, but warm and tingling.

‘There we are,’ Raphael said, standing and stepping back, gesturing to Eurus. ‘Go on then. He’s as calm as he gets, that one.’

Astarion glared at Raphael, who walked back up the shallow steps to Alectrona’s side.

When Eurus knelt in front of him, Astarion tensed, an icy shiver moving through him. Eurus sighed, then reached for Astarion’s wrists, then carefully touched his knuckles, his fingers.

Afterwards, the leather straps were refastened, but the positioning was different. They wrapped different fingers together and didn’t bunch at the knuckles, so Astarion’s fingers were still immobilised, but didn’t ache like before.

‘You are to tell me or my Cymonitae if you’re in pain,’ Eurus commanded.

‘Well,’ Astarion said, ‘I have to look at you, and that causes me pain. Does that count? Are you going to hit me again?’

Eurus stood and looked down on him, and Astarion would have liked nothing better than to tear his throat out and stomp on his insides the way children stomped around in puddles. Funny, he hadn’t felt like that when he’d arrived. But the bastard had done nothing to endear himself.

Eurus turned to Cymonitae, and something unspoken passed between them once more. Cymon nodded and then bowed his head politely, and Eurus went back to the table. A moment later, Alectrona, Raphael and Eurus were seated and talking again, and Astarion stared down at the cuffs and wanted to smash them against something sharp and metal until they fell apart.

‘I didn’t think he’d be able to calm you,’ Cymon said, moving closer again. ‘But he did. You talk to him very freely.’

‘And yet here I am, enslaved within a devil’s contract, kneeling on the floor in a torture parlour. Wonderful.’

Cymon’s smile was sweet, even playful. He seemed thoughtful and then pursed his lips.

‘It is rare that devils allow personal stipulations on contracts, but do you think this fiend will allow you any in the next contract for the sun?’

‘I’m allowed seven.’

Golden eyes widened, and Cymon planted a hand flat on the floor. If he was a less composed being, Astarion was sure his mouth would have dropped open.

‘Is that so unusual? I’m still f*cked either way, darling,’ Astarion said.

‘That is very unusual,’ Cymon whispered. ‘Do you have any now, in your current contract?’

‘Five.’

‘Five, for only three tendays?’ Cymon said, looking sceptical. ‘He’s adhered to them?’

‘So far,’ Astarion said. ‘I’m not sure he can actually breach them once they’re written into the contract.’

‘Astarion, that is very interesting. Ah, well then, with so many stipulations, I would ask you to consider one. Ask to be allowed to visit us once or twice every tenday, ask to have some time alone with me. I know you have no reason to trust me. Perhaps you will think of someone better suited, but I do know what it is to be an aesev, and I know torture, sadism, pain, surrender, release and more. If the only way out is true surrender, then perhaps I can guide you to it, no matter his definition on the contract.’

‘And, what, you’ll just help me out of the good of your heart, will you?’

‘Very few end up living down here, who didn’t need to be helped out of the good of someone’s heart at least once. For me, it was my Eurusitae, my glorious master. It was Hanali Celanil. And I’ve made friends here. Umzo, Alectrona’s aesev, has been lovely to me. I do not mind paying it forward to someone who seems more elf than vampire.’

‘It’s hard to believe a celadrin debasing himself by living beneath the earth would have anything of value to share,’ Astarion said, lifting an eyebrow.

Cymon’s smile was sharper. ‘It’s hard to believe a vampire spawn would sneer at compassion when it’s freely offered, but that is the arrogance I remember from some of my sun elf relatives. I do not have to choose to be kind. I have my cruel streak, too. I am aesev for my master, but you are not ugly in your pain, Astarion. I can see why that devil seeks your torment, because in other circ*mstances, I might seek it too.’

Astarion glared at him, and Cymon’s smile broadened, until he looked down at his nipple clamps and sighed as though exasperated. He looked at Astarion’s hands.

‘How are they? Sore again?’

‘Fine,’ Astarion said. ‘For a measure of whatever fine might mean down here.’

‘Then they are fine,’ Cymon said. ‘You yielded prettily to him, you know. That devil over there. Have you always been this way?’

‘My vampire master brainwashed and tortured me for centuries, my dear. So why don’t you tell me.’

‘Then no, I think,’ Cymon said, settling more comfortably onto the cushions. ‘You didn’t yield to him out of terror. You tolerated him at first, but then truly yielded. Interesting. The stipulation I suggested, please do consider it. My master won’t like it, but if it’s in the contract, he cannot ignore it. You’d best reward my trust too, one day.’

Astarion had nothing to say about the possibility of accruing yet another debt, and Cymon only smiled cat-like at him and then crossed his legs, dragging his manicured fingernails along his shins, over his thighs. He stretched sensuously, before his nose wrinkled and one hand dropped to hover over one of the clamps, before he dropped it.

‘If you’ve been tortured, you likely know all about riding pain,’ Cymon said, almost to himself.

‘I’ve got nowhere else to be,’ Astarion said airily. ‘You might as well tell me more.’

‘What was it like, saving the world and being…what you are?’

Astarion opened his mouth to say something withering and then stopped himself. He tried not to think about it often, how it was at the end. They’d been exhausted, depleted nearly all their supplies, and they’d had to go back for Shadowheart. The owlbear cub had died, and Astarion remembered staring at him at the end as the others cheered, and he’d said something blasé about wanting a glass of wine while his chest had wrenched, remembering how soft the creature’s feathers had been, how alive and even sweet the eyes could be after the worst of Astarion’s nightmares. That little owlbear face curiously looking down at him, and then snuggling next to him, before twitching with his own nightmares. They’d understood each other at least to a point, hadn’t they?

He could have walked over and petted him one last time, but he didn’t want that to be the last memory of touching those feathers, that fur. He wanted something brighter in his mind, for once. He’d made some offhand comment about the glorious violence of bloodshed, but his hands had remembered the silky curve of those feathers, the scent of fresh flesh about his beaky mouth.

Astarion stared at his hands, the leather straps, and blinked rapidly when he realised Cymon had asked him a question, and now watched him with a sober look on his face.

‘Oh, you know,’ Astarion said, summoning up the same drawl that had gotten him through many years. ‘Just another day, really.’

‘War is hard,’ Cymon said.

‘And you know a great deal about war, do you?’

‘I live in Luskan, Astarion,’ Cymon said. ‘The Spellplague was not only a story to us. Just as the Absolute was not only a story to you. Or to him. He was involved, wasn’t he?’

Cymon looked over to Raphael, who seemed deep in conversation about the merits of different whips, and why bloodletting was a delicious art form.

‘He helped us,’ Astarion said. ‘Not without a price, of course. He is what he is. We betrayed and then killed him.’

Astarion had known Raphael was likely listening to their entire conversation. He had zero doubt anything passed his notice unless he let it.

But that didn’t stop gooseflesh from crawling over Astarion’s skin when Raphael stopped talking, turned, and stared at him without blinking.

‘He wanted something,’ Astarion continued, as though he couldn’t help himself. ‘A very special prize. I believe he’s written books about it.’

No one spoke.

Astarion felt like he’d walked headfirst into the consequences of his actions. Alectrona eyed Raphael with alarm, as though she expected something awful to happen. Perhaps if Raphael had been at full power, something awful would have unfolded.

Astarion wasn’t one for plans and strategies. He was better at improvising, and best at creating accidental disasters. But Cymon’s surprise at Astarion being given seven stipulations, while Astarion had spent all this time thinking how unfair his lot in life was, had given him a strange perspective. He’d possibly never know why Raphael was being so accommodating to him, or indeed if this was some kind of long game to torment and then kill all the companions, one by one, and Astarion happened to be the first. But Raphael was – to a point – depowered and defanged.

‘Well…’ Astarion said and smiled at Raphael’s still and composed expression. ‘Isn’t that interesting?’

‘I think these two have enough answers,’ Alectrona said, standing. ‘While I’d be delighted to hear about whatever drama you manage to create, I don’t want it happening here. You want to f*ck here? I can’t stop you. You want to hire out a room and torture a vampire in it? It’s possible I can’t stop you. But I don’t want whatever this is. I know how dangerous this vaarnar savalir can be. You’ve both outstayed your welcome.’

Raphael turned to face Alectrona, standing and smiling coolly. ‘Lady Alectrona, you’re as warm a host as always.’

‘Warmer than you deserve, devil.’

‘I do so hope you have need of me and my services one day,’ Raphael said, smile widening. Raphael looked to Eurus, who stood as though commanded, and came over to Astarion and removed the leather straps and then the cuffs. Eurus looked over to Cymon frequently, checking in on him. But Cymon simply shook his head.

Astarion stood, and Raphael came up close to him, sliding an arm through his as though they were close lovers. Astarion felt a kindling of dread.

Raphael said his smooth goodbyes, and they were escorted out. Astarion cast one look at the Hanali Celanil statue as they followed Alectrona through the corridors and wondered if the goddess was the only one standing in the way of Raphael and The Last Word being smashed down through his machinations.

Astarion flexed his fingers. He hated that all too soon they were back in the cold air, standing outside, everything cut short because he couldn’t help but bait the one person who could kill or torture him more easily than anyone else could.

‘Your flirting leaves much to be desired,’ Raphael said as they walked away.

‘Does it?’ Astarion said blandly. ‘It got your attention, darling.’

‘One has to wonder if you were like this with Cazador.’

Astarion’s thoughts ground to a halt. His hands twitched. Raphael hummed as though amused.

‘Did he want you obsequious? Scurrying about like a little rat in his palace? Did he tolerate it when you were a brat? I can’t imagine he did.’

What was the right play here? Astarion felt like he sifted through about fifty lies before he landed on the truth.

‘I learned repeatedly I was to be tortured either way, so I found my petty freedoms where I could. Are you really that furious I pointed out the truth to them? It’s not flattering to you, but it’s not exactly flattering to me either. Don’t you know? I helped to save the world once, and now here I am.’

‘Dressed in the finest of clothing, unmolested, insulting me. A poor mouse, what awful tortures you’re suffering through.’

‘You have the most incredible way of being deceitful, as though nothing else you’ve ever done or suggested doing to me has ever existed.’

‘My darling, I have promised you the sun.’

Raphael drew him down an alleyway, which smelled of the wet wood of many empty pallets stacked on top of each other. Astarion glared as he was pushed against a wall, his back against it. He felt dizzy when Raphael’s over-warm hands slipped beneath his many layers of clothing easily, pressed to his naked belly and then drew a line there with his index finger, like someone might trace the path they were about to take with a knife. It was a path that would disembowel him.

It was surreal to be the one against a wall, surreal not to be the hunter, as he so often was down alleyways.

Fingernails scraping bluntly up over Astarion’s ribs, and he felt paralysed, because it wasn’t cruel or painful, only surprising, warm, electric. Thumbs pressed deep under his rib cage, hard enough it struck up an ache, like Raphael was imagining sinking his cambion claws all the way into his viscera, and Astarion’s eyes fluttered shut. Locked the world out.

‘You may have promised me the sun, but do you see me walking about gaily in sunlight? No. We’re not even a tenday into this, and already you want to farm me out to strangers to have them f*ck me. Am I simply the easiest prey? The one you went for first, because the others are harder to get to?’

‘You forget, I don’t need to put anyone into a contract if I want them dead.’ Raphael laughed. ‘Is that it? You think I have a vendetta against you? Imagine I’m playing a long game? You are such a small little minnow, a tiny thing, and my net is larger than you could ever imagine. Now, stay still, let the ones who walk by think we’re nothing more than lovers stealing but a trifling, tender moment.’

Astarion’s lips parted as fingers slipped down to his trousers, sliding over skin still sensitive after all this time. Raphael’s other hand wrapped around his ribs and then stretched further, and he grasped a handful of scarred flesh.

Astarion’s eyes opened, outraged at the painful grip Raphael had taken, reminding him of the contract Cazador had carved into his skin.

‘How dare-’

Lips met his, thinner at first because Raphael smiled. And then Raphael’s grip on the scars on his back tightened. He stepped closer, and Astarion found himself drawn into the kiss despite everything. Raphael’s lips moved easily over his. He coaxed, his breath hot, his tongue warming Astarion’s mouth as soon as it slipped inside.

Perhaps it wasn’t surprising that Raphael kissed like a devil would, seductively, easily, turning something that had once been a chore into something that had him forgetting exactly where he was. It was only when teeth scraped hard enough to hurt across his lower lip that he turned away, breathing heavily and holding onto Raphael’s coat.

His scars hurt less in Raphael’s grip, like the kiss dulled the sharper discomfort.

‘It is an inevitability that you will say yes to the second contract. I’ll even let you stipulate we visit this cold city of pirates and vagabonds, so Cymon might fuss over you, and stare at you with the soulful eyes of a loud hound. You should remember that, unlike Cazador, I don’t have to torture you constantly. It’s rude, don’t you think, to undercut me before others? That’s rather what I should do to you.’

‘Since it’s an inevitability that I’m going to agree to the second contract, I rather think I should get my undercutting in now.’

Raphael laughed, his voice low.

He let go of Astarion’s back reluctantly, stroking over the scars and making him shudder.

He stepped back, and then his entire posture tensed. He looked around, inhaled sharply, and only seconds later Astarion felt it too. An electric invisible sense awakening, the activation of some magic nearby.

Karran the hellcat appeared in the shadows by the stacked pallets seconds later, two dead humans at her feet, and blood on her white muzzle. She bared her fangs at Raphael. He swung his arm gracefully at her, and a blaze of fire emerged, turning the world to acrid smoke.

Karran snarled, vanished, leaped out of the way before the flames could touch her.

‘Wait,’ Astarion said belatedly, everything happening too fast for him to realise Raphael was trying to kill her. Blast it, he could still taste Raphael’s mouth on his. ‘Wait!’

‘I do not desire a pet bezekira,’ Raphael said laconically, moving his hand in a wider gesture Astarion knew would end with her death. Quickly, he reached out and grasped Raphael’s wrist, and felt a thrumming response move up through his arms, his teeth feeling like they jangled as he disrupted whatever Raphael had been about to do.

I do not wish for a pet cambion, Karran said imperiously. Let me back into the House. I cannot get in.

‘You cannot get in because I do not want you there,’ Raphael said silkily. ‘Now my Pillars are reactivated, you can stay where you belong, unsheltered in the wastes. Astarion, let me go so I might do away with the vermin.’

‘She, ah, saved my life,’ Astarion said. ‘I know, I know, I should take all the credit and normally I would, but you wouldn’t have the soul coins that woke those Pillars without her. Also, I’m quite certain those humans are for me.’

Raphael shook Astarion away with a single downward sweep of his arm, but didn’t look away from the bezekira once.

‘Tell me why you’re procuring blood for him?’

Because Karran Tektillian the Third pays all her debts, and collects on every due. It is easy for me to find these creatures. They do not know my ways. I know what it is to starve. I will not let a kit of mine know the same.

‘Intriguing,’ Raphael said.

Astarion wasn’t sure how he felt, being called a kitten, but the humans looked tasty enough.

‘I don’t enjoy the labours of procurement, personally,’ Raphael said to himself. ‘It’s tedious to remember other creatures need to eat regularly, since they cannot simply sup on the heady nectar of a soul.’

So let me into the House, she demanded.

‘Mm. I think not. I’ll let you into the foyer. I have no interest in letting a power-hungry hellcat find a new form at my expense. What were you, before you were reduced to a bezekira? You didn’t start this way.’

I don’t recall telling you it was any of your business, Karran said coldly.

It was a world unlike Astarion’s. A world where beings could move through different forms, could become creeping slimes or intelligent pit fiends, where following a complex set of malicious, evil rules could mean power that came with transformation. That Karran could have once been a cambion, a pit fiend, an archdevil, was still shocking after all this time. But it also explained why she talked the way she did.

You could do worse than a bezekira like me, cambion. You know your father didn’t imprison me lightly.

‘I do know that,’ Raphael mused. ‘That is…fascinating. Personally, I’m still coming to terms with the fact that Astarion chose to save you out of everyone there. You must have looked truly pathetic.’

I try, and I try, but I could never look as pathetic as you, Raphael.

An invisible shockwave splintered the pallets, as Raphael pushed his powers forward with his hands and Karran snarled. Astarion scrambled out of the way and, this time, didn’t intervene when they fought once more.

Chapter 25: Myrrh and Teak Oil

Chapter Text

Astarion was a few seconds from fleeing, but amongst the fire and smoke and sounds of Karran and Raphael fighting, he snapped. Perhaps it was the blood dripping from Raphael’s arm, or a huge rip appearing in Karran’s flank, immediately gushing red. He’d never know.

‘All right,’ he said, stepping between them like an idiot, ‘I’ve had quite enough! Why does everyone I meet – literally everyone – have to be so f*cking unhinged? You’re from gods’ damned Ba’ator, the both of you, and here I thought it was all about boring “rules and regulations” but no, instead I get the ones who care about petty squabbling.’ Astarion spun to Raphael. ‘I thought you were supposed to be scheming for world domination, and you’re fighting with a very pretty lion-shaped monster. And Karran, I thought you were supposed to be some great royal, and instead you’re taking on a f*cking cambion. What is with the people I meet? For f*ck’s sake!’

He dragged his hand down his face, heard his own shaky breathing, listened to the sound of water dripping, which turned out to be the blood from Karran’s significant wound.

Raphael and Karran stared at him like he was the mad one. Raphael’s clothing was torn in several places. A cloud of soot stained his jaw.

Astarion wanted to tell him he looked ridiculous, but he suspected he’d come out worse for wear if he took on either of them directly.

‘Are we all done?’ Astarion said. ‘Look, there’s perfectly good food going to waste.’

He pointed to the bodies, but Raphael didn’t look at them.

After a moment, Raphael snapped glowing fingers and all three of them reappeared in the foyer of the House of Hope. Karran’s fur stood on end. She curled a lip and bared her teeth. Even the bodies had been transported.

‘The foyer only,’ Raphael said sternly to Karran. ‘I don’t care who or what you once were, nor do I care if you think me some mewling maggot because I am a cambion. I am Raphael of the House of Hope, son of Mephistopheles, and I have no use for a bezekira pelt, so do not encourage me to create one.’

Karran stared unblinking at Raphael for some time, then bowed her head, the gesture graceful and also clear. She capitulated. Whatever challenge they’d thrown at each other, Raphael had won it for now.

She turned to Astarion, expression cool.

You keep ugly company, she said, and her white eyes narrowed in judgement.

Astarion only now realised turning invisible in the light was a choice she made. He had no problems seeing her. The green light of the active pillars gave an otherworldly glow to her white fur.

Astarion looked at the bodies she’d delivered. He smiled, remembering their unspoken exchange. Compliments for blood, it seemed. ‘I’m dreadfully sorry, beautiful queen. I had no idea someone as lovely as you would end up in my life, nor would I have assumed you’d want anything to do with me. You are endlessly royal, a white gem in the firmament of Ba’ator.’

Merely adequate, she said in response, then vanished.

‘Why do you even need portals?’ Astarion said sharply to Raphael. ‘You can just snap your fingers and go wherever you like, can you? Are the portals merely decorative?’

‘No,’ Raphael said. ‘Now, you will eat your fill before me, and then I’ll deal with you myself.’

Even in the warmth of the House of Hope, Astarion felt cold at Raphael’s demeanour.

‘Or…I could eat these in private,’ Astarion risked.

Raphael’s gaze was so dead it was forbidding. Astarion remembered how he was after his father had injured him and glanced down at Raphael’s clothing. It was torn in sections. Had he been hurt? Astarion took several steps towards the bodies.

He didn’t enjoy eating in front of people. Not like this. It reminded him of what he was, what he’d been turned into.

That’s likely why the bastard reprobate wants me to do it.

Truthfully, Astarion didn’t need this much blood, but he sank down beside both bodies and his nostrils flared. One stank of so much whisky Astarion didn’t want to bother with them. The other carried a scent of wine, steak, pork fat, red berries. Astarion arranged the body to his liking, pausing as he went to bite into the neck.

Raphael watched him unblinking, looking every inch the non-Faerun monster he was, even in his human disguise.

‘I must say,’ Astarion said, ‘you’re being a very poor dining companion.’

Astarion occasionally missed the tadpole that used to be in his head and the heads of his companions. He certainly missed the sunlight it gave him. He wished he could tap into its link, wondered what it would show him of Raphael’s mind, his thoughts.

Well, nothing else for it.

Wearing finery of the kind he’d not had the opportunity to wear since before meeting Raphael, his skin crawling at the “Don’t get caught” instincts thrumming through him, he bowed his head and bit into the dead man’s neck. He had to work harder when they were dead. The blood didn’t naturally flow out of the hole created at the same velocity, it was never as satisfying as living victims. But there was enough blood here to make up for it.

He became blood-drunk quickly, especially after all that had taken place at The Last Word. He still felt shaken by the experience, flexing his fingers into the dead body just to prove he could. He was no longer bound by Eurus’ horrible finger straps.

When Raphael walked dangerously close to him and stared down, Astarion stiffened.

‘How fascinating, the way you’ll be so complimentary to the equivalent of feline vermin, but cannot lower yourself to even call me sir, or Lord Raphael, as is stipulated in your contract. I have elected to punish you at my discretion, and not break the contract for miserable lack of respect, when I could have done. Yet the more freedom I give you, the more unruly you become.’

The blood moving into Astarion’s throat slowed and then stopped. Astarion looked up, hated how tall Raphael seemed, when in his human guise, he was only of average height.

‘Surely it kills two birds with one stone,’ Astarion said, gesturing to the bodies. ‘You no longer have to debase yourself as a procurer, and she brings me food.’

‘You can survive without it, can you not?’

Astarion didn’t know what to do. He’d been told to feed, and now he felt like this might be the last time he’d be allowed to feed. But surely not. Astarion had to feed – even kill people – in front of Raphael for the ritual, didn’t he?

Was that ritual still on the table?

He thought back to Cymon’s expression when he’d made it clear he’d do anything to get the sunlight back as well, were he to lose it. It had cemented a reality in Astarion’s mind: he was going to say yes to the second contract. He was going to commit to something truly insane, because he’d do exactly the same thing if Temter presented him with the same stupid ritual, wouldn’t he? Yes, he’d let himself get f*cked by strangers. Yes, he’d kill them and drain them dry, even enjoy some of it.

Raphael and Karran seemed bound by rules in a way Astarion wasn’t, and while Raphael wasn’t trustworthy, and was manipulative and even cruel, if the contract was in play, he’d try to honour it, wouldn’t he?

Keep convincing yourself, darling, very believable.

‘Your naivete is nearly charming,’ Raphael said, and smiled above him. ‘Do you know how many I’ve witnessed in these moments of tumult and conflict? Almost enough to know exactly what thoughts move through your insignificant mind. I took you out of the dusty dark and restored you, saved you, and you mock me before strangers.’

Was Astarion going to lose his opportunity? A combination of fear and confidence moved through him, made bold from blood.

‘I want- I think I want to go ahead with the second contract. I don’t want to wait any longer.’

Raphael’s supercilious smile broadened. ‘If we’re sharing our thoughts, Astarion, then I think I want to punish you first for consistently breaking with our first contract. A more patient devil would wait, but I’ve been patient enough. Besides, I shan’t be too cruel. It will be proportionate, I assure you.’

Astarion was rather losing his appetite.

‘Now?’ Astarion said. ‘And if I…don’t want to commit to the second contract after you punish me?’

‘Oh, you will,’ Raphael practically purred. ‘You’ll bear my marks and bruises, and you still will. Haven’t you realised the reason no gods heed you is you already have one you cannot forsake no matter what?’

Astarion stared up at him in confusion. Raphael crouched down, eyes flashing golden-amber.

‘It is the sun, my aberrational wretch. All of you vampires fear it, but your lives revolve around it. It’s all you’ve ever wanted since you lost it, and you’ll choose it before you’d choose your own sanity. So here you are, quite mad, and watch – Astarion, my pet, my slip of a fish – you’re about to agree to the punishment, and walk with me willingly, and still sign your signature in blood at the end of the day.’

Astarion’s breathing quickened. He tried to force himself to stop breathing, but he forgot himself constantly around Raphael. His old elven self remembered what it was to respond to fear, to dread.

‘Come with me,’ Raphael said softly, a small smile still at the corners of his mouth. ‘Come with me, pet. You can return to the corpses later, if you’re not too worn out. And I shall have an apology from you before the end of the day, a sweetmeat just for me.’

‘Raphael, I am sorry I have not-’

A finger resting lightly on Astarion’s lips.

‘Tch, tch, no, Astarion. I mean a real apology.’

Raphael stood and walked crisply away, and Astarion pushed up, scrambling to follow. A deep-seated hatred blasted forth inside him, because he remembered rushing to obey like this for Cazador, aware things would be so much worse if he didn’t.

Worse, Raphael took him past his bedroom, heading towards the part of the House of Hope where the torture room was kept.

Astarion opened his mouth to say something self-effacing and hopefully extremely charming, then stared in shock as they walked past that forbidding door with its wrought iron curlicues.

They passed two more doors, and Raphael opened the third with a tiny wave of his hand. He didn’t reach for a doorknob. The door was made of heavy wood with inset stained-glass window depicting entwined beasts, one biting the neck of the other, rubies inset amongst the glass to represent blood. Grotesquely beautiful.

They’d never had enough time to explore the House of Hope thoroughly, and Astarion wished they had.

The door slammed shut behind him, even as Astarion unthinkingly stepped back into it, staring at everything in the large space.

It was another torture chamber – because of course Raphael had more than one – this room more opulent than the one he’d been brutalised in after the heist in Cania. Instead of old blood, it smelled of myrrh and resin.

Raphael walked to a wall covered with neatly hanging implements of torture. Everything from pokers with wicked ends designed to be heated and pressed to screaming, writhing flesh, to whips tipped in iron spikes, to the black multi-tailed leather flogger he unhooked. He caressed the tails absently as his eyes met Astarion’s.

He gestured to a large wooden cross, his smile losing its coldness.

‘Inspired, were you?’ Astarion snapped. ‘By all you saw at The Last Word? You’ve taken a pound of my flesh before. Unfairly, I might add.’

‘This will be entirely fair,’ Raphael said, walking closer to Astarion and looking like he was truly enjoying himself. He didn’t carry the same disgust on his face Cazador sometimes did.

Astarion couldn’t even say he’d done nothing wrong. One of his conditions on the contract was to call Raphael honorifics like sir or Lord. He did neither as often as possible – even when prompted – and worse, undermined him around others. It repeatedly contradicted the condition set, and it wasn’t like Raphael had abused the contract to earn it. There were still things he’d asked for he’d not fulfilled. He hadn’t forced Astarion to f*ck strangers yet. He hadn’t drugged him and hypnotised him to be a puppet for his own amusem*nt.

‘There’s a particular aroma to the terror of someone who knows they deserve everything that’s coming to them, as their insect mind scrambles to find a reason, any reason, that they don’t.’ Raphael’s voice was lower now, almost seductive. Astarion flinched when he rested the tails of the flogger against Astarion’s chest. ‘It is almost as good as spilling blood from one who’s always considered themselves untouchable, or the look of death in the eyes of one who thought themselves immortal. Now, if you walk to the cross with the bearing of someone who knows exactly what he’s set in motion – and not force me to drag you over there like some unruly puppy – perhaps things will go easier for you.’

‘I somehow f*cking doubt it,’ Astarion said, side-stepping and walking towards the cross.

‘One more thing,’ Raphael said.

A snap of his fingers from behind, and before Astarion could turn, his clothing vanished. Everything except for the metal cuff around his wrist.

He stared down at his exposed body, gooseflesh crawling over him.

‘You’re all so quick to remind me of all the power I’ve lost, but even at my most base, Astarion, I’ll still have far more power than you could ever imagine. Now, the cross, please. I’ve a mind to see my own marks over those scars of yours.’

Astarion fought with himself, locked over with tension, telling himself not to run. Why didn’t he find this easier? He’d suffered it for years! Centuries! Why wasn’t it easier?

He walked to the cross and stared at it suspiciously. He could see no blood staining the wood, but the leather cuffs and handholds looked like they’d been used before. The wood itself – when Astarion was close enough – smelled of teak oil.

He’d rather be stabbed outright than voluntarily reach for the handholds, but he did it anyway.

He inhaled sharply when Raphael let the tails of the flogger fall lightly over his back. It didn’t hurt, but he didn’t like anyone seeing or touching those scars. He didn’t want to be in this room, and he was feeling as though his whole undead life was cursed. First Cazador, then the Absolute, followed by brief brightness with Temter, missing a chance to Ascend out of sheer sentiment, the Absolute again, and now this.

Fingers traced the Infernal literature, the words that were scars, also a ritual. The surrounding skin twinged in response, as though his nerve endings had been rewritten.

‘Hold on tight, pet,’ Raphael said quietly, stepping back, withdrawing his warm touch.

The first strike was high on Astarion’s shoulders, light enough to be stinging, but not too painful. The shock of it still made him jolt. He frowned. It was nothing like the way Raphael had laid into him after Cania, after he’d stolen the soul coins for Raphael in the first place.

His forehead fell forwards when he realised he didn’t know this side of Raphael either.

Raphael began striking him almost gently, the strokes rhythmic, the stinging building until Astarion’s shoulders began to dully throb. Raphael changed position behind him and began laying into his thighs with strokes which didn’t quite hurt but were still rough on sensitive skin. Astarion hissed under his breath.

‘What does it cost you, to call me sir? Your pride?’ Raphael said as he worked. ‘Wouldn’t you rather curry my favour? I’d allow you so much more of your pride, little one, if you tendered to me some of the respect I rightly deserve.’

Astarion swallowed.

‘Do you feel proud now?’ Raphael asked quietly, his words like a seductive poison. ‘Naked, clinging to a cross. You redden up nicely. If I were the same sort of scientist as my father, I’d have you on a table and peel you open, to watch how the blood moves in your body, and why, when you need use none of your organs like the living.’

Worse, Astarion could all too easily imagine it. f*ck, they’d seen experiments quite similar in the House of Healing and its morgue. Astarion remembered finding it all rather delicious, imagining the screams of agony, the taste of blood on his tongue. Rather difficult to find the glee of it all now.

Raphael made a sound of dissatisfaction with his tongue, and Astarion cried out sharply when the next stroke lashed hard and meanly across his shoulders. He let go of a handhold and turned, looking over his shoulder at Raphael.

‘I asked you a question,’ Raphael said.

‘I’m sorry. I thought you were wasting everyone else’s time listening to the sound of your own voice, your favourite pastime.’

Raphael’s eyebrows lifted, his mouth twitched as though impressed with Astarion’s daring. But the expression was terrifying, because he raised the flogger, and Astarion reached for the handhold and grabbed it just as the flogger sliced across the backs of his thighs.

Astarion swore loudly, pain blasting up and down the muscles, shooting into his calf, and up into his lower back and ass. Raphael struck him again with the same force, three more times, and Astarion was heaving for breath and waiting for the next strikes, which didn’t come.

‘Pet, I asked you a question,’ Raphael said.

‘No,’ Astarion said through gritted teeth. ‘All right? No! I don’t feel proud.’

‘I see. That’s not the answer I was looking for. You poor thing. Your thieving mind can be rather sharp. Shame you can’t steal some common sense.’

At the next two strikes against his shoulders, Astarion instinctively let go of the handholds and tried to step away. A snap of fingers behind him, and the leather cuffs gained a life of their own, snaking around his wrists and yanking him rudely back into place, leaving him tied and vulnerable.

Raphael stepped up to him, and Astarion stared with wide eyes at the wall, trying desperately not to think of Szarr Palace, or Godey, or Cazador, and failing. This place was different, the cross was different – well tended to, for a start – and Raphael was different, but enough was the same that Astarion wanted to be sick.

A hot palm soothing up along his flank several times, and Astarion could have laughed at how much he craved it, the bitterness he felt not even surprising him.

‘I believe you, of course, that you believe you don’t feel proud. Shall I give you a hint? Help you towards the light? This is the House of Hope, after all. I can only endeavour to be a gracious host, enfold you into the truth. Darling, think on the contract we have together, that you signed in your own spilled blood. Give me the right answer. It will cost you nothing except the pride you think you don’t possess.’

Astarion closed his eyes. He wondered what Fhaeleb would say, seeing him here like this.

‘Go on,’ Raphael coaxed.

‘No, sir,’ Astarion said, face creasing in distaste. ‘No, I don’t feel proud.’

‘Lovely,’ Raphael breathed. ‘That’s lovely.’

‘Then we’re done?’ Astarion asked as Raphael pressed lips to his reddened, abraded shoulder blade.

Raphael’s laugh was low, dread-inducing. ‘No. Oh, no. It’s no longer a punishment, Astarion. Now I’m going to flog you to hear the sounds you might make for me, because I’m still quite certain you will take on that second contract regardless, and because you’re beautiful like this. What a terrible world this would be if I could only hurt you when you did something wrong.’

Raphael stepped back to his previous position, and Astarion pressed his face into the side of his arm, his ex-lover’s name on his tongue, unable to say the word that would stop everything.

Hilarious, that he thought he had no pride, when he still couldn’t say Temter’s name to avoid the pain that was coming.

Raphael’s laugh was low and confident – perfectly devilish – and the flogger swung once more.

Chapter 26: Bitter Salt and Goldthread

Chapter Text

The flogging continued, the strokes of the tails sometimes so painful, Astarion alternatively bit his tongue, or groaned, or cried out. They still weren’t anywhere near the savagery Raphael had shown when he’d lost all control after Cania. No, Astarion’s skin – as far as he knew – hadn’t been opened at all. He still didn’t smell blood in the room.

The strikes were masterful, different to what Godey used to do to him. Vampire spawn could be treated like scum in Szarr Palace, after all, for all Cazador liked to behave as though they were family. Astarion felt every inch a piece of garbage when Godey’s whip cut into him.

The pain Raphael inflicted was constant but not uncontrolled. Astarion hated his shoulders being flogged more than his thighs, and hated his thighs being flogged more than his ass.

Astarion had no idea how many strokes there’d been, but he wasn’t expected to count. This was purely for Raphael’s pleasure now, and Astarion felt himself to be a meal, and hated that a tiny part of him hoped Raphael was at least getting something out of it.

He loathed that part of himself.

A pause, Astarion sucking down breaths, needing them to cope with the pain. He barked out a sharp sound at the feeling of a hot hand stroking down his shoulders, his side, his ass, and he tried to twist out of the way, and Raphael corralled him with the hand-hold of the flogger.

‘You’re bruising in a rather lovely manner,’ Raphael said, scraping fingernails across the back of Astarion’s bruised thigh. His muscles twitched in response. He couldn’t help it. ‘I regret I’m giving you cause to remember all sorts of things to do with your menial little master, but you’re made to be prized in all your forms, including the one that expresses pain like this.’

‘I’m sure,’ Astarion said, his voice thin.

‘Tch. Here I thought we were getting closer to respect.’

Astarion glared at the wall between the wooden struts of the cross. Then everything in his mind faltered when Raphael gently stroked the back of his neck. It didn’t hurt there at all. The comforting touch felt reassuring, and Astarion shuddered.

Godey didn’t bother with things like this. Cazador could, but it wasn’t the same.

‘Are you, by any chance, testing out the skills you learned in Luskan?’ Astarion asked.

Raphael’s laughter was bold as he stepped away.

‘Oh. Oh no, Astarion, so naïve! I expected better from you. Do you think someone with my age, my lineage, would be a stranger to the craft that is making your nerves sing until your voice does the same? Do you think I learned anything new tonight? We visited for you, petal.’

The next blow struck him in the crease between the bottom of his ass cheeks and the tops of his thighs and the vicious sting of it knocked the thoughts out of Astarion’s head. He cried out helplessly, trying to press into the cross as though to escape.

Raphael hit him again in exactly the same spot.

‘Raphael!’ Astarion shouted in outrage, and Raphael’s laugh was silky.

‘Next, you’ll tell me I must be so good at this because my father did the same to me. Learned from the best, no? Or are you too far gone to reach for it? It seems the kind of drivel you’d say.’

Astarion hadn’t been thinking of Mephistopheles at all. He’d been thinking about the burning f*cking pain at the tops of his thighs.

At the next strike – the same place – Astarion gasped wetly. sh*t. sh*t.

The next strike, and Astarion roared out in pain, thinking stupidly of the time Temter submitted himself to that avatar of Loviatar. What was his name? Abdiram? Abdirak? It had been wonderful to witness, but Astarion wanted nothing to do with receiving it. It was a lot more fun to dole out pain like that and gleefully drink down the cries, receiving it was maddening. Temter’s screams had been sweet, even if Astarion had secretly panicked as it went on.

Another strike and Astarion’s arms yanked to break free of the leather loops around his wrist, which held more strongly than any leather should.

More steps towards him and Astarion’s arms went weak when Raphael palmed the blistering redness at the back of his thighs. It hurt, gods damn it all.

‘You’ve made your point,’ Astarion said.

‘You’ve forgotten, precious thing. I’m doing this solely for my own pleasure now. And a pleasure it is. Your masochism only runs so far, doesn’t it? Even dear Cymon gets more out of this than you do. Did Cazador want you to like it, or loathe it? Perhaps he couldn’t decide.’

Astarion hissed when Raphael pressed his body to Astarion’s back, his clothing chafing against already abraded skin. He flinched when a hand wrapped around his limp co*ck and started gently exploring, drawing a slow warmth to the skin, far too clever. Astarion wasn’t able to resist.

‘There, there,’ Raphael said. ‘When offered an oasis, most thirsty men drink.’

Astarion was beyond wanting to make sense of it. He rested his forehead against his arm and focused instead on the arousal Raphael created like it was easy for him. It probably was. Perhaps he frequented brothels for more than one reason.

When Raphael’s fingers grasped his balls, Astarion swallowed, tensed, then turned to stare at Raphael where he stood at his side when the flogger pressed against them. It didn’t hurt, not yet, but the threat was clear.

‘Tell me you wouldn’t,’ Astarion said.

Raphael raised his eyebrows, incredulous. ‘Who exactly do you imagine me to be, at moments such as this, that you think I wouldn’t? These plums would look lovely, blushing in my hand. I could peel them free with a knife, eat them, grow them back on you, and do it all again. I could, because I’ve done it before. What, exactly, do you think I wouldn’t do?’

Raphael leaned in closer, his mouth resting against Astarion’s ear.

‘How about… Mm. Instead of telling me what I wouldn’t do, you tell me what you don’t want me to do.’

Astarion’s eyes screwed shut. A part of him half-wanted to make a joke about Raphael eating the balls he tortured off his victims, but for once, he bypassed the need to sabotage himself.

‘I don’t want you to hit me, for a start,’ Astarion muttered, his voice strained.

‘Let’s say we’re past that, and we’ve moved further into this tête-à-tête. I’m going to flog you. What don’t you want now?’

‘Leave… Could you just leave my co*ck and balls alone?’

‘Fascinating. Today, perhaps I will. Be grateful for my indulgence, Astarion.’

‘Of course,’ Astarion said. ‘Ah… Sir,’ he added.

Raphael’s sound of amusem*nt curled coldly around him.

When Raphael stepped into place, Astarion wanted to empty his mind and vanish. When the strokes came again, that same place at the back of his thighs, the underside of his ass, the pain was worse. The break had settled nothing at all. Instead, he felt swollen and bruised, and could do nothing but endure it. He could no longer control the sounds he made, nor the sobs that escaped him between each slow, measured blow.

Godey’s torture was mindless. He wanted screams, and he wanted them quickly, and often Astarion could empty himself because of it. Raphael played with him like Cazador could, giving him breaks, letting him pause, offering a rise and fall that wouldn’t let him leave the blasted room.

When Raphael swung into his calves, Astarion screamed. He was still crying out on every exhale when Raphael rubbed at his belly. Astarion hadn’t even heard him approach, hiccupping out some embarrassing sound at the proximity, the touch.

‘Call me sir,’ Raphael said sweetly.

‘Sir,’ Astarion said, without thinking.

‘What about Lord?’

‘Lord,’ Astarion echoed.

Was it a blessing that Raphael didn’t ask him to say master? No. Probably not. But it felt like a benediction.

‘That dreck we witnessed at The Last Word, that man’s back being turned to bloodied muscle… Blood is lush and so taboo when mortals spill it, but if you lose yours too quickly, more bodies will have to be found to feed you. How impractical. I wonder if anyone’s taught some of those creatures that one need not spill blood to sensitise. Even father didn’t bother with the finer points of torture, but he always had an uncommon interest in the darkly visceral.’

Astarion made a sound of despair at the hand that returned to his limp co*ck. It was more sensitive this time, perhaps from the flogging or Raphael handling him earlier. Astarion wanted to beg him to stop, but as his arousal grew, he made a strangled noise and turned his head away, hating that the pain racing up and down his skin made the lust sharper, made it spear through him in ways that were hard to ignore.

‘Sir, please,’ Astarion murmured, reminding himself to use the honorific. What could it hurt, at this point, just to try?

‘I have infinite mercy, darling. You need not beg, though it is sweet.’

Astarion’s hands hurt where he clutched the wood of the cross.

Arousal crept up. His co*ck hardened, Raphael made it seem so easy, the way he pressed a warm hand flat to his sternum, then stroked, then rubbed as though absently over Astarion’s nipples before brushing fingertips over them. Astarion was being immersed in an overly hot sea of sensation. The pleasure was as inescapable as the pain.

Raphael’s hand quickened on Astarion’s co*ck, and nails dragged into the bruising and heat at his shoulders, scratching him, and Astarion wanted to swear, shout, and instead moaned in despair.

‘How utterly predictable,’ Raphael said.

Somehow, that seemed one of the worst things he could have said, and then Astarion was crying for more than pain and trying to hide the humiliation in the side of his arm.

Raphael took him to the peak of his arousal, then let him drop away as Astarion strained in frustration, seeking his own release as Raphael denied it from him. He expected Raphael to flog him then, not to take up his co*ck once more and work the head with special attention, muscles squeezing the frenulum, the tender skin, until Astarion was gasping and the pain did nothing more than enhance his lust. It hurt when his ass clenched, hurt when his thighs tensed, and he felt harder than ever.

He came harder than he expected, and Raphael hummed as though soothing him, drawing out the org*sm before smearing his come back onto his chest, as though wiping his hand off.

Astarion thought of nothing for a long minute, and then with no more arousal to sustain him and only growing exhaustion left behind, he screamed when Raphael resumed flogging him, the strokes coming faster than before.

‘Wait!’ Astarion cried, panicking. ‘Wait- Mercy. Mercy, Raphael, please!’

‘Now, now, Astarion, we can’t always have what we want, sometimes we-’

‘Sir! Lord! Whichever one you want, I-’

The next blow up at his shoulders, and Astarion jerked his arms and wrists at the restraints and his voice fractured into nothingness.

‘Why do you still think it’s about the honorifics, my pale dove? I want your agony. Not much longer now. Can you last a little bit longer?’

Astarion was shaking his head repeatedly. He couldn’t.

‘All right,’ he said, his voice breaking so often he wasn’t sure he made sense. No, I can’t last a little bit longer. ‘All right.’

‘All right,’ Raphael echoed, sounding amused. ‘It wouldn’t have mattered either way. But how very brave of you, when you are at your limit. Cazador really didn’t teach you much by way of endurance, did he? He must have loved how quickly you caved to him, over and over again.’

It was cruel to point out, worse that Astarion understood it all, and his hands clenched into fists. He didn’t want to f*cking cry, didn’t want to keep wailing as the pain increased.

Raphael didn’t stop, and Astarion kept waiting to feel blood streaming down his skin. It never happened. That was worse somehow, like he was pathetic, unable to handle even this.

When the strikes stopped, Astarion kept flinching repeatedly, waiting for the next phantom blow. He couldn’t control his body’s expectations.

The leather loops around his wrists loosened by some magic, and his knees buckled. Arms caught him around the middle as he collapsed, and he flailed to get away when Raphael’s clothing pressed roughly against his skin.

‘This is why saving drowning people is so dangerous for the living,’ Raphael said, as though to himself. ‘You all panic. Of course, I’m the one who likes drowning others, too. How wretched you are, pet. Come along. You’ll have to walk.’

Astarion couldn’t. Not at first. He hung awkwardly against Raphael’s strength and let himself be turned so he faced Raphael. He let himself be drawn close and only cried harder when he felt hands resting carefully upon his back. But it must have been deliberate, the way Raphael rubbed at his sore shoulders, even as he braced his ribs where the skin hadn’t been touched with the flogger.

It seemed like it would never happen, but Astarion cried himself out, Raphael’s clothing wet against his face, smelling bitterly of the salt of his tears. Raphael didn’t taunt him more than he already had, and Astarion tried to straighten, and didn’t know what to make of Raphael’s hands making sure he didn’t fall.

‘Come then,’ Raphael said.

Astarion followed at his side, feeling dull, his thoughts muffled in a swamp of molasses. He expected to be taken to Raphael’s bed, surprised to see the large hot water spring, broad enough to be a pool, to swim lazy strokes in. He and his team of once-companions had bathed here long ago, met incubus Haarlep in the bed behind the pool.

Raphael rid himself of his own clothing with another snap of his fingers, and walked Astarion into the water, not pausing when Astarion made a sound of pain at the hot water touching his bruised thighs.

‘All the way, pet,’ Raphael said.

‘You know, I could just drink a healing potion. …Sir.’

‘My stocks are still depleted after our sojourn to Cania,’ Raphael said, bemused. ‘Also, I want you sore and soaking. The old-fashioned ways are more sensory.’

‘You can’t be serious,’ Astarion muttered under his breath.

Raphael’s laugh was dark but seemed sincerely pleased. He guided Astarion over to a ledge under the water and encouraged him to sit. The stone stung against his skin, even though its texture was mostly smooth. Raphael walked across the pool and gathered up glass bottles, all pretty and filled with different coloured liquids. He placed them by Astarion at the rim of the pool, then dove beneath the water.

When he emerged, his brown hair dripped water down a red cambion’s body, golden eyes looking over Astarion with warm interest. Astarion realised how rare it was to see genuine emotion from this version of Raphael.

‘The second contract-’

‘Don’t talk to me about it tonight,’ Astarion said, ‘if you want me to agree to it. I can’t, sir.’

Raphael’s wings flared, creating ripples in the water. His smile broadened. He came closer and crouched down so his eyes were level with Astarion’s.

‘It’s a devil’s deal, Astarion. You’re not meant to love it unless I want you to. Tonight, I wanted you to stop underestimating me. Believe me, please, when I tell you I have been so indulgent with the level of pain I’ve inflicted on you. And by indulgent, I mean I have indulged you.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Astarion said. He felt hollow.

Raphael reached for a glass bottle of oil, removed the decorative stopper, and poured the yellowish liquid into his hands. He rubbed them together as he stepped out of the pool, hot water streaming and splashing onto Astarion. Then he knelt at Astarion’s back and placed oil-slick hands onto his stinging shoulders, holding him when he instinctively tried to jerk away.

The oil smelled green, herbaceous. Astarion didn’t know what it was.

‘Ask me for some boon or other,’ Raphael said. ‘I feel generous.’

Astarion thought about asking outright to be allowed the sun, but of course it wasn’t possible without that infernal ritual. He was too tired to outplay a devil.

‘Just…tell me about the oil.’

A pause, Raphael’s hands slowing on his shoulders. And then a thumb stroking the muscle between his shoulder and neck several times.

‘Goldthread is a pretty name for a plant that originated in my homeland,’ Raphael said. ‘Devil’s threads, witch’s hair, the list goes on. This variety is an Avernus specialty. One would think nothing helpful could exist here, in the hells, but while the environments may be extreme, the plants largely care little for moral or amoral standards and do as they will. Of course, it’s a vicious, maddening parasite, and its seeds an amusing convulsant. But like this, it soothes overworked flesh.’

It was true; the oil was helping. Astarion blinked fresh tears away, rubbed at his eyes like a child might, fingers curled over, the heel of his hand brushing against his cheeks.

‘It’s also water resistant,’ Raphael said, ‘so you can soak out the worst of the pain and the oil won’t float away.’

‘You’re some fancy herbalist, now, are you?’

‘My father has been fascinated with nearly every form of science that exists, and some that didn’t before he created them. Healing plants were never high on his list, but to find some of the worst poisons, he found some of the best healers as he discarded them. And I like prolonged torment, the pleasure amongst the pain. It is best in my line of work to know how to ease pain.’

Astarion nodded, didn’t know what to say.

Raphael had slipped back into the water, encouraged Astarion to stand. He tipped the oil generously on his fingers and spread it over Astarion’s skin and didn’t press cruelly on the bruises as he coated them. At least, not often. And when he did, he pressed gentle open-mouthed kisses to Astarion’s sides, avoiding the scars, the bruising.

Astarion’s eyes were leaking. He wasn’t crying outright, but he couldn’t seem to stop the tears.

Cazador wasn’t capable of this. Oh, he made attempts. He tried, sometimes, but he lost patience with it quickly. He was possessed with the fervour of someone getting closer and closer to Ascending, and he’d only ever been going through the motions when he tried to “make nice” after being unutterably cruel. It had seemed more sincere in the beginning, and later it was less than the scraps one would feed to a beaten dog. Whatever Cazador couldn’t create in his actions, he simply willed into being through brainwashing. He could make Astarion feel comforted, because he owned his mind. It was worse, in a way.

This – where Raphael let him cry, let him have his grief and his blunted horror, still soothed him without expectation – felt real in a way that disarmed him.

He didn’t want to find it as comforting as he did. He didn’t want Raphael to be skilled at this part. Didn’t want to reflect on his past and find Temter and Cazador wanting, compared to a devil.

Raphael’s gentleness wasn’t a lie. Astarion knew it was part of the cruelty. Raphael tortured like he was an actor in a play, understanding there needed to be hardness and softness, a rise and a fall. This part was as real to him as the torture was, and it was terrifying because of it.

Raphael reached for a towel and wiped his hands so they were free of oil, then turned and contemplated Astarion’s tear-streaked face. He sat gracefully next to him, wrapped a wing around him, shielding him from the door even though no one was likely to walk past. He wicked the tears away with his claws, and studied him with the fascination of a sad*st who craved this part as much as the screams and wails.

‘And at the end of this?’ Astarion said, hating how numb his voice sounded. ‘What if I’m so broken I no longer wish for the sun the way you believe I will?’

‘You will,’ Raphael said with certainty. ‘I can only be your god but for a moment, petal. It is the sun that rules you now and forever. That is its own cruelty, and you can take that up with a distant star. My cruelty you will tolerate, despair against, endure, crack beneath, and you may take that up with me. I am, you know, quite taken with you. In my own way.’

Astarion’s laugh was more of a sob, and Raphael hushed him, then laughed under his breath in a devil’s triumph when Astarion’s head tipped forward and his forehead rested, exhausted, against Raphael’s shoulder.