Chapter Text
That night, the waning moon graced them with light.
Velvet midnight feathered the sky. Stars gleamed. The village had been built into the hillside like a natural formation, shelves of stacking rooftops and white, crisp walls. Tall, stark cypresses grew unwaveringly from tiny rocky outcroppings. At either side of the winding hill path, ancient olive trees flowered as they had flowered for hundreds of summers, in tiny ornaments of neat, white blossoms.
The path was too narrow for them to comfortably walk two abreast, so Wyll followed his steps. Very few houses had lanterns still lit at this late hour. The shadows of the washing lines dappled the moonlit rooftops.
When they came to the disused bathhouse, it was a simple matter to tie their horses to the back of the stables and creep inside. Wyll left a pile of coins on the front desk.
“I’m so glad that you agreed to this,” Astarion murmured. “You’re so lovely, darling, but you are starting to stink a little.”
Wyll’s ears were low. “Yes, well… I don’t really like touching my body, so it’s hard to stay clean. Do I smell awful?”
“No,” Astarion said, immediately. “I like your smell.”
“I have a feeling you’re fibbing,” Wyll said, but he smiled all the same.
Inside the bathhouse, the tiles were white and blue. Astarion lit some of the lanterns, but he enjoyed the gloom. It gave the large bathhouse a sense of secrecy, of privacy. Wyll’s red eye was sharper and keener than his black one had been.
Astarion fetched them towels and robes. He turned around respectfully when Wyll undressed. Gone were the days when Wyll could be brazenly and unselfconsciously naked.
When Wyll was in his robe, Astarion led him through the changing rooms. He wasn’t brave enough to take Wyll’s hands. Their shadows were long in the low light, skating across the glossy walls. Astarion picked the lock on the hot spring room.
Steam rolled over them. The hot spring was a large pool of water which was milky with bubbles, rising up from the hillside. Wood panelled the rim and the sides of the bath, creaking underfoot.
Astarion shed his robe and stepped into the hot waters of the bath. The only thing he wore was the brass coin around his neck. “You don’t have to undress. You can take your robe into the water.”
Wyll looked grateful. He climbed in and the robe grew heavy with the water. It floated around him. “Shouldn’t we have brought wash cloths?”
“You don’t have to wipe yourself,” Astarion said. “This a divine spring. It will clean you even if you don’t touch yourself.”
Wyll was weak with relief. He lowered himself further, sitting on a shelf inside the bath. The water came up to his chest.
“Does it feel good?” Astarion asked.
“I thought it would be too hot, with my own infernal heat competing. But it’s… nice.”
Astarion sat next to him at a comfortable distance. His ears perked straight up, attentively.
“Thank you,” Wyll said, with feeling. “I… I wish I didn’t have to lie to you. I hope you know what I’m thinking, although I’m forbidden from saying the words.”
Astarion flushed. “Well…” He shifted in the water, sending gleaming ripples silently lapping over the sides. “Every time you were kind to me, it made me kinder in return. You helped me meet a version of myself I didn’t know could exist.”
“I hardly did all of that,” Wyll said.
“All of that and more, darling.”
Wyll snorted. “If I ever become half the man you seem to believe me to be, I would die without a single regret. I might even be able to convince the world to politely ignore my fearsome countenance.”
“You don’t deserve to bear the mark,” Astarion said. “It was not right to force it on you.”
Wyll leaned back. “I know. This body is heavy burden.”
“But it’s still your body.”
Wyll made a noise like he disagreed but didn’t want to argue.
“I mean it,” Astarion said. “It’s the same body you were born with. It only looks a little different.”
Ripples glittered in the low light as Astarion turned towards him. Silently, Astarion unfolded a white hand and reached out. His fingers hovered over a round, heavy shoulder, and touched it, lightly.
“You still bear the scars from Roksana’s fangs,” Astarion breathed. He lowered his hand. “And here… on your thigh… this is where I shot you, do you remember?”
Wyll breathed out softly. Astarion’s fingers were so light on his skin. “I remember.”
Astarion covered his mouth with fresh towel so there were no possibility of being lip-read. “I love your body. I want to lick up your footprints.”
Wyll’s eyes widened. “You always say the strangest things.”
“Only because the truth is a strange one,” Astarion said, and set aside his towel. “I want you to understand.”
“I do,” Wyll said. “I know nothing has to change. But… it’s so hard to motivate myself to wash and eat and sleep when I know all I’m doing is building myself up so that Mizora will find it that much more satisfying to reduce me to nothing again.”
Astarion rested his head on Wyll’s shoulder. The warmth of him glowed. “Life can be lots of fun. You showed me that.”
“She certainly has her fun,” Wyll said. He made a noise. “I’m sorry to be facetious, it’s only… things that used to be so certain are becoming foggy. I once was a man with dignity. Now I feel as if I’m carrying around her meat puppet.”
Astarion’s ears swivelled. “Do you hear that?”
“What?”
“You are breathing,” Astarion said. “Your heart is beating. Your stomach is working. Your body is fighting to stay alive. It’s been fighting all this time. Even through every torture, it has been fighting ceaselessly to stay at your side.”
Wyll looked down at him through the thatch of his black lashes. Slowly, his eyes closed. “Kiss me? My eyes are shut.”
Astarion didn’t need to be asked twice. He surged up to devour Wyll’s mouth. He licked the sharp teeth and enjoyed the impossible heat of his maw.
“Would you… could you touch me?” Wyll murmured, eyes still pressed shut.
How could Astarion refuse him? Eager as a teenager, Astarion swung a leg over Wyll’s lap and sat down, bringing their bodies together. Wyll groaned. Astarion kissed his neck and wished he could taste him, deeper than skin.
Astarion mouthed along the ridge which travelled down Wyll’s front. The abrasiveness of his skin left a hot graze on Astarion’s tongue. It was rather like stubble burn on Astarion’s cheek. Despite the thickness of his new skin, Wyll was delightfully responsive.
“I’m gonna suck whatever’s between your legs,” Astarion promised him.
Wyll shifted around blindly. “Let me get out of the bath, then.”
“There’s no need,” Astarion pushed his hair back. “I don’t have to breathe.”
The vampire submerged himself in the bath. Water water flowed over his chest and the back of his neck. His white curls floated in a halo around his head.
In the underwater gloom, Astarion felt the crook of Wyll’s hips. The penis that floated there was squarer than it had been, with a slight stiffness even though it was still flaccid — no, Astarion realised. It was only that Wyll was already reacting to him, arousal already quickening.
When Astarion ran a finger along the ridged underside of Wyll’s co*ck and felt the man shudder.
Astarion put his mouth over the head.
As the base were flexible spines that retracted when aroused, which was curious, perhaps something to prevent the genitals being damage during normal combat. When Astarion touched them, Wyll kicked a little.
Astarion worked him close, water swirling around his head. He tried to avoid dragging water into his lung because he knew, from experience, that it was a pain to get it out again.
When Astarion put his hand on the underwater shelf — his grip slid and he slipped sideways with a cough.
“Did I hurt you?” Wyll asked, eyes flickering open.
Just as quickly, Wyll snapped his eyes shut. But the image had been burned into the stone cornea of his prosthetic eye.
Like a flower unfurling, Wyll sagged onto the wooden panelling, any and all tension draining out of him. His spine gave way and he slumped softly over the side of the bath, horns clinking against the tile, hands settling on the floor, hips closing.
Astarion felt the brush of a lax thigh against his cheek and he pulled his head back, coughing water out of his mouth. He surfaced, hair plastering to his forehead, and wiped wet eyes.
“Oh, don’t stop on my account,” Mizora said. She was stretched out like a panther behind Wyll’s limp head. “Sometimes he’s better like this. I love him, but his yapping can get tiresome.”
Astarion reared back, water crashing around him as he stood and backed quickly away. Wyll’s limp legs bobbed in the white ripples he sent back. Panic thundered through his head. Astarion wiped his face and pushed his wet hair back.
“I-I didn’t—” The lie caught in Astarion’s throat. “We, we didn’t do anything, I just—”
“Oh, don’t worry. Oral counts,” Mizora said. “In fact, even a particularly amorous kiss might stand up in court, but it’s much more convincing this way. You don’t have to actually get him to bend you over anything, we’re not that old-fashioned. So, you’ve definitely passed your trial.”
Astarion straightened up. The water still lapped broadly around him in thick folds of white foam. The wet coin gleamed around his collar. “Passed my—my trial?”
“I didn’t think much of you when we first met, but you’ve exceeded my expectations,” Mizora said. “You really could make him love you.”
Astarion stared unblinkingly at her. Everything stalled. His thoughts ground together. “You aren’t going to punish me?”
“Punish you?” The tip of Mizora’s tail flicked like a hunting tiger. “For what?”
Astarion shook his head. “No… Wyll said—but Wyll said it was a trick! He said you set me up for failure. He said you would punish me if we ever slept together!”
“And you believed him?” Mizora wrapped both blue hands around Wyll’s throat. “Our Man of Ten-thousand Tales?”
Astarion backed further away. His feet threatened to slip on the slick, underwater tiles. His shivers sent more water lapping around him. Warm water trickled over his cheeks and down his throat, shining in the hollows of his collarbone.
“It’s not true,” Astarion murmured. “It can’t be true. Why did he tell me…?”
“Don’t look at me, wormie. I didn’t have anything to do with that,” Mizora said. “The way I see it, there are two explanations. The first is that he considered you so utterly selfish that the only way you’d behave is to have you believe your life is at stake. The second is that he wanted someone to risk their life for him, to climb up to his lonely castle. Which do you think is more likely? I can’t decide.”
Mizora’s long, flexible blue hands slid up Wyll’s throat and flowed across his sharp cheeks. His eyes were still open, but unfocused, his black eyelashes clinging together, wet with condensation. His head was bent uncomfortably forward, chin to his chest, as his horns blocked his head from the tile.
“Is he dead?” Astarion asked.
“No,” Mizora said.
Astarion’s shoulders sagged. No matter how long he stared into Wyll’s red eye, he didn’t seem to catch sight of a living sign. “What have you done to him?”
“He’s broken his pact,” Mizora said. “Violation of the chastity clause. But don’t worry, he can’t hear us.”
Water began to settle. Astarion’s shoulders dried and grew cold. Bath water dripped from his heavy white curls, running down between his shoulder blades.
“Would you like to see it?” Mizora asked, silkily.
Astarion stared at her, uncomprehending.
Mizora muttered something and drew her hand across his bare chest. Heaven’s light began to pour through his skin.
“No!” Astarion suddenly shrieked. “No! Leave it!”
But Mizora wound her fingers around the sunbeams that pierced his skin and caught them. She pulled. She pulled. The soul slid out of his skin, heavy and beautiful, a ball of sunny yellow with a core of pure white. Soul’s beautiful light filled the room. The rippling water of the bath reflected waves across the ceiling in pure, soft yellow.
Wyll’s soul rested in Mizora’s palm. She smiled down at it.
“Put it back,” Astarion begged. “Please, put it back.”
Lacking a soul, Wyll’s body seemed deflated somehow, like a day-old corpse. His face was slack and his feet bobbed slightly in the water. He had become an inanimate object.
“I’ll put it back at some point,” Mizora said, annoyed at his tone. “But I can hardly admire it when it’s locked away in his chest, now, can I?”
The ball of heaven glowed more intensely when she closed her fist around it, beaming through her fingers. She relaxed her grip and the soul dimmed again. She sighed, enamoured with it.
Then she ate it.
Mizora’s lips closed around the soul and she swallowed with a satisfied smile. It glowed through the skin of her throat. Astarion watched it travel down with mounting horror.
“Don’t worry, I can’t digest it,” Mizora said. “I’ll give it back to him when we’re safely down in Avernus. I just don’t want to drop it, you see?”
Astarion felt cold. His vision was swimming.
“You see, Worm...” Mizora flexed her blue fingers. “I admit Wyll is special to me. I was charmed by his pretty brown eyes and I granted him a far more lax contract than I should have. I didn’t expect him to be such a vicious creature! These past few years have been a commercial success, but the constraints he put on his contract, to limit my targets to the infernal, the demonic, the heartless, and the soulless… we could maximise our profits if we expanded our scope. But to do that, we need a complete renegotiation with appropriate pressure on the contract-holder to incentivise acceptance of my amendments. You understand, don’t you?”
“You don’t have to do this,” Astarion said. “You’ve made your point. We’ll obey you. I’ll do anything. I’ll be good.”
“That’s what I’m hoping for,” Mizora smiled. “Now then, worm, there exists in the Underdark a family Belbau, whose mistress Ylvira has a penchant for thin, white, subterranean things. She stands to inherit—”
“What in the Hells are you talking about?” Astarion snapped.
Mizora smiled. “Your next assignment, my worm.”
Astarion’s back hit the opposite side of the bath. He gripped the edge with both hands and dragged his eyes away from Wyll’s limp form. “Will you—will you give him back if I do it?”
Mizora’s eyes gleamed with amusem*nt. She shook her head. “No. He’s mine, worm. You’ll never touch him again.”
“Don’t do this to him,” Astarion said. “Release him.”
“Ask me for something else,” Mizora said. “I’ll give you anything else. When you work for me, the world’s at your disposal.”
Something in Astarion snapped. “As if I would ever work for you, you nasty, ugly old bi—!”
Mizora made a dismissive gesture and an invisible collar closed like a garotte wire around Astarion’s throat. His voice choked off and he struggled, kicking up white splashes of water.
“Wrong, wrong, that was all wrong,” Mizora sighed like an overworked production director. “When Wyll says those lines, it’s stirring. Triumphant! You... you’re just noisy.”
Astarion twisted, trying to shake off the tight infernal band around his throat. But no matter how much he scratched his neck, he couldn’t so much as tug at it.
“I’m not doing auditions for my dog’s understudy,” Mizora tutted with disdain. She looked him up and down as he struggled against her snare. “Besides, your co*ck is too small to be one of my Warlocks.”
The invisible collar became a noose as Astarion was lifted off his feet. His writhing grew more intense. Blood pounded in his head. He was like a fish on a hook, twisting and convulsing in mid-air.
“Still... it’s a worm’s right to choose to die on a hot sunny paving slab rather than live forever in my cold, dark embrace.” Mizora spread her fingers out and infernal symbols formed glowing bracelets around her wrists. The same symbols flared to life around Astarion’s arms. “Because we never set any specific terms for the dissolution of our contract upon satisfactory completion of the terms, they default to the Avernian Civil Code, which means that the state of both parties revert to the relationship and conditions they had prior to signing the contract. You’re my servant no longer, you can keep none of my gifts. I’m sending you back to your little hole.”
Astarion could hardly process her words while his body screamed at him that he was dying. Infernal magic prickled all over his skin like a rash, eating away at his resistance to sunlight. The last thing he saw was Mizora picking Wyll’s lifeless body by the horn and dragging him out of the water before—
—his surroundings became—
—one of Cazador’s boudoirs.
Astarion was dropped neatly onto the floor. He dragged in a grateful breath. Bathwater dripped into the dark carpet. He looked without seeing, eyes wide and wet. Nothing penetrated the ice of his mind. He stared around at the burgundy walls with their gold feather-pine print, dark oak panelling, the double bed where he must have, cumulatively at this point, spent many years.
And yet he looked upon the boudoir like a traveller from a distant land. He had lived more in the past four months than he had in decades.
“What in the… sh*tting Hells am I supposed to do now?” Astarion croaked to the dusty silence. “What in the f*ck did I… how am I…?”
For a moment, his mind was empty and frozen. Thoughts guttered out in the silence.
Oh, Wyll. Wyll, who had always been so good, so firm, so stalwart against danger. And when his resolve had finally faltered, Astarion had helped himself to his body. Gods, did he have to be so greedy? So disgusting? He had been willing to risk himself, he hadn’t been willing to risk Wyll.
Deep cracks broke the icy silence that had descended. His mind veered away from sanity. The world began to dissolve. Always, always the same mistake. He always believed he was making different choices, but in reality, it was… the same old joke played again.
Astarion started to panic. He couldn’t breathe. His mind raced frantically, trying to form a coherent thought but he found only more panic. Back in the cage, back in chains. He tried to deny what was before his eyes, but it was so real. It was more real than the bathhouse had been. Had it all been a dream? He had disobeyed the fae logic of that world and been cast out? He started to pull his hair out.
Panic convulsed inside his body. It felt like something struggling to get out. Thoughts squirmed and writhed and his insides shook and shook. He twisted around like a fox in a trap, smacking the side of his head into the wooden board at the end of the bed. Pounding overwhelmed his senses.
“Snap out of it!” Wyll’s voice.
Astarion looked around, sick with hope. But the voice came from within his mind — only a memory. It had been enough to startle him out of the mounting terror.
Panic helps nobody, Wyll had once said. If Wyll were here, he wouldn’t quit, not even now. He held onto life like a dog with a bone. He was tough as sh*t. He was formidable. He had never backed down against Mizora, not even once, he held every inch of ground. Even when it was unwinnable, make them take it from you. Make them work for every inch of power they held and never let them rest on their laurels, let them never relax, let them be fearful of the day you finally break free.
Astarion tried to breathe. His whole body was shaking like a leaf. Gods, what a joke. But wasn’t that always the way? Good things never lasted, not for a thing like him.
He remembered the warmth of Wyll’s arms around him. His smile. The pain was truly incredible—it hurt like a cannonball through the chest. It hurt so much it was difficult to breathe. Tears prickled in his eyes.
f*ck Cazador. f*ck Mizora. f*ck everyone who tried to push his head into the mud. If they thought they could chew up Astarion— they were going to find him tough to swallow.
There were footsteps approaching the door.
Astarion slipped to his feet. The brass coin glinted around his neck. He crossed the room and stood, pressed flat against the door frame, so he would see the interloper before they saw him.
Leon opened the door and Astarion snatched him up, kicking the door quickly shut behind him. Astarion’s powerful fist went through the wicker of the spawn’s ribs. He ripped the spawn’s heart out.
Leon died with barely a gasp. Astarion let him drop onto the carpet and dropped the dead heart next to him.
Astarion crouched by the keyhole and peered out. The corridor outside was deserted. Leon must have come into the boudoir just to check it was prepared for the next day. It was gone midnight, probably close to three or four in the morning, which meant that most of the hunting was already concluded. Okay. Good.
Astarion straightened up — and felt a twinge of regret.
Leon’s corpse was painfully thin. He had always had broader shoulders and a deeper chest than Astarion, but Leon’s belly sloped inwards and his cheeks were hollow. It had been easy to punch through the brittle ribs. This must have been what Wyll had seen, all those months ago… a body starved.
Astarion undressed the corpse with an annoying burn of guilt in his stomach. Truth be told, Leon hadn’t really deserved to die. At least his suffering was over, Astarion supposed. He dressed himself in Leon’s clothes.
Even if this was the end, Astarion had bowed his head for the last time. No more running, no more hiding. He would never bear a collar again. Cazador was going to die or he was going to have to kill Astarion, there was no third option any more.
He slid Leon’s knife belt around his hips. The dagger hung over his side. Astarion hesitated with his hand around the hilt.
“It’s a trade secret,” Wyll had once said. “A vampire needs eye contact with both your eyes for you to be compelled.”
With a trembling hand, Astarion drew the dagger out of its sheath. He put the point of the sharp knife under his right eye, close enough to part his lower eyelashes. He curled his other hand around the base of the knife to stabilize it, waiting to apply thrust at the right moment. He took a steadying breath.
