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slothquisitor · 1 year

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Haunted House

The gang goes to take on Cazador, and Astarion has to make a choice. Title comes from Haunted House by Noah Gundersen. Canon-typical violence and things. Astarion x Liv, mostly angst, 7k (this is so long, and I regret nothing). Also, anon it didn't go down the way you outlined, but I haven't forgotten you! Keep an eye out this week!

Also on AO3.

Szarr Palace is full of ghosts. Liv feels them in the walls, in the disquiet of this place. She sees them in Astarion, his crimson eyes bruised with echoes of his past. He walks stiffly here, with none of his usual composure. Instead, his shoulders ride up near his ears, and whether he knows it or not, his words are quieter too, as if he’s glancing over his shoulder at every turn. The further they get into this ghastly monstrosity of a house, the further he retreats into himself.

At first, she thinks the worst of this place might be the stench of death that surrounds them, the bodies in hidden rooms and caskets, the casual violence inflicted on everyone who called this place their home, whether by choice or not. But she’s wrong. The worst of it is the detached way Astarion describes the rooms, and their uses, his voice a hollowed-out thing. He tells them that these are the dormitories, the favored spawn room, the guest room, the kennels . As if the occupants had been animals and not people. It’s one thing to have heard Astarion tell her these things, to drop these tragic and heartbreaking moments into her lap as casually as he talks about the weather, it’s another to see this place, to let the puzzle pieces of this brutality inflicted on him and his siblings fall into place.

So when she and Astarion stand before Godey, the gleefully sadistic skeletal construct, it is a miracle that she doesn’t burn him to ash the second he brings up how sweetly Astarion screamed at his torture. She restrains her magic until they’ve gotten the information they need and the signet ring, and then she sends rays of flame his way, expending a spell she probably should have saved for Cazador. But as the smoldering pile of bones crumples to the ground, she finds she doesn’t really regret it at all. Godey will never lay a skeletal hand on anyone ever again.

Astarion looks somewhat surprised at her actions, but he schools his expression and shrugs. “He deserved far worse.”

She can’t help but agree. When this is over, perhaps letting Karlach set the place aflame wouldn’t be the worst thing.

When they finally descend into the depths of Cazador’s lair, she watches as Astarion realizes that for the two hundred years he spent here, he still doesn’t know all the secrets of this place. The elevator leads them down into a cavernous hallway, flanked by tall doors. Built or discovered by Cazador, they’re not sure, but it seems like the appropriate place for this cursed ritual. Their exploring leads them to Cazador’s room, and there they find a scroll containing the ritual in full, trapped within the skeletal teeth of the vampire who spawned Cazador.

As they read the scroll, all Liv can think is that of course, this ritual required more than Raphael would ever tell them. It’s not just the souls of Cazador’s seven spawn required, but seven thousand souls. Astarion looks just as horrified and wonders aloud how the hells Cazador has managed to hold onto that many souls.

That question is answered a bit further in this place, down the hallway. In this room, there are golden-barred cells, the bars pulsing with magic. The cells themselves are dark and dank, but she cannot help but approach them, realizing that there are people inside. There is so little movement from within, that Liv is sure they’re all dead, these souls that Cazador has claimed, but then she realizes that the inhabitants are watching them, each set of eyes a dull, red glow. The glow of vampire spawn.

“Who are these people, Astarion?” she asks, voice barely above a whisper. There is a stink of decay coming from the cell like they’ve been forgotten. Their clothing is frayed, disintegrating at the seams.

“I…I don’t know…” Astarion’s eyes are wide, lost.

“You. I know you.” Inside the cell, a hand reaches out, and twists around the bars. “You’re the one from the tavern. You smiled and joked and got me drunk.”

Astarion leans away from the cell, but his eyes never leave the man standing there. “You…no…you’re dead.” The words sound strangled as they leave his throat.

The man’s clothing is discolored and stained, old and outdated. He looks emaciated and haggard, and Liv realizes with a distinct sense of horror that Cazador has never allowed these spawn to feed.

“You called me so many sweet things. My name sounded like a lyric on your tongue.”

“Sebastian.” Even with his head bowed, brows pressed together, Liv thinks it does sound like a lyric to some broken down song, two hundred years dead.

The man looks up at his name. “You remember me.”

Astarion’s voice is quiet as death. “You were handsome. Shy. You’d never been kissed.”

The words look like they physically hurt Sebastian. “You taught me how, and then you destroyed me. You took everything from me!” The man explodes, hands clawing through the bars of the cell. It’s so sudden, so unexpected, Liv can’t help but flinch. Sebastian collapses in a heap, leaning against the bars for support.

It is Astarion’s broken voice that breaks through the stillness that settles. “It can’t be.”

She notices then, the same sigil on Astarion’s back carved into Sebastian’s skin. They had spent so long studying that contract, trying to learn the words. She’d recognize it anywhere.

“They’re bound to the ritual,” she says, voice barely louder than a whisper. “They’re branded just like you.”

“What? No! It can’t be!” Astarion says, but even as he says it she can see the acceptance in his eyes. This is the true cost of the ritual. The seven thousand souls? They must all be here, waiting to die. Liv can scarcely comprehend the number, the enormity of it.

She doesn’t know what to say; she doesn’t know what to do. She looks to Astarion who looks haunted and hunted in equal measure. “I know these faces. They’re…my conquests. I pursued them, seduced them, then brought them to Cazador. He told us he was feeding on them. But he turned them to spawn. He turned every last one so he’d have souls for this cursed ritual.”

She looks back at the group of spawn huddled in the cell, watching their exchange with Sebastian with rapt attention. Men and women who were taken in by Astarion’s charm or beauty or perhaps it had less to do with him and more to do with their own loneliness. Some of them might have wanted to love him, as she does. She knew of their existence, of course, but it’s another thing to stand in front of them, to realize just how precarious a thing life is.

“How long?” Sebastian asks, the question so small and so broken.

“What?”

“How long have I been down here?”

“One hundred and seventy years…you were one of my first.” Astarion’s answer is almost automatic in nature, and she wonders if he remembers each of his victims with such clarity.

The strangled cry that escapes Sebastian rips through the air. “My family, my friends. They’re gone. You took them from me, you took everything from me!”

One hundred and seventy years, he has been trapped, turned to spawn, and then discarded, awaiting this ritual, starving the whole time. She’s been against this ritual from the beginning, but knowing all of this, being directly faced with this suffering, how could Astarion possibly justify the cost now? How can he see any of this and still want to ascend?

She steps closer to Sebastian, unsure how to offer comfort in the face of so much suffering. “Cazador plans to use you for his ritual. That’s why he branded you. Let us help.”

“Help? Help? There is no helping us while that monster lives.” The despair in Sebastian’s voice is almost too much.

“That’s why we’re here. To destroy Cazador,” Astarion promises, voice firm.

Sebastian sobs. “You can’t. It’s not possible.”

But they will. They have faced worse than this, right? “We’ll find a way.”

Sebastian doesn’t look hopeful, he just looks exhausted and afraid. “And then, what happens to us?”

At least that answer is simple. “We’ll set you free.”

“Free? Free from this nightmare?”

Astarion nods along with her. “I promise you. I know that feeling all too well, but it can be done.”

Sebastian’s expression is bleak. “Whatever you do, just do it quickly. I can’t go on waiting.”

Astarion. “We’ll be back. You have my word.”

She is so relieved to hear Astarion’s promise. He has been uncompromising in his desire to ascend, but now that he knows what it really means, she is glad that he is going to choose differently. She knows how afraid he is, and how much comfort the idea of this power brings him, but she also knows that no amount of power is worth this . Nothing good comes from power, and it will not set him free. For the first time today, hope rises in her. They can do this. They can set them all free.

***

There is a gravity to this place. It keeps pulling Astarion down. Down, down, down. The humiliation of showing this place to Liv, to their companions, of having them see where he spent two hundred years. The kennels, the dormitories, the guest room. This is where he lived, where he suffered, where his skin was carved. Where he was beaten, lashed, and cut. Where he lay on his back for crumbs and lost faith that anyone would ever save him. And now they’ve all seen it. He hates that they’ve seen this.

It’s bad enough that Liv is here, and she already knew about so many of the horrors. He has told her about this life, whispered the memories into the stillness, and let her carry them with him. But still, it is difficult to meet the eyes of any of his companions, including hers. He doesn’t want to know what weakness they see in him here, what deficiency they will find. He no longer fears exploitation at their hands; they’re all too good, too heroic for that. What he fears more now from his companions, from Liv, is that they will look at him now and see only this place. He doesn’t want to be reduced to what happened to him, to the violence and the blood and the pain. He wants to be a whole person. Is that too much to ask?

It’s funny how every single one of their companions insisted on coming to help take down the evil vampire lord. It’s probably more for Liv’s sake than his own; she is the glue that keeps all of them together, after all. He knows he should be grateful, but he’s so fucking frustrated instead. Where were they two hundred years ago? This band of adventurers who have somehow decided that his pain is worthwhile now . What about his pain in those early days made him unworthy of this only to be worthy now that there’s a tadpole in his head? He’s good at what he does, sure. Shooting from the shadows, lockpicking, and disarming traps along the way. But there are others just as good, just as adept. They don’t need him.

He is…expendable.

It’s a bleak thought, and one he’s sure is influenced by the oppressive aura of this house, of these hallways and bedrooms that hold so much pain. He can walk freely here now, but he still can’t seem to shake the ghosts of his past, the way the memories seem to dog his every step. Liv keeps looking in his direction, a question in her eyes that he can’t bring himself to answer. Not with his sins on such wanton display.

Every last one of his conquests is here. He recognizes their faces. Knows their names. It makes him ill. It makes him want to move on. To rush down this hallway towards Cazador. To end this before it can get any worse.

A dark, twisting voice inside him speaks, They’ll never help you now, boy. Not now they’ve seen what you’ve done.

“Hello? Is someone there?” a voice calls in the darkness. It is quiet, a child’s voice. And that slick, sickening feeling inside him turns to lead. Oh Gods, oh gods, not this. Anything but this.

But Liv is already approaching the bars of this cell, and he wants to pull her back, pull her away. He doesn’t want her to see this . Because he knows now what they’ll find. Cazador kept Sebastian. He kept every soul Astarion brought him over the last two hundred years. Believing he had killed the Gur children feels silly now. Of course, he turned the children too.

Liv kneels so that she is at eye level with the little girl. Her voice is soft, calming. “Hello, there. What’s your name?”

Astarion cannot bring himself to approach but cannot seem to look away. The little girl’s eyes glow in the darkness, and her brows are stitched together in pain or hunger or both. It’s…monstrous.

“Chessa,” the little girl says, words unsure. She doesn’t approach the bars like Sebastian did but hangs back as if they might shock her if she gets too close.

“Hello, Chessa,” Liv says. And the girl’s eyes flutter closed as if it is a relief to hear her own name said aloud. “I’m Liv. Do you know how long you’ve been here?”

Chessa’s eyes reopen, and they are awash with confusion. “I…I don’t know. I’m so hungry. But you…” her eyes meet Astarions. “I remember you. You were at the camp, you brought us here.”

Liv glances back at him, heartbreak in her eyes, and he hates this. He hates this. “Chessa, what camp? Are you from the Gur camp?”

The little girl nods, and then, as if some other power has taken over her she begins to yell at him. “You did this to us! You took us from our families! I’ll kill you!”

Astarion has been threatened many times in his life, but he knows this well-deserved threat of vengeance from a little girl will haunt his dreams for the rest of his wretched life. He’d almost managed to forget about these children whom he had helped kidnap and deliver here. It was a deviation from his usual, to capture not lure. He doesn’t like to think of that night, at least with the people he lured here, it was always their choice. That had granted him some measure of absolution, but he had no such excuse with these children. He doesn’t even remember feeling anything the moment he handed them over. He wishes that were true now.

Liv’s voice is steady and reassuring. “I’m sorry for what happened to you, Chessa. We’re going to get you out. Your parents sent us here to find you.”

The anger fades immediately like a switch being turned off. “Our…our parents? I miss them I think, or it might be the hunger. But they can’t…they can’t see us like this. All the monsters I ever met were in books. I never even made it to the adult hunt, but now I’m one of them.”

“You’re not monsters, Chessa. We’ll help you. Do you know how to open these cells?”

Chessa nods, eyes bright with hope. “Yes, it’s the staff he carries, with it he controls everything.”

“Thank you. We’re going to come back for you, alright?”

The girl stares at them in desperation. “Please, please come back.”

Liv turns away, brow furrowed, and looks at him. He can’t take it, can’t take the way she looks at him, or the way she and all of their companions know all these shameful things he’s done. He takes Liv by the elbow, and leads her away from the cells, away from this miserable scene. He’s not sure what to say, what to do.

“Gods above, he kept Sebastian - and the children. I should’ve known what Cazador was capable of. Ugh. He’s played us all for such fools! Not just seven spawn to placate the devil. Seven spawn, and seven thousand souls bound to them in blood. Everyone who ever trusted me enough to let down their guard. Innocents, idiots, and the unlucky,” he says. “Between all seven of us…we must have brought in a thousand over the decades. They’re all lambs for his slaughter. And if I was to take his place…they’ll all die by my hand.” As he says the words, it suddenly sinks in, the true cost of this ritual, of what he must do in order to ascend. “It doesn’t matter. I will need to sacrifice them all if I want to perform the ritual.”

Liv’s eyes go wide in disbelief and horror. “They’re…they’re children. You just promised Sebastian you’d help him. You gave him your word. You could save them!”

He’s not sure why this hurts him to see the alarm in her eyes, to hear it in her voice. He has been clear with her about his plans since he learned of the ritual. Besides, what does it matter? He knows what it is to feel a fraction of their hunger. They’re lost, feral. They’ll attack any mortal on sight.

“What’s the point? They’re as good as dead. I thought they were dead! If they are unleashed, they will cause incredible carnage. They will be ravenous. They must die. Better they serve a purpose.”

Liv shakes her head. “You got out. You got better. They deserve a chance. Just like you did, don’t they?”

The comparison is disgusting. He is not like them; he’s never been like them. “They’re in a state far beyond anything that ever happened to me. Decades of hate will have piled up inside of them. I can’t even begin to imagine.”

Liv stares at him in silence for several moments before finally speaking. “Are you afraid of what they’ll do to others or what they might do to you?”

He can protect himself from these weak, decrepit things. He just wishes she didn’t know of their existence. It’s an effort to keep his chin high, his voice even. “That weakness in me is dead! It’s dead . I have a higher purpose! I don’t want to see these scraps of misery ever again. I don’t want the world to know my shame.”

“This shame is far more Cazador’s than yours,” Liv says. Her voice is gentle, cautious.

“Try telling them that,” he says, gesturing at the cells. “See if it matters to them.” Because he’s not sure if it matters to him.

“I know you didn’t have a choice before, Astarion. But you do now.” There is a hint of heartbreak in her voice. Her belief in him has been misplaced from the beginning. She is wrong; ascension is the answer.

“I..I know, I do…don’t..don’t hate me for this. I just did what I had to.” But even that tastes like a lie. That dark voice is back, it sounds like Cazador. But you enjoyed it, didn’t you, boy? It might have been my command, but it was your hunger .

He turns away from her. Shoves that voice away; he can’t afford to be distracted now. Not when they are so close. Liv presses the signet ring to the last door, speaks the words, and the gigantic doors open, revealing a dark space with a sunken platform and thousands of cells in the darkness. This is the defiled chapel built upon violence and suffering for Cazador’s ritual, and the vampire lord stands in the center, staff in hand awaiting their approach. As if he always knew they would come. As if all this time, he was waiting, planning for it.

Cazador’s sarcophagus sits in the middle of the platform, like an altar. Around it, his siblings are suspended in red-tinged magic, the sigils on their backs bared and glowing. His own scars ache in response, but he’s not sure if it’s real or imagined. Ghouls and werewolves stand by, awaiting Cazador’s command. He’s quickly tallying up enemies against his allies, and he’s not heartened when he realizes that he’s the one who is outnumbered here. It’s fine. This is happening. This is his chance. He will be the victor.

“Who stands before us? Is this truly our prodigal son?” Cazador asks as they approach, his voice carries a poisoned sing-song lilt. Astarion knows how quickly that voice can shift to something far more dangerous, but still, he’s unprepared for the way Cazador’s eyes narrow, for the anger. “Do not slouch before me, boy. Have you no respect for yourself?”

His shoulders straighten, unbidden. He suddenly feels so small. It’s as if the months of freedom haven’t happened at all. Compulsion or not, Cazador orders and his body responds as it always has.

Cazador’s expression evens out, the calm demeanor back in a flash. “Look at you, crawling back after abandoning your family. You should be begging our forgiveness.”

He wants to laugh. “Forgiveness? You’ve never forgiven anything. Every mistake, every slip was punished.” Sometimes they were even punished without cause, just because it pleased him.

Cazador smiles. “I strove for perfection in all things – even those as imperfect as you. A pity you amounted to so little, despite my efforts.”

“No! No, fuck you, and fuck everything you’ve ever done to me!” He knows his outburst is a mistake the moment the words leave his lips from the way Cazador grins. He’s fallen for the bait. Cazador is enjoying this.

“We’re here to stop you,” Liv says, fury behind her teeth. He can feel the crackle of her magic. It’s a comfort, even here.

“I will not speak to cattle. This is between me and the boy.”

He explodes. “You son of a bitch.” It’s time to end this, so he lurches forward at Cazador, ready to punch the smug look right off his face. But as he throws the punch, his body freezes, as if overtaken by a compulsion, but it’s not that, it’s magic binding him. He’s stuck, paralyzed while Cazador gleefully jeers.

“You truly forgot my power. You truly thought that our bond as creator and creation was all that stopped you from killing me. You are weak, my child. You are a small, pathetic little boy who never amounted to anything.”

Astarion is trapped. Cazador leans in close like a lover, his face just a breath away. “But today, you will finally do something worthwhile. You will burn and I will ascend.” Power pulses in the room, bursts of blood-red power. And then like a puppet on strings, he is yanked away, thrown into the empty section of this awful altar, his armor and clothes ripped away as the scars on his back begin to burn.

He won’t give Cazador the satisfaction of his screams, but he’s caught, suspended, about to be sacrificed. All he can think is how stupid he was to believe, to have hope, when all it ever does it lead to the same end.

Even if he had believed he could be a hero, this appalling tour through his sins has shown him that everything he’s done is far, far worse than he ever believed. And he can’t even bury those ghosts because they’re still alive.

Cazador stands in the center of the platform, smiling in victory. “Witness the birth of the Vampire Ascendant. Ecce dominus!”

***

When Astarion gets jerked away, Liv points her finger at Cazador and casts a bolt of lightning through him and as many ghouls as she can. She doesn’t even hesitate. It doesn’t seem to have quite as much effect as she would have hoped, but still, it buys Karlach and Lae’zel just enough time to rush forward, to flank Cazador while their other companions throw spells and shoot arrows from further away. She can feel the soft weight of Shadowheart’s blessing settle on her shoulders, and so she seizes the opportunity to misty step over to Astarion.

It’s a crowded arena filled with werewolves and ghouls and bats, but Liv can’t think about how their friends are faring. She just needs to get Astarion free. He’s struggling against the magical bonds that hold him as she appears from the mist. It takes just a moment to dispel the magical aura keeping him in place. He nearly collapses when he’s released, but she is there pulling him forward while a sphere of daylight erupts in the middle of the platform, casting out the shadows.

“Thank you,” he says as he grabs for his weapons and joins the fray. Liv does the same, dodging firebolts and eldritch blasts and arrows while she unleashes every spell in her arsenal.

The battle isn’t long, they never are, but in the moment, it seems to stretch, to last an eternity until finally, finally, Cazador falls, returning to his sarcophagus. She is breathing hard, her magic nearly drained. Karlach is leaning heavily on her great-axe, slashes from werewolf claws bleeding fluently onto the ground. Shadowheart and Halsin are administering healing to Lae’zel and Gale, while Wyll supports Jaheira as she limps over to the group.

Liv takes a moment to catch her breath; they’ve done it.

Astarion is singularly focused on the sarcophagus in the center. He flips the lid off. “No, no. No healing sleep for you. Wake up!” He rips Cazador from his sleep, throwing him to the ground. Liv has almost no magic left, but she readies it and notices the way Wyll and Karlach rush forward, ready in case there’s more fight left in the vampire lord.

“Get your hands off me, worm,” Cazador spats.

“I’m not the one in the dirt,” Astarion sneers, picking up Cazador’s dagger. “One last thrust and I’ll be free of you. I’ll never have to fear you again. But if I finish the ritual you started, I’ll never have to fear anyone, ever.”

Cazador grins. “You think me a fool? That I would allow anyone to usurp me, speak the words, and ascend in my place? Mmm? The runes I carved into your flesh bind you and all seven thousand souls to the ritual. Complete it and those bearing the scars will be sacrificed - you included. You are simply a means to an end. I made you to be consumed!”

“I am so much more than what you made me!” Astarion says leaning over Cazador before turning to her. “I can do this, but I need your help.”

And this is where she fears she has lost him forever. After all of this, he still wants to ascend. “Astarion, if I help you complete the ritual, it will kill all these people.” She is begging him to see reason, to see that this is the wrong choice. He cannot mean to do it.

He shakes his head. “These people died years ago, trust me on that. All that’s left are feral spawn, desperate for blood. If we release them, how many people will they kill? Tens of thousands? Hundreds of thousands? But if I complete the ritual, think of the power I’ll have. With me by your side we can save the city - we can save ourselves!”

But she hadn’t only seen feral spawn. She’d seen a scared little girl who missed her parents and a man who still mourned his. They were desperate, yes, and starving. But she did not believe they were without hope. They deserve a chance to live, to decide for themselves. She cannot help him with this, and she knows that if this is what he decides, one way or another, she’ll lose him forever. He won’t forgive her if she simply says no, and she cannot love a person who would pick this kind of power.

She holds his gaze, trying to intimate why he is so set on this path, and not knowing if she can dissuade him from it. He has been afraid for two hundred years, and he finally has the chance to rip power away from his former master, to be more powerful than ever. But being ruled by fear is just another sort of bondage.

“I know you think this power will set you free, but it won’t. This power will trap you just like it did Cazador. I want you to live a life you’re proud of. I want you to be happy. This…this won’t bring you that.” Her words sound steadier than she is, and she watches them land, watches Astarion realize that here, at the end of this, she’s not with him.

She has believed in him at every turn, believed that there was more to him, believed that he has deserved better than what he has gotten. She’s not sure that it’s enough. No one she has ever loved has made the right choice when power was on offer. She wants to believe that this time is different.

The moment suspends. If there is a sound in the room, she cannot hear it above the pounding of her heart. But then finally, Astarion nods.

“You…you’re right. I can be better than him.” He says the words with a sort of awe. As if finally, after all this time, he has realized they’re true. He turns back to Cazador, still sprawled on the ground. “But I’m not above enjoying this.”

With the dagger in his hand, Astarion grabs Cazador by the hair and begins to stab him. Over and over and over again, screaming louder with each knife thrust. Blood spatters over his exposed arms and chest, his face. He stabs and keeps stabbing until Cazador is a bloodied mess. Astarion’s screams subside as he collapses to his knees, and as all signs of life leave Cazador, his gasping sobs fill the cavern. He throws his head back and cries, two hundred years of hurt and pain, and it’s all over in this instant, and all Liv can do is watch.

She feels utterly useless at this moment. She has nothing to offer. She wants to rush to Astarion, to check him for injuries, to tell him how proud of him she is. But she hangs back because this moment is not for her. There will be time later for them to celebrate the nobility of this moment, the way he has ended a true evil while keeping his own soul intact, but that moment is not now.

With Cazador dead, the magic from the ritual fades, and the other spawn are free. Dalyria is the first to approach Astarion, who still kneels while Cazador’s blood pools around him.

“Is…is it over?” Dalyria asks, voice shaking. “Is..he?”

Astarion stands, it seems like it is an effort. “Yes. He’s gone.” There’s no triumph in his tone, but instead, it is tinged with grief and sadness and exhaustion. Liv feels like an unwanted witness as this scene plays out, the way tears stream down their cheeks. There is no celebration, only the quiet relief that the nightmare is over at last. She averts her eyes, trying to afford them the privacy they’ve certainly never been granted before. The room is silent while Astarion and his siblings stand over the man who spawned and abused them, now gone forever.

Finally, Petras speaks up in a panicked voice. “What does that mean for us?”

Astarion sighs. “It means you have a choice. You can hide here, living in the shadows like parasites, or you can be more than what he made us to be. You can choose differently of course, but the consequences are on your head.”

“And what does it mean for them?” Dalyria asks, looking around at the still-locked cells.

“Now that’s a better question. Seven thousand spawn, from ancient conquests to stolen children.” He picks up the staff, and finally, meets her eyes. He doesn’t look away from her as he speaks. “The poor wretches in the cells are innocent. They shouldn’t have to suffer just because I - lured them here.” His voice catches on the word lure as if he still can’t quite face it.

She’s never been more proud of him as the cell doors open.

He glances back at his siblings. “They’ll need someone to lead them. Take the tunnels into the Underdark, find somewhere…well, not safe, but less perilous?”

Petras’ eyes go wide, and Astarion holds up a hand. “Just try to keep them out of trouble.”

Liv steps away then. She is sure that they will all need a moment. She busies herself gathering Astarion’s clothing and armor. He’ll want it soon, whenever he’s ready to leave this place. The pieces are scattered all around, Cazador’s magic having ripped them from his body. It’s a miracle he was able to find his weapons during the fight. As she picks up the last piece, she realizes that he’s standing a few feet away, bloodstained, tired, but still beautiful.

She’s not sure what to say, so she holds out the bundle of his things but is instead surprised when he wordlessly pulls her into a hug. She can barely return the embrace around the clothing and armor in her arms, but she tries because she can feel the desperation in the way his fingers grip the fabric of her robes. It is as if he is looking for something to anchor him. The hug is just this side of too tight, but she leans into it, into him, hoping to convey all of the words she doesn’t know how to say.

When he eventually pulls away, his eyes are wide, almost unseeing. “That’s it. He’s gone. After all these years - these centuries - it’s really over.” His voice is hollow, far away.

“I’m proud of you,” she says. “You did the right thing.”

He looks ill. “I’m glad you think so because I’m not so sure. I just feel numb. It’s…all so much. And gods, all those spawn, free in the Underdark. I need some time, I think. Just to let it all sink in.”

“You can have however long you need,” she says.

He takes his things from her but keeps looking at his bloodstained hands as if he’s unsure what to do with them. She keeps her voice to a whisper. “I could take care of that if you’d like?”

She knows he doesn’t mind being elbow-deep in gore, but there’s something about the way he looks so lost, that she’s sure this is one battle he’d rather not wear so visibly. “Please.”

It’s a simple incantation to prestidigitate the blood away. It’s not the same as being clean, the essence lingers, but he seems steadier. As he dresses, she doesn’t mention his shaky hands or the extra time it takes.

“Let’s…let’s just go. This place reeks of death, and I want to feel alive again,” he says once the last strap and buckle is in place.

She nods. “Let’s go.”

***

Astarion sits on the roof of the Elfsong, alone. The sun is setting and the sky is a vibrant mix of oranges and purples and blues. Music drifts out from the tavern into the quiet air of the city, awash with light and people. His life has irrevocably changed in the course of a single day, and yet, the city and its people just go on. It’s one part comforting, and one part infuriating.

Every emotion feels at once too big to hold and somehow muted. He wants to name them to know exactly how he is feeling, but everything is too muddled, too jumbled. He’s supposed to be happy. Victorious. He’d smiled and said he was fine and that he was happy the bastard was dead when asked how he was feeling in the aftermath by his companions. The words are true enough he supposes, but he knows that real happiness doesn’t look like sitting alone on the rooftop, drinking wine straight from the bottle.

The truth is that even once he’d shrugged off the comments of his companions with smiles and sharp words, he could still feel their concerned glances his way. Everything they said about or around the events of the day felt like too much. He had forced himself to stay with them, to endure their company just long enough that no one would be overly concerned when he slipped away.

Still, he is not surprised when there is movement off to his left, near the hatch that leads to their rooms. But he is relieved when he sees that it’s just Liv. Her dark hair is still damp as if she’s come straight from cleaning up to find him. He thinks he might be glad of the company, but he’s not sure.

“It’s quite the spectacular view,” she says, an echo of his own words when he found her atop the ruins at Wyrm’s Lookout.

“I’m not brooding.” He says, an echo of her own words. He’d tried for a playful tone, but it just comes out resigned.

“Liar.” But the words aren’t an accusation. “If you want to be alone, that’s okay. I just wanted to check-in.” Her words are gentle and hold no expectation. He knows if he tells her to go, she will, no questions asked.

He looks up at her, trying to fathom what on earth he did to deserve such kindness. “I’m…all peopled out for the day.” He says, and she nods, already making to turn and leave. “But you’re not people, thankfully. So you can stay.” He tilts his head at her and summons a smile he does not particularly feel.

She sits down beside him on the myriad of pillows and blankets that are scattered around. “You know that whatever you’re feeling, however you’re feeling, it’s all okay, right?”

“Yes, of course.” He turns away, his attention back on the setting sun. What would she say if she knew he doesn’t even know what it is he feels? He wants to tell her, he does. He’s just not sure how. He tries anyway. “I’ve spent so long hating him. Thinking of him. I have all of this anger and blame and now he’s gone and there’s nowhere to put it.”

This thing inside him feels like grief, and he hates it. He doesn’t want to mourn anything to do with Cazador. He only wants relief and triumph and happiness and freedom.

“Give it time,” Liv says.

The laugh that escapes him is a joyless thing. “Time? It’s been two hundred fucking years, and he’s finally dead and….and…” his words fall away to the quiet. And he’s not sure what he is without Cazador.

“And it will take some time for it to feel real, to feel truly over.”

There’s a suspicious sort of burning in the corners of his eyes, so he doesn’t look at her, doesn’t risk glancing her way. “I don’t think I want to talk about this right now.”

“Alright.”

There is no judgment in her voice. In some ways, it might be easier if there was. It would give him someone to be upset with other than himself. “Don’t you ever get tired of it?”

“What?”

“The waiting? Waiting for me to be ready for this?” He gestures between them, at whatever they are. There were moments today where it felt tenuous like this could have been yet another thing lost to Cazador, to that haunted house.

Liv’s expression is soft and open. “You will always be worth the wait.” He can tell she means it, her eyes are shining with the truth of it.

“But you may always be waiting.” Waiting for him to be better, to be kinder, to be able to have these difficult conversations with her like a real partner.

She shakes her head. “I think waiting might be the wrong word. That would imply that I’m somehow dissatisfied with the way things are. I’m not. I…you’re enough just the way you are.”

Her words are a balm, a comfort against the chaos in his head. They do not banish the ghosts of this heavy day, and he does not feel quite anchored back into himself. But it is better than it was, and that is enough for now. He leans into her, resting his head on her shoulder. And they watch the hues of the sky deepen, the stars winking into the sky.

“Come here,” Liv says and rearranges them so that he can settle into the circle of her arms, head pressed against her chest, with the comfort of her warm, steady heartbeat below his ear.

“Stay here with me tonight,” he whispers into the darkness. He can’t go back to that shared room with their friends, with the heavy curtains over all the windows to block out morning sunshine. To the sound of sleeping bodies, sharing a space that would feel too much like the dormitory. Tonight, he needs to be here, beneath the stars and the moon. He needs the openness, the freedom, the promise of the morning sun on his skin to wake him. He knows now that mornings filled with sunshine are finite, without the ritual, there will be an end to them. Someday, he will have to return to the shadows. Perhaps with his freedom, it will not be so bad.

Her arms tighten around him, and he feels her press a kiss to the top of his head. “It’s been a while since we’ve spent a night under the stars.”

This night is so very different from the last, and he doesn’t know much of what he feels, but he knows he’s glad for at least that.

#astarion #astarion x tav #baldur's gate 3 #fanfic #astarion x liv #this one is very chonky #but i didn't want to cut it #so here have it ALL #bright lost things #slothquisitorwrites

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starry-bi-sky · 5 months

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tales of the passerine - danny fenton being bruce wayne's first kid

okay okay. so this is like a continuation/elaboration of my oneshot/prompt i wrote about the idea that Danny was the first batkid. We have a lot of aus where he joins the family after the rest of the bats do, right? So hey! Lets shake things up a bit. Danny is the first to be adopted by Bruce Wayne.

Danny's parents and unfortunately Jazz die shortly after the events of TUE -- how so? I was gonna say an ecto-filter explosion, that would call back to the TUE explosion and trauma behind that. But lets do something new! Carbon-monoxide poisoning.

It's not too unexpected for something to break in the Fenton house, especially with the Fenton parents' questionable understanding of proper weapon handling and lab safety. The water heater broke from a stray shot by one of the weapons, and was promptly MacGyver'd incorrectly. Danny went to stay with Tucker for a guys' night, and came back to a dead silent house.

(Danny's neighbors got a very unfortunate shock when he ran to the next house over in hysterics.)

There was a lot of shuffling around with CPS, the police. People had to be called in to handle the equipment in the lab, and the GIW was rumoring to show up in aid to clearing the scene. When Danny heard of that, he immediately went and dismantled the ghost portal to the best of his abilities. He burned the physical blueprints of all his parents' inventions, their blueprints on the ghost portal, and their most dangerous weapons were destroyed beyond recognition. Anything to prevent the GIW from getting their hands on his parents' tech.

It opened up another investigation, but he was not under the list of suspects. He was placed in the care of Vlad Masters, where they then went back to the rebuilt castle mansion in Wisconsin. Danny, terrified of the future that has once passed and may do so again, shuts down in his grief. Inadvertently, he ends up somewhat repressing his ghost half. Something Vlad, who is grieving Madeline but relishing in Jack's demise and his custody of Daniel, is not very happy with.

Vlad's... gone into a bit of a mental health spiral. He's becoming increasingly possessive over Daniel, the final remnants of his friends and a liminal being like him. He doesn't like that Danny's repressing his ghost half -- both out of genuine concern as a ghost, but also because of his desire to control Danny and groom him into the perfect son. If you ever had a phase where you read Dark SBI found family fics, first off; me too bro, and second off; those are the vibes I'm thinking of.

Danny's mentally shut down from grief! And fear. He's dropped into a bad depressive state -- paralyzed with grief and the terror of the inevitable. Clockwork saved his parents because he believes in second chances, but what's the point of that when his family ended up dead anyways? Danny doesn't wanna believe that he's destined to become evil, and he's holding out onto that hope, but it's a thin line, and he feels utterly hopeless and trapped. He hasn't used his powers or ghost form since he trashed the lab, and Vlad has alarms set up to prevent him from trying to escape.

He's also unintentionally cut off Sam and Tucker -- both of whom are so scared and concerned for Danny too, and are trying their damndest to reach out to him. He keeps ignoring their texts. Danny basically haunts Vlad's manor. He goes out to eat if he has to, attends parties Vlad drags him to, and stays in his room all day if he can.

At parties, Vlad doesn't allow Danny to leave his side, or really talk to anyone -- not that Danny wants to. A product of Vlad's increasing possessiveness. Well, he almost doesn't let Danny leave his side. Danny has a habit of slipping off to hide somewhere for the parties whenever he can, and Vlad reluctantly allows it so long as he stays alone.

This becomes an advantage when eventually, Bruce Wayne returns to Gotham after missing for years, and holds a bright charity ball to celebrate the return. Vlad has been chomping at the bits to get his hands on Wayne Industries, and with the return of its owner there is no better opportunity to wipe out his rival. He goes, and he as normal, brings Daniel with him.

Vlad thinks Wayne will bleed his little heart out for Daniel's poor orphan sob story -- he's a fellow orphan himself, after all. He's not wrong; Wayne's little heart will bleed, just not in the way that benefits him.

Bruce sees Vlad and Danny approaching before they're even close enough to introduce themselves - and like with many of the children he will soon come to care for, it's like someone set a mirror into the past right in front of him.

Danny Fenton's suit is tailor-made for him, and despite the fact that it's his perfect size, the sag in his shoulders, the ducked down head, and the way he hunches into himself all pictures the image of a child in shoes too big for him. There's a far away, glazed over look in his eyes and grief marble-cut into the lines of his face. There's not enough makeup in the world that will hide the dark circles under his eyes.

("My nephew, Daniel Fenton." Vlad's hands are possessive on Danny's shoulders. Bruce immediately notices the way the boy tenses under his touch. "His parents passed recently, and as his godfather I was designated his guardian.") ("I'm so sorry, the loss must've been terrible.") ("Yes, carbon-monoxide poisoning caused it. Daniel was out with friends, when he came home... they had already passed.") (Bruce immediately dislikes that Vlad shared the details of their death unprompted -- he likes it even less when Danny flinches at the reminder and hunches into himself.)

Danny runs off at some point earlier into the charity. At this point, parties are still being held at Wayne Manor (because iirc google search mentioned that was a thing at first before it was changed), so he disappears and hides in one of the empty rooms nearby. It just so happens to be the same room Bruce Wayne hides in when he needs a break from all of the socialization.

Thus begins a long, long process of trust. Bruce can't reveal his hand as being smarter than he looks, but he can be compassionate. Kindness needs no measure of intelligence. He keeps Danny company for as long as he can before he runs the risk of being found.

Rinse and repeat. Vlad insistently wants Wayne Industries, and he'll go to as many Wayne parties as he can to get his hooks into the man. The problem is that Bruce Wayne is never alone, and getting him alone is impossible. Finding him too. It's like the man never stops moving. Always talking to someone, always circling somewhere. He orbits around the room as if he isn't the sun of the Gotham Elite's solar system.

Danny's had such repetitive behavior that Vlad never thinks to believe that Bruce Wayne is disappearing to go talk to him. That "Vlad's" son is even interacting with him at all. Danny never gives him a reason to think so, and neither does Bruce.

Danny doesn't actually acknowledge Bruce until a handful of parties in, where he hands Bruce a small slip of paper he smuggled in that says; "don't trust Vlad". Danny's face stays carefully blank, but he's so tense that his hands are trembling, and he's purposely looking away from him. Bruce plasters a smile onto his face, slips the paper into his pocket, and tells him "okay".

(he's been busy with his own goals with the mafia, but he sets aside time to investigate Vlad Masters. He was holding off. Until now.)

Danny does eventually start speaking to Bruce, he's starting to really like the guy. He's starting to see a little hope, even as Vlad is starting to get more and more agitated with him the more he refuses to use his powers.

He reaches out to Sam and Tucker again, and starts trying to reconnect with them. Vlad has spyware on his phone, and he limits the amount of times he can talk to them. A weird parental control lock of some sort that leaves a time limit on how long he can talk to them for. 30 minutes. Danny doesn't tell them anything about Mr. Wayne.

Danny, slowly, wants out of here, and he's slowly gathering the motivation to do it. Vlad is genuinely scaring him -- and Danny wonders just how truthful the past-future Vlad was when he told him that Danny wanted his ghost half separate. He starts trying to come up with an escape plan.

Vlad has anti-ghost wards everywhere around the mansion, and while they're always on, they boost to full power at sunset. The doors and windows are always locked, all main exits have alarms set on them. The only reason it's not super extensive is because Danny hasn't tried leaving at all yet, so Vlad hasn't had to tighten anything.

At night, Vlad locks the door to his room and puts up an anti-ghost ward around the room. The mansion is on the outside westward side of Madison, more entrenched in rural Wisconsin. The closest town is a four-way stop sign with one house on three corners, and an open bar on the fourth. Not much to go.

He refuses to go to Sam and Tucker; Vlad would look there first. It's too dangerous. Vlad would sound alarm bells and have a manhunt looking for him, Danny can't risk going just anywhere. Too much risk of being found, sold out, or caught. There's really nowhere for him to hide.

Until there is. Bruce is telling Danny about the history of Wayne Manor, and says, as casually as saying the weather; "The manor has dozens of empty rooms, I'm sure Alfred wouldn't mind filling another one if he could." And quietly, hesitantly, Bruce places a careful hand on Danny's shoulder, unrestrictive and gentle; "He wouldn't mind getting one ready for you if you need one."

And there it is. There's his out.

Danny, just as quietly, replies; "I'll keep that in mind."

The ball starts rolling.

Now I've been trying to summarize this au as much as possible for length convenience, but Vlad has been steadily growing more and more controlling. More emotionally manipulative. More agitated at Danny for not using his powers.

He wants Wayne Industries under his thumb but he's been steadily growing more and more concerned with Danny. He's started grabbing him, yanking him around, shaking him; trying to goad him into using his powers. He gets angry when Danny doesn't react, or tells him he doesn't want to use his powers. He hasn't outright attacked him, but he's getting there. This has been happening over the time it takes for Bruce to indirectly offer Danny sanctuary at his home.

It all comes to a head when Vlad stops going to parties at all -- something Danny has to pretend he isn't upset about -- because Vlad doesn't want him around other people anymore. Vlad rarely goes now without him, and only leaves to go to a Wayne function or to handle something at VladCo.

Danny can't wait for Vlad to leave long enough to escape. So he leaves during the night of a big storm. Vlad's locked him in his room, but Danny doesn't bother trying to go for it; he goes to the alarmed window instead. Danny's been repressing his ghost half so long that he can't access his powers immediately anymore -- he can feel it, he knows its there, but he can't quite reach it.

He breaks the lock by hand.

Immediately the alarm goes off through the entire castle, filling the room with red, and he scrambles for the rope the Wisconsin Ghost left for him a few months back. Danny's already out and climbing down the side of the castle before Vlad even reaches his door -- the only good thing about the entire room being ghost-proof is that Vlad can't get in that way.

The rope ends before it reaches the bottom, and he's still twenty feet in the air. It won't kill him if he lands it right. Danny takes his chances, and drops. He breaks his ankle, but he survives.

And he fucking books it to the back garden. He hears Vlad shrieking over the thunder and rain.

I'll save the full experience for a future oneshot, but Danny makes it out into the nearby woods and forcibly experiences what it's like to be in a horror game, trying to hide from the thing that's hunting you. There's only one thing going through his mind; "i'm going to die"

I have this mental image for this scene. Very stereotypical horror imo. Where Danny is hiding behind a tree, with a hand over his mouth, and Vlad is a few feet away from him, glowing ominously red through the trees, trying to search for him.

Danny doesn't get away from this unscathed, but he does get away alive. That's all he could ask for. He gets away by getting his ghost half awakened long enough to transform into Phantom and fly to Gotham.

But he gets to Wayne Manor, he gets to Bruce. Or, at least, Alfred answers the door from his insistent pounding. Danny's just in tears and Alfred gets him in the living room, wrapped in a towel, with ice on his swollen leg before he has to step out and alert Bruce.

Bruce already breaks multiple traffic laws on a nightly basis. And that's just with the sheer existence of the batmobile itself, not including the speeding and military artillery attached. He breaks double the amount trying to speed back to the cave and get out of the suit.

Right off the bat: Bruce will know, at least before Dick enters the picture, about danny's powers. He'll figure out something considering the fact that Danny traveled from Wisconsin to New York in a single night. That'll be a bit of complicated affair, but I've already got something in mind.

Actually it'll probably be very soon after Danny joins the family, because Bruce tries to offer to fight for custody for Danny - the state Danny was in at arrival is clear enough evidence for a trial. But Danny immediately shuts it down, says it's not going to work and then Vlad will know Danny's with him and he won't be safe. He tells him that Vlad cannot know Danny was with Bruce.

Danny's biggest regret was not telling his parents he was a halfa, and while he doesn't want to tell mister wayne (yet), he does tell him about Vlad being one. He needs to know why Danny can't be seen with Bruce. So he tells him, and Danny's current plan is to just hide out from Vlad until he turns 18. That way, he has no more legal jurisdiction over him. After that? He's not sure.

And to wrap this up, since this has already gotten very long and I can make more posts about this au later; I've thought about it, and I'm going to say that Danny does become a vigilante before Dick enters the scene. He goes by, as you probably guessed; Nightingale. "Gale" for short.