#astarion bg

[fangsandfracturedhearts]

Fangs and Fractured Hearts

Chapter 10: Soulbound

Summary: After embracing eternity as a vampire spawn under Astarion's wing, the Crimson Palace becomes a haunting symbol of the man he once was. As his personality unravels into a dark abyss, you flee. A year of hardship unveils the harsh reality of existence as a vampire spawn.

Just as all hope seems lost, a twist of fate reunites you with Astarion, revealing a glimmer of hope amidst the shadows. As you navigate the complexities of your relationship, you must confront the unsettling truth behind the Rite of Profane Ascension and the devilish secrets it holds.

In a race against time, you embark on a daring quest to save Astarion from his descent into darkness. With each choice you make, the stakes grow higher, testing the limits of your courage and determination.

Will Astarion find redemption, or is he destined to succumb to his own inner turmoil?

Word Count: 6.9k

Pairing: Ascended Astarion x female!Tav Spawn

Warnings: [Will try to continue to add more, but in general expect explicit content for mature audiences]

Possible spoilers. Eventual Explicit Content. Slow Burn. Thoughts of Suicide. Violence. Blood. Injury. Mature Content. Self-Harm. Mentions of in-game content. Completely fabricated camp events.

If you notice a very critical tag missing, please don't hesitate to let me know

Rating: Explicit 18+ - [Meant For Mature Audience]

Your fingers twitch and knead against satiny textiles as wakefulness begins to return you to existence. A lightheaded daze shrouds your vision as your eyes crack open. The canopy of your four-poster bed suspends above you. The drapery is embroidered beautifully with stars, constellations, moons in all phases, and soaring dragons, all revolving around the central sun. In this dream-like state, the depictions seem to move, playing out their destinies against the indigo astral sea as shadows gambol over the extravagant fabric. It would be enchanting if it were not making your head spin uncomfortably.

As you squeeze your eyes shut, your fingers clench and twist the fabric beneath you, and a feeble whine sighs from your lips. Your tongue feels numb and lazy, sagging in your mouth uselessly, and your body feels as fuzzy and impotent as your blurred vision.

“You are awake.”

Astarion’s voice grates at the inception of your consciousness, and you recoil as much as your bloodless body will allow. You still feel his hand around your neck, squeezing tight, halting the pleas in your throat as his fangs sawed at your neck, ripping and tearing the soft flesh. You tumble off the edge of the bed in your panic, and his hands break your fall.

He’s touching you. Hells, he’s touching you, and you want, nay need, him to fucking stop lest you suffocate.

“Don’t touch me,” you sob with a croak, flinging your hands up to protect yourself from further harm, palms heating as your magic surges. “Please. Gods. Don’t touch me.”

Astarion’s hands jerk away, and you shudder while trying to breathe. The stabbing pain in your throat is intolerable, fresh tears springing to your eyes, and your fingers tentatively prod the tender flesh. You don’t need a mirror to know that your skin is revoltingly bruised, a hemorrhaging mural composed by his wrath, and you whimper at the contact of your fingertips. The muscles in your arms and legs still feel like gelatin. They wobble weakly as you push yourself into a corner, hugging your knees to your chest.

“Darling-” Astarion’s hands are poised near you as if he might be able to stop the inevitable crumbling if only he could find the right place to brace it.

“Leave me alone.” You choke out grimly, swallowing the pain caused by your gruff inflection.

“It’s me,” he says, small and shaky.

You need time to think, to regain your composure, and you cannot do it with his eyes on you, his voice repeating your name like a prayer and his hands trying to find where your pieces are weakest so he can give them strength.

“Get out!” You wail despite the barbaric sting that causes more tears to rain out of your eyes. “Get the fuck out!”

“I… Yes, of course. As you wish.” Astarion stutters hesitantly as if he’s not sure if he will heed your commands. The door hinges creak as he closes it behind him, “I’m sorry,” he breathes with a sigh. “Truly.”

Like an ancient ruin that can no longer persevere against the ravages of time, you let yourself collapse and crumble.

The overbearing walls of the Crimson Palace wash over him in waves as he roams through them in a stupor. His fingertips drag across the chilled panels as he tries to orient himself. It feels like he’s waking from a nethermost trance, and his alertness has not fully recovered.

He dives for the desk when he enters the study. It’s full of papers and ledgers in neat piles, and he grabs at parchment chaotically, sending it scattering, sheets fluttering to the ground around him. His eyes scan the documents as he shuffles through them quickly. All in his hand, signature, name, but he does not recall any of this. He tosses sheet after sheet to the side until he finds one with a date.

Eight months.

Eight months of nonexistence. Of something walking around wearing his skin, using his name, speaking in his voice, imitating him.

Where the fuck has he been all this time?

He slams his hands on the desk. It cracks and caves in, regurgitating its contents to the floor. He frowns, takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. Her voice still reverberates, an echo in his mind, as she said goodbye in a hauntingly melodic timbre.

Why did she leave him?

Dashing through the halls, the floor mocks him in creeks and groans for his heavy steps. He pushes all the doors open as he progresses further into the palace until he finds what must be his room. Opening the wardrobes and dressers, he tosses his clothing haphazardly to the floor, detached from his typical compulsion for fastidiousness.

Nothing. Not a single article of clothing and none of her possessions are here. Why?

His heart pounds as he jogs through the palace until he catches her scent at the top of the dark staircase leading down into a murky darkness – the old spawn quarters.

No. This cannot be, surely. He wouldn’t. Right?

He bounds down the stairs, 2 or 3 steps at a time, until he comes to a slightly ajar door in the hallway with a lock that he does not recall being there. The pads of his shaky fingers stroke the cool metal, and he swallows the lump balling in his throat.

This has to be a nightmare. This cannot be real.

The door whines when he pushes it and peers into the room. It smells strongly of Jasmine, Honeysuckle and Vanilla - it smells like her. Astarion staggers in and throws open the simple wardrobes and chests, breaking the doors off some of them in his haste.

She left everything, which can only mean one thing - she fled.

What has he done?  

“Lord Ancunin?”

Good Gods, he’s come to loathe that singsong voice like nails on a chalkboard, and the back of his throat tickles as it hauls him away from his reflections.

“Elowyn,” he sneers spitefully, crinkling his nose in disgust. “How many times must we have this discussion? If this disobedience persists, I may have to reconsider our little agreement. I have no need for a spawn that cannot follow simple orders.”

The lie rolls off his tongue, smooth and modulated with the hint of a threat. Elowyn wishes to be given the gift of eternal life, and she’s idiotic and vain enough to believe he would ever grant her such a thing, but it is a simple enough falsity to keep her happy and submissive.

“I beg your forgiveness, Master.” Elowyn whimpers, dropping to her knees with her hands clasped in her lap, “It won’t happen again.”

“Good girl. Be sure it doesn’t, or you will force me to teach you another lesson.” He drawls unenthusiastically while staring at his nails. Threatening her brings him no pleasure. He finds it all a rather tedious business. “Now, I did not come here to chitchat. Araj, tell me what you have discovered.”

Araj glares at him with her arms crossed. The Drow has much more spirit and is more arduous to keep in line than her counterpart.

“Hungry, Lord?” Araj quips and leans her head to the side with an egregious grin. “You are considerably ill-tempered today. There’s always a neck here available for the biting if you were so inclined.”

“You can offer all you wish,” he snaps, rolling his eyes. “The answer will be no until the end of time. You disgust me.”

“Such harsh words for an old friend.” Araj pouts sarcastically before launching into the excuses he’s already heard. “Your blood is not easy to work with. It’s volatile and eats through everything like caustic acid.”

“You brought me here to tell me of more failure?” He snarls, baring his teeth. He considers killing them both. Their tests have gotten him nothing and no closer to understanding what’s wrong with him, but there is at least one more answer he seeks before he can do away with them. “And the sun immunity?”

“It’s hard to say,” Araj shrugs. “Why the sudden interest in the sun resistance? I thought we were here to see what your blood may be capable of, not to waste our time trying to bottle useless effects. Why would you need a potion to make you invulnerable? You are already immune.”

“What yourself, Araj,” he growls threateningly, his brows knitting together in a fierce scowl that casts shadows over his eyes. “You are under my employ. I get to decide what’s useful to me and what isn’t. You will do as instructed.”

“Of course, my Lord,” Araj smirks. “If this is about that lovely spawn of yours, it may be prudent to allow us access to her blood.”

He’s out of his chair before Araj can blink, slamming her against the wall with one dagger to her throat and the other pressed harshly to her abdomen.

“If you touch her, I will liberate your vile innards from your body. Then, I will hunt down your family, lovers, and friends, turn them into my obedient meat puppets and let them rot away in my dungeon for eternity. She is off-limits. You are to go nowhere near her. Do I make myself clear?”

“Crystal,” Araj swallows hard, her eyes wide with fear. “Perhaps you might consider an alternative? Turn Elowyn, and we can use her blood for testing instead.”

Throwing his head back, he laughs loudly, making both women jump, “You do not give the hound a bone until it has won the race. Find another way.”

He releases Araj, sheathing his daggers, and stalks away.

Araj’s voice stops him, “Elowyn tells me you’re refusing to give her more samples. We cannot run further tests without it.”

“No.” She would not want him to do this, and he has failed her enough for one day, “You will get no more samples from me until you have done as I ask. The next time you request an audience with me, you better have results, Araj, or there will be consequences.”

“Is that a threat?” Araj spits harshly.

“My dear,” he drawls nonchalantly. With a subtle movement, a dagger hurtles through the air and embeds into the wall so close to Araj’s neck that the shiny steel pets her skin. He looms over Araj, forcing her to arch her back while he hauls the dagger from the wall, “It’s a fucking promise.”

There’s an odd beauty to darkness, an inky void that obscures your surroundings and allows you to delude yourself into believing the elixir of lies you pour into your soul. In it, you can pretend, if only for a moment, that you are not a prisoner of your past and your sins are rendered null as they circle like vultures smothered by the shadows.

So, you lay in the jet-black abyss. Even as your bones begin to rue the rigid floor, and your eyes can shed no more tears, you lay unmoving.

Astarion sits beside you on the floor with his back pressed flat against the wall. He hasn’t uttered so much as a syllable since he settled there hours ago. When you look into his eyes, you see mayhem, starlight and darkness, treading the edge between diabolical and divine. He is a devil cloaked in the skin of an angel with blood dripping from his eyes, but Gods, you’ll ignite the world and walk across the hot coals of its remains if it means preserving the light in him.

You’re a warrior. When life threatens you with a battle, you will awaken every monster, every dragon, every demon that slumbers within you and answer with bloodshed.

You’ve wallowed in your self-pity long enough. A war awaits, and you intend to win it or die trying.

Crawling into his lap, Astarion wraps his arms around you. One of his hands comes to the back of your head, and his cheek presses tightly to yours as you slip your arms around his neck.

And Gods, it feels like heaven to be held in the arms of hell.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes next to your ear while he sweeps your hair away from your neck. His fingers shake as they brood over the bruised skin and gnarled, coin-sized holes that his fangs left. “Fuck. I’m so sorry.”

You press your hand against his, flat palm to palm. His hand dwarfs yours, “It’s okay.”

Astarion scoffs while his fingers interlock with yours, “It is most certainly not okay. I very nearly drained you dry, and who in the Hells knows what I would have done with you afterward!” His voice is unsteady, labouring beneath misery, “I will take you back to Shadowheart and Gale come morning. We can continue your lessons until you can feed yourself. Once that is accomplished, our business will be concluded, and you will never have to see me again. Freedom, as much as I am willing to grant you, is yours.”

Your eyes distend, and your brows pull down. Astarion is granting you the freedom you want. You should be happy, ecstatic even. So, why does it fill you with dread?

“Is that what you want?” You choke out, faint and tuneless, and pray to any God that hasn’t turned their back on you that his answer is not yes. “You want me to leave?”

“No, little love,” he finally answers in an eerily, delicate baritone after too many agonizing minutes of silent contemplation. “I am selfish as I always have been, perhaps even more since the Rite. Of course, I do not wish you to go, but you are not safe with me. I cannot control it. I have lost days before - days of not knowing where I had gone or what I had done.” He chuckles sarcastically, dismal and sullen, “We get what we deserve in the end, I suppose.”

Perhaps we do.

“I’m not going,” you state matter-of-factly. “Do you trust me, Astarion?”

Astarion gently draws you back to look into your eyes, sorrow dulling his expression with his lips firm in a tight line, “You may be the only person in the entirety of the cosmos that I trust implicitly.”

“Then trust that when the spark in your eyes is snuffed out, I can be your glow,” you vow, chillingly formidable. “My soul is forged in fire, and I will burn brighter than your demons and choke the darkness. I will do whatever it takes. I will always bring you home.”

“Don’t be a martyr. Do you have no sense of self-preservation?” he admonishes you with a shake of his head. “Why are you doing this?”

“Good Gods, you can be obtuse sometimes,” you roll your eyes at him. “You can stop posturing this charade of ignorance any time. I know you heard what I said to Gale.”

Astarion’s eyes drift to your hand, embraced with his, and his thumb skims up and down yours, “What if I am incapable of loving you back?”

Can’t or won’t? 

“I don’t expect you to,” you strive to keep your voice steady and casual even as your heart fractures and implodes in your chest. “Love given with the requisite of reciprocation is not love. I give it to you freely, as it always was, as it always will be. May I speak plainly?”

Astarion arches a brow, “Go on.”

“I don’t think you’re incapable of love, Astarion. I believe you’re scared of it.”

“Love is a sickness of the heart.” Astarion takes a deep breath, his voice grave. “It will hail itself your saviour but be your downfall.”

“Then...” you shrug, “down I go.”

Astarion loving you is a fantasy you’ve long relinquished. A pathetic hope that would asphyxiate you in pools of failed attempts. But wrapped in his arms, staring into scarlet eyes dusted with an ethereal radiance, a murmur begins to bite at your thoughts, quickly becoming a roar, filling your ears.

There’s that feeling again. That connection of invisible threads bridging the gap between you and the presence lingering in the back of your head that you cannot touch. It tugs at the borders of your mind with a request. No, an invitation. For the first time since it made its home in your consciousness when you reach out, it does not shy away, and you embrace it.

There’s an ear-splitting rush and a feeling of sinking. Your body jerks, trying to right itself, but Astarion holds you firmly, pulling you tighter.

“Let yourself sink,” he murmurs, kissing your forehead. “Trust me just a little further.”

You stop fighting the feeling and plummet. Suddenly, you’re not just you any longer. You are you, and you are him simultaneously. One being in two bodies. You can feel the comfortable pressure of your body against him, and his heart beats behind your ribs.

Another abrupt drop. It makes your stomach flutter, and you’re in the bowels of a stygian doom. You feel the corruption you heard in his mind as if it were in yours, infecting your thoughts with sadistic rants and relentless chittering. You can almost taste the rancid colloquy on your tongue, and you fight the urge to retch.

A hunger longing to escape, thundering against the bars of its prison. It hums enticing promises in an absorbing, almost angelic inflection that compels you to release it, and you’re horrified to find yourself tempted.

You’re dragged away, a feeling of hurtling through time and space, not entirely unlike portal travel. His voice echoes in your mind, bellowing in your head, begging you to peer into his darkness, dance with his demons, and love him anyway.

I do, you answer, you are safe with me.

Your eyelashes flutter as you come back. You no longer hear the voices mumbling or feel that malevolent spectre with its seraphic affirmations, but you can still feel him in a way you’ve never felt before.

“I- I don’t understand,” you breathe, trying to reestablish yourself with your body, thoughts and feelings, “What was that?”

“I have always been with you.” Astarion gently taps your temple, “In here. You cannot tell me you have not felt me. I know you have because I always feel you.”

You can’t help the awe transforming your face as you continue feeling his desires, wants, and fears flowing through you as you flow through him, two stars colliding and recollecting unified.

“I thought that was just how you could compel me.”

“Well... it is,” he nods, “but there is much more to it than that.”

“Did you have this with...” You cut yourself off when you realize what you’re about to blurt out, biting your tongue so hard you draw blood.

Astarion smirks, “You know it works both ways, right?” You hear his voice in your head and only realize that it’s not him speaking when you comprehend his mouth isn’t moving, “Just because you don’t say it doesn’t mean I don’t hear it.”

Fuck. Are none of my thoughts private any longer? Did I throw open the door for the devil? 

“The devil, hm? A little harsh, don’t you think?” Astarion giggles. He must see the terror in your eyes, or Hells, does he feel it? Either way, he squeezes your hand. “Say what you were going to say,” Astarion instructs. “You might as well just say it.”

“I didn’t mean that you’re the devil!” You yelp and swallow hard, “Did you have this with Cazador?”

You wince as the name strolls off your tongue. You were never to utter that name in Astarion’s presence, and whenever you did, you paid for your carelessness. You impulsively cower, thrusting your eyes shut, magic rising in a sharp upswing.

“Easy, darling. I’m not going to hurt you. I would make a very dashing devil.” Astarion coos while rubbing your arm, “Yes and no. I felt something similar; that ubiquity rooted in my mind gave him the power to control me, but the link concluded there. This… bond, if you will, is unique to you and me.”

“Why did it not feel like this before? I can feel you, Astarion. I can feel your heart beating as if it were in my chest.” You push your palm against his shirt and let it heat slightly, and your skin starts to heat in concert, “I can feel this as if I were doing it to myself. I feel your desires, wants, and fears. Good Gods, I feel everything.”

It’s gloriously overwhelming, akin to a pleasure so intense that it borders on pain. Your nerves and synapses are overloaded as they attempt to make sense of all this information circuiting.

“I had to open the door, so to speak.” Astarion kisses your heated palm with a wolfish grin. “Tell me. What do I want, little love?”

I want you, it arises in your mind, drifting on the current between you.

“Me.” You stutter, feeling like all the breath has been sucked out of your lungs. You stare at him wide-eyed, “You want... me?”

“Until the world falls down,” he purrs tenderly with a genuine smile. “Do not worry. You are able to close and open the connection, same as I. I need not be in your head all the time. Your dirty thoughts are private if you wish, but I do hope you share.”

“Can you force the connection open?”

“Yes,” he retorts blatantly, “but I have not crossed that line, and I do not plan to, and before you ask, no, you cannot force it open. You can, however, request it simply by reaching out. Wherever I am, I will feel it.”

You rest your hand where your heart used to beat. Hells, it feels like it is beating again, but you’re feeling his. You thought you missed this sensation, but right now, you’re finding it a harsh cramp in your chest.

“Astarion, this… this is incredible.” Tears well in your eyes. He’s letting you in, and the significance of this gesture is staggering, “Thank you.”

“It is quite something, isn’t it?” Astarion takes his lips in yours, and you can feel his eagerness, his rampant desire and his enjoyment. When your tongues meet, tasting each other, you’re blown away by pleasure, yours and his mixed.

“Oh my, this will make for some very depraved carnal fun. I could read your body before, but now I can feel it. Hmm, the possibilities are titillating.” Astarion grins devilishly, “But that will have to wait. You are weak and must rest. I could find you some food if you wish. It will help you recover quicker, but it will not be of the four-legged variety.”

“Unless it’s your purple-haired hussy, I’m not interested.” You smirk. “I will make an exception on my dietary restrictions for her.”

“Oh, still positively green with envy, I see. I can feel your hatred. It’s delectable,” Astarion giggles. “My pretty consort, I do not like to see doubt cast upon your face. I told you I’ve never taken her to my bed. You need not be invidious.”

“Will you take me to your bed? I- I,” you stumble embarrassingly over your tongue. It feels cumbersome in your mouth, “I would like to rest with you tonight.”

You feel a rush of delight mixed with astoundment. Perhaps what’s more flabbergasting is that he simply lets you feel it, not attempting to camouflage or muzzle it.

“You do?” Astarion’s brows rise and curve upward, “I mean,” he clears his throat. “Of course. I can deny you nothing. You need not ask permission. You’re more than welcome to rest with me any night.”

“Well, in that case,” you smirk foxlike, “which wardrobe is mine then?”

The question only further increases the exhilaration you’re feeling ebbing from him. It’s so potent, a high so gratifying that you could get addicted to pleasing him - a dangerous notion.

“I suppose I will have to acquire you one.” Astarion chuckles and kisses your forehead, “Can you walk, or shall I carry you to bed?”

You scoff and do your best, but your muscles are still depleted of the sustenance required to function, and you wobble even with Astarion stabilizing you.

“Carry you, it is, clumsy thing.” He laughs lightheartedly while taking you into his arms. “Come, my love. Let’s go to our bed, hm?”

“Our bed,” you muse, kissing his cheek. “I do like the sound of that.”

“Me too,” he says, suddenly frighteningly serious, “Very much.”

The mattress dips as Astarion gets into bed. You’ve never really realized how enormous this damn bed is. Even with both of you lying in it, there’s so much space that it makes him feel far away, and you mourn the physicality.

A grin splits across his face, and he raises his arm, inviting you in, “I can feel that - you know, your desire to be close. No, it’s more than that. Isn’t it?” You can feel him scan the emotion, deciphering it, “It feels like a need. I suppose I should not be surprised. You never could get enough of me.”

“Astarion.” Pushing yourself close to him, you rest your head on his arm. The pads of your fingers rub the silken skin of his chest. Rest is starting to beckon you toward your trance. “What does this mean for us?”

“It can mean as little or as much as you wish it to,” his fingers meander the valley up your spine. “Nothing has to change between us, or we can… try for something more.”

As the dreamscape unfolds behind the closed lids of your eyes, your sensibility fading, you whisper, “Do you love me, Astarion?”

Emotional pandemonium tosses like waves on a rough sea. Alarm. Resentment. Dread. That proverbial portal slams closed frantically with so much force that it peppers your vision behind your eyelids white, and you lurch upward with your hand to your forehead with a howl.

It feels like a guillotine to your soul, slicing it in two. You are hollow. Your chest is still, the borrowed beat from Astarion’s heart dying. The slipstream of emotions no longer flows and combines as one enchanted ballad.

You are alone, completely incomplete, and you have never felt more dead than this moment.

“I’m sorry,” Astarion rubs your back and kisses your shoulder softly. “I did not expect it to pain you. I’m still learning. I will take heed of my haste from now on. That’s enough rooting around in my head for one day. Rest now.”

The pain ebbs, and your thoughts reform, piecing themselves back together. You lay down without a word because you’re unsure of what you can say in your state of confusion. The feelings, none of them love or even affection, but you’ve been feeling his veneration all night.

What the Hells does it all mean?

The sun-warmed stones of the courtyard thaw the icy chill of your skin as you lay under the radiant rays. The sky is full of fluffy, white clouds like unsheared sheep grazing across a cerulean plain. You thought this might make you feel as alive as when the bond between you and Astarion was open, but instead, it’s another reminder you’re a walking, talking corpse.

A feather-light breeze flutters your hair around your face and carries the smell of food, well, people but food to you, reminding you of your hunger. Those cramps in your stomach have returned, and the unquenchable thirst is parching your throat, making your tongue feel like an arid desert.

Firey orbs rotate above, and you twist them into constellations, which you often do when your mind is unsettled. Astarion said you could try for more; it sounds like fantasies made reality until you remember that he’d said he wasn’t sure he could love you. In that case, what does more even mean to him? Do you take the risk and put your heart on the table?

Everything is getting so fucking messy.

How can you tell what is genuine with him? Gale wasn’t wrong when he said Astarion knows how to manipulate you. He hardly needs to compel you because he knows what buttons to push and pull, the words to say, to get what he wants. He always has. All roads always lead back to him. Is it your heart that gravitates to Astarion, or is it something far more sinister? Are you just ingrained to be drawn to your creator? How can you know your feelings versus just an innate reflex that was planted and has taken root in your consciousness?

“What’s troubling you?” Astarion lays down beside you with an arch brow and his crimson eyes vivid in the sunlight.

“Everything,” you sigh, “Just everything.”

Astarion rolls to his side and puts his hand on your arm. He looks bothered by your answer with one brow pulled slightly down with his head cocked, “Is it something I did? You can tell me.”

“No.” The orbs start to absorb each other until there are only two remaining. You make them violently clash and burst like a firework, “You didn’t do anything. Where did you go this morning? You weren’t here when I woke up.”

“I would like to take you somewhere today.” Astarion sits and takes your hand, kissing the palm and all your fingertips, “Will you come?”

Sitting, you pull your knees to your chest, “You want to go out during the day?”

“Yes, during the day.” He purrs in a soothing baritone. “You’re safe from the sun with me. You need not hide in the manor all the time.”

“It’s not the sun, Astarion.” A lie. It’s always a little bit about the sun. That phobia is alive and well. You’re starting to wonder if it’s less of a phobia and more of some weird vampiric instinct. “It’s all the people. I’m hungry, and my control is dreadful. I can’t be trusted around them. I’m not sure how you did it.”

“Centuries of practice, love. You do quite well for a young spawn. Cazador kept us in the kennels until we could control the hunger. I was in there for many years, I think.” Astarion cocks his head, drawing his brows down as if he didn’t mean to divulge that information but continues. “You have my word; I will not put you into a situation you cannot handle.”

“Okay,” you say hesitantly, “I’ll go.”

“Splendid,” Astarion stands and hauls you up with him, “You can ride a horse, yes?”

Your brows pop up, rounding your eyes, “Me? Of course. Do you? Last I checked, you hated those beasts.”

“Oh, don’t look so surprised,” Astarion rolls his eyes and clicks his tongue, “I am more than capable of riding the beasts. I don’t have to like them."

“This is going to be so much fun,” you giggle. “I truly cannot wait to see this. The Vampire Ascendant on a horse. Miracles never cease!”

“Cheeky pup,” he smirks and bumps your shoulder.

It’s been a while since you’ve been in the saddle, but you settle quickly. With your feet in the stirrups and hands on the reins, the dapple-grey mare canters with a rhythmic stride. Astarion’s steed, a large jet-black gelding, keeps pace effortlessly. It’s hard to keep your eyes off Astarion. In the saddle, he attracts attention with a cut debonair form, his shoulders back, hips rolling smoothly to match his gelding’s long strides, and his hair flowing handsomely in the wind.

He catches you admiring him with your mouth dropped open and smirks with a chuckle, nodding in the direction to follow and eases his gelding into a gallop. The two horses soar over the plains outside Baldur's Gate with booming hoofbeats, manes streaming in the wind, and tails held high.

There is something so unbelievably picturesque about this moment, so familiar yet unsettling. You spent so much time travelling with Astarion across areas like this. You, him and dirt roads from dawn to dusk, but this isn’t the same man from your memories - is it? It’s getting increasingly more challenging to be mindful that Astarion may look and act, well sometimes act, like the same person you knew, but he isn’t.

He no longer becomes shy when you ask him for a kiss; gone are the awkward hugs, the way he used to mutter to himself to test what he was about to say, and the way his eyes would dart away when he said something sweet.

Now, he’s prone to blacked-out fits of violent, deadly rage and can let you burn in the sun at any moment should he choose, force himself into your mind, and take away your agency with a thought. He can turn himself into a bat, mist, and who knows what else. He said he felt his powers growing, and you have a feeling you haven’t seen the full extent of what he can do.

How many people has he killed in his blackouts? How many people has he compelled? Has he compelled you? You have yet to see other spawn, but who knows what he’s hiding.

Yet, you love him all the same - even with his demons, darkness and madness.

In these moments, when things start to feel too much like old times, you can’t help but mourn the man he was – a man you still miss.

I wonder what he would have thought of himself turning me into his spawn? 

Astarion reins his horse to a trot and guides the gelding into a dense thicket with a barely perceptible path. He twists in the saddle, “This way. It’s not far.”

The trees, smelling pleasantly of pine, are towering with thick trunks. A chorus of birdsongs flows like a river softly floating through the air. It’s easy to forget how beautiful nature can be. When was the last time you were out like this during the day?

After several minutes, the thick trees start to thin and give way to a pristine clearing with thick green grass carpeting the ground and a lake. The crystalline water looks as blue as the sky reflecting on its mirror-smooth surface.

“Here we are,” Astarion dismounts his horse. His feet land on the ground in silence; not even the snap of a twig can be heard or the crunch of his boots on the earth.

Your eyes scan the area with reverence. The colours are bright and vivid, as though painted and composed from an artist's rendering of a fairy tale. It’s been some time since you’ve seen anything of such beauty during the day. If you had breath to take away, this would surely confiscate it from your lungs. You pat the mare’s muscled neck, haul yourself up and hop off the saddle much less gracefully than Astarion.

Astarion’s hand comes to the small of your back, “This way. Come.”

He takes your hand and leads you toward thick blankets, pillows, chilled wine, flowers, and candles in a stunning presentation.

“Astarion,” you gasp, below a whisper as you take in the scene, “Did you do this?”

“Yes.” Astarion slips behind you and puts his arms around your waist, hugging you close to his chest, “I thought you might want to get out of the manor for a day.”

You lean into him, “This is beautiful. Thank you.”

“I told you I can be romantic,” he quips with a boyish smile. His cardinal red eyes are set ablaze by the sun glinting off them, “You did not believe I was capable. Before you say it because I can see it on your pretty face, yes, little love, true feelings - they were a requirement, if I recall correctly.”

Do I ruin this moment by asking about what feelings?

I must know.

“What feelings, Astarion?”

Astarion kisses your temple and coos, “My feelings for you, of course. You said you were hungry earlier. I will go find you some food.”

He’s trying to retreat from the conversation.

“No, I’m fine,” you clutch his arm, afraid that if you let him go, you might awaken from this dream. “Stay, please?”

“Are you sure? It would not take me long, and I will be sure to stay close.”

“I’m sure, please.”

“As you wish,” Astarion removes his shirt and lays on the blanket, closing his eyes and basking in the sun. “If you change your mind, you have only but to ask. I do not like letting you go hungry.”

You sit beside him and grab the wine, uncork it and drink it straight from the bottle, disregarding the glass flutes.

He opens one eye momentarily and chuckles, “Hells, I see you’re still as boorish as ever.”

“Oh, shut up,” you giggle while giving him a playful shake, “You used to love my lack of decorum.”

When you used to love me, or at least, I thought you did.

Astarion takes the bottle from you and drinks straight from it with a wink, “Who says I don’t still love it, you delinquent.”

He hands the bottle back and lies back with his eyes closed. There’s something so tranquil about him like this. You can barely believe that just a day ago, he had his hands wrapped around your neck while he tore at your throat. It feels like a distant nightmare and makes you question if it really happened.

Your fingers trace the scabbed, coin-sized holes he marred your skin with as if to prove to yourself it was real. There’s always a dull, icy throbbing in your breast as if you’re heart believes it should be beating and is trying to rival its death. Some days, the pain is easily overlooked, but right now, it feels like someone is driving barbed shards of ice through your heart with a heavy hand and thundering strikes. Bringing your hand to your chest, you put pressure on it as if that might impede the malignancy.

You need a distraction, a physical sensation on your skin that you can focus on before you try to claw your heart out, “Are there any people around here?”

Astarion listens intently for a few seconds before shaking his head, “No, there’s no one around for miles. Why?”

You swallow your anguish and give him a devious grin, “Can I swim in that water?”

He probs himself up and grins, “It’s not running. You should be fine.”

“Excellent,” you giggle, taking another big drink and handing him the bottle.

You remove your clothes and wade in, disturbing and rippling the glassy surface. Diving into it, you let yourself sink to the murky bottom. The water is cold, even to you, and nips your skin like needlepoints being dragged across your flesh. The sunless silence is serene, and you consider letting it swallow you whole, but when you open your eyes toward the surface, you can see the silhouette of Astarion standing on the bank. Bending your knees, with a push, you propel yourself to the surface, to him, because that’s what you do – is it not? You always return to him, even at your detriment.

Astarion’s eyes you regardfully with nervous scrutiny, as if he had been afraid you may never come back.

“It’s cold,” you warn him.

“That’s really not a problem,” he chuckles, relaxing his expression once he’s assessed you’re safe. “Come here. I want to show you something.”

You arch a calculating brow at him, and he rolls his eyes, “Sweetheart, get your head out of the gutter. Gods, you’re a freak sometimes.”

“Another thing you used to love about me,” you snicker while walking up to him. “What would you like to show me?”

“Used to” hm? That’s another wildly inaccurate statement,” Astarion tsks while he takes your hand and places it on his warm skin with a soft exhale and a wince that makes you smirk your “I-told-you-so” look. Slowly, his body cools until he’s as cold as you.

Your brows furrow as you place your hand on random spots of him. Icy cold everywhere. “You can control your body temperature?”

“I can do a great many things,” he chuckles with a cunning lop-sided half smile twerking one corner of his lips up, “Interesting ability, although I have found little use for it until now.”

Before you can register what he’s doing, Astarion giggles mischievously, picks you up and throws you back into the lake as if he were throwing a pebble, removes his trousers and wades in with you.

“That was rude!” You glower at him playfully and tap your chin with your finger, “Retribution may be required. I might have to get your hair wet.”

“Don’t you dare!”

With a wicked grin, you start splashing him, and he lunges toward you. By the time he’s subdued you with his arms wrapped around yours, he’s drenched, including his hair, and you’re both laughing loudly.

“I’m going to fucking kill you,” he giggles. “Naughty thing.”

Laughing, you comb your fingers through his hair and muss it further, “Don’t worry, you still look earth-shatteringly dashing.”

Astarion brushes wet strands of your hair out of your eyes, “You’re a vision.” He purrs while pulling you close to him, guiding your legs around his waist.

His thumb traces your lower lip. When he takes your lips in his, the kiss is raw with emotion, demanding and primal. His finger puts gentle pressure on your chin, opening your mouth for him, and his tongue explores you with a longing groan.

Astarion abruptly breaks the kiss and stares off to the side, a million miles away. An almost startled confusion distorts his expression, which perplexes you. Have you made him uncomfortable somehow?

“Astarion,” you cradle his face with your palm, “What’s wrong?”

Astarion’s jaw clenches, and he swallows hard, making his Adam's apple bob. His eyes snap back to yours, a scarlet tempest of determination raging athwart his irises, “I think we need to talk.” 

Big thank you for everyone who takes the time to read/reblog/comment, and all the other magnificent things. As always, I hope you enjoy this, darlings!

AO3 [Crossposted]

Master List of Chapters: Fangs and Fractured Hearts

If you're interested I write another fic with Spawn Astarion x Tav called - Shadows of the Past

Small Notes:

Please note - we may end up giving Tav a name. I've been agonizing over the idea for a while because it was something I never meant to do, but my resolve is weakening haha. If you're incredibly against the idea, please let me know.

I know my portrayal of A. Astarion is a softer version - I guess I have a weak spot for an Astarion that's all-powerful but still not completely cold and horribly abusive - although, he does have his moments.

[shenanigans-and-imagines]

Do you have any Astarion headcanons you’d like to infodump about? :)

Not as many as some, but why not. Let's info dump. Also, disclaimer; I have not played the games and likely won't for the foreseeable future, not unless somebody wants to Venmo me $500 for a PS5. So, if there is some inconsistency in characterization, that's why.

More of a dog person than he lets on. The idea that anything will give him unconditional love is frankly overwhelming and he doesn't know what to do with it, so he makes a show of not liking dogs so they don't get too close. If one does, however, he will do anything to protect it while opening complaining how he doesn't even like the mangy thing.

He deserves to be somebody's queer uncle. I would not trust him with a baby and he has no idea how to provide a small child with proper emotional support. However, what he is good at is talking to them like fellow adults. As a kid this is so vindicating and they will open up to tell him literally anything they've heard other adults talk about. Watch him nod along as a five year old spills the tea on your entire divorce.

Not as okay with poly as some of the cut scenes show. Personally I can't see a guy with that much sexual trauma being emotionally stable enough to open up a relationship in a healthy way. He'd agree to it because he thinks that's the condition to keeping you around, while wracking his brain thinking about what he might be doing wrong for you to seek out somebody else. He might get there eventually, but that's gonna take a lot of communication and therapy.

Favorite colors are the pinks and blues of dawn. I don't think I need to explain this one.

Doesn't really know how to dance. He can fake his way through it, but his skills lay in getting people off the dance floor. Easier feat to achieve when you're not on it in the first place. Plus, it attracts less attention.

[in-the-belly-of-dragons]

I'm crying, my game glitched during a very dramatic and intense cutscene where Rapael tells Astarion about the meaning of his scars and now we're having a heart to heart while standing back to back and looking over our shoulders

we also listened to Raphael standing with our backs to him I'm laughing so hard

[thirea]

Lil timelapse of the Astarion study~

[shadydruid]

Baldurs Gate 3 Origin Characters Oracle Cards! Almost all of them have been updated since I first posted them. The last one is my Durge Amaranthine 💜 Which card do you like the most?

[mysticalfg]

Saw fanart of gale in a robe n went mildly feral, possibly

[pixelpaladin24]

Put everything down I've made the best fucking screenshot of Astarion ever

This is so fucking him in one picture, P E R F E C T I O N

Gods he's such a fucking mood istg

[artist-rat]

some epilogue vibes (an excuse to draw some hugs. and my durge so many times)

[cathartictrash]

Someone write a Halstarion AU where Astarion is an environmental lawyer and Halsin is an activist and arborist. They initially dislike each other because Astarion views Halsin as "some granola hippie treehugger," and Halsin views Astarion as a "corporate cog." They fall in love slowly after meeting at a protest where Halsin chains himself to a tree, and Astarion speaks to the media about the facts of the case.

PLEASE.

[madbahlzstuff]

Karlach the SECOND you stand still lol

Volume up!

[fangsandfracturedhearts]

Fangs and Fractured Hearts

Chapter 35: Writ in Flame

Summary: After embracing eternity as a vampire spawn under Astarion's wing, the Crimson Palace becomes a haunting symbol of the man he once was. As his personality unravels into a dark abyss, you flee. A year of hardship unveils the harsh reality of existence as a vampire spawn.

Just as all hope seems lost, a twist of fate reunites you with Astarion, revealing a glimmer of hope amidst the shadows. As you navigate the complexities of your relationship, you must confront the unsettling truth behind the Rite of Profane Ascension and the devilish secrets it holds.

In a race against time, you embark on a daring quest to save Astarion from his descent into darkness. With each choice you make, the stakes grow higher, testing the limits of your courage and determination.

Will Astarion find redemption, or is he destined to succumb to his own inner turmoil?

Word Count: 4k

Pairing: Ascended Astarion x female!Tav Spawn

Warnings: [Will try to continue to add more, but in general expect explicit content for mature audiences]

Possible spoilers. Eventual Explicit Content. Slow Burn. Thoughts of Suicide. Violence. Blood. Injury. Mature Content. Self-Harm. Mentions of in-game content. Completely fabricated camp events. Mentions of Astarion's Trauma.

If you notice a very critical tag missing, please don't hesitate to let me know

Rating: Explicit 18+ [Meant For Mature Audience]

Astarion’s weight pins you to the mattress, his body still moulded to yours, a perfect echo of the passion that had consumed you. His skin had been warm beneath your hands, slick with sweat, his mouth a ghost upon your lips. Even now, the phantom of his kiss lingers, a whisper-soft thing that does not comfort.

The song is quiet now, no longer a screaming, writhing thing—it hums low in your skull, toothless, harmless. For one beautiful, trembling moment, you believe it is gone.

Your limbs are leaden, steeped in the afterglow of indulgence, of surrender, of something warm instead of cold. You could lie here forever, tangled in him, in this, in the fragile illusion of peace. But then a voice, quiet and insidious, curls through the cracks of your mind like creeping frost.

You burned him.

Your breath stutters and your stomach turns to ice. You burned him.

Your eyes snap open.

He is still there, still pressed against you—but wrong. Blackened. Charred. A brittle husk that clings to the shape of him, delicate as scorched paper. The slithering tendrils of hellfire still linger, pale and whisper-thin, curling over his ribs, his throat, the curve of his cheek where your hand had just been. You know if you move—if you even breathe—he will crumble to dust in your arms.

A strangled sound claws its way up your throat, but you choke it back. Even a sigh could take him from you. You clutch him tighter as if you could will him whole again as if you could force his body to hold together beneath your hands. But his skin—no, not his skin, not anymore—flakes beneath your touch, the first soft embers of him drifting down onto your face.

It does not feel like ash. It feels like perverted dew, like the soft mist of a ruined morning.

His eyes—gods, his eyes.

Once, you had seen them alight with fury, amusement, and love. Crimson so bright it burned. But now, they are dead. Grey. Empty.

Gone.

A broken sob tears from your throat the sound is a death knell, and his body—his body—begins to fall apart in your arms. You do not dare move. You do not dare breathe. But the wind does not need your permission to carry him away, and you, helpless beneath the weight of what you have done, can do nothing but watch.

The moment your mouth opens, his name caught in the raw ache of your throat, he begins to fall apart. The first flakes of him drift down like the remains of burnt parchment, soft and slow, clinging to your lips, lashes, and trembling fingers as if trying to leave some final trace of him behind. There is no warmth in it, no tenderness, no part of him left to hold onto.

You try anyway.

Your hands press against his hollowed ribs, cradling what remains of him, but your touch is ruinous. The moment your fingers tighten, his bones collapse into dust, his form unravelling and slipping through your arms.

Astarion—your Astarion—who had grinned against your skin, who had laughed, loved and lived—is nothing but ash now, his body streaking your skin in shades of grey and loss.

Your breath is shallow, trembling, and you want desperately to believe—need to believe—that this is not real, that he will stir, press his mouth to your temple, and whisper in that lilting voice that could build poems out of syllables that you are being ridiculous.

But the weight of him is gone. The bed is empty.

You are alone.

You do not feel yourself tip forward, do not feel the way your body folds over the pile of ruin left behind. All you know is the taste of ash on your tongue and the unrelenting silence that settles over the space where his voice used to play.

“No.”

Your voice startles you—high, broken, pleading. Your hands claw at the remnants of him, trying to gather him up, trying to pull him back together.

“Please, no.”

The words cry from your lips in a desperate, frantic chant, a prayer with no god to answer. A soul-crushing wail rends through your chest, and your arms shake as you gather what is left of the man you love, trying to hold him in your tremulous hands once more. You cannot feel him in the dust, cannot find him in the blackened remnants that paint your palms. He is slipping from you, scattering into nothing, and there is nothing you can do.

Your vision blurs, throat burning, lungs heaving as you pull in a ragged breath and fucking scream. "Please! Please, stay!”

The words are frantic, the plea wild with grief. You do not care if it is foolish: do not care if it will change nothing.

“I am sorry! I did not mean to—I did not—please, come back!”

The wind does not heed your cries. It only stirs the ashes, sweeping them away from you and, with them, him.

You reach for him anyway; hands outstretched, fingers closing around the empty air where he once was.

But he is gone.

He is gone.

And it is your fault.

It is your last hope, your last card to play, so you play it without regret. “Asmodeus!"

And you are—

—shaken.

Firm, unrelenting hands clutch your shoulders, dragging you from the abyss, pulling you from the darkness that clings to the edges of your mind like oil.

“Illyria.”

The voice is a distant thing at first, muffled beneath the weight of your sobbing cries for the only being that might be able to undo what you’ve done, but then it is there again—clearer, sharper, and urgent.

“Illyria!”

Your eyes jerk open, breath stuttering. The world seems to careen, shifting and tilting. You expect to find yourself in ruin, to find your skin streaked in his ashes remains, but instead, molten ruby eyes, wide and worried, inches from your face.

You are still screaming his name over and over, like you cannot stop. He takes your hand, pressing your palm to his chest. Once you feel the steady thrum and hear the familiar beat, the sound collapses in your throat, unravelling into a sob. You lurch forward and cling to him, to the weight of him, to the unshaken solidity of his body beneath your fingers.

He does not turn to ash. He does not break.

Astarion is alive.

You did not burn him.

Something or someone cackles in your mind. It does not sound like your voice, and it is not the insidious whisper of the song.

There is a cost, sorceress. It reminds you with a menacing bellow of laughter.

You may not have burned Astarion, but you did burn someone, didn’t you? Yes. A creature of this place, some pitiful fool who had dared to raise a hand, to sneer, to think he had any power over you. You barely recall his face, his voice—only the way he screamed so exquisitely as your flames devoured him.

And the way it felt.

Your fingers twitch. A spark dances along the nerves in your hands, but it is not fire. It is something else. A static hum, a phantom pulse, a pressure building in your chest where a heart should beat.

Did you do this? Did you bring the song into yourself, or did it sink its teeth into you the moment you burned that creature to cinders? The memory is fragmented, shattered—pieces out of order, details melting through the cracks. You don’t remember coming back to the inn. You don’t remember walking, speaking, or stripping yourself bare. You don’t remember touching him, pulling him close, or needing him with a desperation that feels foreign now.

All you remember is the fire. It still lingers in your veins, simmering across your nerves, begging to be used. Your fingers dig into Astarion just a little tighter, and in turn, he tightens his hold around you.

It had felt…. Good.

A slow shudder rolls down your spine, shame’s cold fingers curling around your throat. You should not have liked it as much as you do. You should not want to feel it again.

You can still taste it—that intoxicating surge of power. Not just magic slipping free from your grasp in a desperate bid for survival, but a force that felt more like a birthright than a burden. It had filled the hollow places inside you, chasing away the lingering tendrils of fear that have clung to you for so long.

You had not been weak. You had not been running, clawing for survival, waiting for the next cruel twist of fate to crush you beneath its weight.

You had burned.

And you had won.

The thought should disgust you. It does. But it does not stop the ache beneath your ribs, the quiet, insidious longing that tangles itself in the deepest parts of you, whispering its promises.

If you reached for that power again, would you feel it once more? That freedom? That terrible, wonderful strength?

You do not want to be weak anymore, and you do not want to be afraid.

You want—

You want—

Astarion shifts in your arms, his fingers tightening in your hair, and the tremor of his touch shatters the thought before it can fully form. “Sweetheart, you are here. I am here.”

You squeeze your eyes shut. You do not want to look at him, do not want him to see whatever war is written across your face.

Because you do not know what frightens you more.

That you burned someone.

Or that a part of you is desperate to do it again.

Astarion's head jerks up so fast that you barely register the movement before his arms tighten around you, his entire body going rigid. His stillness is unnatural, the kind that only comes with something predatory—listening, feeling, knowing. Then, in a flurry of motion, he drags you up with him. The moment your feet hit the floor, his hands leave you, reaching instead for the dagger at his belt, the one he slides between his teeth as he frantically starts to dress.

You do not need to ask what is wrong. The answer is already pressing against your mind, bleeding in through the bond—hunting, footsteps, the slow, inevitable closing of a net. You cannot hear them yet, not like he can, but you feel it through him. 

The pursuit. The shapes are moving in the dark—the weight of unseen eyes.

You dress quickly, shoving your arms into your robe and yanking your boots on. Your fingers move fast, almost too fast, as you scoop up everything you have gathered, everything you might need, and shove it into your pack. 

Astarion is moving just as swiftly, though there is something wild about him—his motions are sharp, nigh on frantic. His hands shake once as he fastens his belt, a flicker of something barely restrained beneath the urgency.

"We need to move," he hisses, his voice commanding and low. "Now. Before they have us cornered.”

You nod, glancing toward the exit. The streets of Abriymoch are a danger of their own—flooded with devils and infernal creatures, all bound by contracts you cannot predict. But you know what is behind you and would rather take your chances with the unknown.

"We need to get to the Styx," you remark, voice steadier than you feel. "If we can reach Charon, he can get us to Cania."

Astarion is already two steps ahead, pulling the hood of his cloak up and slinging his pack over one shoulder. "We go unseen. If they catch us, we do not fight unless we must. We cannot waste our strength—not here.”

You nod, shifting your hood up. With both of you succumbing to the song’s embrace, an alteration could spell disaster. If you both fall into its arms, will you ever be able to pry yourself from its clutches? Would you even want to?

The space between now and escape is filled with uncertainty, but one thing is clear—if you hesitate, you die. Astarion turns toward the door, fingers hovering over the handle, his breath a quiet, measured thing in the dark. Without a word, he opens it, and you slip into the night.

Astarion guides you through the darkened alleys. The city is alive with the distant sounds of shifting stone and the guttural growls of unseen fiends. You can feel the pursuit in the tautness of his muscles, in the way his head tilts slightly, tracking movements you cannot yet perceive. He halts in a small alcove, pressing you against the jagged obsidian of a ruined wall.

"Hold onto me," he commands, arms outstretched, his voice low but sharp.

You blink at him. "Astarion, I can—"

His frustration ripples through the bond before he cuts you off with a quiet hiss. "Oh, my dear, we truly do not have time for one of our little debates. I am faster, I am quieter, and your stealth is abysmal. Do not look at me like that; you know it is true." His smirk is fleeting, meant to ease the tension even as his crimson eyes remain alert. "Now, unless you wish to be swarmed by devils, do as I say.”

You swallow any further protest, knowing he is right. Reluctantly, you move closer, your arms wrapping around his shoulders as he lifts you effortlessly, holding you against him with one arm as the other remains free to keep his balance. The moment he begins to move, you understand why he insisted. His footfalls are silent, his movements fluid, slipping through the city like a shadow-given form.

The streets are eerily empty. You tighten your hold on him, burying your face against his shoulder as he darts between ruined structures and through half-collapsed corridors, his unnatural grace keeping you just ahead of the unseen hunters. Occasionally, you reach out with your magic, cloaking you both in invisibility when needed, though the strain begins to creep in the longer you hold the spell.

A loose piece of rubble shifts beneath Astarion’s boot, clattering loudly in the oppressive silence.

“Shit,” Astarion curses.

A roar sounds in the distance and the air crackles with infernal energy.

Without hesitation, he moves in a blur, ducking into the remains of a ruined temple and pressing you both into the shadows as guttering torches approach. He angles his body over yours, shielding you as armoured figures pass mere feet from your hiding place. The scent of brimstone fills the air, the temperature rising as they linger, speaking in guttural Infernal.

One of them turns, and Astarion’s grip tightens, a dagger already poised in his free hand. For a moment, you are certain they have found you, and the Weave glows steadily on your fingertips, just concealed inside the sleeve of your robe.

A distant clatter from another alley draws their attention, and with a snarl, they move away, vanishing down the winding streets. Astarion exhales a breath you did not realize he was holding.

He waits a beat longer before shifting, his lips brushing against your temple as he whispers, "We need to keep moving."

The docks stretch before you, the Styx a churning mass of dark, lifeless water lapping at the shore. You think, for the briefest moment, that you have made it, that you have outrun them.

Astarion is already looking at you, his breath shallow from the exertion of the escape. "How do you call Charon?"

"Summon a werewolf and toss it in.”

Astarion's brows knit together in something close to exasperation before he closes his eyes, fingers twitching as if preparing to weave the familiar dark magic. A moment stretches. Then another.

Nothing happens.

He opens his eyes, frowning. "I... I do not remember how to do that."

A hollow sensation spreads through your chest. "What about a bat? A ghoul? Anything?"

He shakes his head once. His lips part as though to protest, to insist he must know, but you can already see it in his face. The struggle, disbelief turned grim.

You stare at him, and for a fleeting moment, there is a quiet sadness that cuts deeper than panic ever could. He has lost something—another piece of himself to the Ascension.

Casting a glance at the crimson tide, you remark, "We need to disturb the water. It will bring him."

You both know the cost. Neither of you can risk touching the Styx, not even a drop. One mistake, and you could forget everything. Your name. His name. Your purpose. Your love. Your mind races, but for a terrible moment, all you find is silence. No solution. No way out. Just the weight of the past hunting you down and the river at your back, uncaring and waiting.

The momentary silence by the river is deceptive. The water of the Styx ripples sluggishly, heavy with ancient memory and oblivion, but behind you, the city still haunts. You hear it in the distant thunder of hooves and the whisper of wings against smoke-thick skies.

And then—movement.

Astarion reacts a second before you do, twisting with inhuman grace as the barbed devil lunges from the shadows. Spines like serrated daggers gleam in the infernal light, its snarling maw split wide in a grotesque, fanged grin. A spined tail whips toward Astarion’s throat, but he’s already moving, daggers flashing as he sidesteps the attack and rakes steel across the devil’s exposed side.

You don’t have time to think. Another shape is descending from above, talons outstretched. You fling a hand up, raw instinct and magic surging together, and the air shimmers as Mirror Image takes hold. Three spectral illusions of Astarion flicker into existence around him, darting in sync with his movements—just in time. The airborne barbed devil crashes down with a snarl, striking through one of the false images, which dissipates in a swirl of mist.

“Web,” Astarion’s voice hums in your mind.

A sweeping gesture, a twist of fingers, and thick, glistening strands erupt from the air around the devils, ensnaring them. One shrieks as its limbs are pinned, struggling against the bindings, but the other tears at the webbing, snarling.

You don’t have long.

Astarion moves in a blur, twin daggers slashing across the throat of the struggling devil. Black ichor spills hot over the docks, and the creature gurgles, falling to its knees before toppling lifelessly. But the second devil has already torn itself free, barbs bristling, and it whips its tail toward you.

You pivot, but not fast enough.

Pain lances through your side, sharp and burning, as the tail rakes across your ribs. Astarion’s fury flashes through your bond—blistering, dangerous. You feel the song in him rise—a discordant, shrieking pitch. His eyes flicker between their usual vivid crimson and then darker, duller, as though the very essence of him is being swallowed.

“Stay with me,” you snap through the bond, forcing clarity into your voice despite the pain. “Do not lose yourself now.”

For a moment, you don’t know if he hears you. His grip on his daggers tightens, his fangs bared in something close to a snarl. Then, just as suddenly, his breath hitches—and the crimson of his eyes brightens again, the song quieting to a controlled hum.

You don’t let the relief slow you down. With a sweep of your arm, you hurl a scorching ray straight at the remaining devil, catching it in the chest. It screeches, blackened flesh splitting as fire sears through it. Astarion takes the opening, lunging forward, daggers flashing in an intricate, deadly dance. He slams one deep into the devil’s throat, wrenching it free with a sickening tear. The creature gurgles, staggers—and finally collapses. For a second, the docks are quiet save for your ragged breaths. Then you hear it.

More hooves. More wings.

They’re coming.

The bodies at your feet reek of sulphur and blood, their barbed flesh still twitching in the aftershocks of death. The fight has left its mark—your arms throb with fresh wounds, and Astarion stands rigid beside you, his daggers slick with black ichor. The bond between you hums, frantic and electric, his tension feeding yours in an endless loop. You are both braced, waiting for more because there will be more. 

“We do not have time to linger, darling,” he urges.

You have always known that, but there is only one way forward. You extend a hand, fingers curling in the air, and with a pull of your will, one of the devils’ corpses lifts from the ground. Its limbs dangle, grotesque and useless, its barbed tail swaying like a broken whip. 

With a flick of your wrist, you hurl the corpse into the Styx. The moment it touches the water, the surface reacts. The black currents do not simply part; they convulse, surging in unnatural waves. Bubbles rise to the surface, thick and tar-like, bursting with the scent of decay. Something shifts beneath, vast and unseen. The river stirs as though disturbed from a deep, dreamless sleep, but nothing comes. 

Astarion steps closer, his fingers twitching like he wants to grab you and pull you away from the edge. His voice brushes against your mind, tense and sharp. "Why is it taking so long?"

You do not know. 

The hoofbeats are growing closer, galloping toward you in perfect unison. More than one. More than many. The shadows stretch long as they crest over the ruined buildings. Silhouettes in the gloom—taller, broader than the barbed devils you fought before—hellknights, perhaps, or something worse. 

Still, the Styx does not yield.

A low growl of frustration rises in Astarion’s throat. “We cannot fight all of them,” he sends through the bond, his mind a taut wire. “Not like this.”

The sky above darkens with the approaching wings cutting out the dim light of this cursed plane. You feel Astarion shift beside you, his grip adjusting on his daggers, and you know what he is thinking. If they do not stop coming, he will not stop fighting. If he does not stop fighting, he will lose himself. The song in his blood flares, a discordant, keening wail. You clench your jaw and prepare to move, to fight to do anything but stand there waiting for—

A deep, grating sound rumbles through the air, stopping you cold. It is not a roar. Not a growl. Not any sound that should exist in this world or the next. The Styx churns violently, sending a spray of dark water up the dock. The shadows deepen, blacker than black, swallowing the faint light of the plane whole. Then, at last, he emerges.

Charon.

The ferryman stands at the bow of his vessel, a towering, skeletal figure draped in tattered robes blacker than the void. His form is indistinct, as though he does not fully exist in this reality. His scythe gleams at his side, its edge slick with something darker than the Styx itself.

And all at once, the devils halt.

The hooves stop. The wings cease their endless beating. The approaching figures linger at the edges of the dock, wary and uncertain. Even the lesser ones, those who would have thrown themselves at you moments ago, shrink back, their instincts screaming at them to flee.

You swallow hard. The weight of Charon’s presence is unbearable, pressing down on you like the inevitability of death itself.

He does not speak. He does not have to.

You step forward, voice steady despite the way your hands tremble. “We need passage to Cania.”

The ferryman does not move, but you know he is listening. The air grows colder. The devils do not dare come closer. And you wait, praying that the Styx has not already claimed your fate.

“There is a cost.”

Of course there is.

“What do you want?”

He tilts his head, empty sockets peering into you. “A name.”

Astarion stiffens beside you. “You are not seriously considering—”

You ignore him. “Whose?”

The Ferryman does not blink, does not breathe. “Yours to offer.”

Astarion growls, but you speak before he can stop you. “Done.”

The Ferryman extends a bony hand, and you step forward, pressing your palm to his. The cold is immediate, deep, sinking into your bones. Something is taken from you—a tether to someone, somewhere, unravelling. You do not know who it was, only that they are lost to you now.

The Ferryman gestures to the boat. “Board.”

You do not hesitate.

Astarion is tense as he helps you onto the vessel. The moment you are both aboard, Charon pushes away from the dock. The devils do not follow. They merely watch as you drift into the darkness, their eyes smouldering with unspent wrath.

The journey is quiet, save for the creak of the old boat as it wades through the waters of the Styx. Sometimes, bubbles rise to the surface, forming shapes—skeletal heads, reaching hands. The wind carries mournful wails and whispers of the lost. You sit beside Astarion, exhaling shakily. His hands find yours, and for a moment, you simply exist in the fragile silence, feeling the weight of what you have done, of what is to come.

“Are you alright?” he asks, his voice softer than expected.

You nod, but he is not convinced. He scans you for wounds, fingers ghosting over torn fabric and bruised skin. You do the same for him, but he brushes your hands away, eyes narrowed at a cut on your arm that still seeps crimson.

“You are hurt.”

“So are you.”

He huffs. “Mine are inconsequential.”

You let him fuss, knowing it soothes him in a way. Then, when the silence stretches too long, you murmur, “Thank you.”

“For?”

“For not losing yourself.”

Astarion’s expression darkens. He looks away, staring into the abyss that surrounds you. “It was close.”

If he had lost control, if he had become that other version of himself, you would not be sitting here now. When you face the archdevil— 

You shove the thought aside—problems for another day. The Styx stirs, and your gaze drifts across the shifting waters, the way they swallow all they touch, and unease curls in your gut.

Astarion speaks again; voice edged with something sharper than before. “Why were you screaming Asmodeus’s name?”

Your breath stills and your fingers twitch. You hadn’t realized you had been saying it out loud.

You try to deflect. “It was nothing.”

His eyes narrow. “No, it was not nothing.”

You turn your gaze away, but he leans in, refusing to let it go. “What are you not telling me?”

Big thank you for everyone who takes the time to read/reblog/comment, and all the other magnificent things.

Master List of Chapters: Fangs and Fractured Hearts

If you're interested I write another fic with Spawn Astarion x Tav called - Shadows of the Past

My A03 where you can find more of my works, including this one.

Small Notes:

Special thank you to @alyssac9 for proofreading!

Sorry for the wait! Life has been lifing.

[swordmaid]

back to the shadows 🌑

inspired by the storm by pierre auguste cot, shri’iia and astarion running away from the sun bc he’s a vampire and she has sunlight sensitivity.

please zoom in to see the details! 🥹🫶

[in-the-belly-of-dragons]

I have an overwhelming urge to just pick up Astarion and put him in my mouth and chew on him like a gumball

[soranatus]

BALDUR’S GATE 3 By Ami Thompson

[theesteppenwolf]

Never letting you go rat boy

EDIT: tik tok flagged my post with these sketches as “unoriginal, low effort content” and now im pissed off 💀

[pointlessabandon]