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sseanettles · 3 months ago

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nothing grows in corpses (in the earth of me)

dream x hob gadling | mature | Finally cross-posting my take on the fandom classic of the show progresses as the comics do, even to The Wake. Until Death resurrects Morpheus and forces the choice of "redemption" upon him instead of suicide. It goes...horribly. No good. Very bad. Instead of learning the lesson, Morpheus (in his infinite wisdom) opts instead for a highly effective existence strike until one day Hob Gadling stumbles upon his ghastly handiwork and immediately decides that this just won't do. Man Who Refuses To Die vs. Man Who Refuses To Live: fight.

Dead Dove, Do Not Eat for the following: graphic depictions of starvation, illness, suicidal ideation, self-harm, blood and gore, loss of autonomy, etc. etc. This is some classic old world whump, folks! But I promise it's also supremely healing in the end.

CH. 5: the rockrose and the thistle pt. 1 | 3.5 k | AO3 link | prev part | next part

(or: the one where Hob finds his Stranger; he perhaps wishes he hadn't.)

A blur of familiar shapes and colors loomed above Morpheus in the vague shape of a man, horror and dismay twisting his normally warm, friendly voice into something unrecognizable. It was like a fun house mirror, a wavering heat mirage, and Morpheus placed the blame for this especially cruel haunting on the one undoubtedly responsible. His scabbed lips barely moved, fighting to shape his protestation on the wheezing exhale that eked from his tortured throat.

Leave me, Delirium.

She was trying to relieve the pain of the rats, he knew—just as she would send him insects to distract from the retching and ghostly fingers along his back to take him away from the pain of a stomach consuming itself. She was at least nearer to something normal this time, but somehow, he found this reassurance cut deeper than Despair’s hook. The numbness, that drifting static—he wanted it back. He tried to put himself back out on that purgatorial water, to push off into it and never find shore again.

It was nice there, that dark. Not peaceful. Not restful. But the pain could not reach him as easily there, and neither could cold nor hunger nor thirst. Nightmares could try to ensnare him, but it was a far more trancelike state than it was sleep, and so they could not take hold.

Glass and iron could not rob him of air and life, could not starve and suffocate him for so much longer than a hundred years. He would not endure abuse and humiliation at the Burgess Family’s hands that did not end at verbal beratement and mind games; he would not bring self-wrought ends upon himself that were not as neat as taking his sister’s hand. He would not see Nada smashed upon mountainsides with her bones all cracked and broken and her skin bending the wrong ways to keep all the pieces of her inside.

Orpheus. His hand would not bury inside his boy’s skull, the feeling of his brain matter hot and wet between his fingers, his blood warming him where he had long gone cold…. He would not again endure the murdering of the Dreaming, each loss felt like a limb of his own, like an organ, as the cackle of the Kindly Ones echoed in his ears like an ice pick to the inside of his skull.

He would not find himself sprawled in his current state upon the floor of his throne room of old, staring up at his own uncaring visage as the King of Dreams and Nightmares, the Shaper of Forms, Lord of the Dreaming, watched him perish with glittering black eyes as remorseless as the regalia that dripped off him like the night sky itself. Like tar. As he watched himself die with nothing but utter disdain and derision.

What you have let yourself become, Morpheus could hear Dream sneer in the cruel curve of his lips.

Numbness. Let him submerge once more into numbness, into oblivion. Let his sisters’ handiwork fade….

The last of Hob’s coffee hit the ground, and his knees followed soon after as his Stranger’s bloodshot, rubbery gaze began to drift.

“H-hey,” Hob called. It was a whimper of a syllable, unintentionally teary, and he tried again. “Hey!”

His sharp bark halted those closing eyes for a heartbeat, and the sagging head jerked a touch, like a puppet’s string. Empty; his Stranger was so empty, and Hob’s heart lodged in his throat, bile trying to rise around it as he reached for his friend’s ragged face on instinct, hoping to lift his cold-blistered skin from the snowy ground.

He struggled to speak from his already crowded throat, and the tone of Hob’s next words emerged somewhere between his two hey’s.

“My friend…?”

Hands cradled Morpheus’ face, undeterred by the beard or the blood or the blisters, and they were so warm, so real after so long on the edge of oblivion that something already fraying in Morpheus’ brain snapped altogether. Calluses, firm grip, large span, smelling of coffee and paper and ink and wool, so hot compared to the world that they scorched him—he wanted, no, needed them to let go. Let go. Let go, let go, leT GO—

Never leave.

He wanted those hands to never touch him again. He wanted the feeling of them all over his body, bringing him in from the cold in a cocoon-like embrace, from the hardness and the pain and the emptiness. A mortifying, strangled moan cracked from his tundra throat and split lips and gaunt cheeks, and it turned into a spine-chilling, gasping inhale as his blood-stained hands clutched and clawed at his ravaged gut.

He wanted them gone.

“God’s wounds…” the voice above him rasped, heart-broken and horrified still.

Real. The hands were real.

Then the body, the voice that they were attached to had to be real, too. And that meant….

It’s him.

Morpheus’ body locked into its fetal position, so rigid he began to shake and seize with it. All cognizant thought whited from his mind in the wake of the pain and desire that swept over him amid the paralyzing panic.

“Fuck,” Hob hissed and fumbled to cast his bag to the side and shrug his way out of his long woolen coat. Morpheus’ head was on fire, and a quick check showed his chest and gut were in a similar state, his lungs rattling like a babe’s toy on every breath. But the rest of him…. “God’s wounds” didn’t do it any measure of justice, but it was the only useless phrase that would come to his stupid mind. His friend, who should have been VERY dead, mind you, was otherwise a block of ice with nothing but skin and bone on him, and this was too fucking much to process at the end of a work week, final exams were on Wednesday, he still had to correct the last set, grades were due end of month, and FUCKING CHRIST. “Fuck, Stranger, I—”

Another strangled bay of pain wracked his friend’s chest as Hob swaddled him in his coat, and he doubled the dirtied quilt around the outside until the snow no longer touched him, wincing all the while as his friend continued to weakly moan in agonized protest.

“Shhh,” he hushed. His hands and his voice shook as badly as his friend. He ripped the black scarf from around his neck and wrapped it about his friend’s skeletonized head, tucking it around his throat. “Shhh, you-you’re gonna be fine, mate. C’mon….” Those horrible eyes stared wildly at him, that bleeding mouth opening and closing with gasping, guttural breaths that were all so viscerally wrong. Hob gritted his teeth against his tears and rested one hand as gently as he could atop his friend’s head; the other touched ever so delicately to his chest. “Shhh…shhh, please, friend. Just…just breathe….”

His Stranger’s hair, once so lovely and glistening dark, like rain on fresh pavement, crunched beneath his touch. That foreign, patchy beard disintegrated further as his jaw continued to work, hungry for air that could not seem to reach his lungs, and grime and rusted blood flaked from his hollow cheeks to the scarf that bundled him. Hob waited there beside him, knelt like that with coffee-melted snow seeping through his trousers, and prayed to anything listening that his friend’s shaking would cease.

Several fruitless minutes later, Hob sank his teeth into the edge of his tongue. The wracking shivers hadn’t let up, and now Hob was faced with a decision. And if anything of the Stranger that he had known remained, he knew he was going to catch hell for his choice when Morpheus was well enough to talk.

He shifted his hold until he could guide his exhausted friend’s eyes in his general direction, going numb himself far more quickly than he liked in the cold. Hob shivered violently enough to jolt his friend’s head where they touched, and he struggled to ignore the biting freeze in just his button-down and blazer.

“I’m going to get you up, now, ‘kay?” Morpheus’ quaking worsened, though his line of sight hovered somewhere near Hob’s chin without recognition. “Real gentle-like.” Slowly, so slowly he felt his already sore back begin to cramp in protest, Hob began to slide his arm beneath his friend. “Just so. Just-just try to keep breathing….”

They were doing okay, or at least no worse than they had been, until Hob got Morpheus upright, paused to sling his bag back across his body, and tipped Morpheus forward into the plane of his chest to pick him up. The figure in Hob’s arms turned to steel, a terrified breath sucking into his lungs before catching there. Frigid adrenaline hit dried-up veins like a flash flood, and those cloudy blue eyes bulged.

Destruction. Destruction was on him, crushing him in his arms, pinning him in place, he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t breathe. It was so cold, Burgess’ basement, iron and glass on naked skin, the crushing and tearing oblivion of a black hole—

The arms around him pulled him close anyway, turning him this way and that even as he fought to thrash and breathe, and as he finally managed to suck in a ragged gasp, a head pressed to his. It was warm with shoulder-length, dark brown hair, and Morpheus realized he was no longer suffocated against the other man. He was laid against him, back to chest, with his head tipped back against his shoulder and his face bared to the snowy, overcast sky. The arms that had been crushing his lungs settled lower, applying pressure to his gut where Despair had wounded him but staying clear of his ribs and throat. A low rumble passed into him, and through the riptide of panic that washed over him like the waters in the cave, Morpheus heard the endless litany of reassuring hushes and sweetness uttered against his ear…

…like a father to his frightened son…

…or a husband to his agony-stricken spouse.

An anchor.

“That’s it,” Hob murmured. He adjusted his hold and breathed through his quaking shivers. “That’s it, love, shhh…you’re doing so well. That’s it. It’ll pass…it’ll all pass…and it’ll all feel better. Promise.”

Gadling.

“I promise…I promise it goes away, and it’s all lovely again…. I’m right here, love….”

Morpheus felt himself hit a different sort of wall, a buzzing dissociation that took him beyond his body and yet grounded him in every point of contact between himself and Gadling behind him. And as Morpheus relaxed, bit by painful bit, Hob continued to shush and soothe with eyes shut tight against ancient tears and lips that moved on muscle memory. He spoke as he had spoken to his dearest Robyn after his nightmares, as he had spoken to Jim as he clutched his corpse in the rubble of their home in the Blitz…. as he had spoken to Eleanor after he had forced his way past the physician and nuns into their blood-soaked bedchambers and she perished in his arms, their unborn babe trapped within the cradle of her pelvis and dying with her.

He spoke as Gwen had spoken to him when he had woken, inconsolable, from a funeral in his dreams almost a year ago now. As he had woken from a funeral for the entity he now gathered like a senseless child in his arms, so bundled within the coat, quilt, and scarf that only a shadowed glimpse of his strangely bearded face remained.

He remembered his Stranger had been tall in life. And though he still possessed that height, the rest of him had withered away, and Hob’s stomach flipped so spectacularly that the resulting splash seared the back of his throat as he stood and found his Stranger weighed nothing at all. He had always seemed so dense, his friend. Ethereal, yes. Light in the way a full-mooned eclipse was light; all sharp angles carved of obsidian, starry eyes and a velvety tongue barbed with the wicked spryness of a wit born of the lands that lurked beyond fairy rings. But Hob had always known his friend to be a mirage upon a mirror upon a one-way window he would never peer beyond. A deceit. He had always been more compressed down into a shape that he knew Hob’s hungering, human soul would chase to eternity.

He had been lording and beautiful and fair with all the delicacy of a soft-handed King. But if Hob had ever dared to strike that porcelain skin, he knew his blade would have shattered instantly upon the diamond-plated osmium revealed beneath it.

What he held in his arms now, the weight he shifted easily into the cradle of a single, decently strong—but by no means brawny—arm while his freed hand fished his phone from his trouser pocket, was not the friend he had known.

He fumbled through his contacts with numbing fingers and nearly dropped the phone altogether in his rush to both pin it between his shoulder and ear and simultaneously redouble his hold on Morpheus. The line began to ring.

His friend stopped shivering; he grew limper, heavier.

Hob walked faster.

“Come on,” he huffed and slipped in the trampled sludge along the sidewalk’s edge as he tried to wind his way between the other folks trying to get home before the storm fully hit. His arms clamped down tight as he stumbled, the image of Morpheus tumbling from his arms to the frozen concrete filling his veins with ice faster than the breaking blizzard.

Something cracked beneath the quilt and coat, and his heart jolted.

Shit. Shit, fuck, shit.

The line continued to ring.

“Come on, Gwen,” he begged. His lecture bag thumped against his leg with every jogging step, the edge of his laptop and textbooks beating a steady bruise into his thigh. “Come on, c’mon—”

Click.

“Robbie! God, finally, I’ve been trying to call you—”

“Gwen!” Her name burst from his lips like a shipwrecked man’s cry of land. “I know I’m late, but please, listen to me—” He tried and failed to tip Morpheus closer to him, to shift his weight in his arms so his exposed face tipped against his own rapidly cooling body. “I need you to get the first aid kit out of the cabinet beneath the sink, run a hot bath, get some soup started or-or cocoa or tea just-just anything easy to eat and warm—”

“Robbie,” Gwen repeated. She sounded very calm and very serious, far from the beleaguered girlfriend she had been five seconds ago. “What’s happened?”

“Please, just—”

“Robbie,” she repeated. He anchored himself in the cut of her voice, in the grounding blow her steadfast calm dealt to his spiraling anxiety. “I have you. But what am I preparing for?”

Yes. Sitrep. Right.

“It’s my friend,” he panted, “the one who died or wh-who I thought had died. I—”

He had scarcely spoken the words before their full import struck him like a train. And with the shattering impact, the shadows around them grew darker, sharper. The alleys turned to passing mouths in which predators lurked, and the deepening snowstorm mounted into the perfect cover for an ambush. Every face, every body, every feature he passed that he could identify beyond the bundling layers of coats and scarves and hats, he did his best to memorize. He looked for the duplicitous, for the liar, for the threat, and tried to move faster. The weight of his words sank down to his bones, really settled in his mind.

Morpheus, Dream of the Endless, the Dream-King, whichever one of his many names he wanted to call himself, wasn’t dead. There had to be at least one person or thing in this terribly wondrous world that would have been very pleased to learn such news, and Hob was in no state now to defend them should it come knocking. He swallowed past the heart that was still lodged in his throat and tried not to cough on each knife-like inhale of freezing air.

“I found him,” he continued in as low of a voice as he could manage. “He-he’s in a bad way, I don’t—”

“Jesus, Rob!” Gwen hissed, and he heard her bustling about their flat with matching urgency. “Doesn’t he need a hospital?”

Hob’s heart skipped and dislodged from his throat to land in his feet.

“NO!” he half-shouted, clutching Morpheus closer, and instantly winced as the suspicion around him deepened. More eyes tracked him as he passed, and he felt their intense scrutiny on his back as he fled down the street. “I-I mean, yeah, probably,” he admitted at a more reasonable, if no less frantic volume. “But I can’t take him there. I…”

He eyed the dead man in his arms who somehow breathed still. Took in the starved face, the kind of deteriorated visage he had seen only in prison camps and famines.

“I think he’s like me now,” he whispered and could not wrench his eyes away from his Stranger. “He was m-more before, but now, I…” His breathing felt funny. Everything seemed a bit farther away now, even the man-not-man in his arms. “I think he’s like me.”

“Okay,” Gwen said after a long time. “Okay, Rob.” Ever resolute, ever sure, ever calm and in control. The truest Guinevere, if ever there had been one. “We’ll be ready.”

Hob let out a wet laugh that wilted and ultimately broke beneath the strain of relief and love that crushed down upon him atop the dread.

“Fuck,” he groaned. He looked as far as he could to the snowy sky without losing his phone, blinking swiftly, and cleared his throat against the tears gumming him to silence. “Fuck, I don’t deserve you.”

He could feel her smirk, warm and taunting and tense.

“Damn right, you don’t,” she teased, but it was more hollow than usual, tempered by the gravity of what was rushing home to her. “Just get yourselves inside.”

“We’re ‘bout ten minutes out. I’ll do my best to make it less,” he promised and shuffled Morpheus’ dead weight until he could fetch his phone and ended the call. “Hoo…” he exhaled, sniffling again, and hugged Morpheus tightly to him, trying to rub some warmth into his back and arms as he did. “ ‘S alright, friend…” That ice-laced, fever-hot face tipped into Hob’s neck, and he started at the press of the sharp, freezing nose against his most sensitive skin before leaning unsteadily into it. He pressed his head as far as he could against Morpheus, tried to draw him into his own waning body heat despite the coldness of his skin and the stench of his hair. “ ‘S alright.”

His heart stuttered as he felt his Stranger’s mangled mouth move against his throat in a twisted echo of his deepest, most private fantasies, a perversion so grotesque that it sent shivers down his back.

It was the barest whisper, a single, half-formed word. But even still, Hob understood the shape those three little letters made.

He swallowed. His tears threatened to spill over.

“Yeah,” he croaked and shifted one hand to the back of his friend’s head, cradling him closer. “Yeah, mate, it’s me. I’ve got you. ‘S okay.”

The horrible dry tears returned as Morpheus listened to Hob ramble, his voice spilling down and around him like the warmest of blankets, the safety of a hearth. It was a calming deluge of reassuring words and soothing sounds and shaking endearments that he could not bear to hear. The shattered glass buried deep within his heart drove and twisted deeper.

Stop, he begged, the silent word barely mouthed against the warmth of Hob’s vibrating throat, lost amid the comfort the man outpoured in every deep syllable. Morpheus’ shoulders shook with sobs, and his already gasping breaths stuttered dangerously toward suffocation. Stop…put…back….

All the while, the babble of what Hob hoped was still calming nonsense continued to pour from his mouth. His bluing lips stumbled more and more frequently on his rushed, quiet words, but one foot in front of the other, as quickly as he could manage? That was easy enough to keep in his head.

Just one foot in front of the other. Don’t draw too much attention. Don’t trip. For Heaven’s sake, if not your own, don’t drop him.

Do not process the multiple layers of deception that had to have been in play to bring this situation about. Do not even begin to contemplate the rage you feel at it, the betrayal and hurt and anguish and confusion at seeing your very dead Stranger again, let alone in this state. Allow only the panic. Only the survival mode. Strike the match upon only the protective streak within you that fueled the Father and the Husband, that drove the Companion who dared chase after a being of cosmic something with counsel and comfort, both ultimately unheeded.

Just keep talking and try not to think too hard about it at all.

He was running out of sensible things to ramble to the man-not-man clutched in his numbing arms and had begun to resort to a hodgepodge of soothing sounds and endearing pet names that would’ve gotten his immortality instantly revoked under any normal circumstance when he rounded one last corner. His boot struck the snowy step of a warmly lit stoop, a black door with a golden handle ahead of him, and his mad flight finally, finally landed upon safety.

#dreamling fanfic #dreamling #fanfic #the sandman netflix #nothing grows in corpses #dreamling fic

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littlemourningstarr · 8 months ago

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Death of Divinity

In the depths below his palace, Cazador is waiting- Cazador and his rite. Sekh knows they have to face him, for Astarion to be free. What he doesn't know is what Astarion's intentions are for the ritual, and if he can pick up the pieces after.

Read below or on AO3!

Pairing: Astarion x Transmasc tav

Part of the Eternally Yours series!

Tags: Transmasc tav, trauma, hurt/comfort, mentions/implications of past SA, public sex, cunnilingus, vaginal sex, fluff

Sekh felt frozen in place, taking in the sheer marvel of the palace around him. To say it was grand was an understatement. He had never once set foot in a high ranking drow household- but he had imagined them to be something similar. Imposing and rich.

Astarion lived like this?

Next to him, the vampire was quiet. It was unnerving, to have the palace door open for them, welcome them. The moment it had, his demeanor had changed. Sekh could feel his nervousness- simply radiating off him, but through small pulses on his hand, from their rings.

“Is it always this quiet?” Sekh asked, as Astarion brushed past him, leading further into the entrance foyer.

“No,” Astarion admitted, “at least- not at night. During the day, this isn’t that strange. But it’s still… quieter than expected.” Still, the silence was so thick it was cloying, heavy, weighing down on Sekh like corpse weight.

They paused in front of a large door, Astarion frowning deeply. It pulsed with a swarming, red magic- the bastardization of the weave so strong it was physically visible.

“Two hundred years, and I’ve never seen the ballroom door locked.” Sekh took his place next to Astarion, Karlach and Shadowheart both a step back, on high alert. No one felt comfortable walking into a vampire lord’s home, uninvited.

Or even invited.

Sekh touched the door. The magic didn’t hurt, it simply parted to allow his fingers to touch the cold metal and wood, intricately carved into a swirling swarm of rats.

A bitter bile rose in Sekh’s throat. Was it a sick joke to Cazador, to flaunt the only pathetic meal he’d ever give Astarion? Did he take a sick pleasure in forcing the symbolism down Astarion’s throat?

There was writing, etched into the door. Sekh couldn’t read it- but he had never been well learned in less common languages. His fingers traced the carvings, before pausing on an indent- the only spot possibly fit for a key.

“There’s writing like this all over the palace,” Astarion said, his voice like a ghostly whisper. “Some old, dead language of Cazador’s. We were strictly forbidden from learning it.” Sekh glanced over his shoulder, but a shrug of Karlach’s shoulders and a shake of Shadowheart’s head told him they didn’t recognize it, either.

He pulled his hand back, just as footsteps were heard, along the old, faded carpet. Sekh turned quickly, left hand coiling, Syl’s shadows sparking along his fingers- his right moving for his sword, freshly fixed and back at his side as of that morning, thanks to Dammon.

It was only a human man, who came into view. He looked surprised to see anyone. “More guests for the Master’s ceremony?” he mused, more to himself than to anyone. “I’m afraid you’re too late-”

His words cut off as his eyes fell on Astarion.

“Master Astarion?”

Sekh didn’t like hearing the title. It was a joke, in this palace. Astarion had never been master over anything while here- not even his own body and mind.

“You cannot be here, you’re supposed to be below, with the Master!”

Astarion huffed, lifting his chin, faking a regality that Sekh thought looked painful, on him. “Well, obviously I’m on my way down now. So just unlock the door, and I’ll be on my way.”

“No one can unlock the door- it was the Master’s orders. He gave the key to Godey.”

Astarion’s eye twitched. Sekh didn’t think the man meant to, but he bared his fangs at the name. “And where is the sadistic bag of bones?”

But this human was ignoring Astarion’s question, his eyes going glossy, mouth twisting in a pleased smile. “Oh, the Master will be so angry with you. He will do such terrible things to you.”

Sekh moved before the man could say another word, could let out the giggle quite obviously building in his throat. He grabbed him by the collar, shoving him back against the ballroom door. The action was so quick, so forceful, that the man’s head snapped back, cracked against the door itself.

“If you don’t want me to split you open from throat to cock you’ll answer Astarion’s question.” He leaned in so close he could smell the man’s sweat, some sort of cologne dabbed behind his ears. He swore he could smell a sudden spike of fear. When the man hesitated to speak, Sekh made a fist, slammed it into the door, dangerously close to his head. He ignored that it made his knuckles ache, that the etchings tore open his skin.

The scent of blood seemed to bring the man back to his senses.

“The-The Kennels,” he managed, his voice cracking at the end. Sekh smiled, let go of his collar and stepped back. The man’s legs gave, and he slid down to the floor, looking up at Sekh like he was an unknown, a shadow that had crept to life form the corners of the room.

“Starshine?” Sekh asked, glancing over at Astarion, who had been watching. “Do you need anything else?”

“No. No that is… enough.” The vampire swallowed thickly, and Sekh held his injured hand out to him, offering to take his hand in his own. Instead Astarion took it, lifted it to his mouth and dragged his tongue over the torn skin, lapped at the speckles of blood that had welled to the surface. Even just a taste had light flickering to his eyes.

“Then lead the way.” Astarion moved past Sekh, heading for a large curtained doorway. Karlach and Shadowheart flanked them, Karlach musing, “You really can be terrifying, can’t you, Sekh?”

Sekh didn’t respond. For Astarion, he’d be a devil himself, he’d be the embodiment of every shadow within this city. He’d be death incarnate, if his lover needed it of him.

They descended a long flight of stairs, which curved into a lower level of the palace. The moment they hit the floor, the entire party recoiled, the air reeking of death magic. A chill crept along Sekh’s spine, the necrotic magic within him stirring in recognition, trying to claw its way out from his skin.

“Best avoid that,” Karlach, nodding to a door, off to their left. The magic was seeping from under it. Astarion stared at the door, his cheeks seeming to lose any color they may have had.

“I used to… entertain our guests there,” he offered, before he jerked his head, looking away. “I’ve never seen anything like this. Cazador kept nothing but us and whoever we brought back for his entertainment in there.” He swallowed thickly, and Sekh could see the memories flitting behind the man’s eyes.

Still, Astarion turned in the opposite direction, moving away from the door. There was no choice but to follow. There was a woman down there, moving about in twitchy motions, mumbling to herself about everything needing to be perfect, perfect, perfect.

She didn’t even spare them a glance. Sekh let her be.

Astarion paused in front of a wall, and in a dramatic yet sardonic voice, announced, “Behold! Cazador’s cheapest trick- an illusionary wall.” The wall shimmered, before showing its true nature- a door, set with heavy locks- none of which were certainly fastened.

The drow moved up to Astarion, placed a hand on the small of his back. “Alright?” he asked, knowing the answer was no, but that Astarion would push through it. The vampire only gave a nod, an obvious lie- and Sekh had no choice but to accept it. He knew Astarion wasn’t going to be okay, until this nightmare was over.

All he could do was catch the pieces, as they flaked off him, and hope he knew how to settle them back into place, once this was over.

Sekh reached for the door, pulling it open. Its hinges screeched, made him grind his teeth. Astarion walked in quickly, announcing as he did so, “We know you’re there Godey- don’t bother skulking about in the shadows.”

Sekh moved quickly to flank him, followed by Karlach and Shadowheart- pausing when his eyes first took in Godey.

What was once a man- possibly- was nothing but bones, encased in old armor. He moved with jerking, twitching motions- the smell of necromancy thick, wafting off him in nauseating waves. Whatever he was, it was a sheer abomination.

“You always were sharp, little one.” The skeleton moved right for Astarion, reached up to drag his finger bones along his cheek. Astarion’s face twisted into alarm, as he allowed the touch. “Sharp enough to cut yourself.”

There was a bastardization of intimacy, to this thing’s voice. A strange desire, lacing the way he spoke to Astarion.

Astarion pushed the hand away, after a moment, grinding his teeth. “It’s taking everything I have not to grind your rotten carcass into dust.”

The anger spiked, stung Sekh’s hand. The rings seemed lively in a way they hadn’t been, suddenly. As if they were pulling on he and Astarion’s bond stronger than ever, wanting Sekh to feel everything that coursed through his vampire’s heart.

The thing laughed- it dared to laugh! “Oh don’t be mad at Godey child. I only did my job. I only kept you in line.”

If Godey’s skull could smile, it would be. The sheer joy at the idea of keeping Astarion in line was thick in his voice.

“You tortured us,” Astarion said, voice thick, pulling from his chest, nearly catching in his throat, “for days at a time.”

Sekh felt a twin burn and chill, in his body. The heat of shadows, to the left, the child of death, to the right. If Astarion so much as looked at him with permission, he would tear each bone from this skeleton, grind each one to dust individually, and let the bastard’s screams serenade the halls. But he couldn’t act, despite the sheer desire to, without Astarion’s blessing.

It wasn’t his place to determine a punishment here. It was Astarion’s.

“And oh, how you sang so sweetly for me.” If bones could shudder, Godey would have. “None of the others screamed like you did, little one. None of them broke as perfectly as you. But-” the skeleton paused, glanced past Astarion, empty eye holes quite obviously taking in Sekh, Karlach, and Shadowheart. “You’re home now. And you’re brought me a little treat.”

Faster than Sekh thought possible, Godey moved, skeletal fingers gripping Sekh’s cheeks, pinching and forcing his head up, as the creature examined him.

“Naughty little one, breaking the Master’s rules.” Sekh knew he was studying the healing marks, on his neck- the now speckling of tiny scars that melted in with his freckles. “Since the Master needs you and I cannot have you sing for me now, I��ll just make this one learn our favorite songs.”

He squeezed tighter, and Sekh reached up, left hand grabbing the bones of Godey’s wrists. He squeezed, shadows escaping him, twining up along Godey’s arm, as the shadows on his face danced wildly, began to creep down his neck, along the curve of his shoulder.

“Take your hand off me,” Sekh said, voice a rumble. Godey released him, stumbled back as he ripped his wrist from Sekh’s hold, the shadows dissipating.

“Not very nice, not very nice at all.” Godey turned his head to look at Astarion, and Sekh caught a smile on his vampling’s face.

It made him bristle with pride.

“Why are you here then, if not to see Godey?”

Astarion inhaled slowly. “We’re here to see the Master.” The word put a bad taste in Sekh’s mouth- more so to hear Astarion speak it. “But the ballroom door is locked. Give us the key.” He flashed a toothy, playful smile.

Godey laughed. It was a death rattle, the wisps of what should have been a last breath, as life left a body. “You’re too late! The door is locked on the Master’s orders.”

“He cannot complete his ritual without me,” Astarion noted, “so I’ll ask again, nicely- give us the key.”

Still, Godey held firm. Astarion’s eyes flicked to Sekh, and it was enough. Sekh moved to the skeleton, shoving his left hand out and splaying it on his arm, sending a blast of shadows into him. Godey was thrown across the room, cracking against the wall in sharp metal tangs and the brittle rupture of bone. As he fell Karlach moved, placing her foot firmly on his chest, keeping him in place.

Sekh glanced over at Astarion. “Astarion?”

The vampire walked over slowly to the struggling creature. Whatever undead strength Godey had, it was no match for Karlach’s sheer might.

Astarion crouched down, reached for Godey’s chipped chin, forced him to turn and look at him. “I want to be the last thing you see,” Astarion growled, “and remember that I could have been nice.”

His eyes glanced at Karlach, before turning back to Godey. And without hesitation, the tiefling lifted her foot and brought it down with all her weight behind it, denting into the old, thin armor, shattering ribs. Godey shrieked, and Astarion let go of his chin, pulled his hand back as Karlach lifted her foot again-

This time bringing it down on his skull, the bone splintering upon impact. Within an instant Godey was nothing but a limp pile of weathered, brittle bones.

And the room was deathly silent again.

Astarion reached into his dented armor, poking around broken bone, before producing a ring.

“The Szarr crest,” he said, a look of disgust on his face. “Cazador’s key.” He stood up, walked to Sekh, and pressed it into his hand. “I don’t want it,” he whispered, and Sekh nodded, sliding it onto his middle finger, opposite hand of the ring he shared with Astarion. He’d hold the key as long as Astarion needed.

“That still leaves the dead language,” Shadowheart pointed out. “We can’t read it.”

“We were forbidden to learn it, but it wasn’t a rule,” Astarion pondered. “One of the other spawn may have been a bit naughty. We can check the dormitory.” He moved towards the door, seeming eager to leave the Kennels behind.

Sekh didn’t blame him.

They exited, and Sekh pulled the heavy door shut, hoping he would never have to open it again.

The dormitories were no more than a single room, six beds crammed within it, and a small room offset to the side for bathing. Sekh wondered if any of the spawn had seen privacy for a single moment after coming under Cazador’s command.

He doubted it.

They were quick to poke around, searching under pillows, blankets, beds- within chests and the two wardrobes. But nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

Astarion sat on the edge of one of the beds, frowning. Thinking. He drummed his fingers on his thigh, as Karlach searched the bathing room for a second time. “There’s another room,” he admitted, “for Cazador’s favored spawn. He liked to induce some competition among us. Seemed to benefit him if we all had a touch of hate for each other.”

Sekh could see that Cazador had succeeded in that.

“It was almost always Leon’s room, since he arrived. But I guess if anyone were to be poking about under Cazador’s nose, it would have been him- or Dalyria.” He stood up, motioning for the group to follow. They entered the only other room in the dormitory hallway. The room was larger than the entire dormitory itself- boasted a small sitting area and two well kept beds.

Sekh began pawing through the books arranged on a shelf, but none of them seemed of use. He flipped through them to ensure he wasn’t missing something hidden in plain sight- but they were exactly as they appeared.

He turned, glancing past Karlach and Shadowheart as they searched- saw Astarion was standing by one of the beds, looking at it uncomfortably. He walked over, laid a hand on the vampire’s shoulder gently, glancing at the bed himself.

There was a well loved teddy bear, sitting by the pillow.

“He could have hidden it among his daughter’s things,” Astarion mused, his eyes looking sad. “Cazador left her alone- at least, he seemed to. Aside of what I overheard…” He swallowed. “I don’t know where she could be.”

Sekh frowned. They hadn’t seen a single sign of the child, since entering the palace. Which meant either she was outside its walls, was down below as a part of the ritual-

Or was already a casualty.

Astarion took a breath, steeling himself- but Sekh gently pushed him a step back. “I’ll look,” he said, “go make sure Karlach and Shadowheart aren’t missing anything.” Astarion held his gaze silently for a moment, before he nodded, his thanks silent but unneeded. He left Sekh, who reached out for the teddy bear, picked it up, giving it a few squeezes to ensure nothing was stuffed within.

He checked under the pillow, pulled back the blankets, even the sheets. Nothing. What he did note was that the bed was as chilled as the air in the room.

There hadn’t been a body within it for hours, at least. If not longer.

He got on his knees, checked beneath- found a few discarded books meant for a small child, but nothing more. They would have been for a child younger than Leon’s daughter was.

She had probably never gotten rid of them- either by her own choice, or Leon’s. After all, it wasn’t as if he had the freedom to simply go procure her the things a growing child would need.

He moved to the chest at the foot of her bed, but it was simply neatly folded clothing, an extra sheet. Nothing.

“We could bust the door down,” Karlach offered, as they all grouped back together, empty handed. “Magic be damned.”

“We don’t know what that would trigger,” Sekh pointed out, “and that magic was… something I’ve never felt. It might even withstand you.” She smiled at him, as Shadowheart folded her arms.

“That room at the base of the stairs- we haven’t checked there. At this point I think we have to- necrotic magic be damned.”

She was right, Sekh knew. But seeing Astarion’s eyes flit to a buried panic over the thought of being back in that room-

He couldn’t do that to him.

“I’ll do it,” he said, “you three go back to the door, try to find any way we might be able to break it down if needed.”

“That magic is going to drain you,” Shadowheart pointed out, frowning deeply. “If I stay, I might be able to shield you. At least, slightly.”

The drow shook his head. “It’s more important you stay with Karlach and Astarion, in case of trouble. I’ll be alright- necrotic magic doesn’t hit me as hard as it does most.” He lifted his hand, flexed his fingers, showing off the translucent green tendrils that curled around his fingers, as he called at the chill along his spine- the magic in his veins. He wasn’t immune to it, but he would last longer than the rest of them.

Without waiting for further commentary, Sekh headed for the exit, making his way back to the stairwell. He paused at the door, as Karlach and Shadowheart moved up the stairs- knowing better than to try to convince him to change his mind.

He appreciated it.

But Astarion paused next to him, looking at the door. “It should be me,” he said, straightening his shoulders. Sekh reached up, dragged his knuckles along the vampire’s cheek- watched the fake bravado instantly deflate.

“No, it doesn’t need to be. You’re not alone in this, Astarion.”

The elf turned to face Sekh fully, grabbed the hand that had touched him, eyeing the signet ring Sekh now wore.

“I’m not giving it back to you,” Sekh said, “because a little magic and a room isn’t going to eat me alive. Go upstairs, make sure if Karlach decides to take her axe to the door it won’t implode, and I’ll be there shortly.” Astarion glanced back at the door, and Sekh reached for him, got his hands on his waist, held gently as he leaned in, pressed a kiss to his temple. “Remember what I told you last night?”

The vampire closed his eyes, gave a single, small nod. Astarion hadn’t repeated the words to Sekh- but Sekh hadn’t confessed just to be loved back. He’d meant it.

He’d meant it for far longer than he’d ever thought possible.

“I’m going to poke about and I’m going to find a way into that ballroom. Then I’m going to come upstairs, and we’re going to face Cazador together. This is going to end today, and I swear, you won’t be without me for a single moment of it.” He pressed his forehead to Astarion’s temple, closed his own eyes. “I love you, and I will protect you with my very soul. You’re not alone anymore, Starshine.”

Astarion swallowed thickly, but before he could speak, Sekh pulled back, nodded towards the stairs behind him, whispered, go. The vampire hesitated for a moment, before he steeled himself, turned and hurried up the stairs to catch up with Karlach and Shadowheart.

Sekh took a deep breath, then moved for the door, opening it and stepping into the room. The air was heavy, made him feel as if boulders were strapped to his back, shackles to his ankles. But he could manage, which is what mattered.

The room was extravagant, but otherwise itself ordinary. A large bed took center stage, and Sekh wanted to bare his teeth at it like an animal. Tear into it for the horrid memories it held for Astarion- and he was sure, even the other spawn.

What was far more intriguing than the room itself was the girl, collapsed just past the door itself. Sekh could feel the magic radiating from her- the source of the necrotic weave.

He walked to her, crouched down and touched her neck. Her skin was long cooled, her pulse not even a memory. Dead.

She could have been the right age to be Leon’s daughter, if Sekh had to guess. He had no idea what the girl looked like, and didn’t have the time to search her for anything personal that might identify her.

She would have to remain nameless, for now.

He stood up, head spinning a little, chest tight. He moved away from her quickly, prying open a wardrobe, a chest, sifting through fine looking clothes that seemed more costume than attire. Pretty things to doll the spawn up in.

He moved to the other end of the room, pulled open drawers on an elaborate dresser. Tucked within was a hand written journal. Sekh flipped it open, but noted it seemed less personal and more clinical. As if someone had been categorizing their vampirism into symptomatic lists- studying it.

He set it down, turned away, opened another small armoire. He pushed at the top shelf, pushing aside a box that sounded as if it had jewelry in it, when his hand touched the spine of a book. He pulled it out, the cover so well worn the title was barely legible.

He flipped it open, and felt his pulse pick up. The words resembled the writing on the door. Not wanting to hesitate, he clamped the book shut and hurried from the room, sucking in a deep, aching breath when he was away from the magic. His head spun as he hurried up the stairs, but he didn’t have time to allow himself more than that one breath.

At the door to the ballroom, he caught Karlach kicking it angrily, as Shadowheart was studying the words. Astarion was watching Karlach, but not stopping her. So much for ensuring she didn’t accidentally blow them all heavens high.

“I found this,” Sekh said, hurrying over, holding out the book. Shadowheart took it, examining the words on the first page and those on the door.

“It’s got to be the same language,” she said, “just- give me a moment, let me get my bearings.” Sekh nodded. Of the four of them, Shadowheart was the most equipped to try to learn the language on the fly.

It took a few minutes, but she was able to piece together what the door said- thanks to scribbled notes, along the side of the pages. She spoke the words aloud, as Sekh pressed the signet ring on his finger into the slot- and with a ground trembling creak, the ballroom doors slowly swung open.

The ballroom inside was deathly silent. Carefully they stepped in, each step on the floor seeming to ring louder than temple bells. “Over here,” Astarion said, cringing at the way his voice broke the silence. “Cazador’s study is this way- we were strictly forbidden from entering, so there may…be…”

The words trailed off as they crossed the threshold, noting the large, antique elevator set off in an enclave, before the proper opening of Cazador’s study.

Karlach moved first, walking right onto the old metal, giving it a stomp and determining it was sound.

“What in the hells is this?” Astarion muttered, stepping on himself. There were scuff marks all along the metal- it had quite obviously been used well, over the years. “I never… we weren’t allowed in here… I didn’t know.”

Karlach placed a hand on his shoulder, calming him, as Sekh and Shadowheart stepped on. It seemed they were simply going to have to see where it took them.

Down below the palace, the crypt that greeted them was far grander than Sekh could have imagined. Dalyria calling it a chapel felt like a crime against its creation.

Astarion had gone deathly silent, eyes large, taking in every detail he could. To think this had been beneath him for two centuries-

Sekh could barely fathom the shock.

The golden bracketed doors shimmered with magic- similar to that of the ballroom door. On a whim, Sekh pressed the signet ring into a small slot of one, and it opened on old, worn hinges.

Beyond the doors was a private room- small, smaller than the favored spawn bedroom they had found. It boasted a bed, a desk, and a small raised dias, scattered with papers-

And an old, weathered skull. Sekh walked over to it, touched his fingers to the crown of its head- and felt a spike, inside his consciousness. He grimaced, and whatever had broken into him spread like a wildfire, throughout the group- using the tadpoles as conduits.

There was a voice, in Sekh’s head- one he didn’t know. The air about it was royal, well spoken and firm. He held his head, cracked open an eye and glanced at Astarion-

But the man was watching the skull intently, as if everyone else in the room had disappeared. As the voice spoke of rules, of consequences- Sekh could see a picture, being painted in his head. Memories.

A man, throat torn open, and the taste of metal on his tongue. Another man Sekh didn’t know stared with intent red eyes- the anger palatable- but the stains on his cheeks, they spoke of sadness.

The same man, impaled, down in these crypts. His blood running fresh along a golden spike, as pale, delicate fingers trailed through it, bringing them to lips that were a stranger’s and Sekh’s, all at once. There was a joy, building in his chest, as the blood sank into his tongue- a word, repeating, over and over and over.

Mine. Mine. Mine.

And then a sudden burning sensation, in his body, as if he could feel his skin being split, his blood flowing from his organs, every vein. And those same red eyes from before, looking elated, as Sekh could feel the life slipping through his very fingers.

He stumbled back a step, when the presence suddenly dissipated. As it did so, the skull’s jaw relaxed, a yellowed scroll slipping from its hold. Astarion was there, lifting it, unrolling it-

And anger, filling his face. “Even his precious rules,” he muttered, ��he stole them.” Astarion turned to the party. “That was Cazador, you saw. He hasn’t changed since before even my creation.”

Sekh reached for the skull, and Astarion let it go. Atop the list of rules- rules that sounded far too similar to what Astarion had previously listed as Cazador’s, was a name, scrawled in a delicate hand.

Vellioth.

Sekh set the scroll down, turning away from the room. It felt like a small prison, a tomb, chilled beyond death- with nothing of true comfort. Had this been where Cazador tucked himself away? Was this his true reprieve from the palace above?

Sekh almost felt sorry for him- would have, perhaps, if a churning anger in his gut over the torment the man had inflicted upon Astarion wasn’t so hot.

“Who was Vellioth?” Sekh asked, as they moved quickly out of the room.

“I don’t know,” Astarion said with a single shake of his head. “Whatever came before me, Cazador didn’t speak of it. But…” he paused, licked his lips, mulling his thoughts over. “Judging by those… visions, he may have been the one to turn Cazador.”

Sekh didn’t say a word, mulling over the endless cycle of torment it seemed these lords were apt to drag their spawn into. How far back did it go?

He pushed the thoughts aside- unimportant, in that moment. He needed to stay focused- Astarion needed him to stay focused.

They paused at another door, and Sekh pressed the ring into it. Just like the others, it slowly opened for them- instantly assaulting them with a smell of rot, of stale air and dirt.

Astarion grimaced, but they soldiered on, heading into the next room. However, only a few paces in, they were slowing, looking around in sheer shock, laced with terror.

There were golden plated cells, lining the room- filled with prisoners. They watched the party with glowing, yet nearly dead eyes, and Sekh felt the marrow in his bones icing over.

“Astarion,” he said softly, pausing in front of one cell, taking in the wretched state these beings were in. “What is this?”

“I… have no idea,” he admitted, his voice soft, shell shocked just like the rest. “Gods who are all of these… no.” He moved past Sekh quickly, grasped one of the golden bars, as a human man lifted himself from where he sat on the ground, moving with purpose towards Astarion. His sandy blond hair was long, unkempt, tangled with bits of dirt and- could that be blood?

Sekh could only assume.

“You. I know you.”

Sekh could see Astarion’s shoulders shake. “You’re dead.”

Astarion’s words went ignored. The man stopped so close to the cells that he was only a single movement from touching Astarion. “I remember you. You smiled at me, got me drunk in the tavern.”

Sekh felt his stomach sinking.

“Sebastian.” Astarion said the name with a reverence that made something inside Sekh utterly ache.

“You remember.”

Astarion swallowed thickly. His voice caught in his throat as he spoke. “You were shy- you’d never been kissed.”

“You taught me how. And then you destroyed me.” He man grabbed at the bars, nearly caught Astarion’s hands, as the elf stumbled back a step, nearly losing his footing. Sekh rushed to him, caught his shoulders and kept him upright, as Astarion kept his eyes locked on the cell. “How long has it been? How long have I been down here?”

Astarion closed his eyes when he answered, “One hundred and seventy years. You were one of my first.”

The man bared his teeth- and Sekh could see the points of his fangs. He turned to Astarion, as his lover opened his eyes, before glancing away-

As if he couldn’t dare to meet Sekh’s gaze.

“I know them,” he admitted, “now that I can truly see them. They’re my… conquests. Every wretched, poor soul stupid enough to trust me, to fall for a flirty line or an eager kiss…” He trailed off, before he pulled away from Sekh’s hold. “I thought Cazador was feeding on them- but he turned them to spawn. He turned them all to bloody spawn. And gods below, to keep Sebastian…”

He reached up, covered his mouth. Sekh wanted to reach for him, but even as he lifted his hand Astarion shifted away. He let it drop, instead turned to the cell, walked closer. He could see etchings in the skin of most of the victims- the decrepit spawn- varying in location. Sebastian's was along his jaw.

“They have runes, like you,” Sekh whispered.

“Did Cazador tie them all to his ritual?” Shadowheart asked. Next to her, Karlach was stone silent, eyes burning.

“He must have,” Astarion managed, sounding as if he had moved a few paces back, closer to the center of the room. As far from this horror of his making as he could.

“We’re here to kill the bastard,” Sekh said, reaching out to the cell. He carefully placed his hand over one of Sebastian’s, which were gripping so tightly his already pale knuckles had gone bone white. “We’re going to unmake Cazador.”

“You can’t.” The fire in his voice dropped, making him sound hollow.

“We can,” Sekh pushed, squeezing the hand below his gently. “Astarion is free of his command. We’re going to stop the ritual and we’re going to kill him.”

“And then what of us?” The hopelessness in Sebastian’s voice was so thick it could choke Sekh. “What does that mean for us?”

Sekh didn’t know. He just knew he couldn’t let them sit here, rotting for eternity, into nothing but dust and dismay. “I don’t know,” he admitted, and the hand below his pulled away, as Sebastian took a step back.

“Whatever you’re going to do, just do it quickly. I can’t go on waiting any longer.”

Sekh stepped back, felt Karlach’s warm hand on his back, urging him towards what had to be the final door. He moved to it quickly, Astarion waiting there, looking eager to get far from this room.

“That wretched bastard,” Astarion muttered, “he kept them all. I should have known he never could have fed that much.” He closed his eyes, took a steadying breath. “They’ve been dead for so long.”

“They’re not dead,” Sekh said, even if he knew they were, technically. “We can help them.”

“Help them?” Astarion turned, looked at him with burning eyes. “There is no help for them. They’ll have no control over their hunger- they’ll be ravenous, mad. Best they just…”

Be put out of their misery.

Yet Astarion didn’t say it.

“You learned to control your hunger,” Sekh pointed out. Astarion scowled.

“Yes, but I had… help. Unless you’re going to take over parenting seven thousand spawn, there’s nothing we can do. Besides, they have to die.” His lips curled then, that same, ugly smile Sekh had seen creeping along his otherwise handsome face, since Raphael had revealed the truth. “If I want to ascend, they’ll all have to burn with Cazador.”

“You cannot be serious,” Sekh breathed, knowing that Karlach and Shadowheart were only a pace away, catching snippets of their conversation. “Astarion you cannot still want to do this.”

“And why not?” The vampire lifted his chin. “After two hundred years of pure shit, I deserve more. I would never have to fear anyone, ever again. Nor would you.” He reached out, brushed his fingertips along Sekh’s cheek. They felt colder than usual. “I’d meet the sun everyday without fear of becoming a Mindflayer. You and I- we could have everything, then. Don’t you want that?”

Sekh reached up, pulled Astarion’s hand away from his cheek. “No,” he admitted, and watched the smile on Astarion’s face drop. “I have everything I need already. I have you. You- exactly as you are now. I have no interest in loving a godly abomination, Astarion. I would’ve hoped you’d know that about me already.”

Blindly, Sekh reached out, nearly slammed his fist into the door, the signet ring slotting into place. The door opened, and Astarion turned away from him, facing the large ritual space.

Sekh could only hope Astarion wouldn’t lose sight of himself, at the end of this. He had to trust the man he loved to do the right thing.

They descended the stairs, the dias coming into full view- the other spawn were suspended, paralyzed in the same red magic that had crackled along the ballroom door. And standing in the center, a god amongst his own personally crafted hell, was Cazador.

The visions Sekh had seen in the vampire’s chambers didn’t do him justice. He was imposing, carried himself as if he was gold plated steel. As if he was holier than thou.

As if he was already a god, and this was just a mere practicality.

“Is this truly our prodigal son, standing before us? Crawling back home?” His voice echoed in the vast chamber, felt like it could rattle Sekh’s bones. It wasn’t deep but serpent like in the way it coiled along his nerves.

Astarion’s lip twitched, his shoulders hunching slightly. He was coiled tight.

Cazador frowned. “Do not slouch before me, boy!” The force behind his voice would have had Sekh staggering back a step, were he simply not so bloody determined to not give even an inch to this bastard. “Have you no respect for yourself? For what I made you? You should be groveling, begging our forgiveness for abandoning your family!”

Sekh ground his teeth, fought to keep himself from launching at Cazador, to keep himself from screaming in sheer rage at him.

“Forgiveness?” Astarion asked, “You’ve never forgiven anything! In two hundred years, every perceived slip, every mistake you fabricated was punished. You’ve never forgiven a single breath.”

Cazador looked nothing beyond bemused at the outburst. “They told me you had changed. I dared not believe it.” His mouth quirked into a smirk, the point of one long fang visible. “But you cannot change what you truly are, my boy, my little one.”

Astarion went paler than death. Sekh flexed his hands, began pulling on magic and shadow. The moment he had Astarion’s blessing, he was going to tear into this man and enjoy plucking his every nerve to make him howl.

“I made you what you are, Astarion. You will never be anything more.”

Astarion fisted his hands. “No, fuck you, and fuck everything you ever did to me.” He charged, fist pulled back- but before he could make contact, the air around Cazador crackled, sanguine tendrils snaking around Astarion’s fist, his arm, keeping him firmly in place.

“Oh little one,” he cooed, “you truly forgot my power. Did you think it was only our bond as spawn and master that kept me above you?”

There was such thick insinuation in the words that Sekh wanted to vomit.

Cazador reached for Astarion’s fisted hand, uncurled his fingers. Astarion looked ready to snap his jaws like an untrained dog at the touch. “What is this trinket, boy?” Cazador plucked the ring off his finger, holding it up to examine, as if he had not a care in the world. “Pathetic, dying magic.”

He turned his eyes to Sekh then, and the drow swore Cazador’s eyes were eating him whole, alive, bones and all.

Sekh knew, from the flicker in his eyes, he could smell, sense the same magic on the ring he wore.

“How sweet,” Cazador said, the word sounding foul, from his mouth. “Did you think you found a happily ever after with cattle, my boy? Are you not better than paltry magic and dark dwelling harlots?”

In a swift motion, Cazador threw the ring. It hit the dias once, bounced- and then the sound was gone. It had fallen off the side, into the abyss below.

“Did you think you could run from me and build a sad little existence without me?” He paced around Astarion then, his eyes locked on Sekh. “He reeks of you, boy. Did you plan to breed cattle like a bitch in heat and fill the realms with your own precious little spawn?”

He jerked his staff, and Astarion lifted violently into the air, his armor tearing from him, until he was half naked, those scars on his back glowing. Another flick of Cazador’s wrist, his staff, and Astarion was cast into light, with his brothers and sisters.

The moment the crimson light lit Astarion’s skin, Sekh was moving. He threw himself at Cazador, grabbing at his robes, pouring sheer concentrated necrotic magic from his core at him.

The vampire shoved him away, such force behind the move that Sekh crashed onto the ground, rolled until he nearly reached the edge of the dias. As he lifted his head he saw Karlach charging, screaming in infernal rage as she swung her great axe towards Cazador. Shadowheart was casting radiant light around them, as the undead that had flanked their master began to move.

Sekh pushed himself up. He wanted to go for Cazador, to tear at his throat- but he couldn’t bear to leave Astarion suspended in that hellish magic. He couldn’t risk everything being aligned for Cazador’s ritual.

He launched himself towards Astarion, running to cross the dias. One of the ghouls reached for him, tore at his robes, but Sekh was able to keep his flesh away from those claws, even as fabric tore. He charged harder, punching his left fist into the next ghoul, sending it back a step.

Just enough space for him to open his palm and unleash Syl’s shadows. They hit the ghoul with such force that he launched off the dias, falling to his death.

Sekh stumbled up the steps to Astarion, reaching up into the magic. He grasped at the elf’s bare waist, and with all his body weight he pulled. Astarion lurched forward, as Sekh fell onto his back, the vampire sprawling on top of him.

“I have you,” Sekh managed, his voice breathless, Astarion’s weight pushing the air from his lungs. Astarion scrambled up, and without a word or a moment of hesitation, ran towards Karlach and Cazador, pulling at the daggers still sheathed at his thighs.

Sekh pushed himself up, only to be grabbed by a wolf-like man, claws tearing into his ribs, pushing at his skin. He writhed as it lifted him up, could smell the carrion on its breath, the sheer heat from its insides.

“Reeks of spawn,” it said, “just like Master said.” It nosed at Sekh’s neck, gave a shuddering breath, and Sekh elbowed it in the throat. The creature choked, but gripped together, nails digging into skin now, little beads of fresh blood welling up beneath Sekh’s robes. “Eat you whole,” it mused, even as Sekh tried to kick it in the gut.

He reached for its throat, but the creature threw him back to the ground. Sekh sprawled on his back for the third time, shoulders aching from the impact. Around him there was screaming- shrieks of the undead, Karlach’s rage fueled screams, Cazador’s laugh.

And yet, over it all, he swore he could hear each of Astarion’s breaths, the man’s own growls of frustration, of rage.

Sekh reached out with his left hand, pulled hard on Syl’s shadows. He felt them shifting on his face, felt them beginning to burn, dragging down his neck, his shoulder, as he sent a blast into the lycan. It stumbled back, well into a ghoul and knocked it off balance.

Sekh stood, took advantage of their stumble, and sent another blast at them- leaving them careening over the edge, falling into nothingness.

He glanced at his hand as he turned, noticed the shadows were twining within his skin, along his fingers, his palms, the back of his hands- he hadn’t seen Syl’s shadows take this much of him in a long time.

He turned just to see Cazador burst into glittering, crimson mist, Astarion’s dagger going directly through it as if he was only air. It flitted away quickly, faster than any of them could move-

And then he materialized, directly in front of Sekh.

“Curious,” Cazador said, before he grasped Sekh by the throat, lifted him up into the air, as if he was nothing but a child’s ragdoll. “I see nothing about you that should be different from the thousands the boy has bedded before.” He turned, holding Sekh higher, his air choking from his lungs. Cazador grinned wickedly at the party, who were frozen, still coiled and ready to leap at him- but unmoving, while he could at any breath crush Sekh’s windpipe.

Sekh reached up, curled his hand around Cazador’s wrist, poured every ounce of necrotic magic in his body into him. He pulled from the cracks in his spine, from his very marrow-

And the man didn’t even blink.

Sekh felt his heart sinking into his gut.

“Now, boy,” Cazador said, directing his eyes back to Astarion. “Be good and go back to your place. I’ll drain him quickly if you do- and you won’t live long enough to remember it.”

“You son of a bitch,” Astarion snarled, his eyes looking wild, rabid.

Cazador tutted. “Such disrespect. I taught you better. You used to say please for me- used to thank me.” Sekh gritted his teeth, black spots dotting his vision. The look of shame that crossed Astarion’s face turned his vision red though, despite the lack of oxygen.

Sekh screamed mentally for Syl- but instead of her presence felt a sudden burst of fire, within him. For a moment he didn’t know what it was- she had always come when he called, when he needed her most-

But as the fire snaked through him, sent his skin to tingling, he realized it was everything she had to give him. It was the full extent of her shadows that she could pry from herself and gift to him.

It was more power than he’d ever felt in his life.

Sekh bared his teeth, reached out with his left hand, and screamed brokenly as he grasped at Cazador’s face, dug his blunt nails into his skin. Shadows erupted from not just his palm, but his entire body, snaking around Cazador, tightening, burning. The vampire yelled- but released Sekh, dropped him as he staggered back, one hand reaching for his face.

Sekh caught himself, watched as Karlach and Astarion lunged at the opportunity, rushing Cazador. Shadowheart stayed a step back, hands bathed in a golden moonlight, calling it down in perfectly symmetrical rays, dotting the dias with them.

Sekh held onto the power flowing through him, firing wave after wave of shadow at Cazador. The vampire would dodge one, only to have to sidestep a ray of Shadowheart’s light, and then pull away from Karlach’s heaving axe.

Astarion got a good slice into his side, during the first dance. And then across his lower back, with the next few steps. Cazador was getting just a tick slower.

Sekh stepped into one of Shadowheart’s rays of light, uncaring as it burned his skin, curling his hands as he wrapped the shadows around Cazador’s neck, squeezing. The man stumbled, and Sekh watched as Astarion drove a blade directly into his side, twisting it as he snarled.

Cazador went down onto one knee. Sekh tightened his hold, his shadows creeping up along Cazador’s face, pushing at his mouth, wanting to delve into his lungs. Choke his dead breath out of him from the inside.

It was only then that he heard his name, whispered in horrific awe, from Shadowheart. He glanced at her, before looking at his own hands-

The shadows covered both, writhed and twined within his skin. Could he see himself, he’d realize that his left eye was no longer just black along his iris, but the entire eye- little black tendrils creeping along the white of his right eye as well.

The shadows were consuming him.

Sekh took a breath, and with a rage at himself for not being able to properly contain them, pulled back his hold from Cazador. He pushed at the shadows in his mind, felt them receding slowly, the burning beginning to fade to the simple, buzzing warmth he was used to, when he used Syl’s magic.

He jerked himself from Shadowheart’s light, as Cazador grabbed at Astarion, was ready to pull himself up- when the spawn smacked the butt of his dagger directly into his nose, shattering cartilage. Cazador’s head jerked back, and Astarion kicked him directly in the chest, sent him sprawling back a few paces, sliding through Shadowheart’s light to burn his skin.

Cazador’s staff separated from his hand, rolling a pace away. As he went to reach for it Astarion leapt closer, landing with his foot on his old Master’s wrist, grinding bone. Cazador yelled, and Astarion loomed over him, looking down at him with a grin that seemed beyond even devilish.

“Get off me, you worm,” Cazador snarled.

“Worm? I’m not the one in the dirt.” Astarion ground his boot into Cazador’s fractured wrist, quite obviously reeling as the other vampire grimaced. He bent down, reaching for the ornate dagger still sucked as Cazador’s side, lifting the twisting, vile blade into the magical light of the chapel.

Cazador thrashed, but Astarion acted as if it was nothing but a bug trying to move beneath him. Sekh could only reason that Cazador had put so much energy into holding the ritual together that he was now completely drained.

“One last thrust,” Astarion mused, turning the dagger in the light, “and I’ll be free of you.” He inhaled deeply. “I’ll never have to fear you again.”

He was so close to freedom, to breaking the chains that had shackled, choked him for nearly two centuries. Sekh’s heart was pounding, but something was twisting in his belly, sick and uncomfortable at the look in Astarion’s eyes.

“But if I finish the ritual you started,” he continued, his voice pulling from his chest, his lips curling back into that ugly smile that Sekh could see in nightmares. “I won’t have to fear anything ever again.”

Shadowheart whispered his name, alarm on her face- but Astarion was in a world far beyond them, it seemed. Everyone but he and Cazador had melted away.

“Do you think me a fool?” Cazador spat, as he tried to move. Astarion kicked him in his chin, before moving his foot back to his broken wrist. Cazador’s head jerked back, an unneeded breath escaping him, blood rushing from his mouth where he’d bitten his own tongue. “You pathetic child,” Cazador growled, “you cannot replace me! You are nothing Astarion- you have never been anything.”

“I’m the one above you now,” Astarion pointed out, before he stepped back. Cazador managed to scramble up to his knees, eyes darting to the staff that was just out of reach. Then, with a look of sheer glee, “Even now, you’re on your knees.”

“A place you know well.” Cazador bit each word out with bared fangs. “Do you think I would let anyone ascend in my place? You’re bound to this ritual boy, through the runes on your back. Attempting to usurp me is suicide.” That mouth curved into a smile then, as if Cazador had backed Astarion into a corner. “You were always a means to an end- and if you ever believed a single honeyed lie I told you otherwise, you are more pathetic than I ever thought. I made you to be consumed.”

“I am so much more than what you made me.” Astarion turned then, eyes finding Sekh’s, allowing him into the private world he’d constructed around he and his old Master. “I can do this, but I need your help.”

“Didn’t you hear him? You’ll be consumed if you complete the ritual. It’s suicide, Astarion.” Even as he said it, Sekh felt like the words were hollow. If the vampire felt there was a way around his own sacrifice, Sekh believed it would work.

“Trust me,” Astarion said, something that Sekh did. “I know what I’m doing.”

“You’d kill everyone, Astarion.” All his kin- the other six, the thousands of souls Cazador had kept over the years.

Astarion frowned, brows knitting together. “They all died years ago. There’s nothing left but feral spawn in those cages- trust me. They’re as good as dead already. Now,” he straightened, “use the parasite- link your mind to mine. I’ll be able to see my scars through your eyes, and carve them into his back.”

Sekh took a single step back. Astarion knew how much he hated using the parasite- that having another presence pulling in his mind was almost unbearable, considering he already had Syl. He had only used it precious few times, to share what he could otherwise never show the elf.

And yet, Astarion had asked.

“If they’re freed,” Astarion added, sensing Sekh’s trepidation. “Imagine how many deaths will be on our heads. But if they die for a purpose, I’ll have everything I ever lost back. I’ll be able to walk in the sun without fear of becoming a Mindflayer. I’ll be free, truly, completely free. Isn’t that what you want?”

Yes, it was what Sekh wanted. He wanted Astarion to be free of the torment Cazador had inflicted on him. But he wanted him to be free of the regret, the fear, the endless turmoil that had built within him, over the near two hundred years.

This would never free him of that.

“I want you to be able to live with yourself, Astarion.” Sekh forced himself to take a step closer, even if his gut feared the man he was looking at, in that moment. It didn’t drown the fact that he loved him, still. That Astarion was still there, beneath this palpable, coursing fear. “I want you to be proud of who you are, of the life you live. Could you live with this? Could you stand yourself knowing you became exactly what Cazador always was?”

Astarion paused then. Sekh held his stare, and watched as those eyes softened, slowly. The smile fell from Astarion’s face, and Sekh wished so badly he could see whatever was reeling behind those eyes.

“You’re right,” Astarion said, softer now. “I can be better than him, more than him.” He turned then, quickly, the smile coming back- yet different. The same smile Astarion got during a good bloodbath, but still rang true of the man Sekh had come to know, over these past few months. “But I’m not above enjoying this.”

Before Cazador could even lift his hands, Astarion was on him, grabbing him by his hair and jerking his head back. The blade slipped cleanly into his chest, as Astarion stabbed him with enough force to shatter bone. The vampire pulled back, stabbed again, and again, and again, as Cazador convulsed, blood spraying Astarion’s pale skin, pooling around his old Master.

With a yell Astarion flipped the blade, released Cazador’s hair as the man slumped to the ground. Astarion sank it into him again, the blade sinking into his gut, skewering long dead organs. Each shuddering breath was a cry, until Cazador was unmoving except for the constant flood of his stolen blood, rushing from his body.

Astarion stumbled back a step, dropped the blade. He gasped for breath, a broken sound escaping him, before he fell down to his knees, staring at Cazador with eyes that seemed lost. He looked terrified.

Sekh moved, as Astarion wailed, like a glass man shattering. He dropped to his knees, threw his arms around the vampire, held him tight as his body was wracked with sobs.

“I have you,” Sekh whispered, holding so tight it could have hurt, yet Astarion didn’t try to pull away. He turned, pressed his face into the crook of Sekh’s neck, tears soaking into his robes. “Gods I have you, Astarion.”

Sekh rocked slightly, as the magic in the room began to fade, with the last of Cazador’s running blood. Slowly the other six spawn were released, stumbling to catch their balance as their feet hit the cold stone. They looked around, before slowly moving towards Astarion.

“Is it… is it over?” Dalyria asked, eyes darting to Cazador’s bled dry body, and then to Astarion, still securely in Sekh’s arms. Sekh glanced up at her, and watched as the glow in her eyes faded.

The death of Cazador’s thrall-hold, over her. Over them all.

Astarion pulled himself from Sekh’s hold, stood up on shaking legs. His already chilled skin was littered with goosebumps now, from the cold crypt air. “Yes,” he breathed, “he’s gone.”

Sekh stood up, hurriedly opening his robes, as the rest of the spawn closed in, still a step further back than Dal dared. Sekh took his open robe and draped it over Astarion’s bare shoulders, watched the vampire clutch it with one hand, pull it tighter around him.

Sekh fought to keep from a single grimace, as the air rushed his wounds, the claw marks from the ghouls and lycans, the bruises forming along his dusky skin. He could endure it. Astarion needed a bit of comfort more, now.

“What does that mean for us?” Petras, sounding terrified. Looking petrified. Sekh softened, looking at all of them, despite their treatment towards Astarion, towards him. They were all victims, in the end.

“It means you’re free,” Sekh offered, when Astarion didn’t speak. Petras turned his gaze to the drow. “It means your choices are your own now- you can do as you wish.”

“Which sounds terrifying,” Astarion managed, straightening up more. “And it is. But there’s opportunity there. You can remain here and hide in the shadows- or you can be more than he ever meant for us.” Astarion glanced at Sekh then, and when the drow gave him a soft smile, he relaxed slightly. “Or you can choose differently, it is all up to you. But the consequences are your own as well.”

Dalyria smiled over that, seemed pleased, proud in a way. Sekh still felt she was different, than the others- and hoped maybe someday Astarion would shed light on that.

“And what does it mean for them?” Dalyria gestured into the dark, at the thousands of starving spawn. Astarion hummed then.

“Now that is a question.” He hesitated only a moment, before stooping down, picking up Cazador’s staff, looking at it. “They deserve the same chance I had- the same chance we all have now. They’re innocent.” Astarion slammed the butt of the staff into the dias, leaning on it, as the runes carved into the floor ignited. “I won’t let them rot in ruin just because I lured them here.”

Sekh didn’t think it was just for Astarion’s conscious, though. He knew each of the seven spawn were just a guilty as he- had brought Cazador just as many broken souls. Had condemned the same innocents to death.

He was releasing them all from that guilt.

The red light over took Astarion and the staff, for just a moment. When it went out, the sounds of endless cells opening, of voices rising from behind, below, echoed throughout the chamber.

They were free. Every last one of them was free.

“They’ll need guidance,” Sekh offered, as the light faded, Astarion sagging slightly, exhausted. Karlach moved up next to him, took the staff from his hands, as Shadowheart pressed a reassuring hand to his back. “Most of them won’t survive, but they deserve a fighting chance.”

“The Underdark,” Astarion said, and Sekh nodded.

“Take them to the Underdark. At least you won’t have to fear the sun there- and,” Sekh offered a smile to the spawn, “if they happen to feed on some Lolth loving fools, well- we’re better off.”

Astarion gave a single, breathy, exhausted chuckle. “Using my kin to cull out the spider bitch’s followers? Tactical.”

Sekh shook his head once, as the spawn began to move- listening, he hoped. For their own sake, and the sake of all the others.

He reached out, when Leon moved past them, gently touching the human’s arm. The man turned, looked at him- and for a moment, there was a flash of shame on his face. For everything he’d said about Astarion, to Astarion- and to Sekh, the previous night.

“Your daughter,” Sekh said softly, aching at the thought of the dead child he’d seen.

And Leon must have known, somehow, because he smiled. “I sent her away,” he said, as Astarion lifted his head, looked at him. “She’s safe. If you saw something that makes you think otherwise- know it was planned.” He turned his eyes to Astarion, and after a moment of hesitation, added, “I was wrong about you, Astarion. Very wrong.”

He gave a single nod, before he moved to follow the rest. Sekh turned to Astarion, took a step closer to him, reached up to cradle his cheek.

“I think we’re done here,” Astarion whispered, eyes fluttering shut. “He’s gone, let’s just go.” Sekh nodded, pulling his hand away and glancing at Karlach.

“Mind ridding us of that thing?” he asked, gesturing to the staff. She grinned.

“Oh with pleasure.” She hefted it high, before cracking it down on the ground. The wings of the ornate bat shattered off, before she turned on her heel and swung it into one of the stone structures on the dias. It snapped in half, and Karlach hurled the half she was holding into the distance, so it fell over the edge.

The other half followed quickly.

Sekh turned from the spectacle back to Astarion, pulling his robe tighter around him. “I’m proud of you,” he whispered, wanting to wrap himself up around the vampire and never let go. “You did the right thing.”

“I’m glad you think so,” Astarion managed, voice soft, aching, trembling. “Because I’m- I’m not so sure. I just feel… numb.” He glanced around, eyes locking on Cazador’s body. “Please, can we go.”

Sekh nodded, gently turned him around, towards the stairs. He paused for a moment, leaning over to Shadowheart, whispering into her ear, “Make sure he can never wake again.”

The cleric nodded, a determined smile on her face, and Sekh placed a hand to Astarion’s back, ascending the stairs with him. When they reached the top, Sekh heard the sound of Karlach’s axe cutting through flesh, bone, embedding in polished stone.

Astarion paused, eyes darting to Sekh. “It’s alright,” Sekh offered, “we’re just making sure that no matter what divine or infernal power wants to intervene, he can never come back.”

Astarion swallowed, nodded, and continued walking away from the chamber, and all the horrors and splendors it had ever promised.

It was dark, by the time they returned to the Elfsong. While Karlach and Shadowheart had taken care of Cazador’s body, Sekh and Astarion had been accosted by the Gur- waiting for them on the antiquated elevator.

Sekh was proud of Astarion, for how he handled them. The silence that seemed to overtake him, after the other spawn left, faded- and Sekh stood back, let the man speak for himself, as Astarion deserved. The Gur’s children were free, like the rest of the spawn. There could be hope, for them.

It was Astarion trying to right the wrongs he’d done, under Cazador’s enthrallment. It was Astarion trying to claim autonomy over his actions and their consequences.

He’d lapsed back into silence after, and even now remained quiet as Sekh pulled his robe off him, left it piled on the floor by the wooden tub, filled with steaming water. His eyes were far off, and while it made Sekh ache so deep inside him it felt like a new cavity had been discovered, he couldn’t blame Astarion for being in shock.

He’d be more alarmed if he wasn’t.

“Can I?” Sekh asked, hands resting at the waist of Astarion’s pants. The vampire gave a single nod, and Sekh worked open the lacing of his trousers, guiding his clothing carefully off his narrow hips, down his thighs.

Once he had Astarion naked, he helped him into the water. As he settled, Sekh could already see the water going pink, from all of the blood that stained Astarion’s skin.

Sekh carefully cupped water in his hands, wetting Astarion’s curls. Leaning against the tub dug into the bruises along his waist, but he ignored the ache. He’d get bandaged and cleaned up after Astarion was cared for. He could wait.

His vampling couldn’t.

“Okay?” Sekh asked, once Astarion’s hair was thoroughly wet. Another single, silent nod. Sekh lathered his hands then, worked suds into Astarion’s hair, gently scraped his blunt nails against Astarion’s scalp. He could feel the elf relax, slightly- just enough that Sekh knew he could register his touch.

He thought to hum a tune, softly, while cleaning his lover up. But Sekh’s mind drew a blank on any song he had ever heard- and then he questioned if he could even keep a rhythm. In the end, silence won, as he finished with Astarion’s hair and helped the vampire rinse the suds from his curls.

This time, as he leaned against the tub, bare arms sinking into the water as he worked soap along Astarion’s body, his touches were entirely innocent. As he worked along Astarion’s stomach, the vampire tipped his head back, rested his head against Sekh’s shoulder. From the corner of his eye, Sekh could see Astarion’s were shut.

He could feel his little breaths, against his ear, in his hair.

Astarion was still resting against him, quiet, when Sekh heard shuffling, around the privacy screen- and then Wyll, leaning around it, holding a bundle of folded clothes in his arms. Sekh smiled at him, pulled his arms from the tub and turned to kiss Astarion’s forehead, as the elf’s eyes fluttered open.

“I’ll be right back,” he promised, as Astarion sat up, freeing him. Sekh stood, toweled his hands off quickly, before he stepped away from the tub, around the screen. “Thank you,” he whispered, taking the fresh clothes from Wyll. The last thing he wanted was to put Astarion back in bloodied, sweat drenched clothing.

Wyll gave him a nod, before glancing down his bare torso, frowning at the bruising and open gashes along his body. “You need to get cleaned up.”

“I will,” Sekh said, “I promise. Just let me take care of him first. Please.” Wyll’s face softened, and he nodded, taking a step back.

But before he turned to leave- “I’m proud of him.”

It made Sekh smile. He was too. So, so proud.

Once Astarion was clean, dried off, and dressed, Sekh walked him to their bed. As much as he didn’t want to, he left him there with the promise that he’d be back shortly- he just needed to get cleaned up.

He would have been fine to do it himself, but the moment Wyll saw him going through their medical supplies, the other warlock ushered him away, taking him to Halsin so the two of them could help. Sekh was glad they hadn’t tried to bring in Shadowheart- he wanted her to rest, as well. She’d exhausted herself with Cazador.

They all had.

Sekh bit his lip as Halsin’s large, warm hands cleaned the dried blood off his tender skin. He was mottled with bruises, and from the way Wyll clicked his tongue when he looked at his back and shoulders, they must have been worse.

They wrapped his waist carefully, covering the wounds, but after that Sekh waved them off. It was enough. Take that energy and use it to patch up Shadowheart and Karlach- he’d be fine for the night. He just wanted to get back to Astarion.

With a shared look, Halsin and Wyll let him go, and Sekh hurried back to Astarion’s side. He slowed as he reached the bed, noticed Astarion on his side, partially curled up, facing the wall. On the ground was the bottle that had held the last of their angelic reprieve, from Blurg what felt like centuries ago in the Underdark.

Sekh stooped down, grabbed the bottle and set it aside. He could see Astarion breathing softly, the gentlest rise and fall of his chest, shoulders- he was asleep. Truly asleep.

The drow grabbed their blanket, pulling it up over Astarion, tucking it in around his shoulders. He nosed at his damp curls, dared to kiss his temple softly. Below him, the vampire sighed.

Carefully, Sekh climbed into the bed- not stretching out with Astarion, but sitting, settling his back firmly against the wall. He’d keep watch over him all night, ensure that any nightmares that dared to rear their ugly heads within his mind were banished. He’d make sure that for a single night, Astarion could truly know rest.

As he rested his head against the wall, words from his very first night with Astarion echoed in his head- You sleep, I’ll keep watch.

It was lifetimes, eons ago, when the man was a stranger, nothing but writhing secrets and a lying, handsome smile. And yet Sekh had been drawn to him. Something inside him sang at the mere sight of Astarion, even then.

He closed his eyes, took a slow breath. He’d keep watch over Astarion for a lifetime, if the vampire needed it.

And even if he didn’t.

Astarion stirred as morning dawned, light seeping in through some of the windows. Sekh watched him press his face into the pillow, before his eyes fluttered open, thick silver lashes nearly hiding those pretty crimson eyes.

Sekh smiled, from where he sat, against the wall. “Good morning Starshine,” he whispered. Astarion rolled from his belly to his side, still fully tucked under the blanket, looking up at Sekh with sleepy eyes.

The drow felt his chest bursting.

“What are you doing?” Astarion managed to ask, his voice slow, groggy.

Sekh frowned. “Sitting?”

And oh the frustrated little huff Astarion gave him was adorable. “I can see that,” he mumbled. “But why?”

“Just keeping watch so you could sleep.”

There was a long moment of silence, before Astarion sat up, the blanket pooling around his waist. His curls were in sheer disarray, wild and whimsical.

He frowned, but it was more of a pout, and Sekh fought very hard not to chuckle. “I’m not so precious that I need you to keep watch,” Astarion pointed out, even if there was little force behind his voice.

“You’re so precious to me, though,” Sekh corrected- and even as he tried not to, Astarion’s lips began to curl into the softest of smiles. Sekh offered his hand, but Astarion ignored it. Instead he twisted the blanket with him, crawled into Sekh’s lap and sat with his back pressed to his chest, managing to get most of the blanket over them, trapping in their heat.

Sekh smiled, curled both his arms around Astarion’s waist, nosed at his hair. The vampire felt lax, in his arms- had a bit of heat from being wrapped up in the blanket, but not much. He hadn’t fed, the previous night- and Sekh could only imagine the hunger was clawing at him.

He released his hold with one arm, reaching a hand up from the blanket and silently offering a wrist. When Astarion didn’t move, Sekh kissed his curls, murmured, “you need it love.”

Astarion’s hands emerged from the blanket, held Sekh’s arm as he brought his wrist to his mouth. For a single moment there was just Astarion’s breath, against his pulse, and then the feeling of his lips, pressing to skin as his fangs sank in deep.

Sekh bit back a noise, a sharp ache radiating from the puncture wounds. When Astarion pulled back enough to remove his fangs, though, the ache faded, as it always did.

The drow felt Astarion’s tongue, pressing to the wounds- felt him tremble over the first true taste. He tightened his hold on Sekh’s arm, drank deep, and Sekh closed his eyes, head tipping back against the wall. He heard a small, pleased sound from Astarion, muffled into his wrist, and smiled to himself. He hugged Astarion with the single arm around his waist, felt the vampire’s tongue pushing hard at the wounds.

Sekh flexed his arm, encouraged the blood flow, even as he felt a sense of vertigo beginning to creep in. He didn’t care- he could handle being a little bloodless if it meant Astarion was comfortable.

Yet just as the dizziness began to sink its nails into his mind, Astarion lifted his head, sucked in a shaking breath. Sekh could feel his body warming already, the fingers clutching at his arm no longer chilled.

Carefully Sekh lifted his head, as Astarion dragged his mouth over his wrist one more time, collected the blood that had welled on those little puncture wounds. Then, carefully, he held the hand to his chest, cradled Sekh’s arm in his own, pressing it tight to him.

“You’re going to get blood on you,” Sekh whispered, as Astarion shifted slightly, settling.

“When has that been a concern?” The vampire tipped his head back, and Sekh could just see the color that had returned to his cheeks. “Honestly, I think it’s strange if we don’t have blood on us.”

Sekh chuckled. “Fair enough.” He let them lapse into silence for long minutes, could almost have drifted into a semi trance as he hadn’t rested the night before- when Astarion suddenly moved.

The vampire let go of the arm he was cradling, awkwardly shifted under the blanket, squirming about until he was facing Sekh, could straddle his thighs. The drow arched a brow, but before he could ask what he was doing, Astarion’s hands were on his face, cupping his jaw, thumbs rubbing along his cheeks.

The question died in Sekh’s throat as his heart quickened. Astarion looked at him, for a long moment, before he leaned in, placed a careful, almost tentative kiss to his lips. He pulled back, was only a breath away, before Sekh’s lips could even move.

Sekh thought his name, meant to say it- but before he could Astarion was back, surging against his mouth, kissing him with a sudden intensity that Sekh was dizzy, all over again. Astarion kept his hands on his jaw, fingers curling gently against his cheeks, mouth moving as if he wanted to devour Sekh.

Sekh reached out, got his hands on his waist, then his back, pulling Astarion closer. The vampire leaned into him, trembled when Sekh’s hands splayed on his back, over scars that felt warm, now. “What,” Sekh managed, between kisses, mind spinning as he could taste his own blood still on Astarion’s lips, tongue. “Are.” Another kiss, another lost breath. “You.” Another. “Doing?”

One final kiss, and Astarion leaned back, looking at Sekh with eyes he couldn’t read. Was that fear or elation? Excitement or terror?

“Just confirming something,” Astarion whispered. He pulled away then, pushed the blanket aside and stood from the bed, stretching. Sekh watched, could only wonder what was racing through the man’s head. “Best get up before we waste the whole morning,” he said, not looking back at Sekh, walking out into the large shared space, fingers working at his wild curls.

Sekh just watched, feeling enthralled, a smile he couldn’t even feel on his face.

It had been strange, to head into the city without Astarion. He’d had the vampire at his side since the moment their adventure had begun, with so few moments without his company. But he had been worried about him, despite that Astarion seemed in better spirits, that day.

Perhaps what was strangest was that Astarion hadn’t put up much of a fight- or any, for that matter. No snarky remarks about being left out of the fun, no following Sekh around batting his eyelashes, attempting to convince him to change his mind.

Just… acceptance.

It had left Sekh anxious, eager for the day to end. And while he felt in his gut it had been right to ensure Astarion got some rest, had time to come to terms with what he’d done- well, he didn’t have to like being away from him.

It was dark, by the time the party returned for the night. Sekh had been eager to strip of his robes, leave behind the sweat of the day- was still in the middle of redressing when he felt Astarion’s stare- never heard his footsteps, but simply knew.

A cool hand pressed to the small of his bare back, and then chilled lips, flitting a kiss on his freckled shoulder. Sekh smiled, glanced over as Astarion came properly into view. “I’ve been waiting for you to come back,” he admitted, reaching for the shirt Sekh had on the bed, offering it to him. “Once you’re dressed… there’s something I’d like to show you, if that’s alright?” Astarion cleared his throat, offered more quietly, “Something out in the city.”

Sekh pulled his shirt on, giving a nod. There was a bit of tension, on Astarion’s face- a nervousness, in his eyes.

“It’s not far, I promise.” He offered a hand, and Sekh took it, lacing their fingers together- watched Astarion’s eyes go so soft, so sweet, at the small gesture.

It truly wasn’t a long stroll through the evening streets, darkness in full bloom. Sekh wasn’t sure what he expected, but to be led away from the liveliness of the evening wasn’t it. Slowly the lights and sounds of the city seemed to melt away behind them, the backstreets they took basking in a silence that was thick, but not unpleasant.

Sekh nearly paused, when an old iron gate came into view. He could just see a few headstones, beyond it. A small graveyard, set off in what felt like a forgotten corner of the city- in a quiet world away from all of Faerŭn.

They stepped within the gates, moved past the first few headstones, back towards even older stones, scattered beneath an old tree. Astarion paused, a few paces from one, and Sekh didn’t need to read the name engraved on it to know who it belonged to.

“Nearly two hundred years,” Astarion whispered, hands flexing awkwardly at his sides, “and I never came back. Not since the night I woke up down there.” He took a slow breath, tore his eyes from the stone to look at Sekh. “I had to punch a hole in my coffin and claw my way through six feet of dirt. And then, when I finally broke the surface…he was waiting.”

Astarion hadn’t said Cazador’s name, since they’d been stopped by the Gur. Since they left the palace. The look in his eyes, it screamed that he feared so much as saying the man’s name could bring him back. But there was a sadness, pushing beyond that- a sadness that there was a truth to tell, his truth, still.

“He watched me retch dirt and congealed blood, put his hands on me and told me he could treasure me. From that day on, I was his.” A pause, a breath, and Astarion turned away, looked back at the grave. “Until today. Until this moment.”

“You were never his,” Sekh offered, daring to reach for Astarion, press a hand to his back. “Everything he took from you, he took by force. But you were never his.”

The sorrow in Astarion’s voice made Sekh hurt, between his ribs, down into his belly, creeping into his very soul. He knew what Cazador had taken, now. He knew the sordid details and the misery and the shame.

And he knew it would never happen again.

“But he did take it,” Astarion managed, the words catching in his throat- echoing words he’d said prior, in the dark of the Elfsong, confiding in Sekh as to the horrors Cazador had bestowed on him. “There’s almost nothing left of the person I was. Just a name on a rock.” Sekh pulled his hand back, as Astarion stepped towards the rock. There were vines, growing over it. Astarion reached for them, brushed them away, fingers trailing over the stone, over the etching of his own name.

The Elvish looked beautiful, so carefully scripted.

“For nearly two centuries I stalked the streets like a ghost, while the person I was lay here. Dead and buried.” A deep breath, and Astarion turned, offered out his hand. Sekh moved to him, took it, let the man pull him close, so that his body heat could warm Astarion. “Now,” he said, thumb rolling over Sekh’s ring, “I need to figure out who I am. What I want.”

He lifted Sekh’s hand, laid it on his cheek, closed his eyes as the drow cradled him gently. Sekh’s other hand found his waist, but it was Astarion that moved to press flush to him. “And what do you want?” Sekh asked, softly. “What does Astarion want?”

Those eyes remained closed for a moment, before they opened slowly. When they did, Sekh felt his heart utterly stop, before it burst into a battering rhythm, crashing into his ribs. Those eyes said a thousand words that Sekh would never dare have dreamed of, once.

“You,” Astarion whispered, turning slightly, pressing a kiss to Sekh’s palm. “I want…” a kiss to his wrist, “you.”

Sekh slid his hand back, fingers tangling into Astarion’s curls, as the vampire took the space between them, his breath, and kissed him. It was sweet, slow, but so deep that Sekh felt his head spinning. He clutched tightly at Astarion’s side, thinking if he let go, if he dared for even one moment, he’d slip away, and Sekh would tumble from the very face of the realms.

“You were by my side through all of this,” Astarion whispered, pressing his forehead to Sekh’s. “Through bloodlust, pain, misery, madness.” He closed his eyes, his hands pressing to Sekh’s chest, sliding up over his shoulders. “You were patient. You cared.” They opened again, a burning fire of rubies and honesty. “You trusted me… which was an objectively stupid thing to do- and yet, you did it anyway.”

Astarion leaned back in, pecked Sekh’s lips softly.

“I feel safe with you. Seen.” He swallowed, thickly, the words ringing true and yet almost terrified. “And whatever the future holds for me, I don’t want to lose that. I don’t want to lose you.”

Sekh smiled- and the moment he did, he saw stars burst in Astarion’s eyes, the entire night sky seeming to take up residence in a sea of red. “You won’t,” Sekh whispered. “Whatever comes next, I’ve got you. I will always have you, Starshine.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep.” The words were playful, ringing back to nights so long gone, before the first touch, the first kiss. Before this. Before them.

“Never, to you.” Sekh pressed his lips to the bridge of Astarion’s nose, kissed softly, felt a chuckle rising in the vampire.

“I’ll hold you to that.” Astarion pulled back then, and Sekh let him, even as he wanted to wrap him up in his very being. The vampire turned back to the grave, reaching for a dagger strapped to his thigh. “I should probably fix this.” He got down on his knees, and Sekh watched as he very carefully dug the blade into stone, etching his own update to his death- and his life- into the grave.

Sekh settled down on his knees, watched until Astarion set the blade aside, fingers brushing along the new words, brushing away flakes and dust from the old stone.

“I’ve been dead in the ground long enough. It’s time to try living again.” He turned his head to Sekh. “With everything life has to offer.”

Before the drow could breathe a word, Astarion was sliding closer to him, pulling him into his arms. He kissed him again, kissed him breathless now, deep and wanting, as if he was carving a story into Sekh’s very lips. Sekh trembled, held on, kissed back as if he’d simply die if he didn’t.

“And what does that mean?” Sekh managed, between kisses. Astarion moved from his mouth, kissed his jaw, then below his ear, hummed in delight at how easily Sekh moved for him, against him. That he was relaxed.

“If a night of passion is on offer,” he teased, “I could be persuaded.”

Sekh could hear the smile in his voice. “I never want to persuade you.”

A chuckle, a single kiss to his pulse. “Darling, you never had to. You…” Astarion paused, lifted his head. “Gods, I didn’t care for you, when we first met. Parading around as if you were ready to save the realm, that bleeding heart of yours threatening to drown us all. But…” he trailed off for a moment, smiled sweetly.

Nothing like the old smiles, from those first days. Raw, true, unpracticed.

“I do now. Being with you, it’s different. It’s about more than lust, about more than a transaction, determining how much of myself I need to give in order to get what I want, what I need. This goes beyond anything I’ve ever known. Beyond anything I remember. I look at you and I feel…”

He paused, chuckled at himself.

“That’s it, I feel. And I haven’t, in so, so long.” Another soft peck, Astarion’s next words whispered softer than the evening harbor breeze- yet sinking so deep into Sekh that they wove into his very marrow. “I love you.” Another kiss. “I love you.”

Another.

“I love this. And I want it all- I want everything. So long as there’s you.”

Astarion’s hands found Sekh’s face, cradled it softly, gave him another lingering kiss. As it ended, as Sekh let his eyes flutter open- gods, when had they shut?- the vampire smiled, all playful, coy, and moved his hands to his chest, splaying them and pushing. Sekh fell back, caught himself on his elbows, and watched the way Astarion grinned at him, silhouetted in moonlight.

Nothing like the smiles he’d seen, just before the ritual. All wicked, yes, but the sort that was playful, not wretched and all consuming.

This was the Astarion he’d fallen for. This was the love of his life.

Astarion crawled over him, and Sekh hooked an arm around his neck, pulled him in for the countless kiss of the night. Astarion slotted so perfectly between his legs, pushed at Sekh’s thigh with his knee, forced his legs wider. The drow shivered, as his lover traced the seam of his mouth, teased his lips but refused to push past them.

Sekh rocked up, nipped at Astarion’s lower lip, snagged it between his teeth. He got a pleased growl in response, as Astarion’s hips rolled against his. “Are you sure?” Sekh asked, releasing his lip, as Astarion bowed his head, pressed his mouth so eagerly to Sekh’s neck.

“With you? Always.”

It was enough. Sekh trusted Astarion to be honest, with himself, with him. He owed the man that much.

Astarion nipped at the collar of his shirt, pulled on it, and Sekh chuckled. He pushed at his lover, forced Astarion up to his knees, so he could sit up, pull his shirt off and toss it away. The night air was cool but not cold, felt good on Sekh’s skin.

Skin that Astarion was quick to devour. His neck, his collarbone, before he was pushing Sekh back down, mouthing along his chest. Sekh sighed, as Astarion’s tongue circled his nipple- could just feel it- before the vampire dragged his teeth along one bud, got Sekh’s breath catching.

So pleased with himself, Astarion kissed down over one scar, moved to Sekh’s belly, following freckles over dusky skin along his navel, to the waist of his pants. He pulled at the lacing with his teeth, and Sekh tipped his head back, feeling dizzy, so hot under his skin he might combust.

“Astarion,” he breathed, felt the man’s lips on his lower belly again.

“Hmm?” the vampire hummed, hands moving up, taking over where his teeth had begun on Sekh’s lacing. “Is there something you want, love? Or…” he trailed off, tugged Sekh’s pants down slightly, managed to get them to bunch at the juncture of his thighs, so he could press his mouth to his cunt, kiss the warm skin through his thin underwear. Astarion shuddered, breath escaping him. “Is there something I want…”

Astarion was quick to pull Sekh up then, maneuvering them so he could tug off the drow’s boots, chucking them away, quickly tearing at his pants, his underwear, wanting all of his skin, all of him. Sekh pressed his shoulders back into the dirt, head resting directly beneath Astarion’s headstone, as the vampire grasped his thighs, spread his legs and smiled over the sight of him.

“There we are,” he breathed, long nails digging into Sekh’s tender thighs. “Gods I can see how wet you are. How is it that I do this to you?” Astarion turned those eyes to Sekh’s, looked as if he genuinely didn’t know the answer, despite his bravado, the false cocky charm.

He stretched out carefully, ran his tongue slowly up along Sekh’s slit, got a proper taste. Sekh arched, breath catching, mouth falling open as Astarion’s tongue pushed past his lips, found his clit and flicked along it slowly.

Sekh’s hands scrambled, along the dirt, looking for purchase. He rolled his hips to meet Astarion’s mouth, felt the rumble of the vampire’s groan. Needing to hold on, again for fear he might fall off the edge of the realms, he reached up behind him, grasped at the headstone. The stone was cold, so cold beneath his fingers-

Yet he liked it. Cold like Astarion’s skin- just another quirk to love.

Astarion pressed his tongue flat to Sekh’s clit, dragged over it so slowly, before lifting his head, sucking in a breath, studying Sekh’s face- the flush, the blown eyes, the slack mouth.

And oh, how he smiled. “Is it good?” He pushed Sekh’s thighs open wider. “Do you want it, pet?”

Sekh managed a nod, a broken Astarion, and the vampire was back, licking eagerly at his cunt. First, his clit, then dragging his tongue further down, pushing it inside him, over and over again.

Sekh writhed, clutched at the grave until his knuckles went white. He could feel everything building in him, heat and desire and need and a heaviness coiling in his stomach, snaking along his spine, constricting it so tightly. He moaned, wordless, and Astarion moved his skilled tongue back to his clit, quick, shallow licks over it, constantly, driving Sekh higher and higher-

He came with Astarion’s name on his lips, his headstone beneath his fingers, his thighs squeezing at the man’s head, holding him close. Astarion groaned into his wet body, let Sekh ride his tongue until the orgasm was beginning to recede-

And then he was crawling over him, kissing Sekh desperately, tongue tasting of Sekh’s bliss. Sekh sucked at his lower lip, released his hold on the headstone to grasp at Astarion’s back, as one of the vampire’s hands slid desperately between them, shaking, working at his own pants.

“You make me desperate,” he managed, voice breathy. “Like I could die without you.” Sekh pressed his face into the vampire’s neck, kissed his throat, then against the scars in his neck, as Astarion managed to take himself in hand. It only took a single thrust to have him fully buried inside Sekh, the drow whining into Astarion’s throat, the vampire squeezing his eyes shut. “Gods above.”

His hips rocked desperately, rhythm quick, making Sekh see stars. He pressed his teeth at Astarion’s throat, got a gasped yes from the vampire, and bit hard enough to leave little indents, in his pearly skin. Not to break skin, but still- a mark for the night.

A mark he could renew, every night, if Astarion needed.

Astarion was panting, Sekh could feel him trembling. He moved closer to his ear, managed between breaths, “Alright love?”

Astarion bit his lip, opened those eyes, as Sekh nipped at his ear, made him mewl. “Just,” he managed, “fuck, just so close already.”

The sheer glory of having Sekh come on his tongue had undone him, already, before he’d even begun.

“It’s okay,” Sekh managed, letting his head fall back, smiling. “You can come.”

Astarion groaned, eyes fluttering, lashes looking like white gold in the moonlight. “Darling,” he managed, even as his hips slammed against Sekh, as he drove into him with a feral need that was unsuppressable. “Not- without- fuck.”

Sekh pressed his forehead to Astarion’s, dug his fingers into his shirt, held on. “This is about you too,” he whispered, “just let yourself feel good, Astarion.” A little broken noise from the vampire, and Sekh added, “I want it, I want you to feel good.”

Astarion’s rhythm faltered then- desperate, wanton, as he chased his bliss. Sekh held tightly, loved each breath that fluttered against his kiss reddened lips, loved the small noises and single words Astarion managed, as he brought himself so close he could have seen the gods.

And when he came, Sekh could see the euphoria, in his smile, in the crinkles along his eyes as they squeezed shut. He smiled, too, kissed Astarion, spread his thighs until his hips ached and let the man fill his entire being.

When Astarion’s hips slowed, stilled, Sekh kissed him still. He kissed until he couldn’t breathe, and then kept going, until Astarion broke away from him, looked at him with so much affection Sekh felt his ribs caving in.

“I want this to be good for you too,” Astarion managed, and Sekh chuckled.

“I don’t have to come to feel good, Starshine. Trust me, I enjoyed every second of that.” Sekh clenched around Astarion, watched his eyes go wide. “I’m still drenched, aren’t I?”

Astarion bit his lip, fangs poking out against the plush skin, and gods he looked so sweet when he did that. “I could… take care of you again,” he offered, light in his eyes. “I always want another taste, after all.”

“Tempting.” Sekh moved his hands from Astarion’s back to his waist, gave him a single squeeze, before he eased him back. The loss of contact, feeling Astarion slip from his body, always made Sekh want to scream. “But someone is going to see us of we stay here.”

“Live a little.” Yet Astarion got on his knees, pulled Sekh up. The drow took advantage of the position, pressed his mouth over where he’d bitten, sucking at the skin. Astarion squirmed, trembling when Sekh took his half hard cock in hand, gave him a teasing stroke, before tucking him back into his pants.

“I plan to,” he murmured, “everyday. With you.” A kiss to Astarion’s cheek, now. “Now, if you help me locate my clothes which you tossed about, maybe we can get ourselves back into bed and… pick back up.”

Astarion’s eyes brightened over that, and he stood, helping to gather Sekh’s clothing, the drow dressing as he was handed each discarded piece. Once he was fully dressed, Astarion took him by the hand, was eager to pull him through the cemetery gates, could have run through the streets to get him back to the Elfsong.

But Sekh had one thing he wanted to do first.

He stood firm, and Astarion dropped his hand, watched with curious eyes as Sekh turned, crouched down at his grave. Very carefully he dug a few fingers into the dirt, making a very small hole, before he plucked his ring off, looking at it one last time in the moonlight.

“It doesn’t feel right to wear it without yours,” he said, as he set the ring in the dirt. Astarion watched, and Sekh knew there was a moment of sadness, in those eyes. Cazador had managed to take that from him, in the end. The first gift Sekh had given him.

Well, the first tangible gift.

Sekh covered the ring up, stood and dusted his hands off. “Seems only fair we both close a chapter on our lives now.” He turned to Astarion, took his hand, pulled it to his lips and kissed his knuckles softly. “Besides, you deserve something far prettier than that.”

Astarion lifted his chin. “Well of course I do,” he teased, before adding, “that doesn’t mean I wasn’t… fond of it.”

Another kiss, now to Astarion’s ring finger. “Then I’ll just have to get you another one.”

Sekh heard the breath leave Astarion. He smiled over it.

“After all, I did promise I’d have you forever. That means you have me too.” He laced their fingers together, nodded towards the gates to the cemetery. “Now, take me home, take me to bed, and let me tell you how much I love you until dawn.”

Astarion kept his eyes on Sekh, took a single step back, towards the gateway, leading away from the skeleton of his past, the remains of a man forgotten and long dead.

Taking a step towards a future worth knowing, worth living.

“With pleasure.”

#baldur #astarion #astarion ancunin #tavstarion #sekh'met #sekstarion #astarion/tav #astarion x tav

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