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abigailmoment · 1 year ago

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"Do you want to become art?"

There was a right answer to that question. And unless he gave it, things would get worse. Things could always get worse.

"Yes, master," he said.

"Say it," Cazador instructed.

Astarion swallowed thickly. Then he said: "I want to become art."

----

This is a companion piece to Kindness is Quiet and Bright. If you haven't read that, the ending will be a bit confusing.

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----

The worst part was the waiting.

That was a lie. The worst part was the pain. But waiting was awful in its own special way.

A sudden awareness that he was wanted had dragged Astarion to the upstairs study. It was the nice, east wing one with the large fireplace. Astarion hadn't been in here in five years, since the renovation. He knew about the renovation because he had helped bury the contract workers under stones in the dungeon. He noticed that the rug was new and a little garish, but that was the only detail he registered because, in addition to the rug, the room contained Cazador. And Cazador always had a monopoly on his attention.

Cazador was sitting at the desk reading over a spread of documents. He looked calm, which was good, and even a little smug, which was better. Good moods meant that sometimes begging worked. He was wearing the nice black doublet with silver filigree that he only wore for important guests, which made Astarion wonder who he'd been meeting with. It also meant Cazador wasn't going to do anything to Astarion that might damage his own clothes. Which was useful information.

After Astarion had been standing by the door for perhaps five minutes Cazador spoke. He didn't bother to look up from his papers, but he asked mildly: "Are you fond of that shirt?"

That meant something that was about to happen that would damage Astarion's clothes. Which narrowed Astarion's guesses about what was about to happen to four most likely scenarios. Whichever one ended up being true, he didn't want to lose the shirt. He took it off, folded it carefully, and stowed it under a chair. Then he went back to waiting.

The waiting was both horrible and boring. Astarion passed the time by examining and having opinions about the renovations. The rug was of good make, but the color was much too loud. The new wood paneling was tasteful and Astarion agreed with the choice of walnut. There was a giant oil painting of a still life with a skull and wilted flower. It was hilariously ugly. Astarion tried to daydream about the conversation that had produced such an unfortunate commission, but he lost track of what he was thinking about every time Cazador moved.

He kept at it, though. There was nothing else to do apart from muse disjointedly and be afraid.

Eventually Cazador started rolling up the sheaves of parchment on his desk. He opened a drawer and put away all but one. Out of another drawer he produced a black lacquered box. Astarion recognized the box. It was very old and filled with razors and knives. The four possible scenarios that Astarion had been trying not to think about narrowed into one.

It was better, though. To know what was about to happen. Better than uncertainty. Cazador looked at him directly for the first time.

"Do you want to become art?" he asked.

There was a right answer to that question. And unless he gave it, things would get worse. Things could always get worse.

"Yes, master," he said.

"Say it," Cazador instructed.

Astarion swallowed thickly. And then said: "I want to become art."

"Good," said Cazador. "Kneel."

Astarion moved to kneel in front of the chair. He knelt up, so that his back was convenient to reach. He clasped his hands together tightly in front of him.

He heard a click behind him as the black lacquered box was opened. He heard the very soft sound of metal brushing against the velvet lining as something was selected.

Then there was a loop of sharp pain in his back. A circle. Drawn large, shoulder to shoulder. There was no blood. He hadn't been eating well enough to bleed from a cut so shallow. The loop of pain was followed by smaller strokes. Letters being carved.

This was how art worked: Astarion had to hold still, and he had to be silent. If he moved, Cazador would make a mistake. If he made a sound, Cazador would make a mistake.

And when Cazador made a mistake he would press the offending wound closed and order Astarion's flesh to mend. And Astarion's body would find dregs of blood that he could not spare, hiding deep in his organs where it couldn't bleed out wastefully. And there would be a dizzying pang of hunger. Almost as sharp as the knives.

And the dizziness might make Astarion sway. And then Cazador would make another mistake. And he would have to fix it again. And that could spiral into more swaying, and then collapsing, and then failure. And punishment. Things could always get worse.

The hardest part was keeping his back from moving. Astarion coped by trying to redirect all motion to his hands. He let his fingers clench and twitch as ts were crossed and is were dotted. There felt like there were a lot of dots in this one. Something particularly intricate happened at the base of his neck. He didn't move.

Cazador paused to check something on the desk. Astarion took the moment to flex his hands, rest them for long minutes while he heard paper rustling.

Then he heard velvet being scraped again. It was very quiet, but he was very attuned to catching that particular sound.

Cazador made another looping cut. Another circle. Smaller. Concentric. Then more text was being carved. The text was taking longer than usual. The cuts were very deliberate. Astarion would have thought that a smaller circle would be quicker to complete, but apparently not. He was getting tired by the end of it. He'd made two noises. A whine and a sob. He'd paid for them both.

The smallest circle was bad because it was almost entirely over his spine. He was trying to keep still, but he'd reached the point where sometimes his back spasmed out of his control. And there was something in the middle that had to be carved with that very particular scalpel that curled like a corkscrew.

"You are distracting me," Cazador said testily.

Astarion realized that he'd been making a sound. Whimpering. He hadn't noticed. He bit his tongue. The mark in the center had to be redone several more times.

Then finally, finally he heard the silk swish of the cleaning cloth. He stayed still, but was almost delirious with relief as he listened to each tool being polished and put back in its case. The click of the black lacquered box being closed was a sound pretty as a bell. Tolling that it was over. Over.

But then he was being moved. Not ordered. Physically moved. He was trembling with pain and even more starving than usual, so he didn't have the strength to resist even if he'd been mad enough to try. He was hauled up and pressed flat on top of the desk.

All right then. Not over. What was next? An epilogue drawn up his neck?

"Hands stay here," Cazador said, planting Astarion's hands where he wanted them, words sealing them in place. On the edge of the desk where he could grip.

Astarion felt indignant anger flare inside of him. This was insulting. He'd didn't need to be braced, like a fledgling who'd never been written on. He hadn't needed that for years. He could kneel through the pain. He turned his head to the side, about to say something deeply inadvisable to his master.

But that imprudent impulse died before it became words. When he turned, Astarion saw that Cazador was putting on gloves. Thick, black leather gloves. That was new. Astarion hated new. Why was he putting on gloves?

Astarion kept watching as Cazador produced a vase from a cabinet. A fine porcelain vase. The kind you stored ashed in. He also brought over three bowls. Pretty. Also porcelain. Of Amn make. Each was a different size and they stacked together, nested in each other. Like three circles.

Cazador took the largest bowl. He unlatched the urn and with great care poured a measure of its contents into the bowl. A cascade of white particles. It looked like sugar. Or salt. And it glowed very slightly. Astarion wouldn't have been able to see the very slight shine if the room hadn't been so dark. It glowed in a way that made Astarion instinctively uncomfortable.

"Crystallized holy water mixed with salt," Cazador explained. He liked to explain new things. He liked watching Astarion's expression change while he did.

"The tragedy of our art together is that it is ephemeral," Cazador continued. "The blessings that I have given you heal all wounds."

He reached over to touch Astarion's neck, fingers pressing into two divots.

"Save for the important ones."

His hand drifted over to touch the open wounds in Astarion's back. Raw and bloodless. Unable to scab. There was nothing to scab with.

"And these." He toyed with the broken skin, making the muscle sting. "These are important."

It was one of those moments where it was particularly strange to not have a pulse. It really felt like something should be beating wildly in Astarion's chest and temples.

"Master," Astarion said. His mind was racing, even if his heart wasn't. Trying to come up with something to say that would change anything.

"Yes, boy?" Cazador said.

"Art is ever changing," Astarion tried, that sounded pretentious enough to appeal. "Isn't it? And wouldn't it be a pity if you were inspired one night and...I couldn't provide a canvas? I would...so hate...to lose these evenings together."

Cazador paused in his preparations, seeming to consider. He reached out and put an indulgent hand on Astarion's cheek.

"Astarion. You beg so prettily."

He'd used Astarion's name. That sometimes meant strange things. Astarion waited and watched. Cazador was silent for just long enough that Astarion started to hope.

"But you scream more prettily than you beg," Cazador said. "Perhaps that is something to work on?"

He checked his gloves again. Then he picked up the large bowl of white crystals. He set it down on a slightly different position with a deliberate click.

"For the outer circle," he said.

Cazador poured out another measure of sparkling white flecks into the middle bowl. He set it next to its fellow.

"For the inner circle."

Cazador filled the smallest bowl to the brim and put it down inches from Astarion's face.

"For the spine," he said.

"Master," Astarion whispered, graceless now. "Please don't. Please..."

entering turn based mode.

"Art doesn't talk," Cazador told him.

And with those words, Astarion became something that didn't talk.

And all he could do was watch as Cazador checked his gloves again, picked up the smallest of the bowls, and moved behind him. Out of his range of vision.

standard action: hide / move: 9 meters / end turn

There was a sensation like fine gravel falling on his back. Into his back. Bouncing into the open grooves of torn flesh. And then it started to burn.

It burned and it burned and it was worse than fire or sunlight, because it didn't burn away. He could feel the crystals inside the wounds. Radiance and salt. It was like he was being cut open again, but all at once. It was so exquisite and precise. He thought he might be able to read the letters by feel, if only he knew the language and wasn't dying of agony.

move: 9 meters / free action: loot backpack / standard action: use scroll / end turn

When he came back to some sense of the world beyond pain he was panting. He tried to stop. Cazador hated breathing--a graceless habit in a vampire. Astarion managed to twist it into a sort of breathless hissing. He hadn't screamed. He'd been trying so hard not to scream while kneeling and the habit stuck. But it wouldn't last. Not when that happened again.

free action: take crystal ball / move: 9 meters / standard action: dash / move: 9 meters / end turn

Cazador was tracing the outer circle of cuts. No, they weren't cuts anymore. Astarion could feel that he had scars now. All over his back. A permanent change. They ached as Cazador touched them.

And then Cazador's hand entered his field of vision, reaching for the second bowl. Astarion wanted to beg, but he was a thing that couldn't speak, so he just hissed and whimpered and clenched his hands around the edge of the desk and tried to brace himself. He stared fixedly at the far wall. The window. The sky outside, moon and stars. Please. To be anywhere but here.

free action: drop item / free action: manipulate item

There was something wrong with the moon. He could see it through the window. And it was too large, and too bright.

And also, he shouldn't be able to see it. There weren't supposed to be windows here. There were no windows in Cazador's Palace.

Was he...not in the palace? Where was he? He could smell burning, but it wasn't his back. Wreckage. There was burning wreckage from the Nautiloid. But then the question became: what was a Nautiloid?

None of this made sense, but actually, that was all right. Because the moon was actually the sun. It had been very silly of him to mistake it. The difference between moonlight and sunlight was...ha. Well, it was like night and day. And the sun was so large and close that it almost felt like he could touch it.

So he did. He reached out and grabbed the sun and held it tightly. It was his now. His morning. His sunlight.

He sat down heavily, on a carpet, or on a beach, or in the forest. He wasn't sure. He didn't care. Wherever he was, it was better than where he'd been. Because things like...what had been happening. To him. They didn't happen under sunlight.

So he clung to the sun. He held it very tightly. And for a moment, just a moment, he was safe. ----

The next morning, Astarion discovered that he had apparently sleep-stolen Gale's crystal ball.

He wasn't certain how he'd managed that, or why he felt so very unreasonably fond of the object.

But it was his now. He hid it behind a pile of books and never gave it back.

***

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#bg3 #astarion #fanfic #Torture #Mind Games #Cazador-Typical Horribleness #Knives #Razors #many revisions #how do you leave scars on a vampire?#Holy Water And Salt

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